Authors: Lindsay McKenna
“Brother, are you in for a treat,” Abby teased warmly.
Alec could see dark shadows beginning to form beneath Abby’s glorious blue eyes. He gently cupped her elbow. “I think, Doctor, that you are getting very tired. Let me take you to your quarters. Tomorrow will be a busy day, I’m sure.”
His touch was light but firm. Abby was surprised that he could tell she was getting tired. The trauma from nearly drowning this morning had caught up with her. She told Captain Denisov goodbye, then followed Alec off the bridge and onto one of the lower decks of the destroyer.
“Are you always a mind reader?” she asked as they walked single file down a narrow passageway deep in the heart of the rolling ship.
“I think,” Alec told her seriously, stopping at a hatchway and opening it for her, “that any good officer tries to stay in touch with his crew’s moods and needs. It is his duty.” He gazed down at her in the shadowy light, her red hair curlier now since it had dried. He had a wild, unexpected urge to thrust his fingers through that mass and explore its silken texture. “I merely applied my powers of observation.”
Abby stepped across the hatch and into her very small quarters. Two of the officers had given over to her their cramped living area, which consisted of two thin bunks, one above the other. “I think, Captain Rostov, that there’s much more to you than what you show the rest of the world.”
His lips lifted slightly. “You have the same perceptiveness as I do, Abby.”
“Does it bother you?”
He shrugged his broad shoulders. “If you were another officer on board the ship, it might. But you’re a woman and an American, so I have little to fear about what you might see in me.”
Abby stood there for a long moment, digesting the seriousness of his comment to her, his sable-colored eyes smoldering with an intensity that made her deliciously aware that she was a woman. “We’ll have to talk more,” she whispered. “Good night, Alec. And again, thanks for everything.” Impulsively, she threw her arms around his neck and gave him a quick hug. Releasing him, she stepped back and smiled shyly. “That was my western upbringing coming out.”
His body tingled where she had lightly pressed herself against him. Shocked by her impulsiveness, Alec nodded and came to attention. “It was my pleasure, Abby,” he said with a slight bow. “I think I’m beginning to like your western customs more and more.”
Chapter Three
“W
HAT DO YOU
think of all this excitement and press interest that’s building, Rostov?” Dr. Ryback asked Alec at mess the next morning. Two stewards, dressed in white jackets and slacks, served the ten officers in the small rectangular room.
Alec was careful with his words. “I feel it’s a useful opportunity for us to expand awareness of
glasnost
to the world, Doctor.” Every ship had its KGB agents, the eyes and ears of the clandestine spy organization. Alec had no desire to be quoted saying the wrong thing.
Denisov chuckled, hungrily digging into a mound of powdered scrambled eggs and fried potatoes. “You must have very good connections in Moscow, Rostov. I envy you the chance to see what America is really like.”
“We’ll soon find out if they are gangsters and cowboys,” Alec agreed. The perception of Americans was just that and little more. He wasn’t about to admit the intensity of his curiosity about going ashore with Abby and learning about her way of life. Over the years, in order to maintain his facility with English, he read any book on America whenever possible. Alec had done some checking last night on the bridge when it was his turn for watch. The messages from Moscow had been signed by Misha Surin, his friend at the Kremlin, and countersigned by the admiral of the Soviet pacific fleet. Obviously, the hierarchy in Moscow thought his rescue of Abby was something to be paraded in front of the world press.
Chuckling, Denisov waved his fork in Alec’s direction. “Make us all proud, Rostov. Who knows? If you do well with the American press, we may all receive a
glasnost
medal for helping continue to warm the relations between our two countries. Not a bad reward, eh?”
One of the stewards opened the hatch entrance from the passageway and Abby Fielding entered. Immediately, all ten officers leapt to their feet. Alec suppressed a smile as Abby stood there, shock written across her still-sleepy features. Today she had taken her thick hair and braided it in a decidedly feminine style down the back of her head. The wispy bangs barely grazed her eyebrows, and playful tendrils touched her temples. She looked excruciatingly beautiful in his eyes in a simple wardrobe of jeans and a long-sleeved white blouse. A dark blue sweater was hung across her back and shoulders, the arms crossed in a casual fashion across her breasts. The image was fetching. Refreshing.
“Good morning,” Alec said in greeting, leaving his chair and going over to her. “You are the guest of honor. I’ll seat you next to Captain Denisov.”
Flushing over such formality, Abby smiled and nodded. If the truth be known, she’d much rather have sat beside Alec, but she realized it would not have been prudent. “Good morning,” she murmured huskily to all the serious-faced officers. Denisov looked delighted by her presence. When Alec offered her the seat and she sat down, the other naval officers returned to their chairs.
“You are like a rare spring rose aboard our humble naval vessel,” Denisov told her in thick, heavy English. He waved the steward over and ordered him to serve her coffee and then had her plate heaped with eggs, potatoes and two portions of sausage.
“Thank you, Captain Denisov.” Abby picked up the white ceramic mug filled with steaming hot coffee, needing the caffeine badly. Learning that she had to taste all Soviet food carefully, Abby took a small sip of the strong liquid. As much as she wanted to wrinkle her nose, Abby suppressed the desire. Denisov was watching her every move, wanting to be assured that his efforts pleased her. She forced a smile. “Your coffee is like the stuff I drink on the
Argonaut
—strong and rich.” The “rich” was a white lie, but Denisov’s face grew flushed with pleasure.
“Excellent! At least we share one thing in common, eh? Both American and Soviet coffee is good! We purposely make our coffee strong to keep us hearty.”
Abby knew she wasn’t a diplomat and gracefully refrained from saying anything more, pretending instead to eat. The eggs, of course, were out of the question. The potatoes had been fried and lay in grease, like shining silver dollars on the white ceramic plate edged with red trim. The sausages stared at her, and she couldn’t bear looking at them one moment longer. Discreetly, Abby played with the potatoes with her fork.
“Why not get Dr. Fielding some bread?” Alec suggested to one of the two young stewards.
Abby flashed Alec a grateful look she hoped he would interpret as a silent thank-you. She found his sable eyes twinkling knowingly, and she suddenly realized how much she missed Alec’s teasing and lighthearted banter in comparison to the rest of the solemn sailors and officer on board the
Udaloy.
From them there was never a smile, a joke or a laugh, just unrelenting formality. Alec was different, Abby had decided this morning as she was being escorted to mess by the chief from the dispensary.
“You know,” Denisov said, “at sea we sometimes don’t get news from home as often as we’d like. Tell me, what is happening in your country right now? What is newsworthy?”
Abby blotted her lips with the white linen napkin and searched her memory. “Well, I’ve been out to sea for a week, Captain, so what I remember will probably be old news.”
He shrugged dramatically. “We rarely get news from America at all, so perhaps you will indulge us with this ‘old’ news?”
She smiled. “Sure. Our Supreme Court just approved a hiring preference for women and minorities.”
“Why is that important?”
“Because women in America are considered second-class citizens, Captain. We’re fighting for equality in all phases of our life. And that means that employers can no longer discriminate and hire a man for a job that a woman can do as well.”
“Interesting,” Denisov murmured. “You know, in the Soviet Union, our women are just as strong and work right alongside our men.”
Abby smiled. “No, I didn’t know.”
“So what is this I hear about you not only having an actor for a president, but now a mayor, as well?”
Deciding that Denisov was rather well-informed whether he was at sea or not, Abby grinned. “Clint Eastwood, an actor from Hollywood, was just voted in as mayor of Carmel-by-the-Sea.”
“Is your country run only by actors?”
“Sometimes,” Abby said seriously, “I think so. But, that’s a personal opinion. President Reagan is very popular with a lot of people.”
“Yet, you don’t care for him?”
“I don’t care for some of his politics,” Abby stressed. “In our country, we’re allowed to dissent and voice our own opinion, whether it’s popular or not.”
Denisov’s bushy gray brows rose, but he said nothing. “Your brush with the Japanese whaler is only the tip of the iceberg, it seems.”
“Oh?”
“Hasn’t your president just blocked three-million-dollars worth of Japanese merchandise from coming into your country in retaliation for Japan not honoring a trade agreement regarding semiconductors?”
Abby gave the captain a blank look, rummaged through her memory and then said, “Yes, he did just impose that embargo.”
“What of sports?”
“I don’t know very much about sports, Captain.”
“Boxing? Is there anything going on? It is my favorite sport.”
“I think I recall Sugar Ray Leonard beating Marvin Hagler for the middleweight championship of the world.”
Grinning, Denisov said, “Good! Sports are the lifeblood of men.”
Silently, Abby agreed. She hated football and any other sport. To her, it was a waste of time to be glued to the television set for an entire weekend, watching one sporting event after another. “You and every man in America agree upon that,” she muttered.
“What other bits of news do you recall?”
Abby sighed inwardly. Were the next four days at breakfast going to consist of Denisov questioning her at length? She wondered if she should be speaking about anything at all, but then decided that she knew so little of matters related to national security that it wouldn’t hurt to entertain the cagey captain.
“Let’s see…one of our huge oil companies, Texaco, just filed for bankruptcy. That’s been a real shock to the nation. My friend Susan is a stock broker, and she says it’s going to send a scare through the financial district of Wall Street.”
With a nod, Denisov pushed aside his plate. Immediately, one of the stewards came and picked it up. “I heard that one of your air force Centaur rockets blew up less than a minute after takeoff from Cape Canaveral.” He studied her intently. “A year ago, you lost the
Challenger
in that unfortunate mishap. I understand your country is having a hard time placing satellites into orbit without the space shuttle. This Centaur was supposed to have been struck by lightning, veered off course and had to be destroyed. Is this true?”
Squirming, Abby shrugged. “Got me on that one, Captain. Things like sports, military or entertainment items don’t interest me. I sort of ignore them in favor of politics, which is an area that interests me greatly. Sorry, I don’t know anything about the rocket exploding.” She was lying, of course, but didn’t care. Looking down at Alec, she saw him frowning.
Abby tried to relax and adjust to the situation. Denisov was going to pump her, and she was simply going to evade and play dumb when she felt it necessary. In one way, Abby wanted the next four days to pass quickly. But on a personal level, she wanted them to stretch out and slow down. She suddenly wanted the time to know one Alec Rostov better.
* * *
O
N THE FIFTH MORNING ABOARD
the
Udaloy,
Abby spent breakfast with the officers, as usual. Denisov was in a good mood, smiling often and laughing easily. In the past week Abby found ways to manipulate the conversations with the curious captain. She talked about several books she’d brought aboard the
Argonaut
to read at night when their whale-watch duties were done.
Denisov found
Destiny
by Sally Beauman interesting, although he wasn’t much of a reader of women’s fiction. The entire table became animated and engrossed when she discussed
Texasville
by Larry McMurty, because it was about the Old West, and she discovered the Soviets’ keen curiosity with anything having to do with that time in her nation’s history. Abby decided not to discuss
State Scarlet
by David Aaron with them because it was a political hot potato sprinkled liberally with intrigue and national-defense information.
Another morning, Abby talked about the Broadway plays in New York City, and a lively discussion ensued as to whether the Bolshoi could compare. Having just seen
Blythe Spirit
by No;auel Coward, Abby shared the plot of the play with them. She discovered the Soviets had a deep and loyal tie to the arts, and breakfast soon became a place to share such information. When she told them she’d seen the ballet
Sleeping Beauty
at New York’s Metropolitan Opera House, they excitedly told her about the Bolshoi.
Perhaps the most political she got was in telling them about
The Jaguar Smiles
by Salman Rushdie, a book that was written about the Sandinista government in Nicaragua. When it got too political, Abby gracefully evaded the topic and deftly turned the conversation to Vincent Van Gogh’s painting
Sunflowers,
which sold recently for 39.9 million dollars. The officers at the table simply couldn’t comprehend such money being spent on one painting, despite their love of the arts.
Denisov smiled. “While you slept this morning, Tony Cummings landed on our helo pad and took the film and official report of your rescue, and then left,” Denisov told her. “He said to tell you hello and to give you this.” He produced a thick manila envelope. “It is your information for the forthcoming press conference in Anchorage. I would hope that you would share its contents with Captain Rostov in order to help him prepare for the reporters’ questions.”