第11章 (4-2)

He rose, his movements as quiet and efficient as ever. The silence of the mansion was different from the profound, heavy quiet of his Moscow apartment; here, it was punctuated by the distant, rhythmic crash of waves and the occasional cry of a seagull. It was a living silence, not one of isolation. He dressed in his usual attire, the dark, high-collared tunic feeling like a suit of armor in this environment of open spaces and light fabrics.

Finding the main living area, he discovered the source of a new sound: the aggressive whirring and gurgling of an elaborate espresso machine. America stood before it, frowning intently at a complex panel of buttons and levers. He was barefoot, wearing only low-slung jeans and a faded t-shirt with the logo of a rock band Soviet didn't recognize. The casual display of skin, the easy posture—it was all so unguarded.

"Ah! You're up!" America announced, finally managing to produce a cup of dark, fragrant liquid. "Coffee? This thing is a menace, but it makes the good stuff. None of that weak tea you guys drink." He pushed the small cup towards Soviet. "It's an espresso. Bottoms up."

Soviet picked up the delicate porcelain cup, examining the dark, syrupy liquid within. He took a cautious sip. The flavor was intense, bitter, and powerful, a jolt to the system far removed from the steady, warm familiarity of tea. It was, he had to admit, effective.

"Strong," he commented, his voice a low rumble in the sun-drenched room.

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