The dinner with Capt. Alfred Taylor, Cmdr. Neil Garrison and a Navaho chief petty officer named Tsosie had been congenial and delicious. His prime rib had been so tender it melted if he stared hard at it.
“You sure didn’t need to do this, Al,” he had told the commander.
“We damned sure did. My whole crew went to the memorial service for the men of the Tashkent. You can’t help but think how easy it would have been to add our names to that list.”
“And fortunately,” Garrison added, “the crew of the Sea Lion wasn’t on the list, either.”
The pressure hull of the CIS submersible had protected Pyotr Rastonov and his two crewmen from the blast, though they had been shaken up some. The outer hull was a total loss, however.
Curtis Aaron and the people who had been with him — they never got a final count — had not been memorialized.
Brande was sorry Valeri Dankelov had not come along to meet the representatives of the Los Angeles and enjoy their hospitality. He was even sorrier that the somber, brown Russian had returned to Leningrad. They were going to miss his expertise.
Dankelov had, however, written a long recommendation endorsing Svetlana Polodka’s visa extension, and she was likely to get it.
Kim Otsuka had come in Dankelov’s place, and in a chic black cocktail dress, captured the attention of the United States Navy. In a gentlemanly way, of course.
She was now out in the hushed cerise hugeness of the casino with Okey Dokey, who was wearing a blue baseball cap with an admiral’s braid and the golden script SSN Los Angeles. He had five hundred dollars’ worth of quarters and a system to beat the slots.
The girl trio was halfway into ʻGeorgia On My Mindʼ when Thomas arrived.
She was wearing a low-cut, light blue velvet dress that matched her eyes and dark blue high heels. Brande tried to remember if he had ever seen her in a dress and heels before. He may have been exceptionally blind. He knew damned well he had never seen her with earrings in place before.
By the radiance in her eyes and her smile, Brande guessed the meeting with Hampstead had gone well.
He stood up and pulled the chair for her.
She gave him a quick kiss, but did not sit down.
He smiled at her. “I guess Avery did all right by us?”
“Two-point-six million.”
“Feel better about it?”
“Uh-huh. Aren’t you surprised?”
“Only by your beauty.”
“Thank you, Dr. Brande.”
“What are we going to do with the money?”
“Pay bills.”
“You don’t want to go out and try a blackjack table for a little while?” he asked. “Just a couple hundred thousand?”
“As long as I’m president, we’re not gambling,” she told him.
“Seems like a restrictive policy to me, but you’re the boss. Do you want to sit down and listen to the girls or something?”
“I’d rather something.”
Going up in the elevator, Brande said, “Did you realize that Jim Word and George Dawson are five days beyond the deadline we set for them?”
Brande had consciously not raised the issue before.
“That’s okay,” Rae Thomas told him. “I gave them another twenty days. Who knows, they might find something.”