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“Major Miller?” an American male voice inquired.
“Speaking.”
“Major, this is Colonel Porter.”
What the hell does he want at oh-dark-hundred?
“Yes, sir?”
“I am five minutes from your apartment, Major,” Lieutenant Colonel James R. Porter, Artillery, the defense attach é of the United States embassy in Luanda, said, somewhat stiffly. “Please be prepared to admit me.”
“You’re coming here?” Miller asked, really surprised. He belatedly added, “Sir?”
“I am coming there. Please be prepared to admit me.”
“Yes, sir,” Miller said.
There was a click as the connection was broken.
Miller found the light switch in the dark, put the old telephone handset in its cradle, and then swung his legs out of bed, wincing at the pain in his knee.
“Fuck!” he said aloud and then walked to the bathroom, where a terry cloth robe hung on the back of the door.
If Porter’s going to be here in five minutes, I’m not going to have time for a shower and to get dressed.
He pulled the robe around him and then decided he’d better add undershorts. Then he went back in the bathroom and swirled Scope around in his mouth.
What the hell does he want?
The lobby buzzer went off three minutes later. Miller went into the kitchen and pushed the intercom’s SPEAK button.
“Yes?”
“This is Colonel Porter, Major Miller,” Porter’s voice came metallically over the wire.
“Pushing the solenoid now, sir,” Miller said.
Miller had the door to his apartment open by the time the elevator came up. Colonel Porter, in uniform, walked off the elevator, followed by one of the embassy’s Marine guards.
The Gunny, Miller thought as he recognized the noncommissioned officer in charge of the guard detachment. Miller knew the large and muscular shaven-headed man a lot better than he was supposed to. Majors and E-7s are not supposed to socialize. But Miller and the gunny had in common both being black and not quite being fully recovered from the hits they had taken from the rag-heads in Afghanistan. This was not the gunny’s first visit to Miller’s apartment.
But this time Gunnery Sergeant Roscoe Fortenaux, USMC, was obviously on duty. He had a Smith & Wesson .357 in a holster on his hip.
Roscoe had told him that the State Department insisted the Marine guards be armed with the S&W revolver, ra
ther than with the standard-issue Beretta 9mm semiautomatic. Neither of them had been able to understand the logic of that. Even the cops had gone to semiautomatic pistols.
“Good morning, sir,” Miller said to Lieutenant Colonel Porter. “How are you, Gunny?”
“Good morning, sir,” Gunny Fortenaux said.
“After you, sir,” Miller said, motioning Porter into the apartment.
Porter took six steps into the corridor of Miller’s apartment, then turned as if to make sure Miller had followed him inside.
Miller gestured for him to go farther into the apartment. Porter turned and walked into the living room, then turned again to wait for Miller.
“Major Miller,” Lieutenant Colonel Porter said, formally, “you stand relieved, sir. And you will consider yourself under arrest to quarters.”
