High Alert

CHAPTER 18

Vladimir Orlov's private apartments in the Kremlin were like everything else in the ancient fortress, ornately decorated and restored to the excessive splendor of the Czars. Baroque paintings of angels and classical motifs covered the high ceilings. Moldings chased out in gold leaf ran around the white walls. Priceless Oriental rugs softened polished floors that had echoed to the footsteps of Catherine the Great. The double-headed eagle of Russian power graced every room.

The dining room where Orlov was entertaining Valentina featured a long table big enough to seat forty people. It wasn't exactly the intimate setting she'd been dreading. Perhaps she'd been wrong about his intention.

The meal had been a surprise, simple food that might have been found in the home of almost any Russian. Orlov was from peasant roots, as his predecessors had been. Unlike them, the President of the Russian Federation was a man perfectly at home in a barn or a salon. He could be as urbane and charming as any New York sophisticate. He could also be as cold and ruthless as Stalin. It was easy to underestimate him. Valentina knew better than to make that mistake.

They'd finished eating and the dishes had been cleared away. A waiter brought a tray with glasses and bottles of brandy and vodka. Valentina and Orlov sat at one end of the enormous table. The waiter set the tray down and left the room. Two of Orlov's bodyguards were stationed outside..

"A brandy, Colonel?" Orlov asked.

"Please."

Orlov poured one for her and one for himself, large snifters. He raised his glass.

"To mother Russia."

"To the Rodina," Valentina said. They drank.

"How is your hand? That bandage looks uncomfortable."

"Not too bad. It will heal."

"You did well in Kiev, Valentina."

"Thank you, Mister President."

"Please. We are in private here. Call me Vladimir."

Here we go, Valentina thought.

"Of course, Vladimir. Thank you. "

"Tell me, Valentina. What is it you wish to achieve in life? What is it that moves you? Provides motivation for you?"

The question took her by surprise. It was the last thing she'd expected Orlov to say.

"I haven't thought much about it," Valentina said.

"Most people sitting where you are sitting tonight would tell me what they thought I wanted to hear. Something like 'serving the motherland.' This is why I appreciate you, Valentina. You are unpredictable. Your nature sets you apart from most people. We are alike, you and I."

"How is that, Mister… Vladimir?"

Orlov fixed her with his icy blue eyes.

"We are both confident in ourselves, alphas in a world made up mostly of betas. Both of us can be predators but neither of us will ever choose to be prey."

"No one would choose to be prey."

"Not consciously, perhaps," Orlov said. "But we both know that some are destined to be exactly that. Even alphas like the Ukrainian Minister of Security, as you demonstrated. Tell me, what did you feel when you knew you had succeeded?"

"I didn't feel much of anything," Valentina said. "I was too busy trying to stay alive."

"And later?"

"Later I felt glad to be out of there."

Orlov topped off her glass and his own.

"You prove my point. You don't have the kind of feelings that get in the way of what needs to be done."

"There's no place for feelings in the kind of work I do."

Orlov laughed. "You are so literal, Valentina. It is something else I enjoy about you. Come, let me show you the rest of my apartment. Bring your glass."

He got up, taking the bottle with him. Valentina stood, feeling the brandy and the wine they'd had with dinner. With something of a shock, she realized she was enjoying herself.

Orlov wasn't a bad looking man. He was powerfully built and moved like an athlete. He radiated an aura of power and confidence. In Valentina's experience, few men possessed the qualities that Orlov took for granted. In spite of herself, she found herself wondering what it would be like to bed him.

She walked beside him down a long, wide hall lined on both sides with paintings. Most were landscapes. Orlov kept up a running commentary, pointing out a large van Gogh and a Monét.

They stopped before the van Gogh. "This is one of his last works," Orlov said.

The painting exploded with light. It was a field in the countryside. The background was all shades of white, but white like she'd never seen before. It was radiant, alive. Dark uneven lines in the foreground suggested plowed furrows in the earth. Above, half a dozen black birds circled. The canvas was almost empty, but it was the most powerful painting she had ever seen.

"It's beautiful," she said. "How did he do that? Get it to glow like that? I feel as if I could step into it."

Orlov looked at her and nodded. "Not everyone can see that."

For some reason she felt as though she'd just passed some sort of test.

"This way," he said.

He opened a door into a suite of rooms. The first room was a study. It was a comfortable place, the kind of room where a man could think and relax. An antique desk of inlaid wood stood in front of a window looking out over the walls of the Kremlin and the Moscow River. The only other furniture was a leather chair and a couch. One wall was covered with a bookcase filled with books that looked as though they had been read. An open set of double doors led into a bedroom featuring a canopied four poster bed. Beyond, another door opened onto a bathroom.

Orlov set his glass down on the desk. He took Valentina's glass from her and set it down next to his own. She could smell his scent, a faint, musky odor.

"You are a beautiful woman, Valentina. It's difficult to be in my position," he said. "Difficult to find someone to share moments with that are not affairs of state."

"I understand," Valentina said.

"I thought you would," Orlov said. He put his hand on her arm and led her into the bedroom.