A Raging Storm

He noticed she was carrying a CZ P-01 semiautomatic pistol in a holster on her belt. “I thought it was illegal for manned guards to carry weapons in England,” he said.

“It is completely against the law,” Lebedev said, “but under an old English law, a nobleman, such as a duke, has the authority to arm his knights for the protection of his lands and his serfs. Obviously, Mr. Petrov is not a duke, but when he purchased the estate, we were able to persuade the duke’s heirs to sign a document that gives us permission to carry weapons while we are on the grounds here. Quite frankly, I’m not sure it would pass legal muster if someone complained, but no one has.”

“Does this mean Ms. Nad is a knight?” Storm asked, looking at her dark eyes.

“It means I can shoot you if necessary,” she replied.

Lebedev led them into the manor house. As they walked, Showers said, “I didn’t realize Russian oligarchs made it a practice to have English tea.”

“Please don’t refer to him as an oligarch,” Lebedev replied. “It’s not a compliment in Russia. And please don’t assume that because we are Russians, we only drink vodka.”

“I meant no offense,” Showers said.

“I’d rather have a good shot of Putinka, any day, than to drink English tea,” Storm volunteered.

“Ah, you’re familiar with Russian vodkas,” Lebedev said. “I’m sure we can find some Putinka for you.”

“I suspect Mr. Petrov’s tastes are more along the line of Kauffman,” Showers said, showing off.

“First you mention the most popular vodka in Moscow and then you mention the most expensive. I’ll ask one of our servants to pour you a sample to see if you palates match your knowledge.”

“None for me,” said Showers. “When I’m working, I stick to something nonalcoholic. Tea will be fine.”

“Then I will drink her shots,” Storm said.

They walked through a massive dining room and exited the house, entering a garden courtyard.

“We’ll be having what the English call low tea, which is an afternoon snack, as opposed to high tea,” said Lebedev, “which is more of a meal.”

“I don’t see Mr. Petrov,” Showers said.

“He’ll be joining us shortly. Please be seated.”

They sat in chairs on opposite sides of an oblong table covered with a white linen cloth. The head spot was left empty. Storm noticed that it also had a chair larger than the others, to support Petrov’s girth. Three men wearing formal attire brought out silver trays with fresh strawberries dipped in chocolate, egg salad finger sandwiches, and warm scones with Devonshire cream. Nad and Storm didn’t take any. But Showers and Lebedev sampled the offerings. A fourth servant poured tea for the women, but brought shot glasses to the table for the men.

Ivan Petrov entered the courtyard through a side door in the mansion. “Don’t get up,” he said. “I apologize for being late, but when you have businesses in different time zones, sometimes it’s difficult to keep a normal schedule.” He spotted the shot glasses.

“Ah,” he said. “I’m so glad our American friends are not sticklers for English tradition. But I’m surprised that you didn’t want an imported beer, Mr. Mason.”

The reference to beer showed that he’d had Nad run a background check on him. Did they also suspect that his real name was not Steve Mason and he wasn’t a State Department employee?

“Mr. Lebedev has proposed a challenge,” Storm explained. “One shot glass contains Kauffman and the other Putinka.”

“I’ll play,” said Petrov. “But first, are you a sporting man?”

“What are the stakes?”

“I’m extremely wealthy and you, sadly, collect a government salary,” Petrov bragged. “How can we make this fair? Here’s what I suggest. I will bet whatever British pounds I have on my person against whatever pounds you have in your wallet. This way neither of us will know the true value of the prize until we win. It will be part of the fun.”

“Okay,” Storm said.

The two men reached for the first shot of vodka simultaneously and swallowed the contents of the glasses in front of them.

Smacking his lips, Petrov said, “I believe the first glass was the Kauffman.”

“I agree,” said Storm.

Petrov ordered the servant to pour another round.

Again, Petrov went first, downing both shot glasses. “This time, it’s the second glass,” he said.

Storm followed. “And this time, I disagree.”

Everyone looked at the servant. “Which glass did you pour the Kauffman into?” Petrov asked.

A glint of fear sparked inside the man’s eyes.

“C’mon, man,” said Petrov. “Be honest. You won’t be fired. Or horsewhipped.” He grinned. “Tell us which glass had the Kauffman.”

“Your guest is the one who is correct, sir. I poured it into the first glass. The second was the Putinka.”