“I see,” Gryzlov said. He turned directly to her. “So the rumors I have heard about a long-running sexual affair with my father are untrue?” Titeneva said nothing. Gryzlov stepped to her and kissed her lips. “My father was a lucky man. Maybe I can be as lucky.”
“I am almost old enough to be your mother, Mr. President,” she said, but Gryzlov leaned forward to kiss her again, and she did not back away. Gryzlov smiled at her, let his eyes roam up and down her body, then returned to his desk and took a cigar from a desk drawer. “You invited me to your private office to kiss me, Mr. President?”
“I cannot think of a better reason, Daria,” he said, after lighting his cigar and blowing a large cloud of fragrant smoke to the ceiling. “Why not come visit more often?”
“My husband, for one.”
“Your husband, Yuri, is a good man and an honored veteran, and I am sure what he does when you are away from Moscow is of no concern to you, as long as he does not jeopardize your position in the government,” Gryzlov said. Titeneva said nothing. Without turning to her, he motioned to a chair in front of his desk with his cigar, and she took it. “You are receiving the reports of the American spaceplane flights?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Titeneva said. “The flights to the military space station have increased in number slightly, from three a month to four.”
“That is a thirty percent increase, Miss Foreign Minister—I would say that is significant, not slight,” Gryzlov said. “Their cargo?”
“Intelligence reports suggest that some major improvements to the station, possibly to the laser-beam control and power-distribution systems,” Titeneva said. “Optical sensors can see very little change to the outside of the station.”
“You personally and officially inquire about the contents of those spaceplanes, yes?”
“Of course, Mr. President, as soon as I am notified that a launch is imminent,” Titeneva replied. “The Americans’ usual replies are ‘personnel,’ ‘supplies,’ and ‘classified.’ They never give any details.”
“And unofficially?”
“Security is still very tight, sir,” she said. “The spaceplane flights and most operations aboard Armstrong Space Station are done by civilian contractors, and their security is very sophisticated and multileveled. None of my contacts in Washington know much at all about the contractors, except as we have seen, many of them are ex-military officers and technicians. It is very difficult for me to get much information on the contractor-run space program, I’m afraid. Minister Kazyanov might have more information.”
“I see,” Gryzlov said. He fell silent for a few moments; then: “You have been granted permission to speak before the Security Council prior to the vote on our resolution about the American’s outrageous space initiative, correct?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
Gryzlov blew a cloud of smoke into the air above his desk, then set the cigar in an ashtray and got out of his seat, and as protocol dictated, Titeneva immediately rose as well. “You left my father’s side, Daria, because you could not handle the level of responsibility and initiative that my father wanted to give you,” Gryzlov said, walking over to her and impaling the woman with an icy, direct stare. “You were not tough enough to be with him, even as his lover. You left Moscow for the high-society parties in New York and Washington rather than help him fight in the political ditches in the Kremlin.”
“Who told you these lies, Mr. President?” Titeneva asked, her eyes flaring in anger. “That old goat Tarzarov?”
In a blur of motion that Titeneva never saw coming, Gryzlov slapped her across the face with an open right hand. She reeled from the blow, shaking stars out of her head, but Gryzlov noticed that she did not retreat or cry out, and in moments had straightened her back and stood tall before him. Again, in a flash he was on her, his lips locked onto hers, pulling her head to him with his right hand while his left roamed her breasts. Then, after a long and rough kiss, he pushed her away from him. She rubbed her cheek, then her lips with the back of her hand, but again stood tall before him, refusing to back away.
“You are going to New York City and addressing the United Nations Security Council,” Gryzlov said, boring his eyes directly into hers, “but you are not going to be this mature, wise, respected, demure diplomat any longer, do you understand me? You are going to be the tigress my father wanted and trained but never had. I can see that tigress in your eyes, Daria, but you have been mired in a comfortable life in the Foreign Ministry with your war-hero husband, tolerating his little dalliances because you want to keep your cushy job. Well, no longer.