with
my histrionics? Is that black car downstairs for you by any chance?”
“Yes.”
“So sorry. Well, I think I’ve said it all anyway. Excuse
me.” She whirled and, now just sobbing, walked out of the room.
Taras checked the futile impulse to go after her, finished
packing instead; latched and locked the single hard-sided suitcase, zippered
his carry-on. Dismissed the idea of picking out a paperback; he felt too much
like a zombie to read anything.
He hefted the bags down the hall. Charlotte was in the
living room, her back turned, standing in a stiff way in front of her mounted
collection of miniature Chinese theatrical masks, a Kleenex Boutique box
dangling from one hand. Then he noticed the slight movement of her elaborate
coiffure and in the Elizabethan puffed sleeves of the riotously printed silk
top. She was trembling. He set down the luggage, came up behind her.
Tentatively, as though she were breakable, he touched her.
She turned instantly into his arms, dropping the tissue box
and clutching him like a child. He held her close, muffling the convulsive
noises against his shoulder, stroking her shuddering back through the silk. The
tangle of dark curly hair was pungent against his nostrils, her fingers like
talons in his biceps, her tears wetting his collar. Then, with the urgent,
anguished cry of a small animal, she launched her face at him in a salty kiss
surprising in its ferocity, endearing in its vulnerability. Taras told himself
to treasure it, knew it might be their last—and that on pain of death he dare
not be the one to break it.
Finally she ended it, pushing him off with her palms, yet
only a little way, to forearm distance. She stared at him from wet,
mascara-bruised eyes, so close she seemed to look first into one of his pupils,
then the other, searching for some faint sign that she might have won after
all, and that he had capitulated. When she did not find it, hopelessness
claimed her again, and she turned away, trying ineffectually to staunch her
welling tears.
Arensky moved woodenly back into the hall, picked up his
bags.
“Good-bye, Charlie.”
Her tremulous voice followed him to the door. “Be careful,
Tarushka.”
Outside on the dark, deserted street the Secret Service
driver came quickly around to take his bags and stow them in the trunk of the
sedan, then opened the back door. Taras hesitated a moment before getting in,
glancing up a last time to the lighted windows of their living room. She was
not there.
*
When the President’s Chief of Staff, Buck Jones, had said an
Air Force jet would be waiting at Andrews, Arensky had visualized something on
the order of a C-5 or C-141 military transport, and a space-available jumpseat
sandwiched among pallets of tank parts. He figured he’d be offloaded at
Wiesbaden or, more conveniently, at Frankfurt Rhein-Main onto a commercial
flight to Moscow.
But a dramatically more impressive set of wings had been
arranged for him by the White House Military Office. He was taken to the 89th
Military Airlift Wing at Andrews, home of the Special Air Missions unit and the
presidential air fleet. Here he was met by Mike Usher, a freckle-faced,
linebacker-sized Secret Service agent from the Washington District, and an
amiable, cigar-smoking Air Force officer, Lieutenant Colonel Clyde “Cat”
Brunton, who was introduced as chief of security for Air Force One.
“But I don’t understand,” Arensky said.
Brunton chuckled. “You don’t have to understand. Just lie
back and enjoy it.”
Arensky turned to Usher, who nodded and launched into
further explanations. Arensky tried to pay close attention, but found himself
distracted by the splendid blue, silver and white fuselage shining under the
perimeter lights outside the window.
The suspicion of unreality engendered by the midnight Oval
Office chat, then temporarily purged by the painful scene with Charlotte, came
back stronger than ever. Surely this was part of some elaborate joke, and Usher
and
my histrionics? Is that black car downstairs for you by any chance?”
“Yes.”
“So sorry. Well, I think I’ve said it all anyway. Excuse
me.” She whirled and, now just sobbing, walked out of the room.
Taras checked the futile impulse to go after her, finished
packing instead; latched and locked the single hard-sided suitcase, zippered
his carry-on. Dismissed the idea of picking out a paperback; he felt too much
like a zombie to read anything.
He hefted the bags down the hall. Charlotte was in the
living room, her back turned, standing in a stiff way in front of her mounted
collection of miniature Chinese theatrical masks, a Kleenex Boutique box
dangling from one hand. Then he noticed the slight movement of her elaborate
coiffure and in the Elizabethan puffed sleeves of the riotously printed silk
top. She was trembling. He set down the luggage, came up behind her.
Tentatively, as though she were breakable, he touched her.
She turned instantly into his arms, dropping the tissue box
and clutching him like a child. He held her close, muffling the convulsive
noises against his shoulder, stroking her shuddering back through the silk. The
tangle of dark curly hair was pungent against his nostrils, her fingers like
talons in his biceps, her tears wetting his collar. Then, with the urgent,
anguished cry of a small animal, she launched her face at him in a salty kiss
surprising in its ferocity, endearing in its vulnerability. Taras told himself
to treasure it, knew it might be their last—and that on pain of death he dare
not be the one to break it.
Finally she ended it, pushing him off with her palms, yet
only a little way, to forearm distance. She stared at him from wet,
mascara-bruised eyes, so close she seemed to look first into one of his pupils,
then the other, searching for some faint sign that she might have won after
all, and that he had capitulated. When she did not find it, hopelessness
claimed her again, and she turned away, trying ineffectually to staunch her
welling tears.
Arensky moved woodenly back into the hall, picked up his
bags.
“Good-bye, Charlie.”
Her tremulous voice followed him to the door. “Be careful,
Tarushka.”
Outside on the dark, deserted street the Secret Service
driver came quickly around to take his bags and stow them in the trunk of the
sedan, then opened the back door. Taras hesitated a moment before getting in,
glancing up a last time to the lighted windows of their living room. She was
not there.
*
When the President’s Chief of Staff, Buck Jones, had said an
Air Force jet would be waiting at Andrews, Arensky had visualized something on
the order of a C-5 or C-141 military transport, and a space-available jumpseat
sandwiched among pallets of tank parts. He figured he’d be offloaded at
Wiesbaden or, more conveniently, at Frankfurt Rhein-Main onto a commercial
flight to Moscow.
But a dramatically more impressive set of wings had been
arranged for him by the White House Military Office. He was taken to the 89th
Military Airlift Wing at Andrews, home of the Special Air Missions unit and the
presidential air fleet. Here he was met by Mike Usher, a freckle-faced,
linebacker-sized Secret Service agent from the Washington District, and an
amiable, cigar-smoking Air Force officer, Lieutenant Colonel Clyde “Cat”
Brunton, who was introduced as chief of security for Air Force One.
“But I don’t understand,” Arensky said.
Brunton chuckled. “You don’t have to understand. Just lie
back and enjoy it.”
Arensky turned to Usher, who nodded and launched into
further explanations. Arensky tried to pay close attention, but found himself
distracted by the splendid blue, silver and white fuselage shining under the
perimeter lights outside the window.
The suspicion of unreality engendered by the midnight Oval
Office chat, then temporarily purged by the painful scene with Charlotte, came
back stronger than ever. Surely this was part of some elaborate joke, and Usher
and
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