Run & Gun

HUNGARIAN DANCE NO. 5-1

HUNGARIAN DANCE NO. 5Dawna Shepherd didn’t bother sampling the inch of Bull’s Blood gleaming crimson in her glass. In DC, fast-tracking in a Hoover Building cubicle, she drank wine maybe once a year, but what the hell, the brass had sent her back to Europe and the native red had good effects. Still she hadn’t ordered it for the taste. She signaled the waiter to fill the goblets. He grinned, silver-and-gold-studded teeth a nice complement to the jeweled buttons marching down his starched shirtfront to his black cummerbund. In tune with Hungary’s new market economy, he smoothly topped all three glasses and set the linen-draped bottle down with a smiling flourish.

Erzsebet Takacs, one of Dawna’s National Police contacts, had recommended the restaurant for its authentic cuisine, live folk-dancing show and “ludicrous displays of public drunkenness.” So it was a bonus Budapest’s Café Cristal also had a waiter as sharp as he dressed. Ordering from this fellow would not be like starting her first lecture at the FBI’s overseas training academy. All the Central European cops said they understood English but as soon as they got Word One in Dawna’s west Texas accent, their foreheads scrunched up, their eyes glazed over. She’d been talking at half-speed ever since. “Three goulash,” she said to the waiter slowly, but without holding up three fingers, just a test.

The waiter’s grin grew wider and he nodded vigorously.

Very sharp. Dawna flashed her own smile and jerked her head in a way that meant vamoose. Before her blonde frizz stopped vibrating, the waiter’s black jacket had blended into a group of men busily taking command of the table for ten in the restaurant’s center. Dawna had chosen a smaller table at the edge of the room and a chair which put her back against the pine-paneled wall.

Reflex, of course. She lifted her wineglass by the stem and looked over the candle flame to Graham Roberts and Ladyshimarray Harms, her guests at what they thought was a Welcome to Hungary dinner. And what Dawna knew was Step One in getting the two outsiders to follow her lead. Which was critical, she’d learned the hard way when she ran her first training session at the FBI’s International Law Enforcement Academy. She turned a high-wattage smile on her companions. “I appreciate your helping me out tomorrow.”

“My pleasure.” Ladyshimarray raised her glass. Candlelight heightened the wine’s ruby glow, gave a sheen like polish to her chestnut skin, highlighting the sculptured cheekbones below her startling eyes, their irises tinged with an amazing shade of purple. She added, “Always wanted to hold up a bank.”

Tomorrow Dawna, Ladyshimarray, and Graham would pull on black balaclavas, pick up shotguns, and rob Citibank. The mock heist was the kickoff forensic exercise in the academy’s eight-week training course. Routine stuff for Dawna, the lead instructor. She’d played the same game at Quantico, knew what evidence she needed to lay down at the crime scene for her pupils to investigate. And she’d already been through it once here in Budapest.

Which was when she discovered how badly instructors from other US agencies could blow it. The agent from DEA had gotten into the bad guy thing, taken a hostage, finally had to be smacked back. No, we don’t even pretend to cut off and send out body parts.

Looking over her new crew, Dawna figured Ladyshimarray would do passably. She was Secret Service, sent by Treasury to teach the critical course on counterfeiting. Seven inches shorter than Dawna’s six three, she was wiry and quick. She’d started in personal protection, was still in shape, still had the moves. Maybe a little too take-charge for Dawna’s taste. Tonight Ladyshimarray had preempted the best chair, the one now to Dawna’s left, her back also to the wall. Nearly a decade away from playing college basketball, Dawna kept automatically scouting for positions on her dream team. Ladyshimarray, a perfect point guard if she didn’t screw up, keep the ball in her own hands at crunch time.

“Afraid I may not be much of an asset,” Graham Roberts said in his diffident way. “The only field training I’ve been through in the last ten years was at our facility in Front Royal.”

Won’t be much use here, Dawna thought. An academy whose star students are explosive-sniffing canines. And maybe Graham was too self-effacing. Fine, he didn’t hot dog, but she feared he’d disappear behind the furniture when she needed him to kick ass. Look at him now, parked in the chair she and Ladyshimarray had rejected, his back to the room, of course. Same height as Ladyshimarray and outweighing her by fifty pounds, Graham wouldn’t even get a job as equipment handler for the dream team. He was from the other bureau—Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. And Dawna knew his heart wasn’t in her exercise. He’d come to Budapest to teach a short course on post-blast investigation. His specialty—his passion, to hear him talk. Which she was going to, again; she could tell from the eager movement of his head, the candlelight turning his pale face into a full moon beaming straight at her.

“You FBI folks have been in love with this bank robbery crap since Bonnie and Clyde.” Graham’s voice earnest, not trying to goad her despite his lousy choice of words. “Won’t cut it here. The biggest problem in Central Europe is criminal organizations and their power struggles. Gang war. In Hungary they’ve had over a hundred fifty gang-related bombings in the past two years. These cops tell me that’s the crime they want to work on.”

Another believer. Last session it was the DEA guy—“call me Skynarc”—who insisted airport narcotics interdiction should be the academy’s focus. Kept getting in Dawna’s face when he wasn’t trying to get in her pants. Man had a nice ass, but not nice enough to compensate. She shut him down, hard and fast. Sulking for six weeks, he’d been a drag, never got with the program.

Now in this case, Graham was right. Dawna’s background was transnational crime; she’d made her name in the Bureau showing how outlaw biker gangs tied into the big picture worldwide. She knew criminal warfare. “Cops tell me the same thing,” she said to Graham. “But my boss won’t budge on this one.” Letting her voice drop into a monotone, reciting the party line: “‘The bank exercise is an effective and contained way to teach management of the investigative process. Chain of evidence, witness interviews, the whole nine yards.’”

Graham shook his head. “No offense, Dawna, but whoever planned this training is years behind the times.”

“And the names they gave these courses,” Ladyshimarray interjected, her head moving in concert with Graham’s. “I mean, what’s wrong with ‘How to Treat a Suspect’? Who came up with this ‘Human Dignity’ bullshit?”

Another way of asking: where does the FBI get off, thinking it can teach anybody anything? “Not guilty,” Dawna said promptly. “And you notice I’m not the Human Dignity instructor, either.”

“Damn.” Ladyshimarray’s eyebrows lifted in mock surprise. “What, you’re right here, a real live Fee Bee and they didn’t even ask you to demonstrate how not to ask questions?”

“I offered.” Dawna shrugged. “Even said I’d let old Graham here play the suspect.”

Ladyshimarray snickered, leaned across the table, forefinger aimed at the spare tire overlapping Graham’s belt. “Boy does bear a strong physical resemblance to Rambo.”

“Sorry. Love to take the part but I just can’t do it.” Graham held up his hands, palm out, a what-can-I-do gesture. “I’m already booked as a bad example in the Wellness lecture.”

“Wellness.” Ladyshimarray rolled her violet eyes. “Now there’s a title. I’d be offended if I was a student here. It’s not as if these guys haven’t heard it’s unhealthy to smoke, get drunk, and eat like a pig.”

Graham frowned. “And I sure hope it’s one of those fat pigs recommended the goulash you promised us,” he said to Dawna. “Make my dreams come true: tell me pure lard is the main ingredient.”

“You can count on it. I got the name of this place from a seriously hefty local detective.” Hungry, Dawna tried to locate her waiter but he was no longer in the crowd beside the center table. As she watched, a second group of men joined the first with a flurry of male hugging, back slapping, social kisses. It was seven o’clock, early by European dining standards, and only two other tables in the room were occupied, a couple at one, a family with three party-dressed kids at the other. The folding chairs edging the dance floor were still empty of musicians, only a lonely accordion hinting at what was to come. Dawna imagined raucous music rising to the exposed rafters, bouncing off the hunting-lodge decor.

Graham claimed her attention again. “With the new technology available,” he was saying, “there has to be stronger focus on crime scene management. Blast analysis requires a completely new approach. You may have to extend the crime scene an extra thousand yards, the evidence gets moved so far by the explosion. Crime scene searching is completely different. Take me three days to teach how to collect evidence. That’s even before we start the analysis. PLM of course, and now we can use FTIR, GC/MS . . .”

Dawna let the alphabet slide over her, still watching the center table. Now she spotted her waiter in the trio hovering nearby. Ten men had filled the chairs. Dawna saw designer suits, barbered hair, flashes of gold on wrists and cuffs. Rich guys, meeting over dinner. Two parties of five, she decided. A head man sitting at each end. And the top guys had brought their bodyguards, she realized, picking out three—no, four—jokers in the kind of double-breasted blazers that come with sheets of lightweight Spectra inside the lining. Seated in pairs at adjacent tables, bulletproof jackets roomy enough to conceal some serious heat. Five hundred dollars per blazer, easy.

So who makes that fashion statement in Budapest?

Her right hand slid under the table, and she hitched up her pants leg an inch, giving her quicker access to her ankle holster and the compact little Beretta she was absolutely not authorized to carry overseas.

“I’ve seen this movie.” Ladyshimarray inclined her head a fraction, toward the table. “Just can’t tell if that guy with his back to me is Brando or Pacino.”

“Pacino?” Graham repeated, puzzled. His face cleared. “You’re thinking Serpico, right? Cops on the take? Because that’s a huge problem over here, what with all the drug money—”

“Not Serpico,” Dawna said. “Think the Corleones meeting those guys from the rival family, Tattaglia or whatever their name was.”

Graham’s spine was suddenly rigid. But he was sharper than he’d acted earlier, he didn’t turn his head to look. “You’re saying this is going on right behind me.”

“Exactly behind you,” Ladyshimarray said softly. “Major summit meeting.” She moved her shoulders, leaning forward to free her jacket hem, which would make it easier to reach a small-of-the-back holster if she were wearing one. Dawna approved. She and Ladyshimarray, both of them outside the paint, ready to shoot some threes, if that’s what the situation required.

But this was no shootout, Dawna reminded herself. They were in the cradle of Western civilization. “Relax,” she said to Ladyshimarray. “My cop buddy said we might run into local celebrities here. But they wouldn’t pick this spot for a showdown. Probably celebrating, like we should be.” She lifted her wineglass. Empty. Her glance went back to the center table, but the staff had vanished. “Where the hell’s that waiter?”

“Allow me.” Graham reached for the wine, big right hand curving around the cloth-covered bottle, lifting it toward him to get a better angle on her glass.

Dawna saw his nostrils dilate, eyes narrow, forehead furrow. He hadn’t poured; he was reacting to something on the outside of the bottle. The back of her neck tingled, small hairs rising there, one by one. Something wrong, very wrong. Dawna inhaled, made her body go completely still.

Setting the bottle carefully back on the table, Graham peeled off the napkin, held the linen against his nose. “I really hate to tell you what I’m smelling here.”