He turned away from the open window and looked over the room he’d been given… clean and pleasant enough, but modest by American standards. Rooms had been reserved for the United Nations personnel at Yalta’s largest hotel, the Yalta ― a Stalinist horror of concrete in classic Communist-modernist-monolithic architecture. All of the foreigners were being kept here, and Tombstone hadn’t quite decided whether that was for their protection… or because it made it easier for the authorities to keep an eye on them. Both, probably.
His roommate was lying on the bed reading a guidebook. He was sharing the room with Greg Whitehead, the other captain in the group… and the place was almost certainly wired for sound. The Federal Bureau of Security ― or whatever the old KGB was calling itself now ― would be interested in any conversations the two of them might have during their stay.
“I’m going downstairs, Greg,” he told Whitehead, picking up his jacket and shrugging it on. “Maybe stretch my legs.”
“Okay, Matt. Watch out for the roaches.” They’d flushed a few already in the room’s antiquated bathroom, and they put Florida’s finest to shame… not quite strong enough to take on a healthy cat, they’d decided, but large enough to require respect.
At least, Tombstone thought as he pulled the door shut behind him, they had their own bathroom; lots of Russian hotels still believed in communal toilet facilities down the hall. Outside, the floor concierge, one of the small army of women hired by Russian hotels apparently for no other reason than to keep an eye on the comings and goings of the guests, eyed him narrowly and suspiciously from her chair by the elevator. He nodded pleasantly, then took the stairs instead of the elevators, which neither looked nor sounded trustworthy. The stairwells were dark and filthy, stank with the mingled odors of mildewed rags and urine, and were lacking fire doors, but at least he didn’t run the risk of getting stuck in one. The woman barked something in Russian at him as he started down the worn concrete steps… probably something in the nature of “You’re not allowed to do that!” or “Official use only!” but he ignored her and kept going. Let her yell. Tombstone could handle being flung off the bow of an aircraft carrier at 150 knots with complete aplomb, but Russian hotel elevators were something else.
He was going to be very glad to get back aboard the Jefferson.
“Hey… you American? You want fuck?”
The woman was small, blond, and painfully thin, dressed in a tight gown that tried to display her breasts but succeeded mostly in displaying how skinny her arms were, while the heavy eye makeup and lipstick emphasized her hollow cheeks. She stood squarely in the open doorway to the stairwell, blocking his way.
“What?”
“You want… fuck?” The obscenity was less shocking on her lips than it was pathetic. “Or do other things. Five dollars?”
“No,” Tombstone said.
“I suck you, two dollars.”
He felt pity, and a moment’s stumbling uncertainty. Should he just brush past this pathetic creature? Or offer her a few dollar bills as he would a beggar? Glancing past her shoulder, he saw a crowd of other women waiting in the corridor just outside the stairwell, all thin to the point of gauntness, dressed in clothes intended to be provocative, and wearing what they must imagine was sexy-looking makeup. And they were all watching his encounter with the first woman with predatory gleams in their eyes.
Shit. If he tried handing the woman money for no service, that bunch would descend on him like a wolf pack, targeting him as an easy mark. Better to shake his head no and shove past the woman without another glance.
And, he told himself, it might be best to avoid situations here where he was alone and could be cornered somewhere away from the main drag. Tombstone was under no illusions about his ability to fend off an attack by a half-dozen desperate women.
It was a sobering encounter. He’d known the Russian economy was bad, but no written description could have prepared him for the sight of those pitiful human wrecks accosting men in the hotel’s stairwell. He steeled himself to walk past the women outside without meeting their watching eyes. He wished there was something he could do to help them… something other than actually doing business with them, which he knew would be dangerous on several counts.
But there was nothing he could do, nothing anyone could do.
The Yalta Hotel’s lobby represented an unpleasant compromise between faux-neoclassical grandeur and Stalinist utilitarianism: large, ugly, and shabby. In some ways, it was like an American shopping mall, with hard currency shops and cafes. There were several tennis courts and swimming pools, amenities not normally associated with Russian hotels, and over twelve hundred rooms, most with their own plumbing and most wired for cable TV.
But it also showed the decay touching everything that once had been part of the Soviet system. Furniture was worn, mismatched, and dirty; the chandeliers were missing many of their crystal ornaments; the carpets were faded and showed worn tracks along the routes of heaviest traffic; and the clerks at the big front desk were conspicuously absent, though several guests were obviously waiting ― clamoring, even ― for attention. The place, Tombstone reflected, was probably busier today than it had been for some time, with the entire UN contingent quartered here, as well as, no doubt, the Russian security people assigned to keep track of them.
As Tombstone stepped into the main lobby near the elevators, his attention was immediately caught by a group of people in the sitting area, next to a scraggly collection of potted palms. Joyce ― Commander Flynn ― was standing there in full uniform, bathed in the glare of a pair of hand-held camera lights. A man with a shoulder-held minicam bearing the ACN logo was filming her and another woman, who held a microphone to her face. The second woman’s back was to him, but Tombstone recognized immediately her blond hair and slim figure. With only the slightest hesitation, he started walking toward the brightly lit tableau.
“And what’s it like,” the reporter was asking Tomboy, “being one of a few hundred women living with five thousand men aboard a nuclear-powered aircraft carrier?”
“It’s actually not much different from being stationed on a Navy base ashore,” Tomboy said. “You just can’t go into town when you want to.”
“And what do you think of the Crimea?”
“Well, we really haven’t had much chance to see a lot of it yet. It’s exciting being here, though. Kind of like history in the making.”
Pamela Drake turned from Tomboy and nodded at the cameraman. “That’s a take,” she said. She smiled at Tomboy. “Thank you, Commander. That was great.”
“My pleasure, ma’am.”
“Hello, Pamela,” Tombstone said, walking up behind the reporter. “You’re certainly a long way from home.”
Pamela turned sharply, eyes wide, blond hair swirling past her ears.
“Matt! What are you doing here?”
He shrugged. “Actually, I’m supposed to be here as the Navy’s liaison with the news media. Care to do some serious liaising?”
“I…” She stopped, then glanced at her cameraman. “Let’s take a break, Phil.”
He grinned at her. “Sure thing, Ms. Drake. Whatever you say.”
She looked at him, her expression unreadable. “I hadn’t really expected to find you here, Matt.”
“No?” She didn’t seem particularly pleased to see him. Damn.
“I thought you were on the Jefferson.”
“You knew we were deployed to the Black Sea, didn’t you?”