'Let's just say that like the little old ant who moved the rubber tree plant, I had high hopes.'
'You know what you are?'
'A bastard, a lecher, a satyr-- I could think of a dozen apt descriptions.'
She looked at him with a secret, womanly smile. 'No, you're none of those. Even a satyr would not have been so thoughtful.'
He pulled her lips to his and kissed her so hard she moaned.
Her performance in bed fooled him. He expected a body that would merely give response. Instead, he found himself merged with thrashing, undulating waves of flesh, piercing screams that he muffled with his hands, nails that dug oozing red trenches in his back, and finally soft, wet sobbings into his neck. He couldn't help wondering if all wives blossom with such abandon when they make love for the first time with someone other than their husbands. The storm lasted for nearly an hour, and the humid perfume of sweating skin began to soak the air of that old rotted, ghostly bedroom.
Finally she pushed him away and sat up. She raised her knees and hunched herself over them, feet crossed. 'How was I?'
'Like a spastic tiger,' Pitt said.
'I didn't know it could be like this.'
'I wish I had a dime for every girl who said those very same words every time she turned on.'
'You don't know what it's like to have your guts churning in both agony and delight at the same time.'
'I dare say I don't. A woman's release burns from the inside. A man's erotic senses are mostly exterior. Anyway you look at it, sex is a female's game.'
'What do you know about the President?' she suddenly asked in a soft nostalgic tone.
Pitt looked at her in amused surprise. 'The President? What made you think of him at a time like this?'
'I hear he's a real man.'
'I couldn't say. I've never slept with him.'
She ignored his remark. 'If we had a woman President and she wanted to make love to you, what would you do?'
'My country right or wrong,' Pitt said. 'Where is all this talk leading?'
'Just answer the question. Would you go to bed with her?'
'Depends?'
'On what?'
'President or not, I couldn't make my gun stand at attention if she was seventy, fat, and had skin like a prune. That's why men never make good prostitutes.'
Dana smiled slowly and closed her eyes. 'Make love to me again.'
'Why? So you can let your imagination run wild and fancy that you're being laid by our Commander-in- Chief?'
Her eyes narrowed. 'Does that bother you?'
'Two can play the same game. I'll just pretend that you're Ashley Fleming.'
73
Prevlov looked up from his huddled position on the floor of stateroom C-95 as the SEAL guarding the passageway outside turned the newly oiled lock and swung the door open. The SEAL, his M-24 held at the ready, visually checked Prevlov, and then stepped aside to allow another man to enter.
He was carrying an attache case and wore a business suit that begged to be pressed. A faint smile crossed his lips as Prevlov studied him with a speculative gaze of surprised Recognition.
'Captain Prevlov, I am Warren Nicholson.'
'I know,' Prevlov said as he uncoiled to his feet and gave a very correct half-bow. 'I was not prepared to entertain the Chief Director of the Central Intelligence Agency himself. At least not under these rather awkward circumstances.'
'I've come personally to escort you to the United States.'
'I am flattered.'
'It is we who are flattered, Captain Prevlov. You are considered a very big catch indeed.'
'Then it is to be an internationally publicized trial, complete with grave accusations against my government for attempted piracy on the high seas.'
Nicholson smiled again. 'No, except for a few high-ranking members of your government and mine, I'm afraid your defection will remain a well-kept secret.'
Prevlov squinted. 'Defection?' This was clearly not what he had expected.
Nicholson nodded without answering.
'There is no method by which you can make me willingly defect,' Prevlov said grimly. 'I shall deny it at every opportunity.'
'A noble gesture.' Nicholson shrugged. 'However, since there will be no trial and no interrogation, a request for political asylum becomes your only escape clause.'
'You said, 'no interrogation.' I must accuse you of lying, Mr. Nicholson. No good intelligence service would ever pass up the chance of prying out the knowledge a man of my position could provide them.'
'What knowledge?' Nicholson said. 'You can't tell us anything that we don't already know.'
Prevlov's mind was off-balance. Perspective, he thought. He must gain a perspective. There was only one way the Americans could have gained possession of the mass of Soviet intelligence secrets that were locked away in the files in his office in Moscow. The middle of the puzzle was incomplete, but the borders were neatly locked into place. He met Nicholson's steady gaze and spoke quietly. 'Lieutenant Marganin is one of your people.' It was more statement than question.
'Yes.' Nicholson nodded. 'His name is Harry Koskoski, and he was born in Newark, New Jersey.'
'Not possible,' Prevlov said. 'I personally checked every phase of Pavel Marganin's life. He was born and raised in Komsomolsk-na-Amure. His family were tailors.'
'True, the real Marganin was a native Russian.'
'Then your man is a double, a plant?'
'We arranged it four years ago when one of your Kashin class missile destroyers exploded and sank in the Indian Ocean. Marganin was one of the few survivors. He was discovered in the water by an Exxon oil tanker, but died shortly before the ship docked in Honolulu. It was a rare opportunity, and we had to work fast. Of all our Russian speaking agents, Koskoski came the closest to Marganin's physical features. We surgically altered his face to make it look as though it had been disfigured in the explosion and then airlifted him to a small, out-of-the-way island two hundred miles from where your ship sank. When our bogus Soviet seaman was finally discovered by native fishermen and returned to Russia, he was delirious and suffering from an acute attack of amnesia.'
'I know the rest,' Prevlov said solemnly. 'We not only repaired his face through plastic surgery to that of the Genuine Marganin, but we re-educated him to his own personal history as well.'
'That's pretty much the story.'
'A brilliant coup, Mr. Nicholson.'
'Coming from one of the most respected men in Soviet intelligence, I consider that a rare compliment indeed.'
'Then this whole scheme to place me on the Titanic was hatched by the CIA and carried through by Marganin.'
'Koskoski, alias Marganin, was certain you would accept the plan, and you did.'
Prevlov gazed at the deck. He might have known, he might have guessed, should have been suspicious from the beginning that Marganin was slowly and intricately positioning his neck on the headman's block. He should never have fallen for it, never, but his vanity had been his downfall, and he accepted it.
'Where does this all lead?' Prevlov asked bleakly.
'By now Marganin has produced solid proof of your-if you'll pardon the expression-traitorous activities and has also proven, aided by planted evidence, that you intended for the Titanic mission to fail from the start. You see, Captain, the trail leading to your defection has been carefully mapped for nearly two years. You yourself helped matters considerably with your fondness for expensive refinements. Your superiors can draw but one conclusion from your actions, you sold out for a very high price.'
