Flight of the Raven (8 page)

“Who?”

“One of the KGB agents in your mug book.”

Cal swore under his breath, but the imprecation held a strange note of triumph. “I knew it.”

“Who was it?” Fitz questioned.

“Aleksei Rozonov.”

“The cultural attaché?”

“Yeah, he’s one of their top boys,” Cal said. “This is going to be very tricky,” he added to himself.

Julie felt as though a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. Why hadn’t she come to Cal in the first place? He was a lot better equipped to deal with this sort of thing than she. “I’ve hardly been able to sleep since Friday night,” she admitted.

“Tell me what happened and don’t leave anything out,” Cal directed.

She hesitated for a moment. So much of the encounter had been in nuances she didn’t want to examine too closely. Yet her sense of being in danger had been very real. “I could feel him watching me at the intermission. Then, just before the third act started, he came up and asked me how I was enjoying the play, but it wasn’t a casual conversation. I felt he was looking for something.”

“That was it?” Fitz prompted. He sounded relieved, as though he’d expected her to admit going off into a corner with the man and exchanging secret documents.

Cal continued the interrogation. “What did you think of Rozonov?”

“Intelligent. Polished. Dangerous.”
Darkly handsome. Devastatingly sexy. Too confident.
Her response to the Russian had been powerful and disturbing. That put her in an even more precarious position than merely using Dan’s theater ticket. But she wasn’t about to share the insight with Cal.

They had reached a little circle called the Plaza de Nicaragua. In the center was a fountain decorated with dolphins and cherubs. A sudden shift in the wind sent the spray in their direction. Cal put his arm up to shade his face but Julie welcomed the cool mist of water. When she turned to face the fountain, he grasped her forearm and steered them back in the direction of the lake. Fitz wheeled with them as though they were in military formation.

“We’ve got to find out what Eisenberg was up to and why the Russian is interested,” Cal said.

“Maybe Dan was doing some sort of government undercover work,” Fitz suggested.

“If that were true, I’d know about it,” Cal snapped. “Get it into your head that the man was involved in something unsavory. And I’m going to find out what it was.” He was silent as they skirted the crowd at the edge of the lake, where street vendors were selling trinkets and candy. When they’d gained one of the less traveled jogging paths, he turned to Julie.

“Aleksei Rozonov thinks you know something.”

“But I don’t.”

“That’s beside the point.”

“Cal, I don’t want to get involved in whatever this is.”

Fitz sighed. “I’m afraid you got involved when you used that ticket.”

She’d been worrying about that since Friday night. Now it was out in the open. “Can’t someone else handle it from here on out?”

“I’d like nothing better than to put a professional on the case. But it would tip our hand to switch dancers in mid-waltz, so to speak,” Cal pointed out.

“And it’s vital that we find out what’s going on,” Fitz added.

Julie took a deep breath. “Then, what am I going to have to do?”

“Get to know Rozonov a little better.”

An image of a sacrificial goat tethered to a stake leaped into her mind. Her heart started to pound. From the moment the Russian’s icy blue eyes had locked with hers, she had known the man was a threat. She had sensed danger and intrigue swirling around him like demons in a mist. But her apprehension had been on a personal level as well. Even though their encounter had been brief, she had felt a dark attraction pulling her toward the man. It had made her want to run the other way. Now—my God!—Cal Dixon was practically throwing her at him.

* * *

I
T HAD BEEN
a long time since he had prowled the marble galleries of the Prado, the former palace that housed Spain’s national art collection. Now, as so often in the past, the Raven’s footsteps brought him to the paintings of Hieronymus Bosch, the fifteenth-century Dutch master whose works had been collected by Philip II.

Bosch had been obsessed with retribution for sin—like some of the great Russian novelists. But his artistic expression was so startlingly different. His huge canvases were often divided into several parts, some depicting in intricate detail throngs of men and women enjoying the pleasures of the flesh. Other equally elaborate sections illustrated their eternal tortures in hell. Bosch liked to make the punishment fit the crime. The Raven’s eyes were drawn particularly to the men falling under the blade of a long, phallic looking knife and the woman whose naked ivory skin was being fondled by the spidery claws of a green monster.

He could easily picture Bosch exchanging creative ideas with the twentieth-century torture masters who ran the Gulag Archipelago, the chain of prison camps where so many Soviet citizens had disappeared. The thought made a sudden chill dance down his spine. If his own sins against the state were discovered, he’d rot in the Russian version of hell. That was a risk he’d chosen to take, but still, Bosch’s graphic nightmares disturbed him.

Turning away, he headed toward the Rubens collection, knowing that less moralistic subjects would lift his spirits. The amply endowed females the painter had favored reminded him of many of his countrywomen. But a Russian painter would have covered them in furs and heavy garments rather than mere wisps of lace.

To even the most alert observer, his progress through the crowded galleries would seen random. He might be just another tourist taking in Madrid’s most celebrated cultural attraction. But he was really making his way toward a little-used stairway at the west end of the building. Just above the ground floor, a piece of marble molding was loose. Behind it, was the dead drop where he and Peregrine agents had left material for each other before the net around him had begun to tighten. On his way down it was impossible to stop because there were a number of people on the stairs. So he passed by the drop and went to look at some of the Flemish baroque paintings. Fifteen minutes later the stairwell was clear, except for a man holding the hand of a small girl. After waiting until they were out of sight, the Raven reached down quickly, slid the piece of marble aside, shoved an envelope into the opening, and replaced the marble. Then he strolled back to the main floor and out of the museum. In keeping with his tourist pose, he turned in the direction of the smaller building several blocks away that housed Picasso’s famous
Guernica.

The information he’d left was merely a test of the communications link with the Falcon—a photocopy of the embassy’s confidential telephone directory, information that would be of minor use to the West. Since the material could have been supplied by anyone on the staff, it wouldn’t point an incriminating finger at him. Now he’d just have to wait and see what sort of return message appeared in the clandestine mailbox.

The strategy was sound. But waiting was like sitting on top of a live grenade that could go off at any minute.

* * *

J
ULIE TOOK
two 100-peseta notes from her evening bag and handed them to the cabdriver. After withdrawing her party invitation, she stepped out onto the sidewalk and allowed the folds of her long burgundy dress to settle gracefully into place. Then she made her way toward the high wall that shielded Byne House from view.

She’d attended only a few previous soirees at the mansion. The occasions had simply been an extension of her business dealings with officials in the Spanish government. This evening was still business, but of quite a different type. It was to be her first contrived meeting with the Russian spy. The assignment had her nerves stretched taut. To calm them, she forced herself to think about the opulent setting rather than the dangerous man she’d been sent here to meet.

Byne House was actually a small palace and one of the most carefully preserved legacies of Madrid’s elegant past. Ironically, it had been the home of an expatriate New York millionaire, Arthur Byne, whose widow had willed it to the United States. Now it was the official residence of the embassy’s second-in-command, Henry Sloane, and his wife Margaret.

Much of the American’s diplomatic entertaining took place in its gracious public rooms and gardens. Tonight Byne House was the scene of a reception for the highly acclaimed Philadelphia Opera, which was mounting its first European tour. Though the opera singers had been well reviewed by the Madrid press, Raphael Conti, the flamboyant artistic director, had stolen the show. When Paula and the other staffers in Julie’s section had learned she was attending the reception for him and the rest of the cast and orchestra, they’d been jealous. Word had it that her uncle’s political connections had procured her the invitation. She’d been grateful for the misconception.

Because Aleksei Rozonov had known Conti in New York, there had been no questions asked when the Russian cultural attaché had been added to the invitation list. Cal Dixon had called Julie to his office to apprise her of the game plan.

“Rozonov must be anxious to renew his friendship with Conti. They went to high school together in New York, and by all accounts, they were quite a pair. I see from the Russian’s file”—which had expanded by at least an inch since the last time Julie had seen it—”that they once took the Conti limousine for a joy ride into Canada. If Rozonov’s father hadn’t pulled some strings, that stunt would have gotten Aleksei Iliyanovich sent back to school in Moscow.”

It was hard for Julie to picture the man with the penetrating ice blue eyes participating in such a prank. But the KGB agent, like everyone else, must have been young once. Quickly she blocked out the mitigating thought. Rozonov was the enemy, and the only safe course was to keep reminding herself of that fact.

Julie knocked on the heavy wooden door and waited while a tuxedoed butler carefully inspected her engraved invitation. She knew the precaution wasn’t simply to keep out gate-crashers. For the safety of the high-level diplomats gathered here, security had to be stringent, even if it was disguised in gracious party regalia.

The gate opened into the garden and Julie stood for a moment surveying the glittering scene. Men and women dressed in evening clothes were gathered in small groups, chatting casually. Waiters circulated among them with silver trays of champagne and canapés. The courtyard was illuminated by lanterns strung between the trees.

Margaret Sloane, dressed in a stunning ivory gown, was welcoming guests as they arrived.

“I’m so glad you could join us this evening,” she said. “You know your way around, don’t you, my dear?”

Julie nodded. Her background had well prepared her to mix and mingle with the high-society crowd. She’d learned early from her mother that in social situations you did what was correct, not necessarily what was natural.

She brought a courteous yet slightly reserved smile to her face as she complimented her hostess on the setting before moving into the garden.

A waiter stopped to offer her a glass of champagne, but she declined and asked where she could find the bar. A glass of club soda with a twist of lemon was more appropriate to the evening’s game plan.

As she made her way along the circular path that skirted the small fountain, she passed Ambassador Thomas, enjoying an animated conversation with one of the featured sopranos, Geraldine Lowery. The tall, distinguished-looking man glanced up at his young staffer, seemed momentarily surprised, and then nodded a greeting. She returned the salutation with an automatic smile. Although she’d been afraid to ask, she suspected that Cal was running this operation without the knowledge of the embassy’s senior staff. Now that suspicion was even stronger.

The bar was set up near the French doors that connected a casually decorated garden room to the courtyard. After getting her soda, Julie drifted inside.

Where was Rozonov? she wondered. Had he arrived yet, or had he decided to skip the party after all? She’d spent the past few days psyching herself up to confront him this evening. Although she still dreaded the meeting, she wanted to get it over with.

In the wide hallway one of the senior political officers gave her an appreciative smile. “You look absolutely terrific, Julie. You ought to dress this way for the office. It would certainly liven things up.”

Julie accepted the compliment graciously. In truth, she had dressed carefully for the occasion, finding it easier to think about her hair and makeup than about her assignment for the evening. Her dark tresses were swept up in a French twist with just a few dark curls artfully arranged at her cheeks. The upswept hairstyle was a perfect foil for her long burgundy evening dress. From the front it was almost demure. But the provocative back plunged almost to her waistline.

Upstairs, she could hear one of the musicians engaged in an impromptu performance. As she climbed the wide marble steps, a piano rendition of the overture to
The Barber of Seville
drifted downward. Ordinarily its energetic baroque rhythm would have put her in a carefree mood. But not this evening. Even the seventeenth-century splendor of the house with its carved stone fireplaces and elaborately painted ceilings failed to capture her interest for long.

Many of the singers and orchestra members had gathered in the music room. Julie skirted the entrance and made her way to the main reception hall. The moment she entered she felt a chill down the bare expanse of her back. Rozonov was there. She knew it.

Her eyes scanned the crowd and found him standing near one of the stone columns that decorated the room. He was turned away from her, talking to Conti. Even in a black tuxedo, the male uniform for the occasion, he was instantly recognizable. Had she really memorized the erect carriage of his broad shoulders and the way his dark hair tapered at the back of his neck?

All the anxiety that had enveloped her in the theater suddenly came swirling back, threatening to suffocate her. Just as it had before, her survival instinct urged her to turn and run. But it was too late for that.