'Give us a little distance with the towelheads, right?'
'That's why you gotta be at the banquet, Arnie. Starting with the private reception. Don't be late.'
'Silver-tongued bastard,' grunted Admiral Morgan. 'All right, all right. We'll be there. Good morning, Mr. President.'
Paul Bedford, who was well accustomed to the Admiral's excruciating habit of slamming down the phone without even bothering with 'good-bye,' considered this a very definite victory.
'Heh, heh, heh,' he chortled, in the deserted Oval Office, 'that little bit of intrigue on a global scale. That'll get the ole buzzard every time. But I'm sure glad he's coming.'
Thus it was that Arnold and Kathy Morgan were now in attendance at the State Banquet for the Russians, gazing amiably at the long line of incoming guests entering the White House.
So many old friends and colleagues. It was like an Old Boys' reunion. Here was the Commander of the U.S. Navy SEALs, Admiral John Bergstrom, and his soignee new wife, Louisa-May, from Oxford, Mississippi; Harcourt Travis, the former Republican Secretary of State, with his wife, Sue. There was Admiral Scott Dunsmore, former CNO of the U.S. Navy, with his elegant wife, Grace. The reigning Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Tim Scannell, was with his wife, Beth.
Arnold shook hands with the Director of the National Security Agency, Admiral George Morris, and he greeted the new Vice President of the United States, the former Democratic Senator from Georgia, Bradford Harding, and his wife, Paige.
The Israeli Ambassador, General David Gavron, was there with his wife, Becky, plus, of course, the silver- haired Russian Ambassador to Washington, Tomas Yezhel, and the various Ambassadors from the United Kingdom, Canada, and Australia.
Arnold did not instantly recognize all of the top brass of the Russian contingent. But he could see the former Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Josh Paul, talking with the Russian Foreign Minister, Oleg Nalyotov.
He vaguely knew the Chief of the Russian Naval Staff, a grim-looking, ex-Typhoon-class ICBM Commanding Officer, Admiral Victor Kouts.
But Admiral Morgan's craggy face lit up when he spotted the towering figure of his old sparring partner, Russian Admiral Vitaly Rankov, now C-in-C Fleet, and Deputy Defense Minister.
'Arnold!' boomed the giant ex-Soviet international oarsman. 'I had no idea you'd be here. They told me you'd retired.'
Admiral Morgan grinned, and held out his hand. 'Hi, Vitaly — they put you in charge of that junkyard Navy of yours yet? I heard they had.'
'They did. Right now, Admiral, you're talking to the Deputy Defense Minister of Russia.'
'Guess that'll suit you,' replied the American. 'Should provide ample scope for your natural flair for lies, evasions, and half-truths…'
The enormous Russian threw back his head and roared with laughter. 'Now you be kind, Arnold,' he said in his deep, rumbling baritone voice. 'Otherwise I may not introduce you to this very beautiful lady standing at my side.'
A tall, striking, dark-haired girl around half the Russian's age smiled shyly and held out her hand in friendship.
'This is Olga,' said Admiral Rankov. 'We were married last spring.'
Admiral Morgan took her hand and asked if she spoke any English since his Russian was a little rusty. She shook her head, smiling, and the Admiral took the opportunity to turn back to Vitaly and shake his head sadly. 'Too good for you, old buddy. A lot too good.'
Again the huge Russian Admiral laughed joyfully, and he repeated the words he had used so often in his many dealings with the old Lion of the West Wing.
'You are a terrible man, Arnold Morgan. A truly terrible man.' Then he spoke in rapid Russian to Mrs. Olga Rankov, who also burst out laughing.
'I understand we are sitting together,' said Arnold. 'And I don't believe you have actually met my wife, Kathy.'
The Russian Admiral smiled and accepted Kathy's outstretched hand. 'We have of course spoken many times on the telephone,' he said. 'But believe me, I never thought he'd persuade you to marry him.' And, with a phrase more fittingly uttered in a St. Petersburg palace than a naval dockyard, Vitaly added with a short bow and a flourish, 'The legend of your great beauty precedes you, Mrs. Morgan. I knew what to expect.'
'Jesus, they've even taught him social graces,' chuckled Arnold, carelessly ignoring the fact he was a bit short in that department himself. 'Vitaly, old pal, seems we both got lucky in the past year. Not too bad for a couple of old Cold Warriors.'
By now the guests were almost through the receiving line and a natural parting of the crowd established a wide entrance tunnel to the State Dining Room. Within a few moments, President and Maggie Bedford came through, escorting the Russian President and his wife to their dinner places, with all of the guests falling in,
The President took his place next to the former KGB researcher directly beneath the Lincoln portrait. Maggie Bedford showed the boss of all the Russians to his place next to her at the same table, and everyone stood until the hostess was seated.
The banquet, on the orders of Paul Bedford, was strictly American. 'No caviar, or any of that restaurant nonsense,' he had told the butler. 'We start with Chesapeake oysters, we dine on New York sirloin steak, with Idaho potatoes, and we wrap it up with apple pie and American ice cream. There'll be two or three Wisconsin cheeses for anyone who wants them. California wines from the Napa Valley.'
'Sir,' the butler ventured, 'not everyone likes oysters…'
'Tough,' replied the President. 'Russians love 'em. I've had 'em in Moscow and St. Petersburg. Anyone who can't eat 'em can have an extra shot of apple pie if they need it.'
'Very well, sir,' replied the butler, suspecting, from vast experience, that Arnold Morgan himself had been somehow in the shadows advising Paul Bedford. The tone, the curtness, the sureness. Morgan, not Bedford.
As it happened, there had been one short conversation when the Oval Office called Chevy Chase to check in on the menu content. 'Give 'em American food,' Arnold had advised. 'Strictly American. Big A A A. The food this nation eats. We don't need to pretend sophistication to anyone, right?'
'Right.'
And now, with the apple pie just arriving, the Strolling Strings, a well-known group of U.S. Army violinists, began to play at the rear section of the room. It was a short mini-concert, comprising all-American numbers, such as 'Over There!'…'True Love' (from
Finally the President rose and made a short speech extolling the virtues of the Russian President and the new and close trade links developing between the nations.
The guest of honor then stood and echoed many of the Presidents' statements, before responding with a formal toast 'to the United States of America.'
At this point the entire room stood up and proceeded toward the door that led out to the Blue Room, where coffee would be served, followed by entertainment in the East Room, and then dancing to the band of the United States Marines in the White House foyer.
Everyone was on the move now, except for one guest. Mikhallo Masorin, the senior minister from the vastness of Siberia, which fills one-twelfth of the land mass of the entire earth, had suddenly pitched forward and landed flat on his face right in front of Arnold, Vitaly, Olga, and Kathy.
In fact, the huge Russian Admiral had leaned forward to break his fall. But he was a fraction of a second too late. Mr. Masorin was down, twisted on his back now, his face puce in color, gasping for breath, both hands clutched to his throat, working his jaws, writhing in obvious fear and agony.
Someone shouted,
Women gasped. Men came forward to see if they could help. Arnold Morgan noticed they were mostly Americans. He also considered Mr. Masorin was very nearly beyond help. He was desperately trying to breathe but could not do so.
By now two or three people were shouting,
