Christopher Buckley - Boomsday

“Why you not open door?”

“Shhh. Prego .”

“You’re - priest ?”

Agnus Dei… In the confusion, Montefeltro had forgotten to remove his Roman collar.

“No, no. It’s-a costume. It’s costume party. We’re having a party. Yes. But everyone is now asleep. Thank you for coming. Here.” He handed over the cash and gold watch and fob.

“What’s this?” said Tolstoy. Or Dostoevsky.

“A gift. Very valuable. Please. Go. Now. It’s all a mistake. A terrible error. Please. Dasvidanya. God bless you. I love Russia. Wonderful country. Good night. Good night.”

He shut the door, threw the bolt, and braced, sweat trickling down his neck, for another ring of the bell or the phone or Ivan’s jackboot to come through the door.

Silence. The makeshift emoluments had done the trick.

Omnibus sanctiis et Tibi, Pater…

He heard from the parlor: “Where’s my Russian girls?!”

Allen Snyder, looking un-upbeat and definitely lacking spring in his step, arrived at the offices of Tucker for the meeting he had hastily called with Terry and Cass.

“I’ve got some good news and less good news,” he said, trying to smile through resisting facial muscles. “Which would you like to have first?”

“The good news,” Cass said.

“The bad news,” Terry said simultaneously.

“The good news: There’s nothing on the computer linking you to Arthur Clumm. Legally, for the time being, you would seem to be in the clear on that one. Though it remains a bit of a public relations…”

“The word you’re looking for is ‘nightmare,’” Terry said.

“Then what’s the bad news?” Cass said.

“They found those files relating to your North Korean project. Some golf tournament?”

Terry said to Cass, “I thought you deleted those.”

“I did,” Cass said.

“They found them,” Allen said. “I’ll explain the technology later.”

“Why not save it-for our arraignment?” Terry said. “Oh, great.”

“It’s typically the deleted files that interest them. Let me ask you-did the North Koreans approach you, or did you approach them?”

“No, no-they approached us. Absolutely,” Terry said.

“Were you in direct contact with their government?”

“No way. There’s this NGO here in town, the-what’s it called, Cass?”

“Association of Totalitarian Asian Tyrants?”

“ Cass . Could we be helpful, please?”

“It’s called the U.S.-Korea Mutual Understanding and Promotion Society.”

“Right,” Terry said. “Not a big office. Just one guy who chain-smokes. Mung Park. Mr. Mung Park.”

“And they wanted you to do what, exactly?”

“The way they put it was like, ‘To promote harmony and understanding between North Korea and the community of world nations’ by putting on a pro-am golf tournament. In North Korea. They have a golf course, apparently. A really challenging course. Over there, a bunker’s really a bunker. Our job was to put it on. You know, wrangle celebrities.”

“Celebrities?” Allen Snyder said.

“There wasn’t exactly a groundswell of enthusiasm. But O. J. Simpson indicated some interest.”

“Real A-list,” Cass said to Allen.

Allen digested this information. He said, “You’re aware that North Korea is on the State Department list of sponsors of international terrorism. American citizens are prohibited from doing business with North Korea.”

Terry, rallying to his own defense, said, “We were more just exploring a theoretical…you might say, avenue of convergence. Nothing…specifically…definite?”

Allen stared.

“Terry,” Cass said. “We’re surrounded. Give it up.”

“What has it come to,” Terry said, “when your own government turns into Big Brother, knocks down your doors, seizes your computers, and comes after you with all its formidable resources for trying to contribute something-just something-a gesture, to…to…” He looked at Cass. “I forgot. What was it?”

“Harmony and understanding.”

“Right.”

“Let me deal with the FBI,” Allen said. “I imagine we’ll be hearing from them soon.” Just then, Terry’s secretary buzzed him to say that two agents from the FBI were outside wanting to speak with him and Cass.

Allen went out to run interference.

“I’m thinking we should have a separate reception area,” Terry said. “One for clients and one for the FBI. We’ll make it nice for them. Potted cactuses. Copies of American Rifleman . A TV showing America’s Most Wanted .”

“About the computer,” Cass said to Randy. He was scribbling notes for a speech on a legal pad.

“Um?”

“There’s good news. And other news. Which do you want to hear first?”

“Given my druthers, I’d only ever want to hear good news. I thus gather your news is something less than good.”

“They didn’t find anything about your mother being a c-u-next-Tuesday. Or what we do with cherries.”

“Well, what a relief,” Randy said with a miffed air, looking up from his legal pad. His glasses were perched on the end of his nose, giving him a supercilious WASPy air. “So if you Google ‘Senator Randolph Jepperson’ and ‘cunt,’ you won’t get two thousand matches. Quel joie. ”

“So, you want to hear the other news?”

“Not particularly,” he said, going back to his legal pad. “But I have a feeling I’m going to anyway.”

“Terry and I were sort of in discussion with…it was this business deal…really, no big deal.”

“Um?”

“Probably never would have even gotten to that. Deals like that fall through all the time.”

Randy continued scribbling his announcement speech.

“Tell you what, Cass,” he said. “I won’t look at you, and you tell me what you need to tell me. How would that be? On the count of three. Ready? What was it you said about truth telling being just like riding a bicycle? One…two…three.”

“The FBI found some files on the computer that make it seem like Terry and I were”-Cass made a dismissive sound-“working with an NGO trying to facilitate one of those, you know, hands-across-the-seas type of deals where you, you know, adopt a private sector, bilateral, really more multi lateral…”

Randy looked up. “Did you just have a stroke?”

“Huh?”

“Because you’re making no sense. Why don’t you just tell me what it is?”

“Okay,” Cass said, using her best casual, matter-of-fact tone. “They’re curious about some files pertaining to a golf tournament Terry and I were discussing with a foreign government. That’s it.”

“What government?”

“Korea.”

“Well? I don’t see the problem.”

“Technically speaking, North Korea. How’s the speech going?”

Gideon Payne groaned and attempted, very slowly, to rise to his feet. “Merciful Jesus…”

Monsignor Montefeltro, looking like Torquemada about to issue a death sentence at the Inquisition, sat in the chair facing Gideon. He had moved it back in case Gideon vomited again.

“What…happened?” Gideon said woozily.

“Very much happened,” Monsignor Montefeltro said in a clipped tone of voice. “Would you like first to hear about my evening? And then I will tell you about your evening?”

Gideon was now on two feet, listing to and fro. He patted his vest pockets, sensing even in his distress that something was amiss. He began patting all his pockets.

“My watch. My fob. They’re gone.” He looked at the monsignor more alertly. His brain was like a mastodon struggling to free itself of a tar pit.