“You want… fuck?” The obscenity was less shocking on her lips than it was pathetic. “Or do other things. Five dollars?”
“No,” Tombstone said.
“I suck you, two dollars.”
He felt pity, and a moment’s stumbling uncertainty. Should he just brush past this pathetic creature? Or offer her a few dollar bills as he would a beggar? Glancing past her shoulder, he saw a crowd of other women waiting in the corridor just outside the stairwell, all thin to the point of gauntness, dressed in clothes intended to be provocative, and wearing what they must imagine was sexy-looking makeup. And they were all watching his encounter with the first woman with predatory gleams in their eyes.
Shit. If he tried handing the woman money for no service, that bunch would descend on him like a wolf pack, targeting him as an easy mark. Better to shake his head no and shove past the woman without another glance.
And, he told himself, it might be best to avoid situations here where he was alone and could be cornered somewhere away from the main drag. Tombstone was under no illusions about his ability to fend off an attack by a half-dozen desperate women.
It was a sobering encounter. He’d known the Russian economy was bad, but no written description could have prepared him for the sight of those pitiful human wrecks accosting men in the hotel’s stairwell. He steeled himself to walk past the women outside without meeting their watching eyes. He wished there was something he could do to help them… something other than actually doing business with them, which he knew would be dangerous on several counts.
But there was nothing he could do, nothing anyone could do.
The Yalta Hotel’s lobby represented an unpleasant compromise between faux-neoclassical grandeur and Stalinist utilitarianism: large, ugly, and shabby. In some ways, it was like an American shopping mall, with hard currency shops and cafes. There were several tennis courts and swimming pools, amenities not normally associated with Russian hotels, and over twelve hundred rooms, most with their own plumbing and most wired for cable TV.
But it also showed the decay touching everything that once had been part of the Soviet system. Furniture was worn, mismatched, and dirty; the chandeliers were missing many of their crystal ornaments; the carpets were faded and showed worn tracks along the routes of heaviest traffic; and the clerks at the big front desk were conspicuously absent, though several guests were obviously waiting ? clamoring, even ? for attention. The place, Tombstone reflected, was probably busier today than it had been for some time, with the entire UN contingent quartered here, as well as, no doubt, the Russian security people assigned to keep track of them.
As Tombstone stepped into the main lobby near the elevators, his attention was immediately caught by a group of people in the sitting area, next to a scraggly collection of potted palms. Joyce ? Commander Flynn ? was standing there in full uniform, bathed in the glare of a pair of hand-held camera lights. A man with a shoulder-held minicam bearing the ACN logo was filming her and another woman, who held a microphone to her face. The second woman’s back was to him, but Tombstone recognized immediately her blond hair and slim figure. With only the slightest hesitation, he started walking toward the brightly lit tableau.
“And what’s it like,” the reporter was asking Tomboy, “being one of a few hundred women living with five thousand men aboard a nuclear-powered aircraft carrier?”
“It’s actually not much different from being stationed on a Navy base ashore,” Tomboy said. “You just can’t go into town when you want to.”
“And what do you think of the Crimea?”
“Well, we really haven’t had much chance to see a lot of it yet. It’s exciting being here, though. Kind of like history in the making.”
Pamela Drake turned from Tomboy and nodded at the cameraman. “That’s a take,” she said. She smiled at Tomboy. “Thank you, Commander. That was great.”
“My pleasure, ma’am.”
“Hello, Pamela,” Tombstone said, walking up behind the reporter. “You’re certainly a long way from home.”
Pamela turned sharply, eyes wide, blond hair swirling past her ears.
“Matt! What are you doing here?”
He shrugged. “Actually, I’m supposed to be here as the Navy’s liaison with the news media. Care to do some serious liaising?”
“I…” She stopped, then glanced at her cameraman. “Let’s take a break, Phil.”
He grinned at her. “Sure thing, Ms. Drake. Whatever you say.”
She looked at him, her expression unreadable. “I hadn’t really expected to find you here, Matt.”
“No?” She didn’t seem particularly pleased to see him. Damn.
“I thought you were on the Jefferson.”
“You knew we were deployed to the Black Sea, didn’t you?”
“Yes. I also knew the battle group was coming to the Crimea. I guess I just, well… I just didn’t expect you to come ashore.”
“You don’t sound that happy to see me.”
“Of course I am.” But the look in her eyes said otherwise. “You just caught me by surprise, is all.” She looked at her watch. “Listen, I’ve got a meeting to attend, but maybe we can get together a little later, huh?”
“Certainly.” Why was she being so cool? Was she still mad at him? It wasn’t like her to hold a grudge. He knew that everything wasn’t right between them, but right now he had the impression she’d have rather he’d not shown up at all. “Dinner, maybe?”
“That would be nice. Meet you here in the lobby? About six?”
“Eighteen hundred hours.”
She made a face at the militarism. “Whatever.”
He was pretty sure that she was still upset about his staying in the Navy. Damn it, why couldn’t she see that he had a career, just as she had? They’d had this argument over and over again during the past three or four years, and it seemed like she could never see his side of things. He never squawked when she went gallivanting all over the world gathering news stories. Why couldn’t she just accept the fact that he had the same kind of dedication and drive, the same kind of responsibility?
Tomboy stepped up next to him as Pamela walked off. “You know her?”
“Pamela Drake? Yeah, I’ve known her for, oh, four years, I guess. Met her when the Jeff was in Thailand.”
Her dark eyes widened. “Oh, that was that Pamela! I never made the connection.”
Tombstone chuckled. “I have trouble with that too. Connecting the woman I see when I get back off a deployment with the face on the evening news. Yes, that’s Pamela.” He’d told Joyce about the love of his life, back when they’d been flying together. Aviators and RIOS often shared more or less intimate details during long flights ? or during the longer watches in the ready room.
“An ACN anchor, yet,” she said. “I’m impressed.”
“Nothing to be impressed about. She’s got a job. Just like the rest of us.”
Tomboy glanced in the direction in which Pamela had gone. “Well, flyboy, it looks to me like you’ve been stood up.” She jerked her head toward the lobby entrance. “Want me to show you the town?”
Tombstone considered the offer, then grinned. “Why not?” He offered her his arm. “Let’s see the sights.”
As they started out the front door of the hotel, however, a lanky, swarthy-skinned man with black curly hair and a closely trimmed mustache almost collided with them. “You like guide? See city?”
Tombstone looked the man over. He might just be an eager entrepreneur, but there was something about him, a sharpness of character, a focus behind those liquid brown eyes, that suggested he was also a watchdog.
Possibly he was only on someone’s payroll, Tombstone thought. More likely, he was working for either the FBS or for military intelligence ? the GRU. In any case, both he and Tomboy were wearing their dress Navy uniforms, making them somewhat conspicuous. Tombstone decided he would actually feel safer wandering the town with someone who belonged here. “How much?”
