Sergei Pomonvitz shrugged. “I can guess what they are, my friend. I hoped he would be careful but apparently he wasn’t. So he goes off the board. Time will take care of providing a new piece. As it will take care of you.”
Plotovsky grinned as the two men stepped into the elevator. “Never count on what seems inevitable, Sergei. Hitler made that mistake when he thought that time would take care of the British. They outlasted him, as I have outlasted a dozen like you.” He smiled again, broadly, his small lizardlike eyes crinkling.
Sophia Blovin brought hot tea and a platter of pastry to Igor Shevenko’s desk. She pulled up a chair and poured the tea and placed a pastry on a paper napkin in front of Shevenko.
“It went well?” she asked, her voice anxious.
“Yes,” he nodded. “It went as it had to go. I think mainly to the efforts of our friends in Israel who kept the lines of communication open. I must think about what sort of present to send to Dr. Saul to show my gratitude.”
“What will happen to those who were on the side of starting a war?” she asked.
“Nothing will happen to the members of the Politburo,” Shevenko said. “I think Admiral Zurahv, will be retired. He can spend his time at his dacha trying to seduce young men.”
“You can be sure of that?”
He nodded as he bit into a cream-filled Napoleon. “I am sure. I didn’t want to use the photographs that Anton got for me but Plotovsky insisted that I give them to him so he could give them to Brezhnev.
“You know Brezhnev, he’s a puritan at heart. He’ll get sick at the stomach when he sees the pictures, listens to the tapes, and reads the report that Anton put together. The Admiral will be out on his fat ass so fast he won’t know what hit him.”
“Thank God,” Sophia said in a low voice. Shevenko grinned at her. “I share your feeling, I think He had a lot to do with our success. But don’t celebrate too much, the opposition will find someone else to take his place.” He drained his cup and she refilled it.
“I feel like celebrating. I always do after a hard fight. Why don’t you make the arrangements to come with me to the United States? I can’t get you a ticket to the Super Bowl game but other than the few hours that will take and a couple of more hours or so for business there we could have a week together, just the two of us. A night in Havana, another night in Mexico City, two or three nights in Miami. It could be fun.”
“I would have you to myself,” she grinned at him. “No wife to worry about, no emptiness in the bed when you have to leave at midnight, as you do here. I’d love to go to Miami with you. I’ve never been there. New York, Washington, yes, not Miami. What sort of clothes will I need there in winter?”
“It will be warm in Miami,” he said. He reached for her and she came around the desk and bent over him, her breasts crushing against his face.
“I may even,” he said in a muffled voice, “I might even defect once I get there. It might be worth it if I could have you with me. Would you defect if I asked you?”
She lowered her head and her mouth found his and opened as she breathed in deeply through her nostrils.
“Yes,” she said. “Oh, yes!”
CHAPTER 25
The U.S.S. Orca trailed the Soviet Yankee One Class ballistic missile submarine. The Orca was running at 100 feet, easily keeping pace with the Soviet submarine as it wallowed along on the surface. Captain Reinauer studied the chart in front of him and motioned to his XO.
“They’re running out of our patrol area and into the New London zone,” he said. “Let’s send them a message. Tell them they’re running out of our area and that they’ll be covered by other submarines until they get near their home base. Tell them” — he paused and his beard split in a grin — “tell them we wish them a safe journey home and Godspeed. And tell Raynor I want to see him.”
The burly torpedoman knocked on the bulkhead outside the Captain’s cabin and went inside the tiny compartment in response to Captain Reinauer’s order.
“We’re headed home,” Captain Reinauer said. “I wanted to know about your request. Do you still want a transfer?”
The torpedoman shifted his feet, his eyes on the bulkhead above the Captain’s head.
“Well, sir, I kind of, well, you know, this past week or so, all the trouble and the tension. .” His voice trailed off.
“Yes?” Reinauer said in a soft voice.
“Well, sir, that torpedo gang of mine, good as they are, sir, they aren’t good enough if I’m not there at Battle Stations. I mean, sir, that you’d have to get a damned good man to replace me and I ain’t blowin’ my own horn, sir.”
“That’s what’s been worrying me all along,” Reinauer said. “There’s just no substitute for experience. And I mean that. I put experience above going to a specialty school any time.”
“Too bad the selection board doesn’t feel that way,” the torpedoman said. “I’ll go out on twenty a first class petty officer because I don’t have that damned nuke school in my record.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Captain Reinauer said. “I’ll make you a proposition. I’ve been ordered to see Vice Admiral Brannon as soon as we get into port. He’s not a nuke man, you know. I intend to ask him for permission to advance four of my first class petty officers to Chief Petty Officer regardless of the fact they haven’t been to nuclear schools. The Admiral is World War II. I think he might listen to me.” He looked at the enlisted man in front of him.
“You think that you could hold off your request for transfer until after I see the Admiral, see how I make out?”
“Captain,” the torpedoman said slowly, “you bust through that damned nuke school requirement to make Chief and you’re gonna raise the morale in the non-nuke submarine sailors up to about as high as it can get. Hell, yes, I’ll go along with you, sir.” He grinned at his Commanding Officer, who smiled back at him.
The air conditioning in the hotel suite in the Fontainebleau Hotel in Miami Beach hummed with remorseless efficiency, fluttering the heavy drapes over the windows that blocked out the red ball of the sun rising out of the Atlantic Ocean.
Sophia Blovin rolled over in the king-sized bed and slid her hand down under the sheet. Igor Shevenko awoke.
“No,” he said.
“Why not?” she asked, giggling. “You didn’t mind last night.”
“It’s morning, I have things to do today.”
“It was morning two days ago in Mexico City and you had things to do there and you didn’t mind.” Her hand was insistent. He reached his right hand down under the sheet and grasped her wrist and squeezed until she gasped in pain.
“Business comes first when you are in enemy territory,” he said. “I have to see some people, make some decisions. When that is over we will celebrate. A big dinner with wine and then love as you want it as long as I last.” He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the tip of her nose.
“Can we have breakfast here, in the room?” she asked.
“Not room, my dear, suite. The prices these capitalists charge for a sitting room and a bedroom make it imperative that you call this a suite, not a room. What would you like for breakfast?” He sat up in bed and reached for the telephone on the bedside table.
“You order for me, please.”
“Eggs Benedict? Coffee? Tea? Your pleasure, lovely one.”
“Not Eggs Benedict. That is only good if one has champagne with it and then makes love and love is not to be made this morning.”
“What, then?”
“Mmmm. Orange juice, a big glass. Three eggs, scrambled with lots of toast and butter and marmalade. A lot of coffee.” He smiled and dialed the room service number and gave the order, ordering an omelet for himself.