subject and the admiral is long-winded and stubborn. We’re having a rough time getting ready for Kirechenko. God, I’m tired.’
He put down his glass, turned off the bedroom lights, and got into bed.
She felt his feet touching hers. ‘Umm, warm toes,’ she mumbled.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked. ‘Ready for Moscow?’
‘Suppose so.’
‘Wish I hadn’t told you to go.’
‘Goodwill,’ she said.
‘Yes, it won’t hurt, especially when we’re having so many Other disagreements with the Russians. They’ll like you over there.’
‘Hope so.’
She felt his soft hands on her breast, felt his hair against her chin, felt his tongue on her nipple.
‘What I’d give to be in you,’ he said.
‘Won’t be long.’
‘Four weeks is long. Are you still bleeding?’
‘Little. Not so much.’
‘Can’t wait. It’s something to wait for.’ He moved off her. ‘Good night, darling.’
Billie Bradford said thickly, ‘Good night, Mr President. Or can I call you Andrew?’
It was five minutes to eight o’clock in the morning in Moscow.
The four of them were assembled in the living room of Vera Vavilova’s secluded house, their chairs drawn up before the large screen of her television set. Vera, her long blonde hair caught by a barrette in the back, was attired in a pink blouse, blue pants, and thong sandals. To her immediate right sat General Ivan Petrov, wearing a conservative dark blue business suit, the buttoned jacket too tight for his thick chest and bulging middle, his beady eyes fixed on the blank television screen. Next to him sat his aide Colonel Zhuk and his best friend in the Politburo, Garanin.
Petrov consulted the black face of his Japanese watch. ‘She has arrived,’ he announced. ‘Turn on the set.’
Colonel Zhuk sprang to his feet, stepped to the television cabinet, and twisted a knob. Zhuk hovered, waiting for a picture. The image unfolded slowly. It showed a hazy view of the flag of the Soviet Union and the flag of the United States on flagpoles fluttering in the breeze against a menacing, clouded, drab, grey sky. Hastily, Zhuk adjusted the focus of the picture and raised the volume on a disembodied voice. In Russian, the voice was announcing that the official American party from Washington DC had already landed at Vnukovo Airport, and that the plane was turning off the runway toward the terminal. After the First Lady disembarked, and a brief welcoming ceremony, the honoured guest would be escorted by automobile the twenty-eight kilometres into Moscow.
As Zhuk went back to his chair, the screen was filled with another picture, that of the official hostess and a group around her looking off, apparently at the approach of Air Force One, which could not be seen yet.
Vera leaned forward and made out the Premier’s wife, Ludmila Kirechenko, a stately, bosomy, grey-haired lady with the appearance of a retired opera mezzo-soprano. Vera could not identify the other figures until the camera reached Alex Razin, so masculine, so handsome in his brown suit. Vera had difficulty suppressing her smile of pleasure.
Petrov extracted a cigar from his pocket and absently unpeeled the wrapper as he concentrated on the television. A gigantic jet airliner, the rectangle of the Stars and Stripes painted on it, came into view. The plane rolled across the screen and halted. The airport workmen were pushing the portable metal stairs toward the plane and setting them in place against the exit door.
The door slowly opened. As it did, a band, unseen, struck up ‘The Star Spangled Banner’.
Vera leaned further forward, and Petrov’s eyes narrowed. An athletic-looking youngish man had appeared in the plane’s doorway, and began to descend the steps, followed closely by another.
‘Her Secret Service guards,’ said Vera Vavilova in English. ‘The first is Van Acker, the other McGinty.’
‘And the woman behind them?’ asked Petrov.
‘Her press secretary, Nora Judson,’ said Vera.
‘Yes.
He put down his glass, turned off the bedroom lights, and got into bed.
She felt his feet touching hers. ‘Umm, warm toes,’ she mumbled.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked. ‘Ready for Moscow?’
‘Suppose so.’
‘Wish I hadn’t told you to go.’
‘Goodwill,’ she said.
‘Yes, it won’t hurt, especially when we’re having so many Other disagreements with the Russians. They’ll like you over there.’
‘Hope so.’
She felt his soft hands on her breast, felt his hair against her chin, felt his tongue on her nipple.
‘What I’d give to be in you,’ he said.
‘Won’t be long.’
‘Four weeks is long. Are you still bleeding?’
‘Little. Not so much.’
‘Can’t wait. It’s something to wait for.’ He moved off her. ‘Good night, darling.’
Billie Bradford said thickly, ‘Good night, Mr President. Or can I call you Andrew?’
It was five minutes to eight o’clock in the morning in Moscow.
The four of them were assembled in the living room of Vera Vavilova’s secluded house, their chairs drawn up before the large screen of her television set. Vera, her long blonde hair caught by a barrette in the back, was attired in a pink blouse, blue pants, and thong sandals. To her immediate right sat General Ivan Petrov, wearing a conservative dark blue business suit, the buttoned jacket too tight for his thick chest and bulging middle, his beady eyes fixed on the blank television screen. Next to him sat his aide Colonel Zhuk and his best friend in the Politburo, Garanin.
Petrov consulted the black face of his Japanese watch. ‘She has arrived,’ he announced. ‘Turn on the set.’
Colonel Zhuk sprang to his feet, stepped to the television cabinet, and twisted a knob. Zhuk hovered, waiting for a picture. The image unfolded slowly. It showed a hazy view of the flag of the Soviet Union and the flag of the United States on flagpoles fluttering in the breeze against a menacing, clouded, drab, grey sky. Hastily, Zhuk adjusted the focus of the picture and raised the volume on a disembodied voice. In Russian, the voice was announcing that the official American party from Washington DC had already landed at Vnukovo Airport, and that the plane was turning off the runway toward the terminal. After the First Lady disembarked, and a brief welcoming ceremony, the honoured guest would be escorted by automobile the twenty-eight kilometres into Moscow.
As Zhuk went back to his chair, the screen was filled with another picture, that of the official hostess and a group around her looking off, apparently at the approach of Air Force One, which could not be seen yet.
Vera leaned forward and made out the Premier’s wife, Ludmila Kirechenko, a stately, bosomy, grey-haired lady with the appearance of a retired opera mezzo-soprano. Vera could not identify the other figures until the camera reached Alex Razin, so masculine, so handsome in his brown suit. Vera had difficulty suppressing her smile of pleasure.
Petrov extracted a cigar from his pocket and absently unpeeled the wrapper as he concentrated on the television. A gigantic jet airliner, the rectangle of the Stars and Stripes painted on it, came into view. The plane rolled across the screen and halted. The airport workmen were pushing the portable metal stairs toward the plane and setting them in place against the exit door.
The door slowly opened. As it did, a band, unseen, struck up ‘The Star Spangled Banner’.
Vera leaned further forward, and Petrov’s eyes narrowed. An athletic-looking youngish man had appeared in the plane’s doorway, and began to descend the steps, followed closely by another.
‘Her Secret Service guards,’ said Vera Vavilova in English. ‘The first is Van Acker, the other McGinty.’
‘And the woman behind them?’ asked Petrov.
‘Her press secretary, Nora Judson,’ said Vera.
‘Yes.
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