Run & Gun

HUNGARIAN DANCE NO. 5-2

“You can’t be serious—” Ladyshimarray began.

Dawna took the napkin, got a faint whiff that made her hear the whirr of a sewing machine at full tilt, throwing off the odor of Three-in-One oil running hot. A serious clue for Graham, she could tell. She smelled machine oil, he smelled a bomb. “The man knows,” she said to Ladyshimarray. “He trained with dogs.” Her eyes found Graham’s, saw his pupils grown large as peas, adrenaline surging into his system as it was into hers. Still not turning to look, so she gave him the picture. “There are only customers in this room now.”

Ladyshimarray’s voice thinner, panic crowding the edges. “Damn, damn, damn. I knew I’d seen this movie.”

“We don’t sit here, wait to see if Graham’s nose passes the test.” Dawna putting her team to work early, not a step she’d planned, one she damn sure couldn’t skip. “Let’s say a bomb’s been set to wipe out the cream of Budapest’s criminal organizations. Graham, how do you figure it’ll go down?”

“No waiters,” he replied promptly. “They set it, they’re gone. Most likely it’ll be triggered remote. But we can’t rule out a timer or a pressure-sensitive switch.”

Dawna raised an eyebrow: which means?

“Explodes when you take weight off,” Graham explained. “Like built into a chair.”

“Seen that movie, too,” Ladyshimarray muttered. “We’ve got to get these civilians out of here.”

And keep the bad guys in their seats. Which meant neither she nor Ladyshimarray could approach the center table. Old World manners, all ten men would leap to their feet. She ripped a page from her Day-Timer, block printing a note. “Graham, you’ll have to do the target table. Get close enough to pass this message to that first pair of guards without alarming them.”

Graham scanned the note, met her eyes. “You want me to check a guard’s chair?”

“And then clear out. If his chair is clean, he can check the rest of them. Lady and I will do the other diners.”

Ladyshimarray already in motion to the left, heading for the family seated on the far side of the room beyond the dance floor.

Dawna shook out her pants leg to cover her weapon, no use in this situation, the aftershock enough to set off a high-tech detonator. She sauntered to her right, zeroing in on the pair of thirtysomethings. The woman’s sable hair fell in Gypsy curls to shoulders bared by a peasant blouse of red and green silk. Her date had the same abundant hair, plus bushy eyebrows, and a curling mustache. His shirt glittered with ruby threads.

Before he could rise, Dawna slid into the empty chair beside the woman, inhaled heady scents, Hugo Boss commingling with Elizabeth Taylor, lavish as the hair. “Excuse me—”

Her words lost in a blast of accordion music. Graham moving past their table, headed for the center group, his right hand on the keyboard, his left on the chord buttons. Funículi, funícula, Dawna mentally congratulating Graham. Nobody stands to greet the strolling musician.

The curly-headed woman started to rise, pulling her date up with her. Planning to dance to Graham’s music, maybe.

Dawna’s fingers circled the woman’s arm at the elbow, rising with her, saying what she’d have said in this situation if she’d been back in the States. FBI. A few minutes of your time. This way please. The woman moving right with her, the man trailing, neither protesting, because it wasn’t what you said that mattered but how you said it, how you moved. Child’s play in the former Communist bloc, nobody asking where’s your ID, let’s see your warrant.

Docility lasted only as far as the lobby, the couple digging four heels into the carpet, their Hungarian plaint loud and insistent. Past the burgundy velvet draperies, out of sight of the guys at the center table, Dawna could whisper the word. “Bomb.”

Which did it, the Gypsies were out of there. She ordered Ladyshimarray to follow. “Get a hundred yards away from here at least, and find a pay phone. You’ll see the emergency number on it, three digits but not 911, of course, they don’t want to be us. Tell’em ‘bomb’ and ‘Café Cristal,’ they’ll figure out we need the Bomb Disposal Unit.”

Ladyshimarray took a step toward the carved wooden entry door and paused, glancing back toward the restaurant.

“I’ll bring Graham out. You leave now.” Dawna spun around, headed back through the drapes, raising dust. Ten men were frozen in place at the center table, three guards immobilized. The fourth gingerly peering beneath the chair at the table’s foot.

Graham was on his back, body stretched out from the head of the table. His skull disappeared beneath the chair, only his chin showing between the chair legs. Dawna flashed on the man seated there, thick white hair ringing a bald spot, the tanned pate glistening. Below it, his cheeks were the pale smoothness of pita bread. And he had his cellphone in his left hand, tapping in numbers with a manicured right index finger.

“Turn that off.” Dawna’s harsh voice too loud to ignore.

The man raised the phone to his ear. “I will have my explosives consultant here in minutes—”

Dawna snatched the unit from him, cut the power. “Hello, are you crazy? One incoming call is all it takes. Ding-a-ling, you’re dead.” She bent down, her focus on Graham. “Goddam, you get out of there.”

His reply muffled. “I’m not sure what I’m looking at here. Can you bring me a flashlight?”

Dawna gripped Graham’s right ankle. Could she pull him out without setting off the device? “Leave it. BDU is on its way. Not your job.” She tightened her hold, willing Graham to move, counting down the ten seconds until she’d yank him out. She had to risk it. You call a time-out you want your whole team off the court. You don’t leave a player out there alone.

One thousand ten, one thousand nine. She was wet under both arms, her heart thudding in her chest, three beats to the second. She gritted her teeth, counted on down, reaching one thousand two before Graham started inching from under the chair. So slo-mo, she wanted to scream at him to hurry. Instead she forced herself to keep counting silently, now forward, one thousand three, one thousand four. Sweat was trickling between her breasts and she couldn’t get enough air. One thousand six. And then with surprising grace Graham was on his feet. “Don’t move,” he said to the man in the chair. “You’ll need help to get safely out of this.”

“My consultant.” The Hungarian’s voice was thick, guttural with tension. An odorous cloud seemed to cling to him, the fear-sweat rank, garlic gone bad. “Get my consultant here to handle this.”

“You bet,” Dawna said, interrupting her count at one thousand eight, nudging Graham toward the lobby. Just beyond the draperies, she let him have it, talking as she hurried him toward the exit. “What the hell you think you were doing back there?”

“I had to look at it,” he said mildly. “Not often I get a chance to see these things beforehand.”

His voice so reasonable, not even aware how crazy he was. Dawna shook her head. Explosives lovers, all of them maniacs, wanting to play with the stuff. She shoved the front door open. The Café Cristal was in midblock, the street in front empty of cars and shiny from a recent rain shower. The puddles were streaked orange, reflecting the ornate neon script on the restaurant’s facade. More lights glowed at each end of the block, the electric blue of patrol cars flashing between red marker lights on the firetrucks, interspersed with the white glare of spots.

Which meant the emergency team was already in place. Damn quick response time, Dawna thought. Among the uniforms milling on her left, she spotted a pair of trenchcoats and hurried toward them.

Graham trailed after her, short of breath, detailing what he’d seen beneath the chair. “Small but effective bit of Semtex. A pressure switch for sure, guy better hold still. Something else, couldn’t quite see, maybe something works off microwave. Shutting down the cellphone was smart. Still, it won’t be easy, getting him out.”

A trenchcoated woman separated herself from the crowd, stepped out to meet them. Ladyshimarray bobbed behind her, riding the larger woman’s wake. Dawna recognized Erzsebet Takacs, the Hungarian National Police officer who regularly guest-lectured at the academy, explaining the operations of the Anti-Crime Strike Force she headed. Takacs was Dawna’s height and twice her bulk, the buttoned and belted coat like upholstery over a well-padded figure. The spotlight turned her tinted pompadour into a paprika colored cloud, hazed by smoke from the cigarette glued to her lower lip. Takacs was one of Budapest’s heavy hitters. And hefty, Dawna reminded herself. Very hefty indeed.

The burning cigarette hissed against the wet pavement. “So FBI Special Agent Shepherd,” Takacs said to Dawna, “What are you doing at my crime scene?”

“You tell me, National Police Senior Inspector Takacs,” Dawna replied. “After all, it was you who said I shouldn’t miss the drunken dancing at the Café Cristal.”

“But that was days ago.” Takacs blew air through her thick lips, a raspberry of disbelief. “What made you choose to dine here this evening?”

“Lucky coincidence,” Dawna said dryly. “We may be able to avert a major incident. We warned the men in there not to move or use cellphones.”

“Very fortunate,” Takacs agreed, her tone as sere as Dawna’s.

Dawna craned her neck to examine the vehicles clustered beyond the barricades. “Your BDU’s not here yet?”

“I didn’t make that phone call,” Ladyshimarray interjected. “Being as how the inspector was on scene.”

“Our bomb disposal unit is en route,” Takacs said. Not offering an explanation of her presence.

Not that Dawna needed one. The guys inside had to be top priority for the Anti-Crime Strike Force. Clearly, Takacs had known they were meeting here tonight. The barricades must have gone up soon after the party started. As if Takacs was expecting an explosion. Dawna spoke slowly, her gaze trained on the Hungarian. “The fellow in charge wants you to summon his explosives expert to disarm the device.”

Takacs snorted. “Our BDU is well trained.”

Graham broke in, earnestness overcoming his diffidence. “Pretty sophisticated setup. Wise to use the best.”

Takacs narrowed her eyes at Graham, trying to identify him.

Dawna said, “Agent Roberts is a post-blast specialist. He studied the device in place.”

“Then I will certainly take your recommendation into account.” Takacs bared her yellow teeth in a humorless smile. “We do appreciate your assistance. Perhaps tomorrow you can find time to come in and give us a statement.”

“Look,” Graham said, “Maybe I can give you a hand—”

Takacs’s head was in motion, cutting off his offer. “Our experts will deal with this situation.” Turning to Dawna she added, “Now you must absent yourselves from this dangerous situation.”

Get lost was how the officer-in-charge wanted it. Nothing left to talk about, and talk was pointless anyway, Dawna knew. “It’s all yours.” She turned her back on the Hungarian, shepherded Graham and Ladyshimarray through the tangle of emergency vehicles. Her people, she had to feed them and get them safely home. Thinking how best to do that, she said, “Hilton’s two blocks north of us. We can get a cab there.”

The moist air settled on Dawna’s face, chilling her. Words had failed her once again, just as they had her first time in Europe at age nineteen. She’d traveled to Slovakia to play on the USA women’s junior national basketball team. Sweating her way through an exhibition game, she’d asked for the water, and they’d given her a bottle of warm mineral water. She and the other players couldn’t make the idea of ice water comprehensible, or get across their complaints about the officiating, because words like water and foul and roughness got warped in translation. Words didn’t mean the same things over here. You’re in Europe, you talk, you think you’re communicating, but you’re not.

Her shoulders ached, and she saw that Graham and Ladyshimarray were walking as stiffly as she was, muscles tensed against the blast they expected to erupt behind them.

Ladyshimarray’s voice was still thin, a flutter beneath the words. “You don’t think the cops . . .”

“Planted those bombs?” Dawna’s frizz bounced from the vigor of her headshake. “Unthinkable. After all, Senior Inspector Takacs regularly lectures as part of the course on Democracy and the Rule of Law.”

Graham made a snorting noise in perfect imitation of Takacs. “Silly me for even thinking US-trained cops would stage an assassination. Or arrange to have their American colleagues blown up along with the bad guys.”

Dawna was not going there, no way. Last week, she’d asked Takacs to recommend a restaurant where she could welcome the new instructors before the next session officially began. Okay, maybe Takacs hadn’t put the clues together, hadn’t realized Dawna had meant this Sunday night. Easy to miss something like that; Dawna did have an accent. No question, the language difference was a barrier. And yes, a useful blind. Because Takacs did have something to gain if a few official Americans were taken out in a gang-related bombing. Grant money would pour into Budapest and the training program would change in the direction Takacs wanted it to go. But was the Hungarian woman that cold?

“Don’t even think it,” Dawna said firmly to Graham. “These are our foreign colleagues. Louis Freeh wants us building cop-to-cop relationships with them. Cooperating across borders just like the bad guys.”

“Too much like the bad guys,” Ladyshimarray muttered.

Dawna let that one go. She’d get all the facts, then she’d deal with Takacs. “Come on, I still owe you dinner.”

“But let’s skip the goulash,” Graham said quickly. “I’m thinking I’ll be seeing too much stuff looks like goulash, sooner than I want.”

So Graham was expecting he’d have a real post-blast investigation to work on.

“I don’t have any sympathy for thugs,” Ladyshimarray said, “but maybe we should make sure they really try to disarm that thing.”

“Not an option,” Dawna replied regretfully. Whole mess was in the hands of Takacs, now. Nothing more Dawna could do. This assignment to Budapest was like a road trip against tough opponents. Winning was always harder when you were up against foreign refs. They had a saying when Dawna was playing ball: to make it to the big dance, you had to win all your games at home and break even on the road. Lose one, you had to win the next. Well, shoot. She could do that.

Tomorrow, she and Graham and Ladyshimarray would show those Central European cops some stuff they could use. Hands on, face to face, you could get over. The students saw. They got it. Forget the talk. You could talk forever, get nowhere. Words—they blew up in your face.

“But I hear you about the goulash.” Dawna grinned at Graham. “Don’t worry, you’ll still get your lard. What do you think the McDonald’s here uses in the French fryer?”

“Oh mama,” Graham said prayerfully, “take me home.”

“Promise us animal fats,” Ladyshimarray added. “We’ll follow you anywhere.”

Shoot, she liked these two. And the three of them were good together. “After we get some decent food,” Dawna said, “we’ll figure out how we’ll rob their damn bank.”