Andrew felt frivolous in the face of serious matters. I’ll get it one of these days, he thought. He had made similar efforts of camaraderie with McKendrick in the past, but the timing was never right.
“You’re leaving in two weeks,” McKendrick went on. “Use the time to bone up on each account. Know the individuals you’ll be dealing with. Memorize their backgrounds, business interests, the profile of their breeding stock. What they have. What they need. Am I coming through?”
Andrew nodded earnestly. “Does Dad know?”
“No. I haven’t been able to reach him yet today.”
“Me neither,” Andrew said curiously. “He didn’t ride this morning. Didn’t call to let me know he wasn’t, either. Not like him. Something’s going on, Ed. I thought, maybe, these contracts were it.”
McKendrick shrugged, then his mind reset again. “Probably did too much galloping on some little filly last night and took the morning off!” he cackled.
He turned from Andrew, crossed to the Corvette, and slid his large body behind the wheel.
“Remind me to give you those numbers!” he shouted as he slammed the car in gear. Then he popped the clutch, kicking up a shower of dirt and gravel, and roared off down the dry road.
Andrew tucked the thick file under his arm.
Twice he had flown with his father to Moscow, and then on to Tersk in the foothills of the northern Caucasus, where some of the finest Arabian horses in the world are raised. Both times Churcher had slipped away to “meetings” and had returned ebullient and satisfied, the way he always did after closing one of his deals.
That his father had gone to see a woman didn’t occur to Andrew at the time. But, now, he recalled that day at the breeding farm in Tersk — the rapid guttural sound of the Russian auctioneers exhorting the bidding higher and higher; the babble of interpreters keeping clients in the competition for sales that averaged over $150,000; the barrel-chested horses prancing obediently to clipped Russian commands; the stink of hay and animal waste filling his head; the evaporating ammonia, so powerful it burned his eyes, making them water; then, the delicate aroma of perfume cutting through the stench like the scent of Texas lavender that blew through his rooms above the stables when the wind shifted direction — and the woman, willowy, white-skinned, jet black hair, red lips, soulful eyes, and the look — the fleeting current that passed between her and his father when she nodded to the auctioneer and outbid Theodor Churcher for an animal he wanted badly.
That his father had allowed it should have been proof enough, Andrew thought, but the sexually charged glance left no doubt. It had the hallmarks of smoldering intimacy, of nights spent passionately.
Andrew swept his eyes across the pastures that rolled to every horizon, trying to recall her face; but he couldn’t.
Chapter Five
Each week the airports that serve the Washington, D.C., area handle a revolving door blur of traffic as over three hundred thousand people arrive and depart the nation’s capital.
On this morning, the continuing arrival of representatives from fifteen NATO countries and their retinues packed the terminals, along with welcoming committees, security personnel, and ubiquitous media correspondents.
In the Lufthansa section of Dulles International, West Germany’s Deputy Minister for Strategic Deployment Gisela Pomerantz, fashionably attired in a long raccoon coat, and carrying an alligator attaché, strode through the arrival gate.
Her aquiline face, the impact heightened by the blond hair pulled back severely, remained composed and assured despite the microphones, tape recorders, and camera lenses that thrust toward her.
The questions came rapid-fire, in an overlap of English and German: “Do you think the Russians really mean business this time?” “What are the chances for disarmament?” “As an avowed hard-liner, can you support a nuclear pullback of the magnitude suggested?” “Do you have specific concerns with regard to negotiating points?”
Pomerantz held up her hands defensively.
“Please,” she pleaded, “we hawks can’t handle more than four questions at once. It ruffles our feathers,” she added with a disarming smile.
Laughter rippled through the crowd of reporters, who appreciated the self-deprecating inference.
“I hope so. — Better than even. — That’s what I’m here to decide. — Definite concerns,” she said, placing crisp pauses between answers and pointing to the reporter who had asked the question to which she was replying.
Her entourage closed around her and began walking through the terminal. The reporters surged after them. One of the more tenacious correspondents thrust her microphone between the jostling bodies.
“Can you be specific about your concerns?” the young woman prodded.
Pomerantz eyed her coolly, and continued walking.
“No,” she replied with finality. “I can’t discuss them at this time, I’m sorry.”
The group pushed through the automatic doors. A protocol officer came forward and directed Pomerantz to a limousine. She took one step into the rear of the vehicle, and paused suddenly.
“Hello, Gisela,” Phil Keating said with a warm smile. The chief U.S. disarmament negotiator was tucked into the far corner of the backseat, smoking a cigarette.
“Philip?” Pomerantz mouthed with momentary uncertainty. Keating still had the craggy good looks; but his hair had grayed, and gold-rimmed bifocals bridged his nose. She settled next to him and kissed his cheek. “Good to see you, Philip,” she said brightly. “Thanks for coming.”
“Good to see you, too,” Keating replied, studying her face. He was thinking it was as beautiful as he’d remembered when she flared the fur onto the seat, revealing a black knit dress that hugged her long, shapely torso. His eyes swept over it appreciatively.
Pomerantz noticed and broke into a comely smile. “The last time you looked at me like that Keating, I recall you disappointed me — terribly.”
“It was the gelati,” he said with the boyish charm that first attracted her to him. “I mean, there’s just something about chocolate gelati — no woman has ever been able to compete with it.”
“Oh, I know,” she said, pausing for effect before adding, “that’s why I voted against holding this conference in Italy.”
They were both laughing as the big car left the Dulles access road and swung onto the Beltway heading for Camp David in the bare-treed forests of the Appalachian foothills.
Snow started to fall.
“You know,” Pomerantz said with a mischievous twinkle, “a spicy sex scandal might give the media something to pick on besides my ‘political baggage filled with hawk droppings,’ as they refer to my policies.”
“Don’t count on it,” Keating replied. “Indiscretions outnumber lobbyists in Washington these days.” He grinned, took a drag of his cigarette, then pressed it into an ashtray, and snapped the lid closed. “To tell you the truth,” he resumed more seriously, “I was hoping you’d brought other bags on this trip.”
“I brought the only ones I have, Philip. Whether or not I unpack them is up to you,” she replied softly, taking his hand much more gently than on that day nine years ago.
“I’ll do everything in my power to stop you,” he countered, leaving his hand in hers.
They studied each other’s face for a moment before their eyes met in silent confirmation of their intense attraction.
On the rear window of their limousine, large flakes of snow were sticking, then slowly fading away, melted by the radiating heat of the electric defroster.