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Unbuttoning his tuxedo jacket and loosening his bow tie, Talanov strode into the crowded lobby and paused to wait for Sofia amid the murmur of happy conversation. He looked up the wide staircase toward the nightclub located on the mezzanine floor, where he could hear a flamenco dancer stomping her feet in time to the staccato accompaniment of several guitars. He closed his eyes and listened to the rising intensity of the music. His reverie was interrupted by the sharp sounds of Sofia’s stiletto heels. Turning, he walked with Sofia to the reception counter.
“May I help you, Colonel Talanov?” the attendant asked pleasantly.
“Good evening,” said Talanov. “May we place our briefcase in your safe?”
“Of course.”
“We’ll return for it after I’ve had something to cheer me up. Perhaps I’ll fare better at the tango than I did at roulette.”
The attendant nodded politely and accepted the aluminum briefcase.
“Shall we?” asked Talanov, offering Sofia his arm.
Appearing to be reading a tourist brochure in a stuffed chair across the lobby, Babikov discreetly watched Talanov and Sofia fall in with the stream of guests climbing the stairs. Once they were near the top, he laid the brochure on a table and followed after them.
Talanov paused inside the nightclub and surveyed the layout. Lighting was subdued except for a bright spotlight on a young woman in a fitted long red dress. She was on a stage at the far end of the club. Her thick brown hair was pulled back in a large bun. Her lips were bright red, her eyes seductive and dark.
The dancer held her torso erect and proud, her arms curving around her head, her castanets and feet keeping time with the passionate climax of the music. The bottom of her dress, which was ruffled and full, twirled with each of her movements. To one side of her were three guitarists seated on stools. In the darkened background were drums, a piano and other musicians holding instruments: a bandoneón – similar to an accordion – violins and a string bass.
The bar ran along one wall to their left. Every stool was occupied and people were standing two and three deep while vested bartenders – mostly dark-haired young women – glided expertly behind the bar mixing drinks. Tiers of mirrored shelves contained every imaginable liquor. Banks of waist-high refrigerators contained mugs, Champagne, wine, beer and mineral water.
Seating for patrons was to their right while at the center of the club was a wooden dance floor.
The wedding party Talanov had seen earlier had taken over the far corner of the club. The bride and groom were seated at the center of a table, surrounded by friends and family. Everybody was laughing and drinking and picking from large platters of flat bread, salmon, caviar, goat cheese, olives and grilled vegetables.
On stage, the young flamenco dancer twirled to the strumming guitar crescendo and finished in a flurry of castanets and stomping. When finished, the panting and perspiring dancer held her erect position for a long moment, back arched stiffly, arms poised high overhead before making several tumbling motions with her hands in a downward sweep that ended in a gracious curtsy, her front leg locked and extended, her arms in opposite directions, her head almost touching the floor.
She held that position for nearly ten seconds while Talanov glanced around the nightclub at the people chatting among themselves, not paying attention.
“Bravo!” he called out. “Magnificent!”
When Talanov began clapping, the club grew momentarily quiet. When he stepped forward and continued to clap, people around him joined in.
The dancer straightened and curtsied again, hands extended to her sides – a gracious bow of appreciation – and after straightening a final time, she blew Talanov a kiss before dashing through the crowd and leaving by way of a service door at the end of the bar, near the restrooms.
By now the guitarists had regrouped with other members of the combo, and after a dramatic introduction on the piano, the bandoneón began playing a tense, smoldering, sexual tango, with swirling upper notes by the violins and a deep, lustful moan by the string bass, all of it building slowly, aggressively, like a mating ritual between predators circling one another.
Talanov again glanced around the nightclub at people chatting, not paying attention. A group of seven girls got up and began dancing in place, arms and hips swaying wildly, laughing, enjoying themselves. Several were nursing drinks in stem glasses while they danced. The young bride and groom then took to the floor and began shuffling around in a clumsy box-step, watching their feet, giggling at their clumsiness. They were soon joined by three other couples from their wedding party, who began doing the same box step, having obviously taken dance lessons in preparation for this night.
“Come on,” said Talanov, taking Sofia by the hand. “We can’t allow a good tango to go to waste.”
Sofia resisted.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I can’t,” she whispered over the intensifying waves of music.
“Why not?”
“Because I . . . can’t. I don’t know how.”
“Then I think it’s time you learned.”
Talanov led Sofia onto the dance floor and spun her to face him. “Hands here and here,” he said, showing her where they belonged then pulling her to him so they were but inches apart, their thighs and abdomens touching. He moved his hand to the small of her back and pulled her tightly against him, holding her there, staring into her eyes with the hint of a smile.
“How long do we stand here like this?” she asked.
“Fifteen minutes should do it.”
Sofia raised a skeptical eyebrow.
Talanov grinned, lifted his elbow and moved his hand up to the middle of her back. “Think of the tango as walking – I lead, you follow – like mirrors.”
“You have got to be joking.”
“I never joke when it comes to the tango. Ready?”
“No!”
“Relax, you’ll be fine. I’ll be stepping forward and you’ll be stepping backward, our legs brushing against one another, bodies close, never losing that connection. We then keep walking – one, two, three – then step to the side, bring our feet together and stamp, then continue in a new direction, or maybe the same, who knows?”
“Who knows? What do you mean by that? How am I supposed to know what you’ll do next?”
“It doesn’t matter. I lead, you follow. Are you ready?”
“No! I have to know what we’re doing.”
“And that is precisely why no one out here is doing the tango,” Talanov replied. “Those girls are too busy doing their own thing. Everybody else is worrying about the wrong things. This dance is about us, not our feet.”
By now Talanov and Sofia had been standing together in the center of the dance floor for several minutes while the wedding party continued to shuffle around them and the girls continued to jump and laugh. On stage, the musicians continued to play in the red glow of the stage lights.
Sofia noticed the bride and groom looking at them curiously. She then noticed others doing the same. “People are staring,” she whispered nervously.
“Let them. You’re worth it,” said Talanov.
From his position near the end of the bar, Babikov stood watching, sipping from a glass of mineral water, one elbow on the bar, his back to the wall, his jacket sleeves stretched by the size of his arms.
Entering the nightclub, Franco moved to one side of the door, his eyes on Talanov, his wrist to his mouth, speaking quietly into his microphone. “Are you watching this?”
Up in the security center, Bixler had positioned herself beside Pilgrim in front of the nightclub monitor. “What the hell are they doing?”
“Looks like he’s giving her a dance lesson,” Franco replied.
“Or trying to,” added Pilgrim. “By the way, we’re all set in Talanov’s room.”
“Audio and video, both?” asked Bixler.
“The whole place is wired to the hilt.”
On the dance floor, Sofia pulled away and tried to leave. “I can’t do this,” she said.
Talanov grabbed her and pulled her back. “Yes, you can.”
“No, I can’t!”
Talanov saw the young flamenco dancer enter the club and join a group of friends at the bar. She was no longer in costume but was dressed in boots, a mini-skirt and a ruffled blouse.
Motioning for the musicians to keep playing, Talanov told Sofia to stay where she was. Sidling between tables, he reached the bar, excused himself for the intrusion, grabbed the flamenco dancer by the hand and led her onto the dance floor, where he glanced pointedly at Sofia before spinning the dancer into his arms and pulling her tightly against him.
Talanov and the dancer stared into one another’s eyes for a long moment before the dancer arched her back and looked away. Moving slowly forward while the dancer moved backward, each step sexual and deliberate, Talanov began steering the dancer in a tight circle around Sofia.
Twirling the dancer away like a yo-yo until their arms were fully extended, they glanced at one another briefly before Talanov twirled her back. He slid her from side to side, trying as part of the ritual to get her to look at him while she steadfastly refused, avoiding his demanding eyes with darting quick-step reverses, taking tiny steps back and forth while making exaggerated movements with her knees and hips. Then a dismissive glance before throwing her head back, avoiding eye contact until the next compelling, dismissive glance.
Standing in the epicenter of this spectacle, Sofia grew increasingly embarrassed as more and more people stopped talking to watch. The wedding party had stopped dancing and moved to the perimeter of the floor to observe, as had the group of girls, who were holding on to one another’s arms, pointing and whispering about Talanov while scrutinizing Sofia. Near the door, Franco stood watching. At the end of the bar was Babikov. Upstairs in the security room were Bixler and Pilgrim. Everyone was watching.
Scanning the faces of everyone staring back at them, Sofia shuffled awkwardly in place. “All right, you’ve made your point,” she whispered harshly. The tempo of the tango intensified and Sofia looked at the musicians, who were lost in their music, eyes closed, feeling the notes. With folded arms, she glared at Talanov, who was lost in the dance. Rivulets of perspiration trickled down his face.
Talanov paused and threw her a sharp glance, then twirled the dancer away and back, yanking her close before moving his nose slowly down and up her neck, not quite touching her skin while the group of seven girls stared open-mouthed at the sensual scene.
Muttering a curse, Sofia brushed past Talanov stormed away. Talanov grabbed her by the hand and pulled her back. Sofia tried breaking free but Talanov released the dancer and spun Sofia into his arms. He bent her backward and kept her off balance, as if over a barrel while staring down into her eyes. He then pulled her upright, snapped her to him and began moving with her about the floor, advancing while she retreated, in step, legs brushing, abdomens pressed tightly together.
“This is the tango,” he said in a husky voice. “It is passion. It is jealousy. It’s desire.” He locked eyes with Sofia and held her close to him while the music swelled to a climax. And with a twinkle in his eye at the final crescendo, he grinned and said, “It’s also a great way to work up a thirst.”
Twirling Sofia away in grandiose style, Talanov presented her to the musicians, who stood and began clapping. He then blew the flamenco dancer a kiss before sweeping Sofia off the floor.
“For the record, I was not jealous,” Sofia remarked in a low voice.
“Whatever you say,” said Talanov as they left the club.
Seconds later, the man in black followed.
