Not himself employed in Zone 2, Skrote only chanced upon her in off-duty hours when he and his colleagues went across the lagoon to the clubhouse in the main complex. He wasn't a heavy drinker but liked to sit nursing a weak gin and tonic and watching the spectacular green and purple sunset while the conversation ebbed and flowed around him. Sometimes he might play pool or, if pressed, sit in on a poker game. But that particular evening he happened to be alone (the others had gone off to the squash court) and his thoughts were several thousand miles away in Portland, Maine, where his childhood still existed, it seemed to him, intact, untouched. Nothing could have been further from his mind than what, by a wonderful coincidence, then took place.
It started with a jammed cigarette machine.
Skrote was on his way back from the rest room when he saw the woman thumping and glaring at it with the kind of baffled, impotent rage that human beings reserve for machines that stubbornly refuse to perform the function for which they were designed. Skrote paused in the corridor. He would have carried on if the woman hadn't happened to catch his eye and thrown up her hands in a gesture of defeat. Even then he was reluctant to go to her aid, mainly because he was intimidated by a vision of beauty that seemed to him then, and still did, sheer perfection. She was tall for a woman--in low heels about the same height as he--and Skrote gazed into her green-flecked eyes for a full five seconds, mesmerized, before nervously touching the thinning patch on the crown of his head and performing an awkward shuffling dance of indecision.
Her first words to him were: "These machines must have been invented by someone with a sadistic sense of humor. Or someone who wishes to destroy Soviet-American relations, don't you think?"
"I'm afraid I don't smoke," Skrote responded, immediately struck by the irrelevance of the remark. He moved hesitantly forward. "Have you tried the coin refund?"
She shook her head, dark polished ringlets bouncing against the white sweep of her neck. "I wanted cigarettes, not my own money." Her English was faultless, with only the trace of an accent that her low, husky voice made infinitely seductive to Skrote's burning ears.
He yanked the lever and coins clattered into the metal cup. One of the quarters was old and worn smooth, and after exchanging it for one of his own, he reinserted the money and asked her to try again. This time a pack of menthol Kools plopped into the tray. Skrote handed it to her, feeling ridiculously pleased, and she leaned forward and impetuously kissed his cheek. If he'd been teetering on the brink before, Skrote now fell head over heels in love.
They drank and talked the rest of the evening--Skrote doing his fair share without any of his usual blushing, tongue-tied embarrassment. He was quietly amazed at himself. He'd never been so forthcoming, so relaxed, so witty. Natassya laughed at his jokes and became rapt when he spoke of his childhood and thoughtful whenever he ventured an opinion. His confidence grew. It was as if his personality, until now bound tightly in a straitjacket, had been miraculously released, and he experienced a giddy starburst of freedom that was as intoxicating as champagne.
As for Natassya, she staggered him by confessing that she was lonely. She'd been at Starbuck for six weeks, and apart from her Russian colleagues (who anyway she was sick of the sight of), she had no real friends. And as for male company--her wide sensuous mouth was pulled down at the corners--well, they turned out to be either boring scientists without any topics of conversation outside of their specialized fields or service personnel with but a single thought in their tiny grubby minds. Skrote would never believe, Natassya told him, how clumsy and boorish they could be in their sexual advances. One drink, a bit of chat, and they expected her to fall into bed. Not only was it insulting but also extremely immature.
Skrote sympathized totally, almost vehemently, shaking his head at such oafish behavior. Secretly he resolved to be a paragon of all the opposite virtues: polite, caring, interesting, amusing, sophisticated, and, above all, not too pushy.
Maybe he had taken this to extremes, because eight days later, while strolling along the beach in the tropical twilight, Natassya had inquired why he didn't find her physically attractive. She knew he wasn't married or engaged; therefore he could feel no qualms about being unfaithful. Perhaps he simply valued her friendship but lacked any desire for her as a woman?
Skrote was struck dumb. He gaped at her in the mellow golden light, stricken by an unbearable and overpowering yearning. Minutes later they were in each other's arms and Natassya was smothering his thin face in kisses and whispering endearments in husky Russian. Ten minutes after that they were making love on a bed of ferns beneath the dry, rustling fronds of a palm tree, the gentle lisp of the waves synchronized to their movements, a tempo they soon left behind. . . .
They had made love every night since that first night two weeks ago. It was dangerous and they had to be careful. As scientific liaison officer for Zone 4, Skrote had been expressly warned against becoming involved with any member of the Russian team, male or female. At a conservative reckoning, about a quarter of the so-called Russian scientists would be working for the KGB. For the American personnel attached to Zone 4, the cover story was that they were engaged on research into the long-term effects of TCDD using human guinea pigs and that this was too hazardous to allow the Russians free access. In the early days some of the Russian military brass had been taken on a conducted tour, but everything they had been shown had been rigged and stage-managed. The real research into genetic manipulation and breeding experiments had been out of sight behind locked doors.
And Skrote wasn't without his own suspicions. For wasn't it, being brutally realistic, such fantastic good fortune that it just had to be a Russian intelligence ploy? He detested the thought (and hated himself for thinking it), but it had to be faced and, somehow, resolved, one way or the other.
So he faced it by devising a ploy of his own. He pretended to get drunk.
As Natassya knew by now that he wasn't a heavy drinker, and therefore accustomed to it, this would have been the perfect opportunity for her, had she wished, to pump him for information. Skrote made it even easier by raising the subject himself. Hoping his slurred speech was convincing, he hinted that Zone 4 wasn't all that it pretended to be, that some aspects of the research being carried out there were of a highly classified nature. To his delight, which he disguised by a fit of supposedly drunken giggles, Natassya told him pretty quickly that he was acting like a boring scientist and would he please shut up and make love to her at once? Scientific lectures she could do without; what she really wanted was to feel him hard inside her.
He obliged the lady, ever more deeply, hopelessly, in love. He was as certain as he'd ever been about anything in. his life that her feelings for him were genuine and not part of a devious conspiracy. Natassya Pavlovitch had passed the test with flying colors.
In a curious and perverse way, this made Skrote want to unburden himself to her. Disgust was too feeble a word for what he felt about his work in Zone 4. It made him sick to the stomach. He despised himself for his involvement over the past five years. Five years! How on earth had he stood it? And, more to the point, why? It was a catalog of horror that ranked with the medical experiments in the Nazi concentration camps, and he, God help him, had played a part, been a leading character in this barbarity. He jerked and trembled and felt himself go as Natassya worked him fluidly with her soft mouth, her cool firm hands aiding the spasm of release. He moaned and went slack, his body quivering as the urgent ecstasy died out of it.