Conspiracy in Kiev (16 page)
Alex leaned to Friedman and whispered. “If there’s no way to secure the appearance at the monument,” she asked, “the president shouldn’t do it. Or am I missing something?”
Friedman winced.
“The advance team and the president’s spin doctors are still fighting with the Secret Service about that one,” he said. “The spin doctors love the image of a head-bowed president walking across a large square with the Ukrainian counterpart. Yet that’s the most vulnerable moment. What the heck can we do?”
“Then they should avoid it,” she said, thinking of the safety of both Robert and the president.
“Try telling
them
that,” Friedman said. “The security people know that it’s impossible to completely secure the public square. Somewhere there’s going to have to be a compromise of some sort. And we’ve only got three days to find the compromise.”
“Great,” she said.
“Politicians take dumb chances all the time,” Friedman said, almost a little too loud, since a few heads turned in their direction. “Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time they get away with them.”
V
irgil Bruni, assistant manager of one of the finest hotels in Europe, had an invitation that evening also. Gian Antonio Rizzo picked him up at 6:30 in the evening and drove him to the municipal morgue, where Bernardo Santangelo, the cheerful, chubby mortician, waited.
By arrangement, Rizzo walked Bruni back to the vaults where unidentified bodies were kept. Two corpses were removed from their freezer vaults and brought to marble slabs for inspection. Rizzo barely spoke, and neither did Santangelo. They had been down this path many times before.
Despite the cold within the viewing chamber, Bruni looked as if he were about to break a sweat. Rizzo moved quickly, however. There was no point to prolong the agony.
Santangelo personally unzipped the body bags. Then he presented the partially decomposed bullet-smashed faces of two murder victims to the dapper little hotel manager.
Bruni gasped. Then for a fraction of a second, Bruni swayed and appeared as if he might faint. Rizzo held out a hand and steadied him.
“Well, then?” Rizzo asked. “Were these unfortunate ones—
questi disgraziati
—your guests?”Several seconds passed before Bruni could answer, not because he didn’t know the answer, but because he had to get past his horror. Never before had he seen anything like this happen to someone he had known personally, however briefly.
“Yes,” he finally said, his voice barely audible. “They were.”
Rizzo nodded to Santangelo, who rezipped the bags. The evening trip to the morgue was a resounding success.
A
lex returned to her hotel after her first working day at the embassy in Kiev. Her initial meeting with Yuri Federov had been pushed back a day. No reason given.
It was Ukraine. Reasons weren’t necessary.
She would not have the luxury of staying in this evening and relaxing, however, since a social event had been scheduled at the ambassador’s residence. The event was the ambassador’s reception in honor of the most unpopular people currently in the embassy, the White House Advance team. All embassy officers were “invited,” including those like Alex who were on temporary assignment, albeit in
Godfather
style—an invitation that could not be refused.
From the clothes she had brought with her, Alex picked out a pale green travel dress with three-quarter sleeves and a scooped neckline. The material was clingy and followed her shape nicely, stopping two or three inches above the knee.
Richard Friedman picked up Alex at the hotel. Once again, Stosh, Freedman’s driver was at the wheel. Their car guided them through the quiet cold streets of Kiev. A light snow fell.
The ambassador’s residence was in a neighborhood called Podil, upstream from the main part of Kiev. Podil was the old merchant’s quarter when the river was used for trade; there was still a station for tourist riverboats there, the “River Station,” and Podil was filled with the former houses of such merchants. In the streetlights Alex could see that many of the old mansions had been gentrified.
When they arrived, Alex found “the Residence,” which was how embassy personnel always referred to the place where the ambassador lived, to be a modest mansion, a comfortable old building with an appealingly livable quality. There was a staircase leading from the sidewalk to the front, but the actual entrance was in a courtyard in the back for security purposes.
“I guess we’re early,” Alex said. The only people present were embassy personnel.
“Standard practice,” Friedman said. “It’s like the crew of a warship going to action stations as the enemy approaches. Don’t forget this is work.”
“But it’s also a party, right?”
“Free food and booze, but you have to earn it.”
“Doing what?”
“Depends.” Friedman nodded in the direction of a young man. “For instance, Bill Katzmann there is a JO who has pulled receiving-line duty.”
“Which consists of … ?”
“… keeping the line moving. There will be three hundred guests. If each one spent five minutes talking to the ambassador that would be about twenty-five hours. So guests are expected to be content with a handshake and maybe a ‘glad you could come.’ ”
“Are they?”
“Most understand, but some don’t and want to have a real conversation. So Bill’s job will be to wait for a break in the conversation and politely say, ‘This way, sir,’ or something like that. The problem is when an ambassador doesn’t understand the drill because he’s a political appointee new to the game or who doesn’t want to play it. I was in Bonn under Arthur Burns, a good ambassador but also a very chatty person. At the Fourth of July reception, where there are over a thousand guests, the line slowed to a crawl, with some guests waiting in it for three hours.”
“Did any just give up and leave?” Alex asked
“No way. An invitation to the Residence is always the hottest ticket in town. Everyone wants to say, ‘As I told the American ambassador …,’ even if in reality the exchange was one sentence each. In Bonn, not to be invited to the Fourth of July and be seen there was a major humiliation for anyone who thought he was someone. The pathetic cases were noninvitees whose secretaries would call to ask about the invitation that had apparently been lost in the mail.”
Alex laughed. “How are the guests selected?”
“That’s the job of the section chiefs. Each section is tasked with providing suggestions for the guest list. These are the people they regularly come into contact with. The guest list is weighted toward the interests of the visiting Americans. For instance, if the guest of honor is a high-ranking Treasury official, the guest list will be heavy with people from the Economic Ministry and so on.”
At this point, Ambassador Drake appeared and moved around, shaking the hands of the embassy personnel present. Eventually, he came back to Alex, whom he remembered from that morning. He took her hand and held it.
“Beautiful dress,” he said, eyeing her head to toe. “Lovely color.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“Most of the women around here are built like beer trucks,” he said. “You’re closer to a Ferrari. A breath of fresh air. Don’t quote me.”
In her peripheral view, Friedman rolled his eyes.
“You flatter me unnecessarily,” Alex said.
“It’s my pleasure to do so,” Drake said. Politically incorrect as he was, Drake got away with his flirtations through a natural charm. His manner was engaging and amiable. After extending a few extra words of welcome, he released Alex and moved on.
“Well, you’re fitting right in,” Friedman said with a smirk.
“Is he always such a flirt?”
“He’s got an eye for the ladies. Wait till he has a few drinks. He’s like a nice old dog who still chases cars. I don’t know what he’d do if he caught one.”
“I know the type,” she said.
“Hey, I’ve got to go to action stations soon so let me wrap up,”Friedman said. “In addition to the officer on the receiving line, other JOs are supposed to look out for guests who don’t mingle but just stay with their wives looking on, and engage them in conversation. Then there are officers who go to the most important guests and lead them up to the guests of honor and introduce them. And finally, officers are supposed to use the opportunity to chat up their contacts, asking how things are in their areas and so on.”
“And the ambassador?” Alex asked.
“After the line shuts down, when the flow of guests has trickled off, he can turn things over to the DCM, who’ll be in the line next to him, along with relevant section chiefs, including me, unfortunately. The ambassador stands in the crowd and talks with the people brought up to him or who come to him of their own accord. Again, if an unimportant guest has glommed onto the ambassador, our officer will engage said guest in conversation while the ambassador smiles to that guest and says, ‘Delighted to talk with you,’ and wanders off.”
“So this is a ‘
party
’?” she laughed.
“It’s a ‘reception,’ ” he answered, “with all the stuffy implications that go with it.”
“You like these things?”
“It’s one of the things we’re paid to do. Does a dentist mind looking into people’s mouths? And as you ‘mix and mingle’ you can meet some interesting people outside your usual circle of contacts. It’s the receiving line I hate.”
Friedman glanced over to where the ambassador was already in place with the DCM and some other officers.
“Action stations!” Friedman said. “Have fun.” He turned and took up his place in line. Not a moment too soon, for an early guest was walking through the door.
The event was a cocktail buffet. The food was very good. It was set forth on a table while white-jacketed waiters hired for the occasion took plates of it around the room. Heavy trays laden with drinks followed. There were three open bars, but by late in the evening they were barely necessary.
The party took on a Ukrainian flavor, much encouraged by the popular American ambassador. The Ukrainians, like the ancient Romans, liked to drink in toasts, two sides taking turns. Someone silenced the room toward ten in the evening and proposed the first toast of Ukrainian vodka. Friedman pushed a drink into Alex’s hand.
When in Rome, Alex decided quickly, do as the Romans do.
“Guests are expected to shoot their shot,” Friedman advised with a smile. “Sipping is wimpy. You okay with this?”
“Someone else is driving me back to the hotel, right?”
“Yes, and it won’t be me.”
Three toasts went back and fourth. Alex bailed after that. Two more followed. Ambassador Drake set the tone by conspicuously leading the consumption of shots. It was no surprise that he was popular among the locals and his staff, as well as whoever sold the vodka to the embassy.
Toward 11:30, the party was still going strong. Richard Friedman, somehow still sober, guided Alex over to Ambassador Drake. By this time, in addition to the shots, Drake had found too many of the heavy trays laden with drinks. Small talk followed. He addressed her as “Anna” and asked her when she would be meeting with Yuri Federov. She said the next afternoon. He nodded and soon began to mumble about how beautiful Alex was. He followed that by mentioning that his wife was out of town. Some of his aides exchanged glances.
Nearing midnight, Drake, wobbly, noisily drained a gin and tonic and looked around for another. An aide quickly found him one. His assistants seemed to enjoy getting him toasted. As he sipped his ninth drink of the evening, Drake surveyed the sea of young people who were still partying, the advance team, for whom the party was given. Here were all the young folks who had been making his life impossible for the last five weeks.
“The ‘advance team,’ ” muttered the ambassador. “I’ve never cared for those little clowns. Anna? Know what my first run-in was with those people?”
Alex sipped her drink and waited. “What?” she finally asked.
“I was in Bonn twenty-two years ago, as chief of the Political/Internal Unit,” the ambassador said. “I was the event officer to a boat trip on the Rhine that President Reagan and Chancellor Kohl of West Germany were taking. The ‘romantic’ part of the Rhine, the part with the mountains covered with vineyards with ruined castles on top, starts upriver, south of Bonn. The idea was for the president to fly down to Oberwesel—that’s this picturesque little town where the romantic crap starts—and board the boat there, along with Kohl. They’d sail north and then get off.”
Oberwesel, he explained, had no Nazi baggage from World War II and made for a great photo-op. Alex sipped and listened. Other members of the embassy staff gathered, carefully keeping away any members of the advance team.
“Now, every lousy little German town has a so-called Golden Book,”the ambassador continued, “where honorary citizens are inscribed. Naturally, the mayor of Oberwesel wanted his filthy fifteen minutes of fame with a book signing next to the gangplank. So this clown from the Reagan advance team sneered, ‘Out of the question,’ except he used an extra word before ‘question.’ He cited security considerations and the need not to waste the president’s time on what he called ‘a bush-league event.’ Well, I tried to advise this jerk of the symbolic importance of the Golden Book in Germany and the fact that the mayor belonged to Kohl’s party, and I was told to ‘keep it zipped.’ ”
The ambassador stirred his drink with a swizzle stick as he nursed along his story.
“Well, Helmut Kohl’s whole career was based on networking and an incredible memory of people,” Drake continued. “The man was like an elephant. He’d remember folks he’d met ten years earlier while soused at some podunk wine festival. So when the disappointed mayor called Kohl, the head of his party, Kohl apparently called Reagan personally. Of course, Mr. Reagan approved it. He loved stuff like that. The Golden Book was on. You can imagine how I relished this.”
The ambassador grinned and lurched slightly. Alex, with a sweet and friendly smile, sidestepped his advance and escaped from under his thick arm.
“Anyway, when the event finally happened, there was press aboard the boat, but their access to Reagan and Kohl was supposed to be limited. Naturally, no good reporter abides by this kind of fence, and soon Mr. Reagan was chatting with them. A member of the advance, the same bozo who’d been giving me all the trouble, was
fuming
about this. So I went over to him. I said, ‘President Reagan looks happy. Why aren’t
you
happy?’ The advance guy looked at me as if I’d punched him in the nuts. That the president could be content with something that hadn’t been planned to the minute by his staff was incomprehensible.” He paused. “Those advance people are mostly a bunch of weenies,” he concluded. “They couldn’t organize a cat fight in a bag.”
As Alex and the embassy staff laughed, the ambassador finished his drink and found a final one on one of the last passing trays of the evening. Apparently, a wave of nostalgia hit him at the same time also.
“Ronald Reagan,” he said. “I miss the man. Reagan looked the part, he acted the part. Hell, he
was
the part! Now
there
was a president!” he said.
And he drained the rest of his glass.
