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Burying the Dead

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Blurb

Playing off today’s headlines, Burying the Dead serves up a high stakes game of love and death set on the power courts of Washington, DC, and other glittering world capitals.

There Dimitri “Dimi” Orlov is a rising Russian tennis star whose glamorous, globetrotting career provides the perfect cover for his real day job -- agent and assassin. Trained by his government from the time he’s discovered in an orphanage, Dimi is assigned to assassinate the president of the United States -- a brilliant but arrogant onetime New York prosecutor who’s proved too independent for his Russian backers -- by romancing and enlisting his abused first lady, Catherine Darlington.

Dimi courts the lovely, loveless Catherine at Renaissance House, a new cultural center in historic Dupont Circle that’s a front for Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR), and at the US Open. There he’s shadowed by CIA agent Mitch Abramson, who has begun to connect the dots. But just as the various matches – Dimi and Catherine, Dimi and Mitch -- heat up, Dimi makes a choice that could have his bosses take him out of the game permanently.

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Prologue
Prologue The ball is a moon, a yellow-green orb that I imagine serving across the net, past you, my newest rival, into the universe, where it is a billion years ago. There the Earth is still a babe really, still young and new, and none of this—none of us—has happened or can even be imagined. Time is space, and space is the past. But, of course, this is real time, Earth time, and you hit a sharp return—a reflex, boom-boom—that wakes me from my reverie. I cannot let that happen again. I will not let that happen again. This is the biggest tournament of my life, and, though I like you, admire you, love you even as a member of the court, the brotherhood of the net, I cannot let you in. I in particular cannot let anyone in. I must be as cold as Pluto, my favorite celestial body, forever a planet to me. I must hurl my moon to the corners of the court with pinpoint accuracy, more billiards player than rocket man. Like a dancer, I must keep changing direction and, in so doing, keep changing the pace, the rhythm of the game, to keep you off balance. You are good. I am better. I cannot let you forget that. I must control the match, no, dominate it, dominate you. The ball is a moon, I think—so large and luminous—as I serve for the first set…

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