For a moment the President looked troubled.
“Do you really think you can take care of this for me, Havoc?” He asked.
“Leave it with me, sir,” Havoc replied, and the two men saluted each other.
Havoc left the building. A flunkey, who had been informed of Havoc’s departure, arrived at the front door with Havoc’s car as he stepped outside.
“Thank you kindly,” he said.
He exchanged salutes with the two marines at the gates then he drove to the Watergate Hotel on Virginia Avenue. He checked into his room and took the folded-up piece of paper from his pocket that Natasha had slipped into his hand. There was just a telephone number on it and Call me is all that it said.
He put the paper to his nose and smelled it. There was a lingering scent of her musky perfume on it.
Havoc poured himself a beer from the mini-bar in and switched on the television. An advert appeared promoting Doughnut and his work as President. He switched channels and saw the very same advert.
“God-dammit,” he said.
Havoc took his cell phone from his jacket and rang the number on the piece of paper.
“Hello,” said a husky female voice. “Is that Mr. Havoc?”
“It sure is, ma’am, how can I help you?”
“I think you know how you can help me, Mr. Havoc. You can keep me company. Adolf’s job takes up so much of his time that I get lonely.”
Havoc felt a strange stirring of excitement.
“We all get lonely,” he replied. “I’m on my own at the moment, here in room 145 of the Watergate Hotel. I sure could do with some company. When could you come over?”
Back in the White House, Natasha looked at Doughnut’s prone form on the bed in their private quarters. He was lying on his back, his gigantic belly rising and falling in time to his snoring. He was taking what he called a ‘power nap’, which was part of his daily ritual.
“I can come over right now,” she said. “I’ll meet you in your room.”
“All right, looking forward to it.”
Natasha wrote out a note quickly, and left it on the bedside cabinet on Doughnut’s side of the bed.
‘An old friend asked me to meet her. She’s only in Washington for today and tomorrow, and then she flies back to Russia. I’ll have to spend some time with her. See you much later xxx’
She left the room and called Tyler.
“Have my car brought around to the entrance Tyler.”
“Right away,” he said. “What about your security men?”
“I won’t need them.”
“Where are you going?”
“That is none of your business. Now get the car.”
She put a coat of lipstick on her full lips, and checked the effect in the small mirror she kept in her handbag. Satisfied, she left the building, got into her car and drove to the gate. The guards weren’t impressed by the fact that she was leaving without any security arrangements, but they knew better than to challenge her about it; Natasha Troubletsky wasn’t prepared to take any shit from anyone, other than very occasionally from her boyfriend the President.
Soon enough, she pulled up outside the Watergate Hotel and despatched a member of the hotel staff to park her car. She entered the foyer, taking a delight in the way that men turned their heads to check her out as she walked by. With her white skin and black hair, her red lips and slim but curvaceous figure, she was as eye-catching as any woman any of them had ever seen. She took the lift to the second floor, found room 145, and tried the door. It was locked. She knocked on it.
“Who’s that?”
She immediately recognized Havoc’s deep voice.
“It is me, Natasha,” she said.
He opened the door and let her in.
“Sorry, ma’am, but you can’t be too careful in my line of work.”
“Just what is your line of work, Mr. Havoc?”
“Problem solving, Ma’am.”
She looked him up and down.
“You can stop calling me ma’am,” she said. “Call me Natasha. And I will call you Macho. That is your first name, no?”
Havoc went over to the mini-bar.
“It sure is. Can I fix you a drink?” he asked.
“Vodka, on its own if it is good. If it is no good, give me ice with it.”
He held up the bottle for her to see the label.
“Plenty of ice please,” she said.
Havoc made the drink and handed it to Natasha. She stood close to him, and he sensed that there was an animal magnetism between them.
“Shall we sit down?” He asked, motioning towards the sofa he had in his room.
“Let us do that,” she said.
They both sat on the sofa, which Havoc’s frame was almost big enough to fill on its own. Their legs were in close contact. They looked at one another and said nothing. Instead, their faces came slowly, inevitably, closer together, until their lips met. It was the briefest of kisses, and it was followed by a longer one.
“It is very hot in here,” said Natasha. I need to strip off my clothes.”
“So do I,” Havoc replied.
They went to his bed, and fell upon one another.
Havoc showed Natasha a tenderness that was truly exceptional, and which would never have been returned by his wife, had he been married. Ironically he’d vowed never to marry.
Their lovemaking was mutually satisfying, and lasted for hours, and when at length they stopped, they both felt totally fulfilled.
“You are like a stud stallion, Macho,” Natasha breathed in her exotic Russian accent.
“Thank you, Natasha,” he replied in his deep southern tones. “You’re like a brood mare.”
They lay in his bed in each other’s arms for a while, moonlight shafting in on them through the windows of Havoc’s hotel room; and the flashing of neon signs illuminating the wall behind them.
“Your brood mare must go now,” said Natasha, getting out of the bed.
She dressed rapidly and kissed him on the cheek.
“Text me when you’re in town again,” she said as she left.
The following morning, Havoc caught a non-stop flight to Miami. He knew that most of the celebrity chef zombies of Florida would be based in Miami; He also knew that he would have to act fast, if he was to derail whatever plans they had to take control of his country.
The journey only took two-an-a-half hours, and even allowing for check-in delays and car hire, he was installed in his hotel room by lunch time. He left his hotel without pausing to unpack his bags and walked to the seafront. It was a burning hot day, and all along the beach people were sprawled out sunning themselves; while swimmers were cutting their way through the gentle waves that were rippling the surface of the otherwise calm sea.
Havoc headed along the coastal road and entered the famous ‘Anything Goes’ restaurant which overlooked the sea on Miami’s South beach. It derived its name from the fact that its owner, Soldier Hawk, was prepared to serve anything, or almost anything, to his customers, including Pythons, which he caught himself when hunting in the Everglades.
He was, as his name suggested, a former military man, and an expert in unarmed combat. Havoc was all too aware that Hawk’s combat skills allied to his zombie strength would make him a formidable opponent. He decided to follow his usual practice when on a mission of this nature: namely, he would observe his prey, and note any weaknesses, before making his move.
Inside the restaurant, Havoc was grateful for the air-conditioning which gave him respite from the burning Miami heat. He was shown to a table by the Maître D’. He ordered a plate of fresh grilled Python with seasonal vegetables and hash-browns. When it arrived he tucked into it with gusto, and while he ate, he kept watch for Soldier Hawk.