Dick Rousts the Russkie by Dick Avery - HTML preview

Afterword

Pet and I decided to split the attaboys we’d send to those who helped in the investigation. She’d do them for her Russian colleagues and I do the rest. She thought she might do a special one to the SVR officer who reported the most comical and absurd Vlad sighting. It would be like a contest to come up with the one that was the most farfetched and amusing. I liked the idea, but wasn’t sure her bosses would agree and told her so. Why spoil a good thing now that she was a rock star in her own organization? Will Rogers, the comedian cowboy, said to always leave the audience clapping at the end of a performance. And hers had been damn good and I applauded it as well!

Vasily didn’t fare too well in the matter. He ended up being sentenced to 22 years of forced labor in the wastelands of Siberia for his role in betraying the SVR. Truthfully, he’d gotten off lucky and could have received the death penalty for high treason and conduct unbecoming an officer of the elite organization. I didn’t know which charge carried more weight with the Russian authorities.

Inspector Jabbar was promoted to his deceased boss’s position and awarded a medal for valor by his government. He was treated like a celebrity by his coworkers. He proudly wore his medal on his thobe on special occasions.  I still thought my leisure suits had more panache, but understood that not just anyone could be a dashing fashionista.

I got home to overdue bills and threats to cut off my utilities if I didn’t pay up. I was a little short of funds since Jersey hadn’t paid me yet, so I’d have to hold the bastards off for awhile longer. Mr. Fichus, my house plant, died on me since my next door neighbor neglected to water it. I’d check Ambrose, my Afghan buddy, out of the pet spa and doggie motel tomorrow. No doubt the kennel would be hounding me for money too. Other than that, it was the same old, same old apartment and life I’d left a few months ago.

As promised, I pulled out all the stops in my letter extolling Pet’s performance to the nines and beyond. It was addressed to what’s-his-name, the head of the Russian SVR. Boris Venchkoff said he’d personally deliver it when he returned to Moscow during his next home leave. I believed him, but decided to send a copy via diplomatic channels as well. No harm in covering all your bases as Jersey might say.

Speaking of the sportsman, we met in his office a few days later. It was a matter of the mountain coming to the Mohammed or maybe the other way around. I wasn’t sure what the protocol called for in these situations. He began by chiding me over my wasteful ways with his money, although it wasn’t his. However, it was his standard admonishment when I returned from these little sojourns of his making. I sucked up his usual dressing down and filled him in on the more dramatic, or as he said, juicy portions of the story of Vlad the Impaler. It had a happy ending as far as I was concerned since I lived to tell the tale! I dutifully genuflected before him and got a laugh from His Nibs. Demeaning or not, there was no reason not to stay on his good side if I wanted to continue working, I thought.

Speaking of which, I then threw him a curve ball by asking for another overseas assignment. It was a desperately wild pitch even one Jersey Briggs could appreciate. He said he’d think about it and get back to me sometime, but only if he couldn’t find a better candidate. Actually, he said pinch hitter. At that point, I took my bat, ball and hurt feelings and went home. I’d had enough of the baseball nonsense to last a lifetime.