If everything I described after the blast seemed chaotic that’s because it was. I still don’t know all the details.  Matters go worse a week or two later.

First, several Russians in Vladivostok, including several sailors, were kidnapped.  Emperor Xi went to the trouble of summoning the Russian ambassador. He told him and the press gathered for the occasion that he hoped the kidnapper was not a comrade driven insane by the recent treatment of Chinese tourists in Vladivostok. “Nobody wants these kidnapped Russians returned to their motherland more than I do,” bellowed Xi.  And they were.

A box appeared when a large drone landed in Red Square.  A ramp slung down from it and down that ramp, a large, red freight box slid onto the square’s pavement. On its lid was scrawled “For President Putin.”  Inside this freight box were the frozen bodies of the kidnapped Russians.  Attached to each frozen body was a saucy postcard of a photograph of erstwhile Chairman Mao with a mocking expression on his face. In beautiful calligraphy somebody had written, “From China with Love.”  

Putin exploded once briefed.  Reuters ran a story about him foaming at the mouth whilst he promised vengeance.  The Kremlin denied that Reuter’s story.  

Emperor Xi, smiling and waving at a crowd during a speech, promised he would be sure the kidnapper, if Chinese, got what he or they deserved.  He then conjectured that perhaps the Russians pulled a phoney stunt in a lame effort to win international sympathy.  “As far as I know ” exclaimed the Emperor, “Nothing is beyond the Russians.”  Chinese papers ran stories on why it was so likely that Russia ran this crooked operation from start to finish.  Nation of Connivers was a typical headline.

All the Chinese foreign offices noted their “sorrow” over the deaths of the kidnapped Russians.  Low-level emissaries were sent to attend the mass funeral since all the higher-level statesmen and politicos were “busy.”  

Munitions Galore continued to market its stealth bombs, as always with half-naked or naked (you can run racier ads in France than America) as marketing bait.  When you read those adverts, you’d swear buying a bomb worked way, way better than taking 100 mg of Viagra.  Spokemen at Munitions Galore denied any knowledge of Ice-10 so far as I know.  I did hear that for folks in the states with TS SCI clearance and additional very, very special tickets, Ice-10 was on offer as an expensive supplement that was perhaps available for “reputable,” peace-loving clients.  I think in English that means clients with more money than God.

In the midst of all this topsy-turvy, Lucky moved to a new higher gear.  She persuaded Cornpone that they needed to undertake an operation at Wolverine’s estate.  She promised him my assistance.  

Her first step was to hire a bum to hop a fence on Wolverine’s estate and stand at a designated spot.  He demanded $100, but Lucky told him $50 take it or leave it. He took it.  Lucky later told me that you must never overpay a bum.  “It undermines respect.”

With her new hire in hand, she took him to the area she wanted him to enter.  As before, she asked me to climb the same sycamore.  Once I had got up the tree, she sent the bum over and told him where to stand.  She preached how essential it was that he stay silent and still unless she ordered him to move.

Everything Lucky asked for she got.  She again armed herself and placed a camera that allowed her to be out of sight.  We all waited, but not long.

Mr Clean arrived.  The bum looked at him.  All at once, Mr Clean’s robotic eyes rolled open and the death lasering began.  The bum collapsed.  Old Mr Clean moved to the bum.  Whoosh. On came Clean’s incinerator.  As the bum’s corpse began to feed into the incinerator, I could hear a saw making him into incinerator digestible bits.  In a jiffy, the bum-be-gone program had done its work.  Aside from a bit of scorch at the spot the bot occupied, the area from a forensic point of view was immaculate.  

Lucky called me back.  I went to her most rikki-tik.  Perhaps I looked a wee shocked. 

“What a sentimentalist, you are” scolded Lucky.  “You can’t worry about a bum that got paid. Look at the bright side.  This guy died doing the best-paid job he ever had. There’s a dignity in that.”

I must have looked doubtful.  “Oh, don’t tell me, darling, that you wanted me to pay him $100?  That’s extortionate.  And it’s not as if he was a buddy of yours or mine.  Don’t be so glum.  Turn that frown right side up into a smile! That’s a good lover.”  Most of this chattering was in Lucky’s patronising motherese.  I was likely stressed as I crawled into her lap as she drove in order to make biscuits on her tummy.  She chuckled and scratched my head.  “So much better than Cornpone!  You’re the best, darling, absolutely the best.  Don’t trouble Cornpone with the bum story It puts him into his tedious cop persona. He still worries about 2 bot-devoured G-men. He’s not that quick.”