Blood of the Czars

by Kilian, Michael;

  On the other side of the hill, the road narrowed, curved, and became the main street of Bedford Village. She followed it past the village green, heading west toward the interstate.

  Jack Spencer was in Moscow. Unmarried. Free of Chesley.

  “Ram,” she said, as she pulled away from a stop sign. “I think I’m going to accept your offer.”

  Ramsey’s talk of an article in the news magazines was ridiculous, but The New York Times would probably write something about her tour. Sid Greene never missed a day of the Times.

  Saylor did not stir, did not seem even to open his eyes.

  “We should talk about this, Tatty,” he said. “There’s a restaurant coming up just on your right, the Village Inn. It’s quite good. Let me buy you dinner.”

  “Is there still time? For the visa and everything?”

  Ramsey all of a sudden rearranged his body into an upright position. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “ever the optimist, I’ve already arranged that.” He pulled forth an envelope from his jacket pocket. “I had to forge your signature on the visa application, but I’m a superb forger. You’ll have no trouble from the Russians.”

  “You’re such a swine.”

  “But still your friend. There’s the restaurant.” He returned the envelope to his pocket.

  “When do I leave?”

  “In about a month.”

  “And that’s all?”

  “Oh no. You’re dealing with the government, after all. First, you must come to Washington. But I can promise you a glorious round of parties.”

  He put his hand on her knee and then abruptly ran it up the length of her thigh. She was turning into the restaurant parking lot and almost struck a Cadillac Seville.

  5

  By New York standards, Ramsey’s “glorious round” of Washington parties proved to be stuffy and dull, though he excitedly dragged her from one to another as though they were events in some royal jubilee. The only one approaching splendor was a Swedish embassy reception decorated with two thousand roses and the presence of Henry Kissinger, who in a brief introduction charmingly pretended to know who Tatty was.

  For the others, her highest accolade was “interesting,” with “enervating” and “irritating” also included in the review. At a British embassy reception—which Ramsey thought the best of all—a roomful of rumpled men and overdressed, frumpy women talked about British politics, boarding schools, and gardens with equal boredom. At a Mexican embassy luncheon, the satin-skinned Latin ladies were overdressed in the manner of a cabaret dance troupe, and talked disdainfully of both Americans and Mexican peasants. An exhibit opening at the Corcoran proved a more genteel occasion, the assemblage one of quiet-spoken men and women in evening dress, whom Ramsey described as local aristocrats, though Tatty recognized none of their names. No one at the exhibit wore running shoes. In New York, at least one man in a tuxedo would have worn his Adidas.

  Tatty had been in Washington before, but only as a touring theatrical performer, with little mingling among the local population. Now that she was among them, they seemed as two-dimensional as the paintings in the Corcoran. They dressed uniformly rather than fashionably; during the day the men in dark pinstripes and the women in Stanley Blacker suits, at night the men only in the most circumspect black tie and the women in evening gowns Tatty presumed to be off the racks at Garfinkel’s, though she saw an occasional Bill Blass or Oscar de la Renta. Names and job titles were more magnetic than wit or charm. Gossip and inside information did for new ideas. At her last New York party, she had talked for some time with an old Viennese gentleman about the universal human affection for balloons. At the best of Ramsey’s gatherings, all anyone cared to discuss was the expected administration job changes after the next elections. One man, upon learning she was from New York, asked if she thought Mayor Koch would run for federal office again. As politely as she could, she replied that she had never had any thoughts on the subject.

  The party this night was a very high-powered affair at the Canadian embassy to which Ramsey had somehow contrived a last-minute invitation. He had originally planned to take her to the Kennedy Center, not realizing how much a Washington opening of a new play bound for New York would depress her until she emphatically told him. The Canadian ambassador’s residence was imposing enough, a large brick mansion just off Massachusetts Avenue overlooking Rock Creek Park. The guest list was imposing as well as Ramsey spelled out: the French ambassador, the publisher of the Washington Post, the White House chief of staff, the head of the FBI, the deputy director of the CIA, two Supreme Court justices, and a dozen or more Canadians of equal rank. There were some unnamed others. Tatty supposed she and Ramsey were “others.”

  The dinner was served at tables set up in several rooms of the house. Tatty was fortunate in hers, at least in the man seated on her left, a charming older gentleman with a touch of Scots accent. He had been identified by Ramsey as the commissioner of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, but they didn’t discuss that. Refreshingly, he preferred nongovernmental topics. She thought of bringing up balloons, but was soon given no chance. The empty chair on her right was taken by a latecomer, a very blond and unpleasantly effeminate younger man who introduced himself as an official at the embassy. Once seated, he kept talking, his jabber leading eventually to rumors that the new Russian leader was seriously ill. Wouldn’t it be marvelous if he died? Upsetting the Sovietski apple cart before it had even been set up? Didn’t the commissioner agree? And the lovely lady?

  The commissioner said he had little knowledge of Russia. He reminded the embassy aide that intelligence functions had been taken from the RCMP and that he had no interest in Russians unless they robbed Toronto banks. The young man then began engulfing Tatty with talk about Russia, drawing out of her that she had once been there and was, yes, part Russian, and, yes, she might return someday, possibly soon. The ambassador announced demitasse and cordials in the drawing room before the young man could ask anything more.

  Tatty moved quickly from the table, taking a Cointreau from a butler encountered in the foyer, and hurryed on into the drawing room. She stood off by herself, examining one of the Oriental figurines that were everywhere in the house. Someone halted behind her, and touched her bare back. She feared it was the blond Canadian, but it was Ramsey, brandy in hand.

  “An amusing evening, don’t you think?”

  “You certainly seem at home here.”

  “I do move in some social circles still, Tatty. There is a society in Washington.”

  Jack Spencer had once likened the society in Washington to that of an Old West mining camp—the governmental equivalent of gamblers, swindlers, speculators, drifters, and dance hall hookers—the pecking order determined by whoever was flush at the moment.

  “Ramsey, I think I’ll go back to New York tomorrow. There’s nothing left for me to do at the State Department except talk to the assistant secretary of cultural affairs. I have my tickets and papers. They even provided me with a lovely leather bag full of lovely nineteenth-century literature.”

  “You’re seeing Cultural Affairs in the morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “You must stay at least through the afternoon. I want you to come out to Langley. There’s something I want to go over with you.”

  “Here it comes.”

  “Not business, Tatty. Not official business. There’s something I have to show you.”

  “About Russia?”

  “In a way, but about your father.”

  “My father? What do you know about my father?”

  The blond young man was upon them, mostly upon Ramsey, who looked quite startled. The Canadian was gripping his arm in the mode of a Roman gladiator about to begin ritual combat.

  “The prettiest lady in the house and of course she’s yours, Rammo. Aren’t you the lucky one. Comme toujours.”

  “Miss Chase is an old friend. This is Bill Newcombe, Tatty. He’s with—”

  “The Canadian embassy. I know. We wer
e at the same table.”

  “It was delightful, Rammo,” said the Canadian. He released Saylor’s arm, moving away, trailing his smile, which Tatty did not return.

  “Who is he, Ramsey? I don’t like him.”

  “He’s one of the Canadian foreign service’s famous fairies. Very second echelon.”

  “You seem quite chummy.”

  “Come on, Tat. He does work for us. Small, cheap work. Filching scraps from the ambassador’s wastebasket and the untidy like.”

  Ramsey halted one of the butlers and procured another cognac and Cointreau.

  “He kept rattling on about Russia over dinner.”

  “I’m sure he does work for the Russians as well. And for the Chinese. And for the British. And for—”

  “Ramsey, what is it you want to show me about my father?”

  “It’s inenarable, Tatty. You must see for yourself.”

  He smiled, but the smile abruptly vanished as he caught sight of something or someone across the room. Tatty followed the direction of his gaze, even as he looked away. It was a short, neat, dapper man with perfectly combed white hair, metal-rimmed glasses, and cold gray eyes, which were fixed on Ramsey, who now turned away completely.

  “Does he do work for you, too?” Tatty said.

  “It’s quite the other way around. He used to be a top drawer nabob at Langley. Retired early, but keeps getting called back as a consultant. I believe he’s displeased to see me here, among so many of his fellow nabobs. And he doubtless was displeased to see me chatting with Newcombe.” He glanced over his shoulder, waiting until the white-haired man had moved away. “He probably has no objection to you, Tatty. He’s quite the ladies’ man. His new wife is no older than you. Though Madeleine’s beauty pales before yours, to be sure.”

  Tatty finished her Cointreau.

  “Let’s leave,” Ramsey said. “I know a much better party. One where we can relax.”

  It was at the Irish embassy. The hour was late, but the gathering looked as though it might continue another hour or two. People were gathered around the ambassador’s piano, and there was a lot of singing and drinking. Young Irishmen in ill-fitting dark suits kept refilling her glass with straight Irish whiskey. She wished Ramsey had brought her here earlier, or did until a tall man who had been standing next to her in the group around the piano began to speak. The Russian accent was unmistakable. Tipsy now, Tatty looked about desperately for Ramsey, finding him in a corner in deep conversation with a Catholic priest, of all people. She went to him, taking his arm and pulling him to her side in a demonstrative manner she hoped would dissuade the Russian from following. She was so demonstrative that the priest, with some amusement, left them.

  “There’s a Russian here,” she said.

  Saylor glanced over her shoulder. “Yes. That’s old Selyutin. He’s with the Russian trade section here. He’s something of a fixture at these small legation affairs. Russians at the big social events stand out, and not only because of their atrocious manners. But they find it comfortably discreet to appear at these lesser shows, especially Third World national day parties. I suppose it’s where they get most of their gossip, and they trade in gossip as much as everyone else. I was at a Congolese party not long ago that had no fewer than six Russians including the plodding Selyutin.”

  “If you knew he was going to be here, why did you bring me?”

  “I didn’t know he was going to be here, but Tatty, the Russians do know you’re coming, after all. It’s not a military secret. They’ve issued you a visa.”

  “I want to go home, Ramsey. Or somewhere. What time is it?”

  “It’s late, but not oppressively so. Can I get you another drink? Hmm, perhaps not just yet. Perhaps a perambulation is in order, a walk over to Georgetown. You haven’t seen my house, Tat. You can’t go home without doing that. I think you’ll be quite surprised.”

  “I need some air.”

  “Air, indeed, Tatty.” He took her by the hand as he might a small child’s.

  They walked down the hill to Massachusetts Avenue, but her sleepiness troubled him, and he stopped a cab. She nodded off against his shoulder on the short drive, and was fast asleep upon their arrival. He shook her shoulder gently and, when her eyes opened, kissed her. She coughed and looked past him out the window at the tall brick house that apparently was their destination. She knew enough about Washington to realize that Ramsey Saylor had apparently become a very wealthy man, as he had never been in Westchester.

  “This is yours?”

  “Don’t be condescending, Tatiana.”

  She kissed him back, as an apology.

  The interior was more surprising than the imposing facade. Given Ramsey’s orthodox WASP tastes in clothes, music, books, and friends, she had expected the orthodox colonial decor. Instead, the rooms were filled with Victorian extravagance, red velvet couches and settees, horsehair chairs, great dark mahogany tables, enormous satin draperies. There were potted ferns everywhere, and Aubrey Beardsley prints on the walls. Above a plump crimson sofa in Ramsey’s sitting room was what looked like an original oil painting—three beautiful nineteenth-century ladies in dark finery, reclining in a lush jungle of a garden. She stared in wonder at the huge painting, then glanced down at the nameplate. It read “John Singer Sargent.”

  “Good grief, Ramsey.”

  “Isn’t it fantastic? It’s the most precious thing I own.”

  “How much did it cost you?”

  “Not so much as I couldn’t afford it. They’re my true mistresses, those three.” He put his arm around her. “Admire it. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  He went to what she presumed was the bathroom, returning at length with another brandy and Cointreau, poured in generous measures. He had a fire already prepared and lit it. When it was blazing to his satisfaction, he seated himself on the sofa beside her, slipped off his patent leather pumps, loosened his tie, and leaned back with a happy sigh, cradling his brandy glass.

  “Paradise, Tatty.”

  “You’re not looking at your painting.”

  “I know it’s there.”

  “I’m here, too.”

  He took her hand. “Paradise.”

  “What am I to make of this?”

  “What you will.”

  “I mean of us. Of this.”

  “You mean, of me.” He lowered their hands until they were resting on her lap, his touching her pelvic bone.

  “Ramsey, I’ve never known what to make of you.”

  “Is that disapproval?”

  “Certainly not. We used to call you the wild man of Westchester in college, but it wasn’t disapproval.”

  “I should die in the scorn of your reproach, Tatiana Chase.”

  He moved his hand to the back of her neck, and deftly undid the clasp of her gown. She leaned forward as he pulled down the zipper, then stiffened.

  “Will you please tell me what you know about my father?”

  “Not now, Tatty. It won’t make you very happy. Let’s leave it until tomorrow, and avoid the nocent remark.”

  “I’m not very happy as it is. I don’t suppose I’ve been happy for years.”

  He lowered the gown’s straps from her shoulders, then reached to deal with the clasp of her bra.

  “I’m aware of that, Tatty.”

  “I am not a frivolous, superficial person.”

  “No you’re not, Tatty.”

  He gently pulled the dress and bra down from her chest, exposing her breasts.

  “Yet I’ve surrounded myself with frivolous, superficial people. I’ve made for myself a frivolous, superficial life.”

  Ramsey paused to drink more of his brandy. He set down his glass and moved the freed hand to her right breast, sliding his fingers over her nipple.

  “That’s why I helped you out in France last year, and the time before that,” she said. “It struck me as a way to be useful.”

  “An accurate perception, Tatty.” He leaned to kiss the breast. She raised a hand
to touch his hair, and pull him closer.

  “I’m so unhappy, Ramsey.”

  He pulled her down on the sofa, and then rolled himself up beside her, slipping his hand beneath the waist of the gown and down over her belly.

  “It will be better for you, Tatty. The Russian tour will be good for you.”

  His hand moved to her buttocks, and began a gentle caress. She pressed herself closer to him.

  “I don’t trust you worth a damn, Ramsey.”

  “Darling, darling Tatty,” he said, kissing her. “It will be different after Russia.”

  He took her back to her hotel at an hour touched with the first pale gray of dawn, driving his long Mercedes himself, slowly, and rather clumsily, hitting the curb twice while making right hand turns. Both devoted their scant energies to the gritty task of staying awake, and did not speak. When he lurched to a halt before the hotel’s entrance, she only touched his hand in farewell.

  “Lunch,” he said, with a weary amiability. “Maison Blanche.”

  She nodded, at him and at the sleepy doorman who had opened the door. She stumbled going up the entrance steps, thinking with a grimace of the romantic advertisements depicting laughing people in evening clothes at dawn. She wanted nothing more than to get to her room, but the elegant lobby was small and she had to pass close by the front desk to reach the elevator. Her box held messages. Mustering whatever dignity she still possessed, she asked the desk clerk for them, haughtily ignoring his overly curious stare.

  There were two from Gwen, in Connecticut. Nothing that required a return call at five in the morning.

  Wearing her most expensive suit, a soft gray Valentina, suppressing her hangover, and straining her acting talents to the utmost, Tatty managed to survive her meeting with the assistant secretary of state. She had assumed he would be another Gucci-clad monsignor in the diplomatic priesthood, as suavely arrogant and disapproving as all the other State Department officials Ramsey had inflicted upon her. To her surprise, this man was not a professional diplomat at all. He was, in fact, a former motion picture producer from California. A friend of the president, he had been given the cultural affairs job as a reward for his enthusiastic political fund-raising efforts. Tatty recalled his movie work: profitable but shoddy horror films and adolescent sex comedies. He knew her work as well, and mentioned her two best plays, though he got the years wrong.