In the office suite, Pasternak stood erect at the desk, consternation crossing her features. Where was that report she’d printed out for the president? As if to cover all the bases, she decided to look into his solid gold wastebasket, the rubbish bin a relic of the era of the Tsars. It must weigh twenty kilograms, she thought. Vostov used it for disposal of whatever papers he’d decided he was done with, regardless of their classification. It fell to the SBP guards to empty the trash can and segregate the classified documents for shredding and burning. The can was half full of papers. She reached down for a stack of printouts, careful to keep her hands away from the soggy tissues Vostov had used to blow his nose into earlier.
In the restroom, Vostov had zipped back up and was washing his hands when the booming explosion from his office threw him across the room and into the decorative tile mosaic on the wall. His head hit the tile, and as his body collapsed, he left a blood trail all the way to the floor.
Captain First Rank Sergei Kovalov knocked gently on the stateroom suite door, wondering if he were blushing.
The door was immediately opened by Captain Third Rank Svetlana Anna, who smiled slightly and motioned him in.
“Good evening, Captain. I was pleasantly surprised to get your note.”
Svetlana Anna was dressed as he’d requested, wearing a simple skirt and business jacket with a silk blouse underneath, with stylish black pumps. She looked like she could be walking into a conference room at an attorney’s office. Her chestnut hair was combed straight, coming down to her shoulders, with the slightest hint of wavy curls. Her face was sculpted, her forehead smooth, her arched brows accentuating her deep brown almond-shaped eyes, her curving nose and strong cheekbones leading to full red lips. Her complexion was clear, a few freckles gracing her nose and cheeks. Her jawline was straight, her throat long and graceful. Kovalov could see how, with her stunning natural beauty, she had succeeded in the ranks of the test wives. Anna was the commander of the test wives and had told him in reply to his note that at her advanced old age of thirty-three, she no longer entertained clients herself, but merely supervised the performance of her younger subordinates and watched out for any problems arising from having comfort women — or the more politically proper term, test wives — embarked onboard a combat vessel. She had written Kovalov that she functioned as the madam or the
“I suppose it was an unusual request, Madam Anna.”
“Call me Svetlana.”
“Svetlana then,” Kovalov said, standing awkwardly by the door. “And call me Sergei.”
“Please, sit, Sergei.” Anna pointed to an area with two large comfortable chairs clustered with a coffee table between them, a small couch on the other side of the coffee table. “May I call for tea?”
Kovalov sank into one of the chairs, thinking this was a small corner of comforting luxury aboard this otherwise all-business naval vessel, as was Svetlana Anna.
“I have no watches to stand until we may need to undock under the ice. So I was imagining something stronger.”
Anna smiled at him gently, her teeth small and white. She really had a beautiful smile, Kovalov thought, but again reminded himself that that should come as no surprise, as she was the military’s version of a call girl.
“I have Tsarskaya and Beluga Gold,” she laughed, “for such special occasions. I’ve never hosted anyone over the rank of captain lieutenant, so we should celebrate.”
“I don’t suppose you have scotch, do you?”
Anna smiled. “Would Glenmorangie 1999 do?”
Kovalov raised his eyebrows. “Good God, absolutely.” That scotch would cost months of his salary, he thought. Probably reserved for a visiting admiral — or the president himself.
Anna went to a credenza and pulled out a crystal decanter and two crystal glasses and poured for them both.
Kovalov raised his glass to her and said, “to fallen comrades.”
She closed her eyes solemnly for a moment, then sipped the scotch and put her glass down. Kovalov kept his glass in his hand.
“I thought we could talk,” Kovalov said, haltingly. He felt in the breast pocket of his submarine coveralls. “May I smoke?”
“Of course, Sergei.”
Anna put an ornate crystal ash tray on the table, then sat back, crossed her shapely legs, and looked at him with just a trace of amusement on her face as he fumbled to find his lighter. His hand shook as he held the flame to the cigarette.
“Forgive me. I am nervous.”
“You can talk to Svetlana. For as long as you need, I am yours.” She tried to give him a significant glance, but he’d looked down, concentrating on lighting his cigarette, finally getting it lit. He blew a cloud of smoke to the overhead. She had the impression he was almost trying to hide inside a veil of smoke, but hiding from what?
