London, England: The Nativity of St. John the Baptist
"Of course, I did it! Who the hell else would you expect, Steve?" Hogan yelled into the receiver.
Bernie Mays sat down in front of the chief's desk to wait for the gale to blow itself out.
"Why, you ask? Pretty simple. You insulted my wife."
Bernie twiddled his thumbs.
"Keep up with the world, will you, Steve? Not Miriam. Suzanne." Hogan fiddled with the slender gold band on his right hand. "Well, Steve, you did threaten to take care of her, and since you're a man of your word--take that as a compliment--I knew it was you."
Bernie rifled through the most recent reports and telexes.
"Fine, Steve. You've made your point. Give my regards to Lottie." Hogan held the phone away from his ear for a few seconds before hearing the prince slam his receiver down. "It gets him every time."
"What was that? I wasn't paying attention, chief."
Hogan looked over his half-eyes perched on the end of his still sore nose. "Madame la princesse's name is Marie-Charlotte, and I always call her Lottie. It doesn't bother her, but it drives her husband up a wall." He snorted fondly. "Lottie de Poulenac really is his better half. If it weren't for her, he'd wouldn't be human at all."
"You mean His Imperiousness actually IS human? Does the French government know?"
Hogan closed his eyes wearily. "Okay, Bernie, what's the latest?" He rubbed his temples.
"Well, we've finally caught up with that turkey from the embassy in Bonn; he's on his way back to the States for trial."
"Any reason given?"
"Money."
Hogan leaned back in his chair, putting both hands behind his head. "You know, I miss the old days when people sold out because they thought the other side was right. Nowadays, it just goes to the highest bidder."
"Waxing a little nostalgic, Boss?" Mary dropped a pile of mail on his desk. Hogan glanced quickly at it and then at her. "The latest from Washington, Paris, Rome, and Bonn."
"Any of it urgent?"
"Nothing that won't keep till tomorrow, Boss. You need to go pick up your car."
He ignored her disapproving look. "What's your problem?"
"You could have gotten the saloon repaired. But oh, no. You're feeling frisky now, so let's go for an XKE."
"It's called an E-type in Britain, dear." Hogan got up, picked up his cane and hat, and sauntered out the door, calling over his shoulder, "I promise to be careful, Mother."
Bernie chortled as Mary balled her hands on her hips.
*****
Hogan pulled up in front of his home. His new Jaguar convertible, in British racing green, had purred as he'd guided it through London traffic. I can't wait to open this baby up on the highway. He ran his hand down the pristine bonnet.
"A new toy, dahling?" Hogan spun around to see Marya with her two wolfhounds. They were trying to jump on him, to lick his face; she restrained them with difficulty. "Aren't you a little old for this sort of thing?"
Biting back a curse, he searched her face quickly. "And what number face lift are we on now? Two or is it three?" He watched her eyes grow stormy. "You walked right into that one, Marya."
Stepping up to the dogs, he chucked them under their chins and scratched their ears. They succeeded in licking his hands and face. "Nice to see you two. You do well by them, Marya. I knew you would." He remember the basket he'd sent to the Soviet embassy 18 months ago with the two large furballs. And the tag that had read, 'Marya, Merry Christmas. Robert Hogan.'
She harrumphed. "Boris and Natasha make excellent company."
"Better than Dmitri?"
"Actually, yes."
"That's what you get for robbing the cradle. Next time, try somebody who's at least 30." He watched her smolder. You might try somebody your own age. You'll probably find him less impatient and less selfish.
"Very funny," she snapped. "Enjoy your new toy." She pulled Boris and Natasha away from the American and started down the street. She turned back suddenly, calling out, "Robert Kyrilivich!"
Hogan stopped at his front door. It took him a few seconds to recall that Kyril was as close as one got in Russian to Kevin, his father's name. She only called him this on rare, serious occasions. "Da, Masha?" He used the affectionate diminutive.
"Ivanova's game was not mine."
"I didn't think it was. You do know what happened to her?"
"Shot by the earl of Suffolk, died of her wound on the operating table--after spilling nothing but useless information."
"Not so useless, Masha, as you well know. But damage control always was your forte. As well as getting other people to do your dirty work for you."
She shrugged broadly as the dogs barked, their woofs shattering the quiet afternoon. "Can you imagine her in my place?"
A few seconds of silence. "No." So, it WAS more about you than me. Ivanova got what she deserved, then.
Marya smiled brilliantly. "Ah, you care!" She blew a kiss at him, then waved extravagantly as the wolfhounds pulled her down the street.
Believe it or not, Marya, I have a certain degree of trust in you. I trust you not to be an idiot, even if you are about as subtle as a brick!
*****
Hogan put his hand to the doorknob; his attention turned to the domestic. He heard what sounded like a loud, mutually unintelligible argument between his wife and his son. Patrick must have discovered Clouseau! Who has undoubtedly gone after GDP again. Hogan looked over at the convertible and then back to the door and muttered to himself, "I came home for this?" Screwing his courage to the sticking place, he boldly strode through the front door. "Hi, honey, I'm home," he bellowed.
No response. Shouting in rapid-fire French, Suzanne shook her finger under Patrick's nose. In return, Patrick gesticulated wildly with both arms, hollered back in Welsh. GDP flapped past Hogan's head as Clouseau, Suzanne's new, large Himalayan, tried leaping for the parrot from the antique mirrored stand. Hogan watched the cat miss--again. Oh, that cat is aptly named. The noise gave him a headache, and he put his thumb and his index finger to his lips and whistled loudly. At the sudden silence, he smiled and said softly, "Thank you."
"Dad!"
"Robert!"
"Knock it off, both of you! Suzanne, go get your scarf and sweater. We're going out." At her apparently truculence, he raised his eyebrows. She snorted indignantly and stalked away. Hogan turned to his son, "Patrick, the Feline is now a member of the household."
"Dad, you hate cats."
"No, I'm just allergic to them."
"Then why in God's name to do you allow one in the house?"
"For the same reason I allowed your mother to have that stupid bird: it's what she wanted." At Patrick's half turn and broad shrug in utter incomprehension, Hogan added, "Look, cat fur and parrot feathers up the nose are equally irritating."
"And you sleep with the cat, I suppose?" Patrick asked sarcastically.
"Did I sleep with the parrot?" Hogan shot back. "Don't worry about GDP, Patrick. Clouseau has a chance of catching him. Somewhere between slim and none."
"All right, Robert, I'm ready. This had better be good." She stepped through the door Hogan had opened for her then stopped dead. He bumped into her. "Incroyable," she cried.
"So, you approve?" .
"Oui." She smiled broadly at him and tied her scarf under her chin. "We're going for a spin?" There was plenty of girlish excitement in her voice.
"That's the general idea."
Patrick followed them out, took in the car. "I thought you were getting the new XJ6."
"The waiting list was too long. I did give some consideration to the 2 + 2, but decided against it. Line wasn't right, and its performance wasn't as good." He held the door for Suzanne as she slid into the passenger seat.
"Why didn't you go for an Aston-Martin?"
"Do I look like James Bond to you?"
Patrick groaned.. "Dad, this is only a two-seater."
"Yes, I know. That was the whole idea. And no, you can't borrow it." I know what you're thinking, and not with my car you don't! He turned the ignition; the engine roared to life. "See you later," he called before pulling into traffic. Suzanne waved gaily back at Patrick.
