Firebird (47 page)

Except for the lights of those scattered chalets winking through the pines on the far ridge.

That’s where I’ve got to go
.

The gondola motor whirred, slowed.  Keeping well down, Alexandra squeezed through the crowd toward the gondola doors.  Think, Alexandra, think!  Stay with this party of giants.  It’s dark out there.  As soon as you reach the restaurant, run for the terrace.  You can disappear in the shadows. 

A sharp ski pole spiked against her leg, and she looked down.

Her fingers moved until they curled around the pole.  A weapon.  Just in case.

With a loud bang and sickening lurch, the gondola ground to a halt and the glass doors whirred open. 

She ducked low and spilled out into the cold dark night.

Hurry. 

CHAPTER 49

“I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell shall bar the way...”

The Highwayman
, Alfred Noyes”

Dammit, where was she?

Jon Garcia pushed his way through the crowd searching for a wild cap of spiky red hair.   And where the hell were the Feds?

He’d been running on sheer adrenaline since Billie had found him at the marina.  Told him that Ivan had taken Juliet.  And that Alexandra had run off to Vermont in search of her niece.

Of course she had
.

A DOJ helicopter had gotten him to Manchester.  Now he’d been searching the village for over half an hour, since her damned cell phone was off.

Garcia squinted up at the snow-blown sky.  Where the devil were they?

“Dios,” he murmured, “it’s as if the storm has swallowed them up.  Necisito ayuda, pronto!”

He ran to the parked SUV and started the engine.  He’d search every inch of this damned resort if he had to.

He had to find them.

* * * *

Alexandra stood in the shadow of a high pine, searching the snow-laden forest behind her, watching, listening.

She didn’t think she’d been followed.  Had she been mistaken on the gondola?  Millions of men had blue eyes.  Especially here in Robert Redford land.  She shook her head bleakly and turned toward the lights.

Three huge chalets dotted the ridge.  Her eyes moved over them, searching, finally settling on the lodge set furthest from the trail.  One whole wall was an arched window flickering with light.  Against the winter sky, the house seemed cantilevered out over the mountain on wooden beams.

Far
out.  Over a black void.  My cup runneth over, she thought. She tightened her scarf, turned toward the lights and climbed for twenty minutes.

Snow drifts across the driveway, booted prints barely discernible.  An iron gate, an old mailbox with the word
Adeen
  fading on the side.  And a forbidding red sign posted on a birch tree. 
Private Property, No Trespassing
. 

“The hell I won’t,” murmured Alexandra.  Squaring her shoulders, she dug the ski-pole into the snow and pushed past the gate.  The pines thinned and she stopped in the shelter of a tall fir, jogging up and down for warmth as she peered through the skittering shadows. 

The clearing was black and white, like a painting in chiaroscuro.  There, on the edge of the snow, a dark shape reared against the sky. 

Up close, except for the huge window, the chalet bore no resemblance to the other wood and glass ski homes.   Ivan’s chalet was straight out of a Russian legend from her childhood.  Four gabled stories, turrets, a rounded tower with cantilevered balconies, an old carriage house toward the rear.  The steep snow-covered roof.  A place for hunters and Czars, sorcerers and princes.

She watched, and waited in the deep white silence.  When several minutes had passed and she saw no one, she eased forward across the clearing, keeping to the shadows.  A small lamp illuminated the carved double doors on the porch.  Inside, through the curtained windows, she could see the barest glimmer of light. 

The meadow and lodge were surreally quiet, blanketed by the hush of snow.  Silent night, she thought, mounting the porch steps as quietly as possible. The huge oak door waited for her, guarding its secrets. 

Ivan is in there!  God, let me be wrong.  Let Juliet be with
him
.  Not – the other man.  Let her be okay.  She willed her body to move forward. 
Open the next Matryoska doll
...

Holding the ski-pole like a weapon, she moved across the porch, swept clear of snow.  She reached out to grip the brass doorknob.  It was unlocked.  She twisted, and the door swung open, just the way it had in the old fairytales.

She stepped over the threshold.

The music of Stravinsky and the strong scent of coal in the air drew her forward through a long, dark hallway.  She came to an arched doorway and hesitated.  From where she stood, she could see a cavernous, dark fireplace before a long sofa.  Where was the light coming from?  She moved, saw the glow of the small stove, and then, in the light of the single lamp, the shifting black silhouette of a seated man.

CHAPTER 50

“In Russia one can only believe.”

Fyodor Tyutchev

THE COURT OF PRINCE IVAN

STRATTON MOUNTAIN

Her eyes searched the darkness for her niece.

Please, Jules, be here.

The room was paneled in dark pine with a steep, beamed cathedral ceiling.  Glass cups and an antique Russian Samovar sat in the center of a small table.  In a shadowed corner, an arched bow with its quiver of silver arrows hung next to a spiral metal staircase that rose twenty feet to a loft and disappeared.  Animal trophy heads hung above the dark fireplace.  The north wall was a huge expanse of glass filled with night sky, making it seem as if the room were suspended out over the edge of the mountain.

No Juliet.  The man was alone. 

He’d risen from his seat and was walking slowly toward her.  Her eyes locked on his face.

“Alexandra Katya Marik,” he said in his low, cultured voice.  “I’ve been expecting you.  It seems you are too smart for your own good, Dr. Marik.  After we spoke at Anthony’s gala, I knew it was only a matter of time until you found me.  So.  Welcome to the Court of Prince Ivan.”

She realized that she was shivering uncontrollably.  She gripped the ski-pole, wrapped her arms across her chest - more for warmth or protection, she couldn’t say - and skirted around him, not speaking and never taking her eyes from his, until she had her back to the stove.  She tried to slow her breathing and waited for the warmth of the embers to seep beneath her clothes.

The lamplight caught the planes of his jaw, sharpening the edges, turning his skin and beard to gold.  Standing so still and tall in front of her, he resembled no one so much as a Prince from the old Russian legends.

His face, the aged face from the old photograph, stared back at her.  Eyes the color of a Russian winter sky.  “It’s cold, I know,” he murmured, “you should keep your jacket on.”  The bearded Professor bent to stoke the glowing coals in the old stove.  “But I cannot stand to have a fire in the fireplace...”

“Rens Karpasian,” she said softly.  “Or should I call you Ivan?”

“Here, I am Ivan.  You only think you know me, Alexandra.”

“I know you are a Russian spy.”

He spiked an amused eyebrow.  “I am the President’s next National Security Advisor.  Nothing more, nothing less.”  Karpasian bowed slightly. 

“I’m glad it’s you!  I thought, for a time, that my brother-in-law was the spy.  I couldn’t have born it.”

“You thought that my friend Anthony was a traitor...”   Ivan smiled grimly.  “Whatever made you think so?”

“So many small things.”  Her voice was almost inaudible.  “The scar on his forehead - he said it was a riding accident.”

“Poor Anthony.  It
was
an accident, you know.  He was hurt years ago, when he was thrown by a thoroughbred.”  He watched her, shaking his head slowly.  “So someone has filled your head with tales of injured spies, it seems, and you believed it.”

Her disloyalty flooded through her and she rushed on.  “Anthony is in line to be the next Secretary of State.  And - he drinks Stoli.”

“A wise man, if prematurely condemned.”  Ivan reached for a silver-knobbed cane and took another step toward her. 

She raised the ski pole like a shield and backed away.  “Don’t come any closer.”

“I only need a cane when the weather is bad,” he murmured.  He moved past her to the small table.  “So you have come all this way in a storm to find me?  Surely you could have exposed me with one phone call.   Unless - you knew no one would believe your ridiculous accusations.  Why are you really doing this, Alexandra?”

Her eyes followed him warily.  The table held a samovar, a bottle of ice-colored whiskey, and a huge pitcher of water.  Turning his back, he poured hot tea from the steaming samovar into a crystal glass, the old Russian way, added sugar and handed it to her.  “You’re freezing and frightened.  Drink this.  I won’t hurt you.  But you must tell me why you’ve come.”

She leaned the ski pole against the table, cupped her gloved hands around the mug and, watching him over the rim, drank deeply.

Satisfied, he returned to the sideboard and poured a full glass of Stolichnaya Gold for himself, then held it up to her in a gesture of mock salute.  “Na Zdorovie.”  He downed the vodka in one long swallow and gestured to the sofa.  “Please, be comfortable.”

“I’ll stand.”

He smiled.  “So.  Tell me what you want to know,” he said again, conversationally, as he poured a second drink.

“Where is she, Rens?”

He turned to stare at her with surprise.  “
She
?  Who?”

“Juliet.  Eve’s daughter.”

Genuine shock registered in his eyes.  “Daring girl, isn’t she?  I take it she’s run away again?”

“Not this time.  I received a text message.  And a photograph.  Someone has her.  He told me to come here, to Stratton.”  She took another swallow of tea as she gazed around the shadowed room.  “I thought it was you.  At first…”

She caught the flash of concern in his eyes before he lifted the vodka to his lips.  “I did not take her,” he said softly.

She watched him carefully.  And thought he was telling the truth.  “A man has been following me,” she pressed.  “A tall man with very fair hair and pale blue eyes.  I think you know who he is.  I need your help.”

He met her gaze.  Something more, now, flickering in the wintry eyes.  Confusion.  Suspicion.  And then – sudden understanding.  The eyes grew hard.

He was very still, staring down into his glass.  “Help
you
…  The irony is staggering,” he murmured.

“I agree.  But you must help me.  Tell me how I can find her.”

“Everything has a price, Alexandra.” 

“Don’t play with me, damn you.  What do you want?”

“You are hopelessly naïve.  You cannot give me what I want.”

Don’t be so sure
.  She set the tea glass on the table.  “I’m leaving.  I came here for answers.  If you won’t help me find Juliet, I’ll find her another way.” 
And take you down any way I can, you bastard.

“I can’t let you leave,” he said softly.  He stepped from the shadows to stand in front of her. 

“I said I’m leaving.  Go to hell.”  She reached for the ski pole.

He held up a hand.  “No doubt I will.  But Eve was my friend.  I don’t want her daughter hurt.”

“Eve was your
friend
?  Spare me.”

An odd expression flared in his eyes. 
He knew something
. 

“This is about me, Alexandra.  Not Juliet.  As long as I do what I have to do, I will be able to keep her safe.”

She hesitated, took a step back.  She had no reason to believe him, a
liar
!  And yet - she did. 
Keep him talking
. 

“Why should I believe you, Ivan?  You’ve done nothing but betray your friends, all these years.”

“I am simply a man loyal to his country.  That is not a crime.”

“But which country?”

 “So many questions, Dr. Marik.”

“Just the one, Ivan. 
Why
?”

“Why?”  He took a deep swallow of vodka, closed his eyes.  “Maybe because I was born in a very poor village north of Leningrad.  I was always cold and hungry.  To this day, the smell of goat cheese and boiled potatoes make me sick...”

Listen
. 
Find his weakness
. 
Use it
.

“I spent most of my time alone, reading, thinking.  I wanted to be a soldier, like my father.  He was a war hero.  All I wanted was to have a gun and shoot any man who fought against Russia.  My homeland.  The home of my parents, and their parents, and theirs...”

He moved to the table as he spoke, poured more hot tea for her, added sugar, then looked toward the window.  Outside, the white mountains were etched sharp as glass against the night sky. 

He gestured with his cane toward the high peaks.  “When I was a young boy, five or six, I discovered the glory of the mountains.  My father was gone for many months at a time, but once, when he came home, he took me into the forests.  Just the two of us.”  He looked down at her and smiled gently.  “You remember the legend of Peter and the wolf?”

He was drawing her deeper and deeper into the game of cat and mouse.  So be it.  “Prokovkief’s music,” she answered.

“Yes.  Magical.  A Russian forest covered in snow, the glory of the mountains, the vast silences broken only by the cry of the wolves.  My father gave me my first bow and arrow, taught me to survive in the forests.  I eventually became an excellent hunter - and marksman.”  He glanced at the silver arrows glinting near the stairs, then away.  “But then one day he left to rejoin his unit, and never came home again.”

“And the young soldier became a dancer.”