“Thank you, darling.” It wasn’t clear whether she meant the tray or his capitulation. “There’s a fair Courvoisier.”
“All right.” He had his hand on the room key in his pocket; but her face drew him back into the suite.
She brought the cognac to the couch. The two hotel glasses looked strange in her hand: it was made for crystal goblets. “I feel nervous with you. Isn’t it absurd? But you’re like a caged predator tonight.”
The cognac spread warmth down his throat. He wanted to gather her against him but too many demons stood between them.
Then Irina said, “Felix is racing his motorcar at Estoril this week.”
“He’s still doing that, is he?”
“Cars and airplanes. It’s all he thinks of.” She had another Du Maurier. “It must be wonderful to have life so simply arranged.”
“He’s never grown up.”
“I wish none of us had.” She went suddenly from that to what was really on her mind: “I was infatuated with Vassily-it was his raw power. But even then I began to think of you-I began to wish it was you. But I’d made the mistake and I suppose I was too proud to try to change back-perhaps I didn’t want to face the chance that you’d hate me.”
She bent her shoulders and brooded into the cognac. “Do you see what I’m doing now? It isn’t like me-I’m asking your forgiveness.”
Then she looked up: the light fell across her face in harsh shadows. “Perhaps I am dropping a handkerchief. But it’s not tangled up in this other thing. We had to settle that first.”
He knew it was no good trying to go back to where they’d been long before; clocks didn’t run backward. But that wasn’t what she was asking for. It took a great effort of will for her to express contrition: it was the first time he’d known her to humble herself when it wasn’t contrived. She was an aristocrat, the daughter of a Count-they were a class of people who’d go to war before they’d apologize for anything important. He had a feeling she’d agonized over this; she’d rehearsed it. But that didn’t make it any less genuine-it only emphasized the vital importance it had for her.
“Irina-”
“You don’t need to be gentle.” But she was watching him, ready to close everything down and bleed silently inside.
He touched her nape and she half turned on the couch; her breast trembled against him. Her face came up and she curled obediently into his arms. Then suddenly she was gripping his back with desperate strength and the tears burst from her. “Oh my darling Alex.”
Daylight curled around the drapes. Irina lay across the bed with sprawled abandon.
He waited until the day brought her awake. Her eyes were puzzled for a brief instant and then they softened; it made the planes of her face blur in contentment.
He kissed her and got to his feet. Her lips parted; she followed him with her eyes. She stretched opulently like a cat.
“I’ve got to go to Washington.”
“I know. You’ll be back tomorrow.”
“You could come down with me.”
“I haven’t finished doing Fifth Avenue.” She smiled, watching him knot his tie.
In the dining room, waiting to be led to their table, she wet her lips and contrived to touch his hand with elaborate casualness; at the table she devoured her first cup of coffee greedily and stared at him wide-eyed with her lips peeled back from her teeth: sultry and sensuous. She was the most sophisticated of women and the most primitive. Her appetites were atavistic and without inhibition and when she committed herself she held nothing back.
Walking him out to the portico she drew and held the stares of every pair of eyes in the plush lobby. She’s Garbo and Dietrich in one, young Prince Felix had said in awe after he’d first met Irina.
When the taxi took him away she was standing on the steps shading her eyes.
8
Colonel Glenn Buckner had an office in an overflow annex not far from the War Department. Alex tried to get his bearings; the lettering in the corridors was baffling. Officers carrying documents hurried through in creased poplin-there was a kind of muted urgency about them. Alex asked directions and reached Buckner’s office ten minutes ahead of his scheduled appointment.
A half-bald sergeant sat at a small desk rattling a typewriter. He stopped long enough to look up.
“Colonel Danilov to see Colonel Buckner.”
“I’m sorry sir, he’s over to the White House. He’ll be here sometime, that’s all I can tell you. You can get coffee in the canteen down the hall.”
Finally at ten minutes before twelve a bulky brisk man in a blue flannel suit came along the hall. “Danilov? I’m Glenn Buckner.”
Buckner was not more than thirty. His hair was cordovan brown and all his bones were big. He had a wide square face and quick blue eyes. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting.”
The sergeant said, “You had a call from Admiral King’s C of S, sir.”
“Later.” Buckner’s handshake was firm but he wasn’t a knuckle-grinder. “Come on in. Don’t mind me being in mufti-people on the Hill get nervous if they see too many uniforms goose-stepping into the White House so a lot of us wear civvies. The President’s idea. Shut the door, will you? Take a seat. Be right with you.”
It was a small room with a metal desk and two telephones; no window. The walls were pale yellow on plain sheetrock-temporary partitions. It had been carved out of a bigger room at some point. Buckner pulled open a wooden file drawer and rummaged; made a throat noise of satisfaction, lifted out a thin folder and carried it to the desk. “Go on-sit down, sit down.” Buckner cocked a hip on the corner of the desk and sat with one ankle dangling.
“I’d better start by establishing credentials. You know who I am?”
“Aide to General Marshall, I gather.”
“In a way. Actually I’m attached to the White House-military advisor on Soviet affairs. I was Military Attache in Moscow until a few months ago.”
Alex shifted mental gears; he hadn’t anticipated this.
Buckner said, “I’m told you hate the Bolsheviks.”
“No.”
Buckner smiled slowly. “Okay, You’d better explain that one.”
“I’m a White Russian, Colonel. We were brought up to hate Bolsheviks but you outgrow that after a while. I’m not crazy about Communists but I don’t hate them.”
“For a man who can’t be bothered to hate them you’ve spent a lot of time shooting at them.”
“That’s something else,” Alex said. “That’s Stalin.”
“Ah. I see now.”
“Stalin’s no more a Communist than Hitler is.”
“Well you’ve got a point there.” Buckner watched him speculatively. “You’re acquainted with General A. I. Deniken, I think.”
“Yes.”
“He commands a good deal of clout in Washington. Secretary Stimson’s known him for years. Your General Deniken was in a position to get the ear of the Secretary. He brought us an idea. Deniken approached Secretary Stimson. The Secretary and I conferred and then we took it to the President. He listened. The idea didn’t originate with Deniken, it came to him from a group of your people in Europe. Principally the group around your Grand Duke Feodor and his cousin, what’s his name, Leo Kirov?”
“Leon. Prince Leon.”
“Ordinarily it wouldn’t have cut any ice. I mean it’s a bunch of exiled leaders who’ve never even bothered to set up a government-in-exile on paper. There are three Grand Dukes all claiming to be the real Pretender to the Czar’s throne-and none of them speak to each other and one of them’s a Nazi. I mean it’s not the kind of situation anybody takes seriously from the outside. That’d be sort of like trying to restore the King of England to the North American throne.
“But Deniken wasn’t talking about restoring the monarchy in Russia. He was talking about winning the war, or losing the war.
“Right now this country’s in the same frame of mind that Chamberlain’s England was in at the time of the Munich pact. We need time to educate the people. Time for the President to convince those blind idiots in Congress that they can fight or they can surrender but they can’t just go on ignoring it. You can’t be an isolationist in the age of the long-range bomber and the aircraft carrier.”