Armageddon_ A Novel of Berlin - Leon Uris [175]
A knock on the door. A short square man in black chauffeur’s uniform introduced himself as the driver for the Soviet Ambassador to Denmark.
“The ambassador demands your presence,” the chauffeur said.
Ivan was elated! The ambassador himself! Perhaps General Lipski discussed his work and the ambassador wanted him to remain in Copenhagen. What an idea!
A somber Mercedes with a pair of Red flags attached to each fender waited. In a few moments the car was moving north out of Copenhagen speeding toward the Danish Riviera in the direction of Elsinore.
“The Comrade Ambassador wanted to hold the meeting with you in private,” the chauffeur said. “There are too many Western spies in Copenhagen. We are driving to his summer residence.”
Ivan nodded that he understood. The chauffeur was undoubtedly NKVD also. He was too well disciplined in the secret ways of political security to question an ambassador.
An hour later the last of the farewell parties unfolded at the great velvet and mirrored Wivex restaurant, the largest in Europe, which was on the edge of the Tivoli. Although it was too early for the Tivoli’s season, the million lights were turned on in honor of the occasion to set up a fairyland of color and magic.
Participants of the conference arrived: ambassadors bedecked in sashed elegance; generals and admirals bogged under decorations; elegant ladies. The room was filled with tables, each holding small flags of the various nations, and a formally dressed Danish orchestra played Russian laments, French love songs, American jazz, and British airs.
Long tables of smörgasbord, aquavit, Carlsberg beer, open-faced sandwiches of tiny shrimps, ham, and cheese, buckets of iced champagne—all attributed to the fact that this was a banquet of the victors.
Colonel Igor Karlovy, one of the most popular of the Soviet delegation worked his way around the room, shaking hands, saying good-bys to Belgians and Poles, Dutch and Danes. Igor felt something was wrong. He had been in the place for nearly a half hour without seeing Ivan Orlov ... he began to feel naked.
Igor’s face lit up as he spotted Major O’Sullivan on the balcony facing the Tivoli and speaking to a Danish girl he had seen several times during the conference. Igor cleared his throat.
O’Sullivan introduced him to Miss Rasmussen, a Danish translator. She excused herself, knowing there was to be some men’s talk.
“We have arranged a private party as soon as we can gracefully get out of here. Would you come, Colonel Karlovy?”
“Who will be present?”
“Some of the boys from the Marine Embassy Guard have a house just a little out of town.”
“I am afraid that would be impossible.”
“I seemed to have overheard that Captain Orlov took ill or something,” Sean said. He looked directly into Igor’s eyes. “Orlov won’t be around tonight.”
On an impulse Igor said, “Hell, why not?”
Master Gunnery Sergeant Michael J. Flynn, USMC, of the American Embassy Guard was assigned as an assistant to Major O’Sullivan for the conference. They discovered they had much in common besides Irish parents. Both were Mission District San Franciscans out of the same high school. Flynn took to the major right off the bat, remembering having seen him fight at the old Bucket of Blood arena. The sergeant and four other staff NCOs pooled resources and were able to rent a lovely place on the sea in Taarnby, a suburb of Copenhagen.
Igor’s apprehension about accepting the invitation faded. The Americans were almost like children in their desire to be friendly. They showered little gifts on him and were consumed with curiosity about his war record.
The Marines all had lovely Danish girls as dates. Sean was with Miss Rasmussen; Igor insisted he did not want a girl.
It was a nice gathering. They could look over the water to Sweden from the porch; the sky held a billion stars, and there was a gentle pounding of the surf.
They all had their tunics off and drank as comrades without rank. The Marines made a number of jokes about the