The Threat

Taking the hint, he circled off on squeaky parquet, sipping the sparkling water as he inspected huge paintings of forgotten battles hung so high it pinched his neck to look up at them. Each canvas was huge enough to serve as the topsail of one of those long-vanished men-of-war.

He felt both out of place and perfectly at ease. It was like a formal dance in Memorial Hall at Annapolis. He slipped among diplomats, officers, consular personnel and their elegantly dressed ladies. A few even of what he guessed were the new biznessmen. Larissa was speaking rapidly with her flat expression to a man in gray. Solas, looking cadaverous, sat in a carved chair with his back to a painted door as another elder statesman gesticulated.

A group of soldiers in 1945-ish baggy uniforms and high boots took center stage, singing Red Army songs that the Russians roared out along with them. Gradually, like diffusing isotopes, the guests parted into separate groups. He found himself near a group in the dark blue naval-style uniforms of their respective countries. Englishmen, Dutch, many Russians. A Britisher was drawling out a tale of sailing the Baltic in the seventies when Dan felt a tug on his sleeve. He turned to confront an unfamiliar face, a shock of blond hair.

“I think I know you. No?”

Dan studied him. Slavic cheekbones, clear blue eyes. Buttoned-tight formal blues.

“Gaponenko. Grigory Vasileyevich. And you are … Lenson, no? Lenson. Daniel, right?” He pronounced it Den-yell. “Ten years ago now. No, more. I was captain lieutenant then. Politruk, on Razytelny.”

Dan remembered then. Recalling a leaky, sinking skiff bobbing in the blue clear of the Windward Passage, and a shape pushing up under the topaz haze of turbine exhaust. The reluctantly recognized silhouette of a Krivak-class destroyer.

“Den-yell. Yes? You recall me now?”

He said he did, and they pumped hands with more warmth than had been present, Dan thought, when Gaponenko’s frigate had pulled him out of the water after a night of hurricane seas. He wondered if the Cuban woman and her baby had ever made it to shore.

Gaponenko was chattering away in a lubricated amalgam of languages. He told Dan he was a polkovnik kapitan now, captain first class. When Dan told him where he worked now, Gaponenko’s eyes widened. “T’chort vozmi! The White House? I am much impressed. Hey, you have ‘dark eyes’ with me.”

Dan had a lot of trouble convincing him he didn’t want one, he didn’t drink anymore. Finally the Russian desisted, though he went on marveling at how young Dan looked. “Americanyets, they don’t age like us. Especially the women. Oh, you see that over there? Look at that fucking blonde. How fucks-able, no? How old you think she is?”

“That’s my wife,” Dan said. Blair was wearing a deceptively casual silk ensemble. The blouse was black and the pants were sheer, with lace cutouts at midthigh and silver heels with starbursts of glittering gems. Her hair was up; simple but elegant turquoise earrings played off her eyes. Her skin glowed like vanilla ice cream beneath the ruddy spectrum of the chandeliers, and an admiring circle surrounded her as she laughed, almost spilling her wine.

“Sik’in sin! She is your wife? You are damn lucky sailor.”

“That’s true,” Dan said.

A soldier held out a tray of vodkas, brandies, sliced cheese and sausage, and caviar. Gaponenko grabbed greedily. Dan rubbed his mouth, smelling the booze up close.

“You here for conference? What you think of our average Russian house?” His former captor hooted, waving his glass at the masonry and chandeliers and architecture.

“Very impressive.”

“Germans destroyed it all. What could not evacuate, they destroyed. Blew up palace. Blew up hydraulic works. Melted statues. What you see here”—he swept a paw, and Dan saw he was quite drunk—“twenty years, but we build all again. Did you Americanyets really think we wanted another war?”

“You were building a lot of missiles, too.”

“Ah, only defend, only defend. Russians peace-loving people. There’s my boss. Let’s go meet my boss.”

Grabbed around the neck, Dan was dragged willy-nilly into a ring that lurched unevenly to let him in. All as bombed as Gaponenko. The “boss” had three stars on his shoulder boards. Gaponenko called him viz admiralya. Dan caught his own name. Their eyes snapped to his when Gaponenko said, “On naznatye na White House tep’yer.” The boss — Yermakov — asked something. Gaponenko replied placatingly, but it didn’t seem to work. He shook his head at Dan, looking chastened.

“So, you think you have defeated us,” the admiral said. He didn’t sound happy.

“I think both sides have defeated war,” Dan said.