Pacino shook Melnik’s hand, and Melnik told him in accented English that Vostov was waiting for him at the Kremlin. The motorcade consisted of the armored and bulletproof limousines the U.S. president used, flown in alongside Air Force Two in the cargo hold of a C17 Globemaster II Air Force freighter. Pacino climbed into the presidential limo and looked out the window at the scenery of Moscow from the airport Vostov had recently commissioned. The ride was short. Pacino yawned, the ride from D.C. to Moscow exhausting despite the luxury of the jet, his jetlag not helping.
The journey from the entrance to the Kremlin gates to Vostov’s temporary office was a blur. To Pacino, it felt like he was falling down a tunnel of dark paneled high-ceilinged hallways, some walls painted hunter green, massive paintings of former Russian officials on the walls, dozens of curious suit-clad aides greeting him. He nodded and smiled as he passed.
Finally, the last heavy mahogany door opened and Pacino found himself in Vostov’s office, face-to-face with the Russian president. Vostov was nondescript, neither handsome nor ugly, Pacino thought. He could have been cast by Hollywood as an aging accountant. He was slightly shorter than Pacino, but outweighed him by at least fifty pounds, much of it gathered around his middle. He was jowly, mostly balding, but had an expressive face that had curled into an appearance of bright happiness. Of course his face was expressive, Pacino thought — he was, after all, a politician at the top rung of a superpower.
“Mr. President,” Pacino said, smiling and stretching out his hand, “thank you for meeting me. It’s a pleasure to meet you in person.”
Vostov smiled even wider and gripped Pacino’s hand in a firm, dry handshake. “Vice President Pacino, the pleasure is all mine. Please forgive my English if I stumble or search for words.” Vostov’s English was perfect, Pacino noted. “I arranged for us to meet alone, one-on-one, man-to-man. I thought we could achieve an understanding this way. Normally my chief of staff would be in here with us, but she unfortunately died in the explosion. Not a week after my wife passed away in the terrorist incident.” Vostov’s face fell as he said the last remarks.
Pacino looked solemnly at Vostov. “I came to convey my — and President Carlucci’s — deep condolences on the loss of your wife, sir, and your chief of staff. I sympathize, Mr. President. My late wife Eileen was suddenly killed in an interstate accident. I felt like I was in a walking coma for a year afterward.”
“Please, Mr. Vice President, have a seat,” Vostov said, gesturing to a grouping of deep leather club chairs near a fireplace. “May I offer you a drink? We have the best vodka on the planet, but also the best scotch outside Scotland, and the finest bourbon outside your province of Kentucky.”
“Sir, I’ll have what you’re having,” Pacino said, smiling as he sat. Vostov poured two glasses of vodka and handed one to Pacino.
“A toast,” Vostov said, “to fallen comrades.”
Pacino and Vostov drank. Vostov refilled the glasses. “And another toast, to new friendships, yes?”
“Yes, Mr. President, absolutely,” Pacino said, taking a second sip.
“When we’re here together, alone, please call me Dimmi,” Vostov said.
“As for me, please call me Patch,” Pacino replied.
Vostov smiled. “So be it, Patch. Your wife Eileen, I’m sorry for your loss. That happened just before your East China Sea war, didn’t it? I was made to believe you were in supreme command of United States forces for that conflict, yes?”
“That’s correct, Dimmi. I was.”
“Well, one thing about losing your wife in a sudden accident, Patch. At least you didn’t find yourself in the situation of having to make decisions that would lead to her death. With Lorena? I had to decide whether to send in my counterterrorist troops and risk her dying in the crossfire, or trying to negotiate with the terrorists who took her. I lie awake at night and wonder what would have happened if I’d made the second decision. Maybe my Lorena would still be with me.”
“You know, Dimmi, my son Anthony told me a story that might give you some consolation. I wonder if I could take a moment to tell it.”
“Your boy is quite a hero, if I remember my briefing,” Vostov said. “Won the Navy Cross in that nasty
