Turbulence (Stone Barrington #46)(66)

52



THE GONG MEN ENTERED, made their noise, and the crowd filtered into the family dining room, which was paneled in walnut, probably cut from the estate’s ancient trees. A roaring fireplace was at each end. The staff, Stone noted, had trotted out the gold cutlery from the State Dining Room.

The duke and duchess had been seated to the right of President Petrov and whoever the young woman was next to him, and Stone and Kelly were placed downwind of them. The duke reached into a waistcoat pocket, palmed something and passed it to Kelly, who appeared to adjust an earring on her upwind lobe.

“That was slick,” Stone said, “for a duke.”

“The better to hear our guest of honor,” Kelly replied.

“Keep me posted,” Stone said.

“Right now, the discussion is between the prez and his paramour about what he’s going to do to her after dinner.”

“Does it require tools?” Stone asked.

“I would be embarrassed to tell you,” Kelly replied. “Oh, I can hear the sounds of him slipping a hand beneath the table. Give her a moment, and she’ll fake an orgasm.” A moment passed. “There,” she said, “all done.” The president’s hand returned to the tabletop.

The young woman took a compact from her purse and double-checked her makeup.

“Is that the sort of action women like at formal events?” Stone asked.

“Women of her ilk know enough to like what they’re expected to like, whether in bed or under the table, and I don’t mean that disparagingly. I respect the skills required to attain her position, and even more, those required to retain it.”

“I continue to learn something every day,” Stone said. He glanced down the table to see Petrov, his whim satisfied, in deep conversation. “What is the prez saying to the F.M.?”

“They’ve slipped into dialect,” Kelly said. “I don’t even know which one. They didn’t cover that at Monterey—at least, not in my course.” She pressed a finger to her temple. “Oh, my God!” she said.

“Oh, your God, what?”

“I heard the word ‘chapraa.’”

“What does that mean?”

“Shell, as in artillery shell.”

“Who said it?”

“The F.M., as if he were reporting something. Petrov sounded pleased.”

“How did you understand that in dialect.”

“It was in Moscow Russian. Now and then I catch something in Russian. The prez just said, ‘ballroom.’”

“The shell is in the ballroom?”“

“No, they seem to have changed the subject. It was like, ‘Wow, have you seen the fucking ballroom?’”

“So, now the prez is a tourist?”

“I believe he’s comparing the house favorably to the Hermitage. Oh, now he’s in Russian. Says he would have liked to be a tsar. The F.M. laughed and said, ‘You already are.’”

“Fascinating,” Stone replied.

“Shh! They’re talking about Kim Jong-un!” Kelly listened intently for more than a minute. “The prez wants to know why Kim wants the ‘package.’ F.M. says his people need the guidance and detonation systems to make theirs smaller. It’s all they lack for readiness.”

An aide interrupted the president and whispered in his ear.

“Did you get that?” Stone asked.

“No, he was whispering.”

The prez said something to the F.M.

“They say they’re ready to send the helicopter when the ship sends the coded request.” She continued to listen. She took a sip of her wine and set the glass down. “The code word is ‘saber.’”

The conversation was interrupted by the serving of dinner.

“They’re still talking,” Kelly said, “but they’re eating, too. That and the dialect defeat me. Wait, they’re talking about saunas.”

“Saunas?”

“Like hot baths. The prez is fond of them. He likes them with women, with sweat.”

“Sweaty women?”

“That’s what he said. He also used the word, ‘slippery.’ That got a guffaw from the F.M.”

“Anything else about Kim?”

“No, they’re on women, now. You don’t need to know.”

“Keep listening,” Stone said, “even for fragments.”

“I’m trying,” Kelly said.





53



STONE WAS WAITING IMPATIENTLY for more translation from Kelly when his jacket pocket vibrated. His first thought was to reach for his cell phone, then he remembered that it wouldn’t work on the estate. Then he remembered Lance’s satphone. He took the instrument from his pocket, concealed it in his napkin and tried to appear to be mopping his brow. “What?” he said through clenched teeth.

“Listen to me,” Lance said, “don’t talk.”

“I’m listening,” Stone said.

“No, you’re talking. Can you hear me clearly?”

“Speak.”

“We’ve done a sweep of the grounds from the air with temperature-sensing radar, and the place is lousy with responses. That means there are Russians all over the place. You’re not going to be able to get to the airfield, let alone the hangars, without being stopped or shot or both.”