“He said he wishes to place the urn on his desk and use it as an ashtray,” Ilianov said, “and perhaps pin McLanahan’s medals inside his commode whenever he urinates. He deserves nothing less than a proper place of honor.”
“You are behaving like a child, Colonel,” Chirkov said. “I urge you to reconsider your actions.”
“The first President Gryzlov was forced to respond to McLanahan’s aggression or face more attacks and more killing,” Ilianov said. “McLanahan’s actions may or may not have been authorized, but they were certainly sanctioned by President Thomas Thorn and his generals. This is but a small example of what President Gryzlov intends to do to restore honor and greatness to the Russian people.”
“What else are you planning to do, Colonel?” Chirkov repeated. “I assure you, you have already done quite enough.”
“The president’s campaign against the memory of General Patrick McLanahan has only just begun, Excellency,” Ilianov said. “He intends to destroy every institution of which McLanahan ever had any part. Instead of celebrating and memorializing the life of Patrick McLanahan, America will soon curse his name.”
Chirkov’s encrypted cellular phone beeped, and he answered it, saying nothing, then terminated the call a few moments later. “The American secretary of state was notified by the Federal Bureau of Investigation of the robbery in Sacramento,” he said tonelessly. “Your henchmen will probably be arrested within the hour. They will talk eventually.” He half turned again in his seat. “You know that if the American FBI obtains a warrant from a federal judge, they can enter your premises in Washington, and because your activity was not an official act you can be arrested and prosecuted. Diplomatic immunity will not apply.”
“I know, Excellency,” Ilianov said. “I did not really think the Americans could react so quickly, but I planned for this in case I was discovered. I have already arranged for a private jet to take me from Woodland, California, to Mexicali, and from there home via Mexico City, Havana, Morocco, and Damascus. Diplomatic security forces are standing by to assist with local customs.” He handed the consul a card. “Here is the address of the airport; it is not far from the freeway. Drop us off, and you can continue to the consulate in San Francisco, and we will be on our way. You can deny all involvement in this matter.”
“What else do you have planned in this escapade of yours, Colonel?” Chirkov asked after he handed the card to the driver, who entered the address into the car’s GPS navigator. “I sense it is a lot more serious than a burglary.”
“I will not jeopardize your diplomatic status or career by involving you any further in the president’s activities, Excellency,” Ilianov said. “But you will know it when you hear of the incidents, sir . . . I guarantee it.” He produced the aluminum urn from his large grocery bag, running his fingers across the three silver stars on the side and the shield of the U.S. Space Defense Force on the lid. “What a joke,” he muttered. “Russia has had a true space defense force for almost ten years, while this unit was never activated, except in McLanahan’s twisted brain. Why did we fear this man so much? He was nothing but a work of fiction, both alive and dead.” He hefted the urn experimentally, and a puzzled expression crossed his face. “You know, I have never seen cremated human remains before . . .”
“Please, do not further desecrate the man’s remains,” Chirkov said. “Leave them alone. And reconsider leaving them with me. I can concoct some sort of story that does not implicate you, and the president’s anger will be directed toward myself, not you. Russian thieves and hooligans did the deed, but when they tried to sell them on the black market, we caught them and are holding them under arrest in the consulate. Sincere apologies, return of the artifacts, promises to prosecute those responsible, and an offer to pay to repair the damage and restore the columbarium should be sufficient to satisfy the Americans.”
“I do not wish to implicate you any further, Excellency,” Ilianov repeated, “and I have no wish to return these things or restore that bastard’s monument to himself. Hopefully, having these things not properly interred will result in McLanahan’s soul wandering the universe for all eternity.”
That, Chirkov thought, was exactly what he was afraid of.
Ilianov hefted the urn once again. “It is much lighter than I thought,” he muttered, then twisted off the lid. “Let us see what the great General Patrick Shane McLanahan looks like after taking his last sauna bath at one thousand degrees Centigrade.”