The evening’s entertainment began with an exhibition by the dance company, performing two Russian folk dances. Christine recognized the first as a khorovod, a circular dance where the participants hold hands and sing, with additional dancers in the middle of the circle. The khorovod was followed by a plyaska, a dance that told a story, like a play. This particular plyaska told the tale of two men’s quest for a woman’s love and her struggle making a choice.
After the two folk dances, the floor opened up for the guests, with the first dance being a waltz. Christine declined the request of a young Russian, choosing to observe first, quickly determining the waltz was ballroom style as opposed to Viennese, with an international left-right-left step, rather than the American right-left-right. During the dance, her gaze occasionally drifted to President Kalinin, who was deep in conversation with SVR Director Gorev. But while Gorev’s eyes were fixed on the president, Kalinin’s were pointed straight across the ballroom — at her — and she could feel the intensity of his stare from forty feet away.
She’d been on the business end of that kind of look a few times in her life — always from a man who wanted her either in the ground or in his bed. Christine cast another glance in Kalinin’s direction. He was still staring at her, and she wasn’t sure which scenario Kalinin was contemplating. Was Gorev, with his reputation for revenge, discussing her role at Ice Station Nautilus? Christine shivered involuntarily, then refocused on the waltz.
From across the crowded ballroom, Yuri Kalinin watched the American woman intently. Gorev followed his eyes to the attractive woman.
Gorev said, “Please tell me you are not seriously considering this.”
“She could be Natasha’s twin,” Kalinin replied.
“Her likeness is remarkable,” Gorev agreed, “but you cannot have a relationship with her.”
“Why not?”
Gorev replied with an exasperated edge to his words, having to explain the obvious. “She’s American.”
“She’s half Russian,” Kalinin countered.
“She cannot be trusted,” Gorev said with a tone of finality.
“I appreciate your concern,” Kalinin said, “but I don’t think dinner with her would jeopardize national security.”
Gorev turned to the Russian president, placing his hand gently on his shoulder. “I know how close you and Natasha were, and how difficult those last few months were. Forget about this American. I will find you a suitable Russian woman.”
A smile broke across Kalinin’s face. “A bride selected by the SVR? I think my secrets would be safer if I married the American.”
Gorev grinned. “You are a wise man, Yuri. Still, the president of Russia cannot have a relationship with America’s national security advisor. Do not let her likeness to Natasha influence you.”
Kalinin replied, “I’ve already given the matter much thought.”
The first waltz wound to a close, and confident she could perform the international version, Christine prepared to accept the next request. She wasn’t prepared, however, when the invitation came from Defense Minister Chernov.
She accepted, and standing in front of him, Christine embraced Chernov in the semi-closed position, keeping her body a safe distance from his. The music started and Christine focused on following the left-right-left sequence. After a minute with no mishaps, she settled into the rhythm of the dance, her motions becoming more fluid, and she noted that Chernov was an excellent dancer.
When the waltz ended, Christine released her embrace as she commented on Chernov’s ability. “You also are a superb dancer,” Chernov replied. “If you don’t mind, I would love the next dance as well.”
Christine was about to reply when a man tapped Chernov on the shoulder. The defense minister turned aside, revealing Russia’s president.
“May I have the next dance?” he asked.
Christine glanced at Chernov, who stepped back with disappointment on his face.
She turned to President Kalinin, fixing a smile in place that she hoped covered her nerves, and accepted. The Russian president caught the attention of the bandleader, requesting another waltz. Christine embraced Kalinin, choosing the semi-closed position again, resting her fingers lightly on Kalinin’s right shoulder as their lead hands joined. The music began, and having worked out the kinks in her dance with Chernov, Christine fell immediately into rhythm.
To her surprise, Kalinin was an even better dancer than Chernov. He was also much better looking, with a trim, muscular physique, and only a few years older than her. As they glided through the turns, changes, and whisks, he kept the same intense gaze he’d had earlier trained on her. However, Yuri Kalinin didn’t seem the type to waltz with an enemy. If he was attracted to her… well. That opened up a number of interesting possibilities.
During the dance, the sensation she was being watched grew stronger. Letting her eyes slide away from Kalinin’s, she scanned the room; the stares from Russians in attendance were even more obvious than before. That was to be expected, as she was dancing with their president, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more.
When the dance ended, with her fingers still on his shoulder and their lead hands joined, Christine said, “President Kalinin, I have to ask. Why do I get such strange looks from everyone?”
Kalinin offered her a piercing gaze, then released her.
“Come with me.”
Christine followed Kalinin from the ballroom, spotting Semyon Gorev along the perimeter, monitoring their departure. They passed two Presidential Security Service agents, the Russian version of America’s Secret Service, before walking silently down a long hallway. After a left turn, Kalinin unlocked and opened a mahogany-stained door, flicking the lights on as they entered what Christine surmised was his office. Stopping in the foyer, Kalinin pointed to a picture on the wall.
“My wife, Natasha,” he said.
Christine might as well have been looking into a mirror. She knew her Russian genetics dominated her looks, but was surprised at how closely she resembled Natasha. The facial structure and even her hair and eye color were the same. It was then that Christine recalled Kalinin was a widower, his wife succumbing to cancer soon after he was elected president.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” she said.
Kalinin nodded, the pain of his wife’s death evident on his face. His normally impassive mask slipped further, and Christine watched indecision play across his face as his eyes shifted from Natasha’s picture to her. It became clear that Kalinin was contemplating the controversial prospect of a relationship with America’s national security advisor.
On one hand, it wasn’t that far-fetched. Christine knew she’d make one hell of a politician’s wife if the idea ever appealed to her: beautiful, intelligent, and comfortable dealing with powerful men. The main obstacle in a relationship with Kalinin, however, was obvious. She lacked the loyalty he required. Not only to him, but to Russia.
Just as Christine decided a relationship with Kalinin was far too complicated and doomed to fail, the president of Russia asked her out.
“On future trips to Moscow,” Kalinin said, “if you’d like to spend time together, maybe for dinner, let me know. This is a busy month, but once Victory Day preparations are over and a few other issues are resolved, I will have more time. On your next trip, perhaps?”
The I’m not sure that’s a good idea stuck in Christine’s throat. Instead, she replied, “Perhaps.” She wondered if he heard the reservation in her voice, but if he did, he gave no sign.