'To think the unthinkable?' asked Wolfe, quite calmly. 'Like Kahn?'
'Kahn?' asked Benjamin, struggling to understand the tension between Wolfe and Gudrun-and, he realized with some embarrassment, trying to find a way to reenter the conversation, perhaps to get Gudrun to turn those luminous eyes toward him again.
'Herman Kahn,' replied Cavendish. 'Wrote on nuclear war theory. Practically invented it.'
'Or invented the notion that it was 'thinkable,' ' amended Wolfe, still looking at Gudrun.
'Wasn't he merely being realistic?' said Gudrun. She leaned toward Wolfe, the cynicism of earlier replaced by what appeared to be sincere commitment. 'Most people don't really know why they believe as they do. They require… call it direction. Or purpose. And history has taught us that purpose is usually found in the face of one's enemies.'
'Then I alter my question slightly,' said Wolfe, now looking quite serious himself. 'Those enemies, are they made here?'
Before Gudrun could respond there came a tapping of a fork on a wineglass from the head table. Arthur Terrill was standing and attempting to get everyone's attention. Finally, when the murmur of conversation and clatter of silverware had died down, he spoke.
'While I have you all gathered together like this, I believe it's an excellent time to acknowledge the supreme effort of one of our own. All of you know him, but I think few of you appreciate how absolutely vital his efforts are to the survival of the Foundation and its mission. I'm speaking of course of Mr. George Montrose.'
Arthur turned toward Montrose, and there was a round of applause. Terrill continued.
'Without his work in the lobbies of the Capitol, every bit as important as the work that goes on in the laboratories and studies here on campus, we wouldn't have the luxury to pursue our precious researches. Here's to George Montrose.' He raised his glass to a chorus of 'Here, here' and 'Good work, George.'
Everyone at the table drank, Wolfe draining his glass. Then Montrose stood and began to speak, beginning with something about the 'unsung heroes here in the wilds of Massachusetts,' and there was general laughter… but at that moment Gudrun leaned in closer to Benjamin and spoke in low tones.
'I can't stand these speeches. I'm going outside for a smoke. Mind keeping me company?' She placed her hand on his shoulder in a gesture he couldn't quite define. Friendly? Flirtatious? Maybe he was drunker than he thought.
Benjamin's first impulse was to look to Wolfe, but Wolfe was engaged in an intense whispered dialogue with Cavendish.
'Wouldn't it be rude, to leave in the middle of…?' and he waved his hand toward Montrose and the head table.
'They'll assume we're off to be naughty,' Gudrun said, and before Benjamin could reply she'd lifted his hand and led him, winding through tables, out the doors, across the foyer, and into the empty quad outside.
CHAPTER 11
Once outside, Gudrun immediately extracted a cigarette and lighter from her purse, lit up, and inhaled with undisguised relief. Then she looked up at the night sky. The chilled air made Benjamin pull his jacket closed.
'Amazing out here, isn't it?' she said. 'Away from the city lights. They're so much… clearer. But then, so many things are.'
He looked upward, if for no other reason than to prevent himself from staring at her face shining in the starlight-and noticing the way that same starlight emphasized the contours of her breasts above the low-cut neckline of her dress.
She threw the cigarette to the stone pathway, ground it out beneath the toe of a black high-heeled shoe, looked back to him. Smiled that radiant, rapacious smile.
'We never really got a chance to have our chat at dinner, did we. Look, I have some very nice brandy in my room-what say I bring it to yours, mine is an absolute mess, and I'll answer any… inquiries you might have had for me.'
When he hesitated, she placed her hand on his arm, and said, 'I'll be nice, I promise.'
'Enjoying the night air?' said Edward Stoltz loudly, approaching them from the dining hall.
Gudrun said, 'Saying good night. So I will. Good night, Edward.' She turned to Benjamin. 'Mr. Wainwright.' And, her high heels clicking on the cobblestones, she walked off down the path and into the manse.
'A remarkable woman,' said Stoltz. 'Not my type, of course.'
Benjamin nodded, said nothing. He was about to say good night himself when he remembered their earlier conversation that had been cut off.
'Dr. Stoltz, you mentioned there was some sort of… scandal after they discovered this diary?'
'Scandal with a capital S,' said Stoltz, smiling wickedly. 'Seems the painter of that mural we were discussing, Cecil Bayne? Seems he was having an affair with one of the fellows here. A Warren Ginsburg. An historian, like you, I believe.'
At first Benjamin was so surprised to hear that Stoltz knew he was an historian that the name of Bayne's lover didn't strike him. Then he realized it sounded familiar.
' Warren Ginsburg,' repeated Benjamin.
Now Stoltz's eyes went wide in surprise. 'You know of him?'
'Well… as you say, he was an historian, so…' He let his voice trail off, then added, 'But an affair, even a homosexual one… that was a scandal?'
'Oh, no,' said Stoltz. 'They weren't that provincial, even back then and even out here.'
'Then why-?'
'It was the termination of the affair.' Stoltz smirked as though he'd made a particularly clever joke. 'Messy. One of those murder-suicides that's supposed to happen in dens of iniquity like Hollywood, not staid Massachusetts.'
'So they both…'
'Died, yes. Bayne murdered and Ginsburg…' Stoltz held a finger to his temple, pulled an imaginary trigger. 'You see? Needless to say, Bayne never completed the mural. Pity.'
Benjamin nodded. He shivered as if cold. 'Well, I think I'll say good night too, then.' He began to leave, then turned back as if he'd remembered something. 'And that diary you mentioned, is it still here?'
'No, no, it was donated long ago,' said Stoltz, waving his hand, apparently now bored with the whole story. 'To the Morris Estate.'
As in 'the Library of Seymour Morris'? Benjamin wondered. But he dared not ask.
'Well, good night then. Pleasure meeting you,' Benjamin said.
He turned and started off down the path to the manse-not certain whether he wanted Gudrun to keep their rendezvous in his room or not. He had a lot to tell Wolfe, and wasn't sure he could wait until morning.
CHAPTER 12
By the time Natalya got back to her apartment, it was almost 12:00 A.M., or 8:00 A.M. in Dubna, Russia. Her father would be awake soon. On weekends he liked to spend the mornings working in his ogorod, his kitchen garden, a small plot of ground in a communal square down the street from his apartment building. If she called in perhaps thirty minutes, she could catch him before he left. So she just had to stay awake until then.
Which might prove difficult. Going over the Bolshoi reception menu with Mr. Foy had in fact made her quite hungry, and she'd skipped lunch while working at the embassy, so when she met Yuri and his friends at Russkiy Dom she'd opted for a full-course dinner: soleniye ogurscy, sliced and salted cucumbers, for an appetizer (Yuri had tried to tease her by ordering seledka pod shuboy, as he knew the name alone made her cringe: salted herring in a sheepskin 'coat'). For a main course she'd ordered veal pelmeny, what she called 'Siberian ravioli.' Perhaps she'd hoped to capture some memory of childhood, when her mother would make and roll the thick, salty dough
