Page 165 of Cry Havoc
A bottle of Moët champagne was on ice next to the in-room bar. She had already polished off two glasses and poured herself a third. Her flute sat next to a whiskey glass. She walked to it, the breeze from the open windows a welcome reprieve from the stifling heat, and looked down at the white powder she had scooped in from the hidden compartment in her compact. Serrano had sworn that it was merely a sedative and would incapacitate but not kill. Could she trust him? The man they called Dvornikov was worth more to them alive than dead. And if they wanted him dead, they would have just put a bullet in him.
Turning him over to the Americans would not end the war, only prolong it, which was why she had said nothing of the security man who accompanied him. The man shadowed them at dinners and only retreated to his room when Gabriel and Ella were sequestered in theirs. There was something disturbing about him, the way he sat and drank Coca-Cola across a restaurant while she and Gabriel talked and ate, the way he kept his distance. Most disconcerting was that he never made eye contact with her but still gave her the uneasy feeling that he was always watching.
A bottle of Mekhong sat next to the lowball glass. It was Gabriel’s favorite spirit. She had tried it once at his insistence and found the bittersweet orange and ginger aftertaste to be unpleasant.
Ella shed her clothes and changed into a blue and white slip with satin and lace trim. Gabriel would like it.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a key in the door. It was time.
She poured two fingers of Mekhong into the glass, the white powder immediately dissolving under the cascade of golden liquid. She picked it up and turned as the door opened.
Dvornikov stepped inside and set down a suitcase. It was constructed of an ocher waxed fabric and had leather finishes. He wore a cream-colored tropical-weight suit over a sky-blue cotton poplin shirt. A silver woven silk tie with blue pencil stripes was at his neck.
“Dear one, you are a vision,” he said, loosening his tie and walking toward her.
He accepted the outstretched drink with his left hand and slid his right around Ella’s waist, pulling her toward him.
“I’ve missed you,” he said.
“I can tell,” Ella replied.
He stepped back, admiring her choice of lingerie, and then brought his face to hers for a ravenous kiss.
Before the moment got out of control, she pushed herself away.
“Let me get my glass,” she said, moving to the bar and picking up her champagne flute. “I hope you don’t mind. I got a head start.”
“How could I? To what’s to come,” he said, holding up his glass in a toast.
“I like that,” Ella said.
They clinked glasses and both sipped their drinks.
“Nectar of the gods,” Dvornikov said, looking approvingly at his favorite spirit.
Ella wondered how long the sedative would take to go into effect.Serrano had said fifteen minutes, but had Gabriel taken a large enough sip? Should she encourage him to drink more?
“That’s a better slogan than the Spirit of Thailand,” she said.
“Maybe I’ll go into advertising. Do you have anything else for me?”
“Yes.”
Ella walked to the desk, picking up the paperback that contained the information so crucial to the GRU.
“Le Fue,”Dvornikov said, taking it from her. “Have you read it?”
“No, I don’t think it is my type of book.”
“I disagree,” he said, setting his drink down, tapping the battered cover in his hand. “Though fiction, it is based on Barbusse’s personal experiences on the Western Front. They say it inspired Hemingway and Remarque.”
“The Lost Generation,” she said, holding up her drink as if to toast them. “Reminds me of Paris.”
“Precisely.”
“Perhaps people will say the same of us after this war.”
“What?”
