Dr Bonnie Holliday broke up the conversation just then by returning to confront Max, her face stricken. ‘The minister says Captain Maina has been relieved of his command! Because of that fiasco you put on this morning the poor man has lost his corvette. The biggest vessel he’s likely to command for the foreseeable future is one of those fast patrol craft. And it’s all your fault!’ She raised her hand in outrage and would have slapped the Russian round the face had Robin not caught her arm.
But Robin caught more than her arm. She caught some of the woman’s outrage too. ‘Have you done that?’ she snarled at Max. ‘Have you ruined this poor man’s career over some grubby little business deal?’
Suddenly Irina Lavrov was there too, a thunderous frown making her face much less lovely than usual. More Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk than lovely Layla the Vampire Slayer, thought Richard. And he was suddenly almost sorry for Max. Almost.
Max looked at the three outraged women and shrugged. ‘Come,’ was all he said. ‘I have something to show you. But I’ll buy us dinner first, OK?’
What Max had to show them was a club and bar called OTI down by the docks. They arrived there just before ten, after a quick, light, nearly silent, nouvelle cuisine dinner whose gastronomic perfection was largely wasted on them. Max gestured at the sign: ‘OTI’. ‘It’s supposed to be Yoruba for “drink”,’ he explained as they stood outside, listening to the raucous noises from within.
It was like being back at the zoo, thought Richard, intrigued.
‘Is it the kind of a place you should be taking ladies to?’ demanded Dr Holliday a little nervously.
‘I wouldn’t bring my mother here if that’s what you mean,’ laughed Max. ‘At least not unless she insisted. It’s where the sailors go. Especially the navy men.’ He pushed the door open and ushered his four guests in.
It was a bar like any other, thought Richard. And surprisingly civilized — upmarket even. Better suited to officers, perhaps. The room was a big, low-ceilinged, smoke-filled square. Sweat-inducingly humid. Heady with alcohol fumes. Down one side ran a bar the better part of twenty metres long. Behind it were ceiling-high racks packed with bottles of all sorts. Along the back wall at right angles to the bar there was a stage — a proper one, with a proscenium arch and curtains. At the moment, there was only one person on the stage, an elderly man playing a grand piano — whose music was completely lost in the cheerful din. Opposite the bar was a series of boxes such as one might find in a theatre, and these too had curtains to ensure privacy. But the main area was a simple plain wooden floor crowded with tables of all shapes and sizes. Like the boxes, they were simply packed with customers. And a team of girls in revealing costumes, which owed more to Tarzan movies than ethnic accuracy, moved cheerfully from behind the bar and through the tables dispensing drinks.
The first familiar faces Richard saw belonged to Caleb Maina and First Lieutenant Sanda. Who, he suspected, would be equally deep in trouble with Minister Ngama. The two men were seated at a big table surrounded by a larger group that Richard did not know. He recognized their uniforms, and realized at once who they were. But he did not recognize the faces. Max did, however, and he bellowed, ‘Hi guys!’ and started pushing towards them. Irina also recognized them and followed immediately in his wake. Richard grabbed Robin’s arm and — more gently — Dr Holliday’s, and followed Irina’s shapely back. As soon as the men with Captain Maina saw Max, they started cheering and pounding on the table. When they saw Irina, the noise redoubled.
A big bear of a man with a grey crew cut and a steel-coloured Zapata moustache stood up. He had piercing blue eyes beneath black, shaggy eyebrows and he had captain’s rank badges sewn on his collar. ‘Good evening, Captain Zhukov,’ shouted Max. ‘I trust the celebration is going well?’
‘As you see, Mr Asov,’ rumbled the Zubr’s captain. ‘At the moment we are trying to solve the age-old problem of whether the fact that Stolichnaya, which is bottled in Latvia, is any less genuine than Russian Standard.’
Richard counted a dozen bottles of each on the table. Clearly the men were taking the comparison very seriously indeed.
‘It’s probably all shipped down in tanks and bottled in Granville Harbour in any case,’ said Max as the Zubr’s crew made room for the new arrivals. Somehow Irina ended up between Captain Zhukov and Max. And Bonnie Holliday was squeezed between Caleb Maina and Lieutenant Sanda. It was obviously Caleb’s lucky night — he got Robin on the other side. But his interest was spoken for the moment Bonnie sat down.
‘So,’ said Richard, looking narrowly across at Max and Zhukov, ‘you had an ace in the hole?’
Max shrugged. ‘Let’s say that I was impressed by Captain Caleb and Lieutenant Sanda. More so than Minister Ngama. At the very least Captain Zhukov and I feel obliged to ensure that when President Chaka finally capitulates and buys our Zubrs, the good captain will already be trained in how to handle them. Even if he has to waste his talents on Shaldag patrol craft in the meantime.’
It was Caleb Maina’s lucky night in more ways than one. His quarters were only a short walk from OTI. And it was a walk a man could safely take, drunk or sober, in company or alone, because most of it was through the secure area of the naval base. The guard at the security gate nodded him through without comment — but raised his eyebrows in surprise when the captain’s back was turned. Caleb was famous throughout the base — throughout the service, in fact — for being utterly faithful to one mistress alone. The lovely corvette Otobo. But tonight, for the first time, he did not return to his quarters alone.
As a senior captain, Caleb rated a small detached cottage with sufficient facilities to house a wife and family — which in his case did not exist. So Caleb lived alone.
‘This is lovely,’ purred Dr Holliday as he followed her into the neat little living room, which was suffused with golden brightness from the security lighting.
‘As are you,’ he said gallantly if unoriginally, closing the door behind him and crossing to stand beside her.
She was waiting at the window looking down the slope into the harbour where his ex-command sat with her riding lights ablaze, waiting to be pulled into dry dock for repairs sometime in a future that was far too distant to worry about.
He towered behind her and slid his arm around her waist, allowing his hand to rest gently on the swell of her stomach immediately below the belt line. She moaned a little, pushing sensuously back against him, and rubbed the shadow-dark fall of her hair against his cheek, filling his nostrils with the scent of her shampoo and perfume. Coconut and Chanel. She felt burningly hot to him. He tightened his grip, lowering his hands.
She turned, pushing her breasts against his chest and allowing him to cup the full cheeks of her bottom. ‘I wanted you the moment I saw you,’ she whispered, sliding her cinnamon arms around his neck like snakes.
‘And you’re going to get me. Over and over and over…’
‘Aren’t I the lucky girl?’ she growled as their mouths closed together.
ELEVEN
Cite
Conversation died stillborn as the trucks ground through the night and Anastasia soon found herself fearfully calculating their chances of escaping rape and murder at the hands of the taciturn soldiers. As a distraction from thoughts that were likely to incapacitate her with simple terror if she wasn’t careful, she started trying to work out what she could about the men she was suddenly surrounded by and the vehicles they were driving.