Kremlin Storm by Ian Kharitonov

Author:Ian Kharitonov [Kharitonov, Ian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-03-22T04:00:00+00:00

20

Dinner was served in the Musikzimmer—an 85-square-meter, pistachio-colored ballroom lit by a pair of crystal chandeliers. The wall facing the tall windows was dominated by a pastoral Rococo painting. Across the polished hardwood floor, banquet tables had been arranged in a U-shaped formation to seat the gathering guests.

Asiyah was sat next to a U.S. Senator whose family had played a significant role in American politics spanning over one hundred years and four generations. He complimented her cocktail dress, a Saint Laurent of black silk with a metallic polka dot design and a swooping neckline. Her tiny shoulder bag of black leather matched it perfectly.

Asiyah scanned the Musikzimmer. She picked out Count de Grenier and Harry Richardson, as well as a few other familiar faces, but Dmitry Ivanov was nowhere to be seen.

Over hors d’oeuvres, the room became filled with the sounds of clinking cutlery and soft conversation.

“I was sad to hear about your father’s death,” Senator Fairchild said, digging into a duck foie terrine.

“Thank you. It’s a difficult time for myself and my country.”

“What’s going on in Kazakhstan? Are the Russians marching in?”

“The government is in turmoil. There is a chance of a pro-Russian candidate winning the elections. But whatever plans the Kremlin had regarding Kazakhstan have been put on the back-burner against Russia’s bigger problems.”

“Yeah, Frolov is one unpredictable bastard. What do you think about tomorrow’s report? There’s so much buzz around it.”

“Let’s wait and see,” Asiyah said. “But I’m not getting my hopes up.”

Finally, she spotted her target. Nobel Prize winner Dmitry L. Ivanov had quietly taken his designated seat next to Richardson. They were exchanging a few words and some laughs as he apologized for his late arrival.

Dr. Ivanov sported a three-piece suit and a goatee as white as his curly hair. He was going strong both physically and mentally despite his age. He still taught at Stanford, where Asiyah had taken his class. His eyes were as lucid as ever, despite the scars his mind and body had endured at the hands of Andropov’s KGB. Today, he remained an outspoken critic of Andropov’s successor, President Saveliy Frolov.

The main course followed. Asiyah had opted for Dover sole with Gilardeau oyster and black truffle. Senator Fairchild was working on a veal sirloin. An incident broke out from their cultural difference. In accordance with European utensil etiquette, Asiyah held the fork in her left hand as she ate, while Fairchild switched the knife and fork back and forth into his right hand, American style. Inevitably, Asiyah’s elbow bumped into the Senator’s arm, perhaps with a little too much force, and the steak knife tumbled to the floor. She gasped, terribly sorry, and he grinned sheepishly, the fault all his. A waiter quickly fetched a replacement to end the awkward moment.

She continued watching Ivanov. As the dinner drew to a close, the Russian rose from the table exited the Musikzimmer into the garden. Asiyah excused herself and followed Ivanov outside. The evening air felt cool and fresh before sunset. The

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