Black Ghosts by Victor Ostrovsky Page A

Really, I’m fine.”
    Natalie sat on the chair by the window, next to Edward. He could feel her almost touching him.
    â€œSo what you’re saying is that this guy Bud is a bad apple?”
    â€œIt looks that way. He was the one who sent the backup. I was lucky I didn’t trust him with Natalie.”
    â€œHow do you mean?”
    â€œHe didn’t know about her. He thought I was coming in alone. If it wasn’t for her, I’d be dead now.” Edward nodded. Natalie smiled.
    Larry described the way he got into the base and replaced the unit. Then he repeated the exact story Natalie had told Edward about what happened outside the base. He was a little fuzzy about how he finally got into the car and how she got the circuit, but that was quite understandable considering his condition.
    â€œWell,” Edward said, getting up, “I guess that means mission accomplished, after all. Now all you have to do is get back on your feet, get back to Washington, and straighten it all out.”
    â€œAccording to Donoven,” Larry said, repositioning himself on the bed, “the Russians were requesting that the Patriots supply them with a cache of weapons in the U.S. They’re planning a hit in the United States, and they don’t want to be caught smuggling the stuff in.”
    â€œThat’s a smart move. If they can trust these Patriots, that is.”
    â€œThey can and they do.”
    â€œDo you have any idea what they are asking for? I mean if you knew what weapons they are going to be using, you might be able to figure out what or who their target is.”
    â€œThat I doubt. They were asking mainly for light arms: The target could be anyone, anywhere.”
    â€œSo you have no idea who the target is? Or could be?”
    â€œNot a clue, except that he’s of importance to them. And the hit is supposed to go down any time now.”
    â€œOkay,” said Edward. “So now what?” He felt a momentary sense of relief that he was not being dragged back into the marshland of intelligence intrigue.
    â€œI should be back on my feet and out of your hair in a couple of days,” Larry said bravely.
    Edward had to be content with that. But he knew things were never that simple, and he had a feeling it was not over yet. Leaving Larry to rest awhile, he went downstairs. Seating himself at a table by the window, he sipped his coffee and started to prepare tomorrow’s menu. Someone had left a newspaper on the opposite seat. A big headline caught his eye: “The Queensboro Bridge Massacre.” The subhead read, “Russian envoy dead after bizarre attack in New York City.”
    He crossed the dining room in a flash on his way to the kitchen. Getting up the stairs to his flat in three giant steps, he rushed into the bedroom, almost out of breath, and handed Larry the newspaper. “Here it is,” he said. “Read this.”
    Larry’s eyes flicked rapidly across the page. Soon he was nodding his head. “Yep, sure looks like it.” He read the article a second time, a frown creasing his pale forehead. “We need to know more about this.”
    Edward gave him a steady look. “We, paleface? I don’t even want to know. I—not we. I am me and you are you, and that’s the way it’s going to stay.”
    Larry was silent for a moment. “What do you want me to say? Come on, Edward, what would you do in my place?”
    â€œThat’s just it, I don’t want to be in your place.”
    â€œWell, you should have turned me away when you had the chance.” His voice took on a pleading tone. “Edward, we need to bring these guys down.”
    Edward knew what Larry was asking. “What does this have to do with me? I’m a restaurateur. I bake croissants.”
    For the first time since his collision with the bullet, Larry betrayed some real fire. “Come on, Edward! So you’ve been out of the game for a