Glen Allen - The shadow war

"A friend of Natalya's?" he asked.

Benjamin didn't know what to say. "No, not exactly. I just… she invited me, and I wanted to thank her."

The man smiled. "Look for a beautiful blonde in a red dress," he said, and smiled. "You cannot miss her."

With that advice, Benjamin began circulating. Everywhere he looked, he saw women in elegant evening dresses and men in tuxedos, some of the men with colorful sashes draped across their chests, and one or two of those with some sort of medals. But nowhere did he see a "beautiful blonde in a red dress." He decided to try the dining room.

He walked across the foyer to the dining room, glanced around at people standing about between the tables. He saw that an area at the front of the room had been cleared as a sort of stage. Natalya had told him the reception was for the Bolshoi Ballet, and that after the dinner there would be a brief performance by members of the company. And he'd noticed in the reception hall there had been large photographs of various Bolshoi productions: Swan Lake, of course, and others, as no great fan of ballet, he couldn't name. He'd recognized a couple of the ballerinas from the photographs among the guests: very thin, very beautiful women who were the centers of little circles of attention, surrounded by men smiling and nodding and offering to get them more champagne.

At the end of the dining room, serving as a backdrop to the stage area, was an enormous mural painted on polished wood. He walked to the end of the room so he could see the mural more closely.

It was painted in the style of a medieval icon, with much gold trim and flattened perspectives and many bright colors, and divided into panels separated from one another by decorative arches. Within each panel was a representation of what appeared to be cities, their names painted in gold Cyrillic letters. A panel at the center contained the largest city, Moc? B a. At least Benjamin could recognize that one: Moscow.

"Beautiful, isn't it," said a voice next to him.

He turned. Standing on his left was a woman in a strapless, floor-length, red satin evening gown and wearing a glittering gold necklace that emphasized her pale skin. She had very bright blond hair, done up in a French twist. Benjamin saw that her eyes were a curious blue-green mixture; eyes that seemed to shine with a light of their own. Her high cheekbones and small nose made Benjamin think she was Scandinavian, but he'd detected the trace of a Russian accent in her comment. She was, indeed, very beautiful.

"Ms. Orlova?" he said.

"Mr. Wainwright?" she said by way of an answer.

She was smiling at Benjamin, but with a slightly disappointed look. It took him a moment to realize her hand was extended. He shifted his champagne glass to his other hand, took her hand in his, which she shook only briefly.

"How…," he began. His throat felt tight. "How did you know it was me?"

Natalya laughed. "For one thing, you were not talking to anyone. People mostly come to such affairs to talk to someone more important than they are. And for another thing, you do not seem quite," she surveyed his ill-fitting tuxedo, "comfortable here."

"You were expecting someone," he shrugged, "taller?"

She smiled. "Someone older," she said.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't even own a tuxedo. I had to borrow this one." He smiled. "And as far as I'm concerned, I'm talking to the most important person here right now."

Natalya tilted her head, her smile faded a little. "Mr. Wainwright," she said. "I thought you were a serious academician, not a fawning diplomat."

Her displeasure made Benjamin very uncomfortable. He turned and looked at the mural. "It is, indeed," he said. "Beautiful, that is."

Natalya turned and looked at the mural. "It represents what is called the Golden Ring. The most important cities around Moscow." She pointed to several of the panels as she translated the names of the cities. "There's Novgorod, Suzdal, Vladimir, Pskov…" She stopped and turned back to him. "But then, you are not really here for the Russian culture, are you."

Her comment reminded Benjamin of why he was there. He patted the breast of his jacket.

"I brought a CD, Ms. Orlova, of the program I mentioned. Dr. Jeremy Fletcher's program. Perhaps there's somewhere I could show you-" He started to take out the CD.

Natalya reached out and stopped his hand, touching it lightly. "Not now," she said. "I am 'on duty,' at least until the dinner is finished. Afterward there will be a performance, by the ballet. Perhaps that would be the best time to talk further. Until then, I found a place at table number twelve for you. With some diplomats, so be prepared for some very… charming conversation. But enjoy the dinner. We will talk later."

Benjamin nodded, and she smiled and then, seeing someone across the room, said, "Pakah" and walked away.

For a moment Benjamin didn't move, simply staring at Natalya's pale bare back framed by the folds of her red evening gown. Then he realized he was gawking, took a long drink of his champagne, and went looking for his table.

The tables were numbered from the front to the rear of the room, so he assumed his table was somewhere near the back, for which Benjamin was grateful: he didn't relish the thought of trying to make intelligent conversation with the A-list diplomats and luminaries seated at the prime tables near the stage area.

As he found his table and sat down-he'd been right, it was practically at the entrance to the dining room-a Middle Eastern-looking gentleman with a thick mustache seated next to him rose and extended his hand. Benjamin noticed that he wore a very well-tailored tuxedo, which only made him more self-conscious.

"How do you do," he said. "My name is Nabil Hassan."

"Benjamin Wainwright," he said. They shook hands.

"Sorirart biro'aitak," said Nabil. He saw that Benjamin didn't understand him. "Nice to meet you. Please," and he indicated that Benjamin should sit down.

Benjamin saw that there were already small bowls of caviar, black and red, on the table, along with plates that held semihard bread and soft butter, and others with chopped eggs, onions, chives, and black olives.

Benjamin saw Nabil take a piece of bread, spread butter on it, then use a tiny spoon to scoop a little caviar on it. He followed suit.

Nabil took a bite of the bread and caviar. "Delicious," he said. "The best caviar will always come from Russia."

Benjamin didn't really care for caviar, but he took a bite anyway. And he had to admit, this was certainly better than any he'd had before. As he reached for another serving, Nabil went on.

"Excuse me if I seem abrupt," Nabil said, "but you don't seem like the usual guest for such an affair."

"You're right," Benjamin said, still chewing his caviar. "I'm not."

Waiters began serving the borsch. Benjamin was surprised to see, in addition to the beets, beef, potatoes, carrots…

"Ah," said Nabil. " Real borscht." He said the word with a pronounced T at the end. "The only Russian soup I prefer to borscht-when it's authentic, that is, like this-is something called solyanka. Have you ever tried it?"

"No," Benjamin said. "I'm not really that familiar with Russian cuisine."

"Well, the best Russian cuisine, that of the Caucasus region, is in some ways similar to my own country's. Spicy, and with delicious sauces. Thank god this isn't an event celebrating the food of the Tartars. Then we'd be trying to smile while we ate kazy, a sausage made of horse meat."

"Yes, thank goodness," said Benjamin. "Mr. Hassan, you said similar to your own country's?"

"I'm Egyptian," Nabil said. "I'm a cultural attache with our legion here. Since… oh, well, several years now. And you, Mr. Wainwright? To what delegation do you belong?"