underprivileged children,” Zorin said—and paused as a butler approached him regarding a telephone call in the library.
Interesting, Brenner thought. Zorin didn’t look the least bit surprised about that incoming call . . .
* * *
“Don’t look so disappointed,” Grace Manning quipped as Zorin left the room. “Surely you weren’t intending to squeeze a donation out of the Soviet Union?”
“Don’t be a bitch.” Brenner’s lips curved into a characteristic half-smile—part amusement, part contempt.
“Why shouldn’t I?” she retorted. “You’re such a busy man these days. Lectures. Charity work. Important people to see . I’m beginning to think you only came to my party because Russell wanted to show you off to the Ambassador. Russell tells me you’re absolutely desperate for money these days.”
Brenner shrugged. “A combination of the recession and some injudicious investments. I’ve neglected you lately because I’ve been in Washington a lot. Government grants are becoming as scarce as hen’s teeth.”
“Poor dear,” Grace said, mollified. “Too bad most of Russell’s handouts end up in underdeveloped countries instead of heart institutes on the upper Eastside of Manhattan. With all your money problems, how on earth do you find time for surgery?”
“I have a competent and highly trained staff,” he said in a bored voice. “Can we talk about something else?”
“Let’s talk about your perfectly enchanting wife,” Grace said peevishly. “Since she doesn’t know we’re having an affair, I’m wondering if the woman is just plain rude.”
Kurt Brenner was wondering who else had noticed Adrienne’s absence. What was he supposed to tell people? That his wife refused to socialize with Ambassador Zorin? That lately she avoided socializing with her own husband? It was sheer luck their latest rift hadn’t hit the gossip columns.
“Not rude,” he countered. “Just wrapped up in that job of hers.”
“Adrienne Brenner, journalist. Charming occupation for a woman with her social background,” Grace said with disdain. “You look like you could use another glass of champagne, dear heart,” she teased and reached out to a passing butler. Her hand accidentally caught the man at a bad angle, sending his tray of glasses to the floor with a shattering crash.
“Clumsy fool!” Brenner exclaimed.
“Is this an example of the famous Dr. Kurt Brenner temper?” Grace said, taken aback. “It was my fault, not the butler’s.”
“What if a piece of glass had sliced into my hands?” Brenner snapped.
Before she could respond, a grim-faced Ambassador Zorin returned to the garden, and waving to the men in the black suits, spoke to them.
Grace Manning, ever the alert hostess, deserted Brenner and made a bee-line for the Ambassador.
Zorin turned to her. “I am sorry to spoil your lovely party,” he said, “but I must leave at once. We all must.” He gestured at the dancers being herded back into the house by the men in black.
“How perfectly horrid of you, Mr. Ambassador,” Grace pouted. “But at least Russell and I can look forward to seeing you at the Artificial Heart Symposium next year when—”
“I’m afraid you won’t see anyone from the Soviet Union at your symposium,” Zorin said, his thoughts elsewhere—and instantly regretted not having lowered his voice. A circle of expectant faces stared at him.
A reporter joined the group. “Would you care to make a statement, Mr. Ambassador?” he asked, mildly curious.
Zorin adjusted his glasses while he collected his thoughts. He had been waiting to be notified about the orchestrated collapse of the Four-Power summit. Now that it was a fait accompli andKhrushchev had walked out, there was no reason not to be frank.
“The barbs of Western hostility have pierced my country’s good intentions,” Zorin said gravely. “I have just been informed by Moscow that your country has invaded Soviet airspace. It has been spying on
Interesting, Brenner thought. Zorin didn’t look the least bit surprised about that incoming call . . .
* * *
“Don’t look so disappointed,” Grace Manning quipped as Zorin left the room. “Surely you weren’t intending to squeeze a donation out of the Soviet Union?”
“Don’t be a bitch.” Brenner’s lips curved into a characteristic half-smile—part amusement, part contempt.
“Why shouldn’t I?” she retorted. “You’re such a busy man these days. Lectures. Charity work. Important people to see . I’m beginning to think you only came to my party because Russell wanted to show you off to the Ambassador. Russell tells me you’re absolutely desperate for money these days.”
Brenner shrugged. “A combination of the recession and some injudicious investments. I’ve neglected you lately because I’ve been in Washington a lot. Government grants are becoming as scarce as hen’s teeth.”
“Poor dear,” Grace said, mollified. “Too bad most of Russell’s handouts end up in underdeveloped countries instead of heart institutes on the upper Eastside of Manhattan. With all your money problems, how on earth do you find time for surgery?”
“I have a competent and highly trained staff,” he said in a bored voice. “Can we talk about something else?”
“Let’s talk about your perfectly enchanting wife,” Grace said peevishly. “Since she doesn’t know we’re having an affair, I’m wondering if the woman is just plain rude.”
Kurt Brenner was wondering who else had noticed Adrienne’s absence. What was he supposed to tell people? That his wife refused to socialize with Ambassador Zorin? That lately she avoided socializing with her own husband? It was sheer luck their latest rift hadn’t hit the gossip columns.
“Not rude,” he countered. “Just wrapped up in that job of hers.”
“Adrienne Brenner, journalist. Charming occupation for a woman with her social background,” Grace said with disdain. “You look like you could use another glass of champagne, dear heart,” she teased and reached out to a passing butler. Her hand accidentally caught the man at a bad angle, sending his tray of glasses to the floor with a shattering crash.
“Clumsy fool!” Brenner exclaimed.
“Is this an example of the famous Dr. Kurt Brenner temper?” Grace said, taken aback. “It was my fault, not the butler’s.”
“What if a piece of glass had sliced into my hands?” Brenner snapped.
Before she could respond, a grim-faced Ambassador Zorin returned to the garden, and waving to the men in the black suits, spoke to them.
Grace Manning, ever the alert hostess, deserted Brenner and made a bee-line for the Ambassador.
Zorin turned to her. “I am sorry to spoil your lovely party,” he said, “but I must leave at once. We all must.” He gestured at the dancers being herded back into the house by the men in black.
“How perfectly horrid of you, Mr. Ambassador,” Grace pouted. “But at least Russell and I can look forward to seeing you at the Artificial Heart Symposium next year when—”
“I’m afraid you won’t see anyone from the Soviet Union at your symposium,” Zorin said, his thoughts elsewhere—and instantly regretted not having lowered his voice. A circle of expectant faces stared at him.
A reporter joined the group. “Would you care to make a statement, Mr. Ambassador?” he asked, mildly curious.
Zorin adjusted his glasses while he collected his thoughts. He had been waiting to be notified about the orchestrated collapse of the Four-Power summit. Now that it was a fait accompli andKhrushchev had walked out, there was no reason not to be frank.
“The barbs of Western hostility have pierced my country’s good intentions,” Zorin said gravely. “I have just been informed by Moscow that your country has invaded Soviet airspace. It has been spying on
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