They rolled again.
The gun went off again.
Krylov looked surprised. “Nyet, nyet” he muttered. “Chto sluchilos?”
“What’s happened, Alex, is that you’ve had it.” Brook looked down at the Russian. He held the gun ready more out of habit than necessity. Krylov twitched a little, staring up at him. The bloodstain on his chest was spreading through the powder burn.
“Piotr,” Krylov said.
“Yes, Alex.”
“Eta dalyeko?”
“Yes, Alex, it’s very far.”
The Russian’s eyes lost their gloss. They stayed open.
The door exploded. Holloway, ludicrously dressed in purple-striped pajamas and brandishing a .45, almost fell to his knees as he burst in. He recovered his cool very quickly. But he was still unsettled enough to say, “I’ll be damned.”
“Won’t we all?” Brook said, still looking down at the Russian’s body. “It’s only a matter of time.”
“Did he say anything?” the Director of FACE demanded.
“Nothing, sir,” Brook said respectfully, “you’d consider important.”
In her high-rise efficiency apartment with its picture window overlooking the Potomac, Megan Jones brought Brook his favorite libation from her kitchenette. It was a night that promised favors. She had put on a chartreuse dress, not too mini; a sensible dress, Brook thought. What gave it its sensible character was that the length made leotards unnecessary, and there was a line of buttons down the front.
Megan handed Brook his Scotch, sat down on his lap, and twined her arm around his neck.
“Thank you,” Brook said.
“You’re welcome,” she said, “but very unappreciative.”
“I’m saving my appreciation, Megan.”
She pouted. He hated women who pouted.
“Look at that.” She nodded toward the table where the two chartreuse candles were still burning. The cradled bottle of wine lay there with its cork loosened and its contents undisturbed. “I went to all the trouble — not to mention the expense — of getting you a Mouton-Rothschild ’55, a grand premier crus. And you haven’t even tasted it.”
“I’m a vulgarian,” Brook said. “Besides, I’ve been saving my taste buds for this—” he touched his lips to the Scotch “—and this—” he touched his lips to her lips.
“Your appetites are so basic, Peter.”
“Primitive,” Brook said, nodding.
“Let me refine them.”
“That sounds awfully civilized. Give me the primitive state any time.” He wondered suddenly how amenable she would be to a course in Jasmine’s technique, or even Kimiko Ohara’s. Hell, no. She’d probably accuse him of being a sexual offbeat.
“I feel exploratory tonight.” Megan took the glass from his hand, placed it a little shakily on the coffee table, and reached up to turn off the bridge lamp. “To tell you the truth,” she said, bracketing his cheeks with her palms and bearing down on him with all her weight, “I feel positively wicked.”
Brook began to be interested in the game.
He was just completing the opening moves when the alarm watch on his wrist buzzed.
“Oh, no,” Megan moaned. “Not again!”
Brook cursed. He shoved her off the sofa and rose.
“Peter Brook,” Megan wailed. “You’re not going out for another walk. The last time you did that you didn’t come back for almost a month!”
Damn Holloway.
“You know how it is with research analysts.”
He left to go back to the war.