His first stop was the Chandelier Room, where the gigantic crystal chandelier cast a warm topaz glow from wall to white wall. A pianist tinkled a strain of bossa nova—the secretary of state’s favorite music. The light, lilting melody of Antônio Carlos Jobim’s “Waters of March” rang as counterpoint to Bennings’s heavy, overburdened mind-set. He made a beeline over the lush Oriental carpet centering the room and steered right toward the bar.
“The Macallan. Three fingers.”
The bartender smiled and poured the hefty drink into an Old-Fashioned glass. Bennings took a healthy taste. He was a light drinker, but tonight just might be an exception. Especially considering what he needed to do in the next thirty-four minutes, since it was already 9:26 P.M. and Staci’s life depended upon him making a ten o’clock call to Viktor Popov.
Bennings reconnoitered the Music Room, making quick greetings with many acquaintances, mostly diplomats from the American and other embassies. He excused himself and made his way toward the library, stopping for a moment to toss back the rest of his Scotch. As he turned to look for a passing waiter, an arm grabbed him.
Instinctively, Bennings grabbed the hand and was about to maneuver it into an arm-bar hold, when he stopped himself; the hand belonged to General Alexander.
“Whoa, cowboy.”
“General, so sorry.”
Bennings quickly released Alexander and looked embarrassed.
“I’m not sure a reception for the secretary of state at the ambassador’s residence is the right place for you to put on a martial arts demonstration.”
“You startled me, sir. I reacted on instinct. Very sorry.”
“I wasn’t expecting to see you here, Major.”
Bennings didn’t say anything, just kept the general’s gaze.
“You don’t look too good.”
“Well, I thought I looked okay, sir.” Bennings was actually immaculately turned out: starched white shirt and black bow tie, waist-length dark blue mess jacket, black cummerbund, high-rise blue trousers with a yellow stripe running up the outside of each leg, red suspenders matching the jacket’s red lapels, high-gloss patent-leather shoes, and all the appropriate gold trim and miniaturized medals and Combat Service Identification Badges, such as the 75th Ranger Regiment, and the U.S. Special Operations Command.
“You know what I’m talking about. Hell, son, you’re wound up tighter than a drum.”
“I’m fine, General. Really. And sir, the SECSTATE and I… I’ve known her for several years. I used to brief her when she was the national security adviser and I was a DIA investigator. She’s been something of a mentor to me, since I didn’t understand much about Washington politics.”
“Is that right?”
“I just wanted to say hello to her, sir. I won’t stay long.”
“Well, I think she might be upstairs in a meeting with the ambassador.”
Bennings scowled slightly, then checked his watch: 9:37.
“I can give her your regards.”
“That won’t be necessary, sir. I’ll do it myself, and then go home.”
Kit fixed the general with a firm stare, in effect suggesting that he wasn’t going to budge. The general would have to order him to leave, and under the circumstances there wasn’t much chance of that happening. But you never know. He mentally prepared his counterarguments should Alexander demand he leave.
“Very well,” said Alexander, a little reluctantly.
The general moved off, and Kit strode over to the front stairway covered in lush burgundy-colored carpet. Beginning under a graceful arch, the foot of the stairs curved slightly, and then the body of the stairway straightened out to a gentle incline.
But there was no sign of the secretary of state. He checked his watch again and toyed with the notion of just walking up and looking for her. That would cause a huge stink, but he no longer cared about such things.
He caught the attention of a passing waiter and put his empty glass on the man’s tray.
“Have you seen the secretary of state?”
“Sir, she’s right now dancing in the ballroom.”
“Thanks.”
Bennings walked as fast as he could without drawing too much attention to himself. The Ballroom Annex was crowded with the real crème de la crème of Moscow’s diplomatic elite and high society. The designer ball gowns were custom-fitted and not off the rack from Saks; the hundred-thousand-dollar strands of diamonds weren’t on loan from Harry Winston; the men wore watches that cost more than Kit made in a year.
Speaking of watches, as he entered the ballroom, Kit checked his TAG Heuer chronograph: 9:44.
The Palladian windows, plush velvet draperies, and parquet floors of the grand room were almost enough to upstage the preening, lordly attendees. Almost.
Bennings spotted Margarite Padilla looking very elegant in a gold Valentino gown. Unfortunately, she was dancing with the American ambassador, Harry Thorn, and he seemed to be having the time of his life butchering a simple two-step to some generic fifties tune.
There was simply no time to be polite, so Bennings crossed directly to the couple in the middle of the dance floor and decisively interrupted.
“Madam Secretary, excuse me. Mister Ambassador, I’m very sorry to interrupt, but may I cut in, sir?”
Thorn couldn’t quite believe the intrusion and flashed angry. “Just who do you think you are, Major?”
Bennings saw from the corner of his eye that security agents were already heading his way. Then he locked his eyes, lasered them, onto Padilla. When she saw the look on Kit’s face, she gently patted the ambassador on the back.
“Harry, please indulge a middle-age lady,” said Padilla as more of an order than a request. With dyed-black hair up in a rather traditional chignon, Padilla wasn’t slim but carried the extra weight she’d put on as she had aged with refined dignity. A sly D.C. insider and the widow of a distinguished senator, Padilla had parlayed brains, loyalty, contacts, favors, and lucky timing into a very successful political career. Some even touted her as future presidential material. “Major Bennings here and I are old friends. And you might not have heard, but his mother passed away suddenly yesterday. I’d very much like to dance with him right now. But you shall have the next one.”
Ambassador Thorn swallowed his pride, shot Kit a dirty look, then plastered a phony smile on his face as he turned away and waved off the security pukes. Bennings had been schooled in all kinds of formal dancing as part of his attaché training, so he took the lead and crisply danced Padilla across the floor.
“Did you have to cut in like that?”
“I’m operating on a time constraint,” said Bennings, maintaining a big smile.
“Aren’t we all,” said Padilla, not amused.
“If I don’t make a phone call at exactly ten o’clock, after I brief you, they’re going to kill my sister too.”
Margarite Padilla’s eyes went big, and her jaw dropped slightly.
“Smile,” said Bennings, “because everyone’s watching us.”
Madam Secretary swallowed, then smiled the big smile she was famous for.
“It was no car accident. My mother was murdered yesterday. A few hours ago, a hit team stormed my family’s house in California. Rick and Maria Carrillo, my parent’s best friends, were like an uncle and aunt to me. They were shot dead in our house. My sister, Staci, was kidnapped… and then tortured.”
“Oh, my lord!”
“Keep smiling.”
“Who did it?”
“Viktor Popov. Former KGB general, now one of many Mafia dons operating in America and Russia. I’ve been meeting with him as part of my defense attaché cover. Mostly we just sat around and shot the breeze.”