Warren Murphy: Last Call

It was all decided very swiftly.

Smith's plan was simple.

It was impossible, he said, for the Russians to protect their premier from an assassin who might be anybody, anywhere around him. But there was one way to save the premier.

Bring him to America. Alone. Without an entourage.

And then if he were murdered, America would have to take the blame in the eyes of the world and Russia's leadership would be justified in doing what it felt it had to do.

"It is risky," Karbenko said.

"It is risky for us too," Smith said. "But at least it has a chance of success. Leaving your premier in Russia is not risky at all. He will be dead in no more than a few days."

"What makes you think I can convince him?" Karbenko said.

"I know more about you, Colonel, than you think," Smith said. "The premier regards you as a son. He will listen to your recommendation."

Karbenko nodded. "Yes, he will."

"Then make it," Smith urged. "And then we

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can join forces in protecting the premier here until the assassin is uncovered."

Karbenko's eyes crinkled as he thought.

"Okay, pardner. You got a deal," he said.

"Whoopee ti-yi-yo," Remo said.

"He must have meant you when he said administrative assistant," Chiun said to Remo.

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CHAPTER ELEVEN

The carpet was a gold woolen pile, deep enough to drop a dime into and lose sight of the coin. The desk was a giant oaken box. It had once been used by Stalin. When Khrushchev had come into power and attacked Stalin's reputation, the desk had been put into the Kremlin basement along with the other trash.

But then, ,a few years later, when he, too, was safely out of office, Khrushchev's own reputation had been attacked. So the teak desk he had bought for the premier's office was put into the basement and Stalin's desk dragged out, re-finished, polished, and put back in the sixth-floor office.

But the rug that Khruschev had installed was too new and the Stalin rug too old and worn and threadbare to be reinstalled, so the gold rug was left on the floor.

Sometimes the new premier envied America. The White House, he was told, still had a Lincoln bed. There were signs all over American announcing where George Washington had slept. Presidents' homes were national shrines. In

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America, heroes remained heroes and history remained history.

Not so in the Kremlin. The Kremlin even had a man assigned to its custodial department whose sole job was to continue shifting around furniture whenever the Kremlin decided to change its reading of past history.

The current premier had decided in his first day in office never to buy furniture for it. He would use whatever was left over and was politically reliable, because he regarded it as a waste of time to buy desks and chairs and tables, knowing that in a couple of years after his demise or disposal, they would probably wind up in the Kremlin cellar too as his own successor began to rewrite history.

The only thing in the office that was pure was the globe. It had once belonged to Lenin. Everybody liked Lenin.

The premier was reaching for the telephone when his office door opened and a general whose green uniform was festooned with a chestful of medals and ribbons walked in. He led a contingent of seven men.

The premier looked up, startled. The general had not knocked. The premier slid his chair back ready to dive under the desk, in case bullets started flying.

"General Arkov," the premier said. "What brings you here in such a hurry?"

"Quick, men," the general said. "Check everything."

This is it, the premier thought. Someone had mounted a coup against him and in a moment, he

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would have a bullet in the brain, the personal gift of General Arkov, head of the KGB.

The seven men with Arkov began scurrying about the office. Two went into the bathroom. One dropped to the rug and began looking under the chairs and sofa. Another crawled under the premier's desk. Two had electronic devices and they scanned the walls and electrical switches.

General Arkov stood in the doorway, watching his men. After a few minutes, they all returned to stand in front of him, shaking their heads.

"All right," Arkov said. "Take positions." The men spread out around the room and Arkov looked, for the first time, at the premier.

Surprised that he was still alive, and thus emboldened, the premier's voice was sharp.

"Now I suppose you will tell me what this is all about?" he said.

"Semyon Begolov is dead. An assassin got him in London, and four of our men assigned to protect him."

"Dead? Who?"

"His valet."

"Andre something? I remember him," the premier said. "He seemed like a quiet enough sort."

"He was. Until last night when he put a bullet into Begolov's head. That is why we are here."

"To put a bullet into my head?" the premier said, and as soon as he had said it, he wished he hadn't. Arkov's eyes narrowed as if a joke were a sign of weakness and he must forever after keep a close watch on the premier.

"No, premier. To make sure that no assassin tries to do the same to you."

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The premier looked around the office at the seven KGB men. They stood watching him, looking ill at ease, shifting their weight from foot to foot.

"And I am supposed to work like this?" the premier said.

"I am sorry but we have no alternative. We must protect you the best way we can."

"Protect me from the outside office."

"No." The answer was flat and formal and final.

The premier shrugged. His telephone rang. His hand reached for the telephone but before he could get to it, one of the KGB men had intercepted him. The man picked up the telephone himself, cautiously, before speaking into it.

"There are many devices, Premier," General Arkov explained. "A sound signal could come over a telephone that could paralyze you. A needle might have been inserted into the earpiece of your receiver, so it could puncture your brain when you talk on the phone."

"I think somebody punctured your brain," the premier grumbled. He looked up angrily at the KGB agent who had finished inspecting the telephone and handed it to him.

It was the premier's secretary asking if he wanted coffee.

"No. Vodka," he growled. "A big glass. With ice."

"So early in the day?" she said.

"You too?" he asked. "Better yet, bring me a bottle."

"You know what the doctor said, sir."

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"And you know what I said. A bottle and a glass. Skip the ice."

That there was no working in the office became clear in only minutes. Every time the telephone rang, one of the agents intercepted the call. Every time the intercom buzzed, the agent with the small electronic-box scanned it before allowing him to answer. His vodka was taste-tested before he was allowed any. He poured twice the size drink he had planned.

When his newspapers arrived, another agent went through each page first for hidden bombs and then General Arkov and they debated on whether the ink of the paper itself might be poisoned and whether it should be sent out for laboratory analysis.

The premier resolved the problem for them. He jerked the paper from Arkov's hands.

"Give me that newspaper," he said. He walked toward the door to his private bathroom.

"Where are you going?" Arkov said.

"To the bathroom, where do you think?"

"Just a moment," Arkov said. "Men."

Two men scurried into the bathroom. They closed the door behind them. The premier heard the faucet running. He heard the medicine cabinet being opened and closed. He heard the toilet flush. He heard the shower run and then the bath water. He heard the toilet flush again.

He rocked back and forth from foot to foot, waiting.

The medicine cabinet again. The toilet for a third time.