Welcome to Buster's Blog

Irregular commentary on whatever's on my mind -- politics, sports, current events, and life in general. After twenty years of writing business and community newsletters, fifteen years of fantasy baseball newsletters, and two years of email "columns", this is, I suppose, the inevitable result: the awful conceit that someone might actually care to read what I have to say. Posts may be added often, rarely, or never again. As always, my mood and motivation are unpredictable.

Buster Gammons

Wednesday, October 31, 2018

How It Ends

No matter the outcome of the November 6th midterm elections, Dick a la Orange will still occupy the White House.  And Robert Mueller's investigation into the Russian connection will methodically roll on to an eventual conclusion.  It's impossible to know how this chapter of history will end, but it's fun to speculate.  The NY Times Book Review asked five notable spy and crime fiction authors to do just that for their 10/28/18 issue.  The full piece is linked, but my favorite story of the five is reproduced below.  Remember, it's fiction -- just a story.



by Zoe Sharp

The Russian landed at Dulles after 48 hours of travelling.  Of necessity, he came from Moscow by a circuitous route.  A long way with a very specific task.  There would be no return flight.

In the airport bars, the TV's were tuned to different news channels but the story was the same.  First the president's campaign manager, then his lawyer, a Republican congressman, former aides, family members.  Those who weren't indicted were subpoenaed.  House arrest had become fashionable.

The Town Car sent by the hotel had a flat-screen for his entertainment on the 45-minute drive into D.C.  The channel once snidely referred to as "state TV" now delighted in showing long shots through the White House railings of men in uniforms removing boxes of incriminating paperwork.  The president himself was not in residence.  He was holed up on home ground.

The walk across the hotel lobby included a brush with a businessman intent on his cellphone.  The Russian did not touch the inside pocket of his coat, into which his new identity had been adroitly slipped, until he reached the desk and produced it.

The clerk was slow to respond.  His attention was on the TV in the bar.

"They're saying the Russkies put him up to it," the clerk said, handing over his room key.  "And I voted for the guy!"

The Russian shrugged.  "Fake news . . . "

But the clerk did not look believing.

He spent the day in his suite, watching the slow grind toward impeachment.

Around 11 p.m., his contact arrived.  The man had been in deep cover for decades.  In his briefcase was a bottle of Stolichnaya and a 9-millimeter Makarov semi-automatic pistol.

"There is no other way?"  It was intended as a statement.  It emerged as a question.

The contact shook his head.  "When it comes out that he was handpicked at the highest possible level, our great nation will be the laughingstock of the world," he said.  "He must be silenced."

They drank vodka until the early hours.  The contact left for the airport.  The Russian drank on alone.  Throughout his career, he would have spent these hours going over the plan, the escape route.  This time, there was no escape route -- only honor.  And death.

At 7 a.m., he showered.  The bar of soap had the hotel name stamped into both sides.  He made sure to wash his ass with it.  Then he shaved and ate a last room-service breakfast.  He dressed in the porter's uniform that had been obtained for him, tucking the Makarov into the back of his waistband.

When it was time, he went downstairs, took his place in the lobby before the entourage appeared.  The hotel staff had been lined up to see their boss, the president, go by.  A few of them applauded.  Most did not.

The president didn't seem to notice.  He waved, in his desultory fashion.  The Secret Service agents clustered around him, ushered him toward the armored limo idling outside at the curb.

The Russian waited until they were a few steps past before he drew his gun.  He sighted on the center of the president's back, and squeezed the trigger.

The Makarov misfired.

The Secret Service agent at the president's shoulder heard the click, spun into a crouch.  He registered the scene instantly, drawing his own weapon with razor-edge reflexes.

The Russian tasted failure.  He closed his eyes and waited to pay the cost.

It did not come.

He opened his eyes.  The Secret Service agent stood before him, presenting his Glock, butt first.

"Here," the agent said politely.  "Use mine . . . "

No comments:

Post a Comment