Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 01 by Flight of the Old Dog (v1.1)

urgent matter.”
                 “Of
... of course. ” Karmarov motioned to
his inner apartment. “Do come in.” He turned to Asserni. “Bring coffee and
brandy immediately. And I will strangle anyone who interrupts us. Is that
understood?”
                 Asserni
was too astonished to reply. As she hurried off to the kitchen, Karmarov
followed the tall, lean, impeccably dressed American into his inner apartment
and closed the door behind him.
                 The
Russian ambassador’s apartment resembled a large study, with walls covered
mostly with floor-to-ceiling shelves of books of all kinds. The most imposing
item in the room was Karmarov’s massive desk, a huge, ornately carved antique,
well over half the width of the apartment itself. Brent ran a hand over plush
leather chairs, noticing that the coffee table in the center of the apartment
was genuine Chippendale.
                 “A
most exquisite room, Ambassador Karmarov,” Brent said without turning around.
Karmarov wrung his hands with impatience as he waved Asserni into the
apartment. She set the tray with a silver urn, a long fluted decanter of
brandy, china cups, and large snifters onto the Chippendale table and hurried
out.
                 “Balshoye spasibe. Thank you,” Karmarov
said. “Mr. Secretary, we may speak English if you prefer. You need not—”
                 “I
am in Russia now, Mr. Ambassador,” Brent said, continuing in urban Muscovite
Russian. “It would be a presumption to speak anything but your native tongue.”
                 Brent
turned, his hands folded behind his back. The two men observed each other for a
moment. Karmarov saw a tall, elegant frame, a silvermaned head; a firm chin
thrust defiantly up and outward; a thin silver mustache perfectly symmetrical.
The suit was conservative, tailored to razor-sharp perfection, the shoes were
polished to a gleaming shine despite the harsh Manhattan streets.
                 Brent
saw a shorter but powerful man, with a full head of gray hair atop broad
shoulders. The years of plush living in the most fashionable section of New York had begun to tell on the Ambassador’s
waistline and chin, but Karmarov’s eyes were still as fiery and bright as in
his revolutionary youth.
                 Karmarov
finally motioned Brent forward. “Pazhaloosta
saditis. Please sit down, Mr. Secretary.”
                 Brent
took the wide-armed leather chair offered him by the Russian and lightly seated
himself. He kept his knees, legs and back perfectly straight as Karmarov joined
him. Karmarov reached for the coffee urn but, correctly interpreting a sly grin
in Brent’s eyes, his hand slipped over to the decanter. He poured a generous
amount of brandy for both of them and offered one to the American Secretary of
State.
                 “To
your health, Mr. Secretary,’’ Karmarov said in English.
                 Brent
raised his glass. “Za vasha zdarovye! And to you and yours, Ambassador,’’ Brent replied.
                 They
let the strong spirits flood their insides, then Brent set his glass down on
the table.
                 Karmarov
spoke first. “I am totally embarrassed, Mr. Secretary,’’ he said. “I had no
idea . . .”
                 “It
is I who should apologize, sir,’’ Brent said. “This may seem most
inappropriate, but I simply felt that I must speak with you immediately.’’
                 “By
all means,” Karmarov said. He took a bigger sip of brandy.
                 “It
concerns the fears some in my government have of the research being down at the
Kavaznya complex,” Brent began. “They feel—”
                 “Please,
Mr. Secretary,” Karmarov said, his eyes serious. “I am not permitted to discuss
Kavaznya. It is more than a classified facility, sir. It is a