"Yes," Korolev said, and sipped again, "I did." The cognac spread through him like liquid gold. He disliked Romanenko. He’d never liked the boy’s father, either an easygoing Party man, long since settled into lecture tours, a dacha on the Black Sea, American liquor, French suits, Italian shoes . . . The boy had the father’s looks, the same clear gray eyes utterly untroubled by doubt.