He was reaching for his small white cup when he noticed the woman, striding directly toward his table, smiling, catching his eye. The way she was swinging her brown leather purse, the jaunty thrust of hips beneath the suede skirt, the carefully groomed auburn hair—all marked her as American. Rich American. Probably headed into American Express to cash a thousand or so in traveler's checks. America . . .
He lounged back in his chair with a rakish air. He was, he knew, an attractive man. He had deep blue eyes, sandy hair, a practiced smile, a trim figure far younger than his fifty-six years. He'd divorced his wife Natasha three years ago, after she discovered his lunchtime liaisons with one of the girls in the State Committee typing pool. He had experience handling women.
Three weeks in Athens, he thought, and maybe my luck is about to change. If you can get her, the nightmare could be over for a while. You can't go back to the hotel now; they may be watching. But if she's got a room somewhere? What better way to hide out till the transfer is complete?
He was still trying to make his ragged mind function. Now was the time for a "pick-up" routine. The lonely traveler . . . Kak grussno mnye, tak zhalostno mnye . . . no, damn, not the sentimental Russian, think American.
But where? He'd heard of New York, San Francisco, Miami, even Chicago. But what if she was from one of those places?
All the careful preparation and he still didn't dare put himself to the test. So what would he say? Canada? Australia?
Her eyes held his, interest growing as she continued to approach. They were darkened with kohl, sensual, inviting. And she was still smiling, even as she placed her hand on the chair across from him.
Was this how the women . . .? America was the Promised Land.
"Etot stolnik osvobodetsya, Viktor Fedorovich?"
It took a second for the language to register. She was speaking Russian, calmly inquiring if the table was free, but his mind was rejecting it, refusing to accept the implications.