Firebird (51 page)

The room began to spin.  Faster, faster.

Darkness took her.

* * * *

Panov sat alone in the pre-dawn darkness, drinking a large tumbler of burning vodka.  He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong.  Once again, Prince Ivan had disappeared.   Why wasn’t he answering his cell? 

The fire had gotten away from him.  It had caught too quickly.  He’d thought he’d have time to get away, but he’d passed the fire engines on his way off the mountain. 

What had happened to Alexandra Marik and the girl?

And where was Prince Ivan?

He had to find him
now
, before tonight.  The success of Operation Firebird depended on it.

With a vicious curse, he punched Ivan’s private number, once more, into his cell phone.

* * * *

The courtyard of the Palace of the Firebird was cloaked in snow and silence.

Ivan stood alone in the first light of morning, wrapped in a long overcoat against the unseasonable cold, staring at the upper rear windows of the brownstone.  The windows made a wall of black glass.  The last lines of his childhood poem swam into his head. 

There gardens surround a palace all of glass.  There firebirds sing by night
.

No sound, no movement.  No light.

Was his firebird up there, in her palace, sleeping?  Could he dare to hope?  Breath fogging in the cold air, he stamped his feet to keep warm and waited.  He remembered, suddenly, that his birthday had come and gone.

Steps away from him, glittering cones of ice spilled from a small stone fountain. 
Glittering like fire
. 

His face twisted with pain as he thought of his beautiful lodge in the mountains.  How had the fire begun?  Another terrible accident?  Or - his thoughts hitched, and he felt the blackness squeeze his heart.  Yes, Panov was capable of doing such a soul-less thing.

He would deal with Panov before the day was over.

Ivan ran a hand over his singed, blackened beard.  How had he found the strength to return to the burning lodge?  Some vestige of honor, perhaps, buried deep in the snows of his Russian soul.  Or had it simply been his desperate, bone-deep need to save another innocent woman from dying in a fire...

Had he returned for Alexandra Marik - or for his lost Firebird?  Whatever the reasons, he’d driven back to the lodge like a wild thing.   The flames had been horrifying.  Frozen on the edge of the meadow, he’d been overwhelmed by remembered terror and turned to flee - but then he’d seen Alexandra Marik on the roof.  And the young girl with her.  So terrified, yet so brave, like his beautiful Tatyana.

Ivan looked down at his blistered, throbbing palms. 

It was the girl, the same age as his Tatyana had been, who had given him the courage to stay.  He’d cried out to her, watched her stand straight and tall and leap into the night.

She had come soaring through the air, a Firebird backlit by flames against the black night sky, into his waiting arms
.  And this time, finally, finally, he was able to save the Firebird from the fire.

In the silence of the shadowed courtyard, remembering that moment, Ivan felt the tears well hotly as a benediction in his eyes.

Somehow he’d caught the girl, brought her to safety, and run into the burning lodge to look for Alexandra Marik.  Unbearable heat, black smoke and roaring sound had filled his head.  But a man forgiven by the universe, mused Ivan, has nothing left to fear. 

It had all happened at once - the stairs collapsing, a man’s voice shouting “I’ve got her!”  The rear window exploding outward, the terrible roar and force of the blast, his tumble into the icy snow.

Cloaked in darkness, he’d stumbled to the car, every step echoing Alexandra Marik’s unbelievable words. 

Your Firebird is alive
.

Once more he raised his eyes.  The upstairs windows remained dark.  Had Alexandra told him the truth?  Or was Tatyana a hallucination from the drug he’d given her?  A deliberate lie, to hurt him?  Or -

 Had Tatyana been alive, all these years, living so close to him?  He closed his eyes against the fresh wave of pain that washed through him.

It couldn’t be true
.

He’d changed cars in Bondville, driven directly to the restaurant on 46
^th
Street.  He had to know.

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket.  He retrieved the phone, stared at the number.  Panov.   He turned the phone off.

Now, as the first blush of dawn lit the tops of the branches, still the windows remained dark. 

Hurry, he thought, moving deeper into the thick bushes that edged the rear of the courtyard.  If Alexandra remembered their conversation, it was only a matter of time before they would come looking for him.

Alexandra Marik would tell them where to find him.

CHAPTER 55

“The beauty of an aged face...”

Joseph Campbell

Falling!

Fingers flinging out, gripping.  Muscles burning.

A voice, calling her name.

Alexandra’s eyes flew open.

White!  Brighter, this time.

She turned her head, saw the blurred face of a man.  Too close!

She cried out.

“Easy, Chica, you’re safe now.”  That voice…

“Garcia?”  She took a breath, tried to focus.  Without warning, a rush of panic.  “Something’s happened!  Juliet?  Oh, God, Ruby?”

“Both fine.  Your niece is at St. Theresa’s.  A few scrapes and a sore throat, but sleeping soundly, according to her Mother Superior.  And Ruby is safe with Olivia and Dan.”

A few scrapes
?

Her breath came out.  Nothing made sense.  The hazy face took shape, coalesced.  Hard edges, dark eyes gazing down at her. 

The mouth moved.  “Buenos Dias, Garcia, it’s so good to see you here.”

“Ouch!  Don’t make me laugh!  What
are
you doing here?”

“Waiting for you to wake up.  Again.”  He grinned as he rose to tug at the blinds.  Soft October light flooded like water into the room.   “It’s morning.  Almost seven.”

Her eyes widened and she struggled to sit up, pulling at the small oxygen tube in her nose.  “What
is
this thing?” 

“Easy, Red, you’re in the hospital.  Lenox Hill.”

“Lenox Hill…  I’m in
New York
?”  She gazed around the room in confusion.

“Si.  You were drugged last night.  In shock.  And burned.” 

Burned
.

His voice vibrated with anger.  “You were brought here by ambulance sometime before midnight.” 

Drugged?  Burned?  What was he talking about?  She stared at him, then down at her throbbing, bandaged hands.  
Burns
. 
Ok
.  “What happened to me?”

“How much do you remember?” 

“Nothing.”

He held out a small bouquet of violets, set them down on the sheet next to her hip.  “For valor,” he said softly.

How did he know she loved violets
?

“Valor?”  She shook her head, bewildered.

 He dropped into the guest chair, crossed a booted foot over a jean-clad knee.  “Seems you had quite a night, Chica.  The good news is, the Doc says your hands will be fine.  You’ll be sketching again before you know it.  And you can go home in a few hours.”  He gazed at her.  “
After
we talk, Red.”  

She looked down at the bandages, trying to order the dark swirl of her thoughts.  Out of the darkness, an image slowly took shape.

A snow covered clearing.

“There was a snowstorm…” she said slowly.
  A gabled lodge on the edge of a mountain.
 “Stratton.  I went to Stratton to look for Juliet!”  More images crashed into her head.  “I was at the Baranski.  There was a text message, a photograph of Juliet.  Oh, God, there was tape over her mouth!  The text told me to come to Stratton.”  Her eyes flew to his.  “I was so scared for her!”

“She’s okay,” Garcia reminded her.  “You found her.  She’s home.”

She closed her eyes with relief. 

He bent toward her.  “The bastard who took her - your niece said that he wore a ski mask.”

Memory tumbled back.  A black ski mask, the terrifying flash of pale blue eyes, on the gondola.  “It was that man, Garcia, the faceless blond!”

He was very still.   “The man who’s been stalking you?  Are you sure it wasn’t Ivan?”

Ivan
.

“Oh, damn, why can’t I remember?”

“Take your time, Red.”

A silhouette in a flickering room.  A deep voice.  A bearded face
.

Concentrate.

And then -  “He was
there
!”

“The blond?”

“No, no.  I found
Ivan
, Garcia.  He was in the lodge.  Ivan is Rens Karpasian!”

“Karpasian…”  He reached for his phone.  “You’re sure, Alexandra?”

“He admitted it.”

Eyes dark, Garcia moved to the window, murmured into his phone.  Then he returned to her.  “So you went head to head with Ivan.”  He reached out and took hold of her wrist.

Her breath caught as she felt her skin flare with heat beneath the touch of his fingers.  Pulse jumping, she gazed down at his strong hands, unsettling, holding her.  She tried to pull away.  

He stared at her bandages for a moment longer and then let her go.  “Of all the damned reckless – ”

“I’m a city girl, Garcia.  Apparently I don’t do wilderness very well.”

He shot her a look.

“You want to know what I remember?  I remember trying to call you!  But your blasted phone was turned off. 
Yes
, it would have been safer to wait for you before going to Stratton.  But there was no damned way I’d let my sister’s daughter be hurt.”

“Madre de Dios.  You were in danger, Chica, and I –”

“You would have tried to stop me!  You think you can ride in on your white horse like some Knight Valiant, Garcia.  But Eve was
my
sister, Juliet is my niece.  No way I’d let you stop me.  And I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.”

“Does
everything
have to be so damned complicated with you?”

The air crackled between them as they stared at each other in the morning light.

It was Garcia who broke the silence.  “A white horse?  No way.  Horses scare me,” he admitted in a low, self-mocking voice.  “And
nobody
says ‘valiant’ anymore.”

“If the boot fits…” she murmured.

“I don’t have much time, Red.  I need answers before I go back to D.C.”

“I thought you were
in
D.C.”

“But you’re here.” 

You’re here
. 

“Where else would I be?”  He flashed his crooked smile.  “Who else would supply this drama in my life?”

She touched the velvety violets, swallowed.  “You said Ivan drugged me,” she said finally.  “I remember talking with him.  But it’s all still a blur.”

He nodded.  “You said Karpasian admitted he was Ivan.  Try to remember, Chica.  The drug should be wearing off.  I need to know everything he said during your conversation.  Both Ivan and your stalker have disappeared, Alexandra.  My guess is they’re working together and they’re planning something.  We’ve got to find them.“

Of course. 
That
was why he was here.  He needed to know about Ivan
.

He said, “Start at the beginning.  What happened after you went back to New York?”

She closed her eyes, tried to remember.  “I worked at the Baranski.  I spent time with my daughter, and Juliet.  I spoke with a Russian jeweler, hoping to trace the provenance of the Firebird brooch... ”  Something important stirred, lingered just on the edge of memory.  Think!  “He told me the story of a Russian woman…”  
A snowfilled courtyard, a scarred dancer, a wall of photographs
.  Her eyes flew open.  “Ivan’s gone to her, I’m sure of it.”

Garcia spiked an eyebrow, leaned closer.  “Gone to whom?”

“Tatyana Danilova.  A Russian ballerina.  She was Ivan’s first love.  She owns the Palace of the Firebird restaurant in the Theater District.  I traced her through the brooch.  She had old photographs, of the Kirov Ballet… 
That’s
how I discovered Ivan’s identity.  They’d had a great romance, until the fire.  And last night, at the lodge, I told him that she’s still alive.”  She could still hear the disbelief in Ivan’s voice.  The pain.  “He thought she was dead, all those years…”

Before she finished speaking, Garcia was on his cell phone once more issuing a string of rapid orders.  

* * * *

A pool of gold spilled suddenly into the shadowed courtyard, and Ivan caught his breath.  A light, in the upstairs corner room.

Let it be her, he prayed silently.  He crossed the stones toward the French doors and rang the buzzer.

Several minutes passed.  He waited, barely able to breathe, while the morning sun filled the small courtyard with pink light. 

Then a sound.  The French doors opened and a silver wheelchair rolled slowly toward him.  Its occupant was wrapped in a deep red shawl that covered her head. 

He stood very still, not breathing, waiting for the chair to come closer.

As if sensing his presence, the wheelchair stopped in front of him.  The figure raised her head.  Sunlight lit the velvet shawl.

“Is that you, Nicky?  Did you forget your key again?”

Ivan fell to his knees in front of her.

“Tatyanovich!”

With a gasp of pain, the woman leaned forward into the light and let the cloak fall from her face.

Her face
! 

They stared at each other like two lost children. 

“That voice,” whispered the old ballerina.  “But it cannot be...”

“Tatyanovich.”  The endearment caught in his throat, ended in a sob. 

“Sergei?  Sergei, is it you?”  She thrust out her arms, and the blanket fell unheeded from her knees to the snow.  “Come closer!  I cannot see you.  Am I dreaming?”