Moscow Coach

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“Can’t have that,” Shaw said cheerfully, indicating the American girl’s empty brandy glass. His gray-blue eyes, eyes that even after so many years ashore still held more than a touch of the sea, smiled at her across the low table in the bar of West Berlin’s Hotel von Hindenburg, where the Moscow party was waiting to go through the check-point in the Wall next day. “Let me get you a refill?”

Virginia MacKinlay shook her head. “One’s plenty for me, I guess — and this place isn’t as cheap as the brochure made out it was.” Shaw liked her smile, and he liked her hair — and the way the light was glinting on it now… it was thick and dark, and styled in the Italian fashion, which happened to do things to Shaw. She added, “I’d sooner just sit and talk, if you won’t be bored to tears, that is?”

“I assure you I won’t be that!” He grinned, and ran a hand through his crisp, wavy brown hair — an unconscious gesture, but one which definitely appealed to women. He liked the look of her all right… but there was something just a shade phoney, perhaps, in the way this attractive young woman had buttoned herself on to him so quickly after the tour courier had introduced him as a new addition to the party. But then, if she’d been after information, she’d probably have encouraged him to go on the brandy. For his part, training was keeping a tight grip on his tongue; they sat and talked innocuously about one thing and another until a bell-hop came along and said there was a phone call for Miss MacKinlay.

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