“Don’t look so disappointed,” Grace Manning quipped as Zorin left the room. “Surely you weren’t intending to squeeze a donation out of the Soviet Union?”
“Don’t be a bitch.” Brenner’s lips curved into a characteristic half-smile—part amusement, part contempt.
“Why shouldn’t I?” she retorted. “You’re such a busy man these days. Lectures. Charity work. Important people to see. I’m beginning to think you only came to my party because Russell wanted to show you off to the Ambassador. Russell tells me you’re absolutely desperate for money these days.”
Brenner shrugged. “A combination of the recession and some injudicious investments. I’ve neglected you lately because I’ve been in Washington a lot. Government grants are becoming as scarce as hen’s teeth.”
“Poor dear,” Grace said, mollified. “Too bad most of Russell’s handouts end up in underdeveloped countries instead of heart institutes on the upper Eastside of Manhattan. With all your money problems, how on earth do you find time for surgery?”
“I have a competent and highly trained staff,” he said in a bored voice. “Can we talk about something else?”
“Let’s talk about your perfectly enchanting wife,” Grace said peevishly. “Since she doesn’t know we’re having an affair, I’m wondering if the woman is just plain rude.”
Kurt Brenner was wondering who else had noticed Adrienne’s absence. What was he supposed to tell people? That his wife refused to socialize with Ambassador Zorin? That lately she avoided socializing with her own husband? It was sheer luck their latest rift hadn’t hit the gossip columns.
“Not rude,” he countered. “Just wrapped up in that job of hers.”
“Adrienne Brenner, journalist. Charming occupation for a woman with her social background,” Grace said with disdain. “You look like you could use another glass of champagne, dear heart,” she teased and reached out to a passing butler. Her hand accidentally caught the man at a bad angle, sending his tray of glasses to the floor with a shattering crash.
“Clumsy fool!” Brenner exclaimed.
“Is this an example of the famous Dr. Kurt Brenner temper?” Grace said, taken aback. “It was my fault, not the butler’s.”
“What if a piece of glass had sliced into my hands?” Brenner snapped.
Before she could respond, a grim-faced Ambassador Zorin returned to the garden, and waving to the men in the black suits, spoke to them.
Grace Manning, ever the alert hostess, deserted Brenner and made a bee-line for the Ambassador.
Zorin turned to her. “I am sorry to spoil your lovely party,” he said, “but I must leave at once. We all must.” He gestured at the dancers being herded back into the house by the men in black.
“How perfectly horrid of you, Mr. Ambassador,” Grace pouted. “But at least Russell and I can look forward to seeing you at the Artificial Heart Symposium next year when—”
“I’m afraid you won’t see anyone from the Soviet Union at your symposium,” Zorin said, his thoughts elsewhere—and instantly regretted not having lowered his voice. A circle of expectant faces stared at him.
A reporter joined the group. “Would you care to make a statement, Mr. Ambassador?” he asked, mildly curious.
Zorin adjusted his glasses while he collected his thoughts. He had been waiting to be notified about the orchestrated collapse of the Four-Power summit. Now that it was a fait accompli and Khrushchev had walked out, there was no reason not to be frank.
“The barbs of Western hostility have pierced my country’s good intentions,” Zorin said gravely. “I have just been informed by Moscow that your country has invaded Soviet airspace. It has been spying on our nation for some time now. The Soviet delegation, led by Chairman Nikita Khrushchev, has walked out of the Potsdam summit. While we were enjoying Russian folk dancing in New York and drinking toasts to the relaxation of world tensions,” Zorin continued, “an American spy plane was overflying our country to photograph sensitive installations.”
Murmurs rolled through the guests.
“Unfortunately, the repercussions of this international crime touch us all,” Zorin said, warming to his subject. “It spells the end of Soviet participation in cultural exchanges, in competitive sports events, in—”
“My Artificial Heart Symposium?” Russell Manning asked, aghast. “Surely your government won’t withdraw its participation because of some minor political incident?”
“We already have,” Zorin said flatly.
Brenner gripped Manning’s arm. “I hope you’re not thinking of pulling the plug on the symposium, Russell,” he said lowering his voice. “There are other participants. Think of the money you poured into the new medical center there. Think of the dedication ceremony, the publicity.”
“I’m not sure, I’m just not sure. We’re supposed to be in the middle of an East-West thaw, for god’s sake! I hate politics,” he whined, thrusting out his lower lip.
“Mr. Ambassador,” Brenner said as Zorin turned to leave. “While I consider myself a patriotic American, I must confess that I’m offended by my government’s behavior. Spying in this day and age? Despicable!”
The reporter, no longer bored, was scribbling away.
Zorin turned toward Brenner, the suggestion of a smile on his lips.
“It has taken years for people of good faith from our two countries to establish a bridge of friendship,” Brenner said with feigned sincerity. “I only hope that bridge is strong enough to withstand such ill-advised and provocative conduct.”
“Speaking of bridges, Mr. Ambassador,” the reporter pressed, “isn’t the one across the Havel River in Potsdam called Glienicker? And didn’t American GIs and Soviet troops, with assistance from Ukrainian laborers, work together after the war to repair it?”
Brenner turned pale.
“True,” Zorin told the reporter. “All the more reason for my country to be enraged at the needless collapse of our peace negotiations. As the Havel River now separates our delegations in Potsdam, so too it separates our two countries.”
Zorin, followed by his entourage, left the Manning townhouse through an elaborate front entrance.
Hands jammed into his pockets so no one could see them shaking, Brenner headed in the opposite direction. Reaching the brass-and-teak bar in the garden, he grabbed the nearest bottle, not sure whether it was gin or vodka. Not caring that whatever it was burned his throat on the way down.
Glienicker Bridge. Ukrainians!
A coincidence? Brenner wondered. Maybe. Maybe not.
He had always prided himself on his rational approach to life, his utter disdain for superstition.
Not anymore.
Chapter 14
It was a typically stifling early May in Moscow. The woman with the bovine face pressed her cheeks with a handkerchief, feeling a rush of guilt over the vodka she’d indulged in during the May Day holiday two days ago.
The telephone on her desk jangled shrilly. “…Yes, sir, he’s here. I’ll send him in.” She hung up and turned to Kiril. “They’re ready for you, Dr. Andreyev,” she said cheerfully. “Second door to your right.”
The room Kiril entered had no windows. Two men sat behind a battered desk. One wore a yellow jacket that had seen better days. He looked barely old enough to shave.
Kiril’s eyes flicked to the other man. Balding. Mid-to-late fifties. Florid face with a wary, almost deferential, expression.
“Please take a seat, Doctor,” the older man said, indicating an empty chair opposite them.
The minute Kiril sat down, a brilliant flash exploded, pinning him to his chair in a white glare. He could no longer see either man.