MASH 14 MASH goes to Moscow (8 page)

“Of course,
Boris
Korsky-Rimsakov,” Jim-Boy said, crossing his fingers. “I must have been thinking of the other one,
Alfred
Korsky
-Whatever. Well, what about him?”

“Our beloved Chairman of the Supreme Soviet has a little favor to ask of you, sir,” the ambassador said. “Vis-à-vis Maestro Korsky-Rimsakov.”

“I thought you said his name was Sergei, or something like that. One of those funny Russian names.”

“Boris
is his name, sir.”

“Well, get to the point, Mr. Ambassador, I’m a busy man. With all those armored divisions being moved around Poland and East Germany, I’ve got to make up my mind which of your cities I’m going to blow up first
…”
Again he stopped in midsentence and shifted downward in his chair, as if he were being pulled under his desk. “Have some more boiled peanuts,” he said.

“Not just now, thank you, sir,” the ambassador said. “Is there something wrong, sir. Something under your desk?”

“Just an old spittoon,” Jim-Boy said. “Sometimes it gets in my way. You were saying?”

“I’ll get right to the bottom line, sir,” the ambassador said. “If you can give me your personal assurance that Boris Korsky-Rimsakov will appear, twice, at the Bolshoi, I am prepared to give you my personal assurance that the maneuvers of our tank divisions in East Germany and Poland will cease.”

“Let me think about that,” Jim-Boy said. “My gut reaction is to say, hell, yes, you got a deal, but my Secretary of State warned me about you guys. Said you can’t be trusted as far as I can throw you.”

And again Jim-Boy seemed to be struggling with something attacking his right leg.

A disembodied voice spoke. “Tell him yes, for God’s sake.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?” the Soviet ambassador said.

“That was just me thinking out loud,” Jim-Boy said. “Now, let’s go over this again. If I give you my word that this
Korsky-Borsky
, whatever, comes to Moscow, you’ll give me your word that you’ll stop the hanky-panky with your armored divisions. Is that about the nut of it?”

“That’s it. Deal?”

“Let’s not get carried away. If I give you my word, you got something. I never lie. Anybody will tell you that. If I say What’s-his-name will go to Moscow, you can bet your last two cents on it. But I’m not so sure about your word. I mean, what if I sent
Korsky-Borsky
all the way over there, and you didn’t stop fooling around with the tank divisions? You know where that would leave me? It would leave me standing there with egg on my face, that’s where it would leave me. God knows, the Republicans would just love something like that!”

“Have you something in mind, sir?”

“I think you should sweeten the deal a little,” Jim-Boy said.

“How, exactly?”

“You get in touch with your boss and tell him if he can get that fat
fella
who keeps calling me names in the UN to knock it off, and to keep his shoes on his feet instead of banging on his desk with them, I would accept that as proof of your good faith, and
Ol
’ What’s-his-name will be on the next plane to Moscow. How does that sound?”

“You’ve got a deal, sir,” the Soviet ambassador said.

“It’s a pleasure doing business with you,” Jim-Boy said. He opened his desk drawer, took a small paper bag from it, and handed it to the ambassador. “Take these home to your wife, Mr. Ambassador,” he said. “A little souvenir from me.”

“Thank you so very much, sir,” the Ambassador said. He opened the bag. “Oh,
boiled peanuts!
My wife will be thrilled.”

“My pleasure,” Jim-Boy said, beaming. “Thanks for coming to see me.”

He walked the Russian ambassador to the door.

“Y’all come back, hear?” he called after him in the Southern manner, and then he closed the door. “O.K., Cy-Boy, get out from under the desk. He’s gone.”

The Secretary of State crawled out from under the desk.

“Say what you like about Nixon,” he said, “but
his
Secretary of State got to eavesdrop on private conversations sitting in an upholstered chair with earphones on his head.”

“There will be no bugging in my White House,” Jim-Boy said firmly.

“Then you’re going to have to get a bigger desk,” the Secretary of State said. “That’s the last time I’m going to spend ten minutes with my nose in your spittoon.”

“How’d I do, Cy-Boy?” Jim-Boy asked, to change the conversation.

“On the whole, rather well, I would judge. I think we came out of that one on top.”

“I thought so myself,” Jim-Boy said. “I didn’t get to be the Peanut King of the Tri-County Area giving things away, I’ll tell you that. There’s only one little problem.”

“Which is, sir?”

“Who’s this
Korsky-Borsky
character? And what do they want with him in Moscow?”

“That’s Korsky-Rimsakov,” the Secretary of State replied.

“If there’s one
think
I don’t like, Cy-Boy, it’s a smartass Yankee always correcting me,” Jim-Boy said. “Just tell me who he is and what they want with him.”

“I haven’t the foggiest,” the Secretary of State confessed.

“That figures,” Jim-Boy said. “You’re going to have to straighten up, Cy-Boy, if you know what I mean. There’s no room for dead wood around my White House. You keep that in mind.”

He walked behind his desk, sat down, and picked up his telephone.

“Let me talk to the Admiral,” he said a moment later. Pause. “What do you mean what admiral? How many have you got over there, anyway?” Pause. “That many? No fooling?” Pause. “The head admiral, then.” Pause. “Yeah, I mean the director.” Pause. “Who’s calling? Who do you think is calling on the direct line from the President’s desk, Ronald Reagan?”

He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “They’re getting him on the line. He’s at a little party they’re having for Annapolis alumni.” Then he took his hand off the microphone. “Admiral,” he said, “this is Your Commander-in-Chief.” Pause. “Yeah, who would have ever dreamed, when we were rowing those lousy lifeboats around Annapolis harbor in the rain!” Pause. “Yeah, well I’m sorry I wasn’t there, too, I would have liked to have rubbed it in some of their faces, but I’ve been busy-busy-busy.” Pause. “Listen,
ol
’ buddy, I’m sitting here with Cy and we’ve got a little problem. You ever hear of somebody named … what was that name again, Cy?”

“Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov,” the Secretary of State said.

“Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov,” Jim-Boy said to the Admiral. Pause. “What do you mean, no? You’re the head of the CIA, and when your Commander-in-Chief calls up and asks you a simple little question, you’re supposed to have the answer. You find out everything there is to know about this guy, and get right back to me.” Pause. “No, I can’t give you a hint. You just find out and get your tail over here with the answer at flank speed. You read me, Admiral?”

He slammed the phone down in its cradle. He looked at the Secretary of State. “Just because he graduated ahead of me at the academy, he thinks he can get away with murder. I’ve always been suspicious of bookworms.” A look of annoyance crossed his face as the famous smile
vanished. “Don’t just set there, Cy-Boy, like a boll weevil with his belly full of cotton.”

“What would you have me do, sir?”

“Get your tail over to Foggy Bottom and look in your files. That German
fella
must have left notes or something. If the Russians know this Rimsky-
Bimsky
fella
, he must have …”

“That’s Korsky-Rimsakov, sir,” the Secretary of State said.

“This is the last time I’m going to tell you, Cy-Boy, you’re only the lousy Secretary of State. You’re in no position to go around all the time correcting your Commander-in-Chief.”

“Sorry, sir,” the Secretary said. “I’ll get right on it.”

“When you’re riding over there in that fancy limousine, with the air-conditioning and all, on them foam rubber seats, you think about it, Cy-Boy. You don’t have a contract, you know. Keep that in mind.”

Two hours later, the Secretary of State and the director of the Central Intelligence Agency met, both gentlemen loaded down with thick files, in the office of the appointments secretary.

“Lester, he expects us,” the Secretary of State said.

“The phrase he used was ‘at flank speed,’ ” the Admiral said. “Among us Annapolis men that means just as fast as possible.”

“He’s in there with a delegation from India,” the appointments secretary said. “Friends of his mother. There’s no way you’re going to get in there until they finish getting that cobra back in its basket, and that’s that.” Five minutes later, they were admitted.

“Permission to come aboard, sir?” the Admiral said, jocularly, as he stepped out of the way of the fakir carrying a wicker basket.

“Y’all come in,” Jim-Boy said. “You just missed quite a show. Snake stood right up on its tail.” He walked behind his desk and sat down. “Well, let’s have it. Who is this
Korsky
-Whatever, and why do the Russians want him?”

“We have an extensive file on him,” the Admiral said. “And so does the State Department,” the Secretary of State said. “Unfortunately, extracting information from them may pose a little problem.”

“How’s that, Cy-Boy?” Jim-Boy asked.

“My predecessor in office chose to keep them in Latin,” the Secretary of State said. “He was a schoolteacher, you know.”

“That isn’t all he was,” Jim-Boy said. “Well, let’s have what you have.”

“The news isn’t good, sir,” the Admiral said.

“What is he, some sort of atomic scientist? They want to pick his brain, is that it?”

“No, sir,” the Secretary of State said. “He’s the world’s greatest opera singer.”

“Opera singer? Opera singer? You’re not putting me on, Cy-boy, are you? I wouldn’t like that at all.”

“The Secretary’s information is correct, sir,” the Admiral said. “He’s also
Une
Tresor
Officiel
de la Belle France.”

“Just tell me the facts, and knock off the Latin, Admiral,” Jim-Boy said.

“He’s an Official Treasure of France, sir.”

“I was told he was an American,” Jim-Boy said.

“He is,” the Secretary of State said. “But he’s also an Official Treasure of France. And he’s
…”

“I don’t have time for all the details—just answer the question. Is there any reason we can’t load this guy on an airplane and send him to Russia for a couple of days?”

“Our preliminary information suggests that he may not wish to go,” the Admiral said.

“I didn’t ask whether or not he wants to go—I asked is there any reason we can’t send him?”

“We could ask him to go, as a patriotic duty …” the Secretary of State said.

“Get him on the phone,” Jim-Boy said. “I’ll ask him myself, personally.”