We’re talking about maybe changing careers and opening a bar in some tropical resort. Maybe you and Rita want to think about going into business with us. We could sit around all day, swilling down rum drinks with funny little paper umbrellas in them. It sure beats frostbite, high explosives, and underwater life-or-death battles with psychopaths. The most serious problem we face here is humidity.
As ever, Pete.
[4]
JANUARY 26
PARIS, FRANCE
In their suite at the Hotel George V, a bottle of Dom Perignon stood in an ice bucket beside the bed.
They were in each other’s arms, as close as two people can get without actually melting together and becoming a single entity, generating enough heat to keep an entire Arctic outpost warm for a long winter, when they were startled by a clatter beside the bed. They had been rescued by the Pogodin more than a week ago, but their nerves were still wound too tight. He sat up, and she fell off him, and they both turned toward the sound, but they were alone in the room.
“Ice,” she said.
“Ice?”
“Yes, ice. Shifting in the champagne bucket.”
He glanced at the bucket on its silver-plated stand, and the ice shifted again.
“Ice,” she repeated.
He looked at her. She smiled. He grinned. She giggled as if she were a schoolgirl, and he roared with laughter.