Multiple Exposure A Sophie Medina Mystery (12 page)

There was a half-full bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon on the kitchen counter. I got it, poured a glass of wine, and found the floral-print zippered bag where I kept my passport in the top drawer of the bedroom dresser. Tucked between the cover and first page was the business card John Brown gave me that day at Heathrow: the phone number for Napoleon Duval, my CIA contact in the United States. Tomorrow I’d call Duval, tell him what happened at that meeting with Arkady Vasiliev, and see what he had to say.

I brought the business card out to the living room and set it on the desk beside my laptop. What I was less sure of was what to do about meeting number two, the one between the Russian and the American. Tell Duval about that, too? I could just imagine how my end of the conversation would go.

No, sorry, I don’t know who either of the men was. I didn’t see them, so I couldn’t identify anyone except, possibly, by his voice. I believe the victim might be Taras Attar, the Abadi politician and author, but I have no idea where or when they plan to murder him. Oh, by the way, Senator Scott Hathaway is one of the accomplices.

Duval would think I was a lunatic and he might even question whether I was telling the truth about my conversation with Vasiliev as well. Maybe he’d decide I had a few screws loose, the distraught wife of a missing operative using an attention-getting ploy to make sure her husband hadn’t been forgotten about.

My backpack sat on the floor next to the desk. Inside were my cameras and the memory cards filled with photos I promised Luke I’d start editing. Tonight I needed to get to work, take my mind off everything. Tomorrow I’d meet Duval, figure out what kind of guy he was, and take it from there.

I refilled my wineglass, changed into jeans and a T-shirt, and downloaded eight hundred and sixteen photos from a card reader onto my laptop. Luke told me he’d taken about nine hundred pictures. Editing them—cropping, retouching, adjusting highlights and shadows—and then culling them and selecting the best ones to send to Katya and Lara Gordon would take time.

I scrolled through the pictures. Sometimes you can get lucky if, say, the lighting is exactly the same in a group of photos because you can make adjustments by doing what’s called batch editing and that speeds up the process. But because of the skylights in the National Gallery and the shifting light and shadows as it grew dark outside, most of these pictures would have to be edited one by one.

The half dozen shots I’d taken of Katya and Scott Hathaway on the atrium balcony were, as expected, too dark to make out much detail. Maybe if I enhanced them, played around a little, I’d have some luck, but that project would have to wait. I did spend some time taking an extra-close look at photos of both Scott Hathaway and Arkady Vasiliev, checking to see if anyone—one of Hathaway’s aides or Vasiliev’s bodyguards—showed up regularly in the background.

Thinking about it logically, it made sense that the American was probably on Hathaway’s staff. And Vasiliev, who had exclusive access to the conference room, would have told the Russian he’d have complete privacy for a meeting there. Yuri Orlov had left the National Gallery by then, and when he’d swept out of the museum it looked like he’d taken his retinue with him, like a king with his court, so I didn’t think the Russian worked for him. But Luke had said that Vasiliev had also left early. Hadn’t he taken his entourage with him, too? Did someone stay behind? Or had a third party borrowed the conference room for that clandestine meeting and Vasiliev had no clue?

The pictures I’d taken of Hathaway before his aide shut me down showed the senator surrounded by women. And Vasiliev’s security people all looked like identical Russian Rambos: built solid as tractors, with stares that would pin you to a wall and freeze you there, earpiece and wire running into the suit jacket, hands clasped at the waist.

I gave up trying to figure out who I was looking for and went outside to my balcony. It had cooled off, the night breeze rustling the gauzy privacy curtain and the air soft and sweet as cream. A nearly full moon had risen above the treetops and the late-night traffic was a distant buzz. I heard banging—at first I thought it was the apartment below or something on the street—until I realized someone was knocking on my door.

I didn’t know a soul in the building and it wouldn’t be a manager at eleven o’clock at night. But when they’re coming for you, they don’t knock first, do they? I went inside and picked up a poker from a set of fireplace tools next to the electric fireplace—the Roosevelt is like that, little touches of unreality to create the illusion of home—just in case.

I stood next to the door and said, “Who is it?”

“Pizza delivery. Sophie? Hey, open up. I brought dinner.”

I quit holding my breath. It was Luke.

“Give me a minute.” I went over and shoved the poker back where it belonged.

“I figured you’d still be up,” he said when I opened the door. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

He had changed, too, from the Armani suit into faded jeans and a bright yellow polo shirt. His equipment backpack was slung over his shoulder and he was holding a white delivery pizza box that smelled fragrantly of fresh tomato and basil.

“I had the water running in the bathroom,” I said. “What are you doing here? And how did you get in?”

“Followed someone who was kind enough to hold the door.”

How did he get so lucky? Every time I got here after the doors were locked for the night, I had to fish out my key because the place was always deserted and silent as a tomb.

“How’d you find out which apartment was mine?”

He gave me a quizzical look. “Do you think I could come in and we could talk about this? The pizza’s getting cold and I don’t want to wake your neighbors.”

“Pardon? Oh, sure. Sorry.”

He walked in and set the pizza box on the kitchen counter. “There was nobody at the front desk so I walked around until I found the mailboxes in that little room off the lobby. Your name is on 2F.”

I nodded, feeling dumb. “You’re right. I forgot.”

He set his backpack down. “Are you a fugitive from the law or in a witness protection program so you don’t want anyone finding you?”

“Of course not.” I reached for the bottle of wine. “Drink?”

He nodded and I said, “I’m just curious why you didn’t call before you came by?”

“I did and my equipment bag rang.” He reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out my phone. “Didn’t you miss it? I figured you needed it tonight, so I picked up the pizza and came over. There wasn’t time to send smoke signals to warn you.”

His
equipment bag. I’d dumped the phone in it while I was in Seth’s closet, thinking it was my bag. He handed me the phone and I gave him a glass of wine.

I smiled. “Fair enough. Sorry for sounding paranoid. And thanks.”

“Are you all right?” he asked. “Or are you always this jumpy?”

It was the second time he’d asked me that tonight.

“I’m fine.” I refilled my own wineglass. “I’m also starved. The pizza smells great. Thanks for bringing it.”

“You’re welcome. As long as I’m here, I figured we could eat and then get some work done together, if that’s all right?”

I nodded and got plates and paper napkins. “I had no idea my phone was gone. And I got ‘the lecture’ when I moved in here. Don’t let anyone follow you in. Everyone’s supposed to have their own key, et cetera, et cetera.”

“That explains no one at the front desk and no security guard,” he said.

“We’re supposed to be our own security. That’s why the rent is so reasonable. They don’t even have video cameras.”

“I guess your neighbor figured not many people turn up to break into a place and bring pizza, so she made an exception.” He looked around. “It’s a nice apartment.”

“It’s perfect for what I need now. You can rent by the month, so I took it while I was waiting for my shipment from London.”

“When does that get here?”

“It came a couple of days ago. Everything’s in a warehouse in Baltimore until I figure out what I’m doing next.”

“I thought you told me you have family living in D.C. Can’t you move in with someone for a while?”

“My mother and stepfather live out in Middleburg,” I said. “And I have a stepsister and stepbrother who are a lot younger than I am. Lexie just finished undergrad. She lives near Eastern Market with five other people and her bedroom is the size of my bathroom. Tommy’s studying to be a doctor. He’s working in Honduras for a year.”

“I guess Middleburg would be a hell of a commute.”

“It would.” Not to mention I’d have to live with my mother. “I need to find a place in town. It’s nice tonight. How about if we eat on the balcony?”

I’d left two red pillar candles and a fire starter on the small patio table. Luke lit the candles while I brushed twigs and dried leaves off the folding chairs.

“How’d your pictures turn out?” he asked.

“Pretty good. How about yours?”

“Same.” He set down his pizza. “You know, if this is going to work out—you and me—I have to get something off my chest.”

“What?”

He gave me a long look. “We need to be able to trust each other.”

I said in an even voice, “I trust you.”

“That’s nice,” he said, “but it’s not mutual. You’ve been edgy and evasive all evening. When are you going to tell me what’s going on? Whatever it is, I’m pretty sure it has to do with the reception tonight and I think I have the right to know what it is.”

In my marriage, trust had so often depended on what was
not
said, a secret that needed to be kept, a confidence that could not be betrayed. Woven through it all like a bright thread was complete faith in the other person. That was the only way it worked.

Luke didn’t have faith in me, but I couldn’t tell him what he wanted to know. The meeting between Vasiliev and me was strictly for Napoleon Duval’s ears. I couldn’t get Luke mixed up in that. But what would he say if I told him about the American and the Russian?

“Well?” he said.

“How about if I open another bottle of wine?”

“As bad as that?” he said, getting up. “Sit tight. I’ll do it. I saw another bottle of red on your counter.”

When he came back, I said, “You’re right. There is something. But I’m warning you, you’re not going to like it.”

He looked grim as he filled my glass. “I was afraid of that. What happened?”

“I heard something tonight,” I said, “when I went back to Seth’s office to get that memory card. Two men came into the conference room, a Russian and an American. They were there about five minutes, maybe a little less. They were discussing a plan to assassinate someone. Another Russian. I’m pretty sure it was Taras Attar.”

Luke set the wine bottle on the table. “Are you serious?”

“That’s not all. I think the American works for Scott Hathaway. It sounded like Hathaway’s mixed up in this, too . . . or at least he knows about it.”

Luke gave me a sideways glance, his eyes glittering like a cat’s in the golden candlelight. “Scott Hathaway is involved in a plot to assassinate a Russian that you think is Taras Attar? You’re sure about that?” His voice was flat with disbelief.

We’d been speaking quietly so as not to disturb my neighbors. Now our voices dropped to whispers like we were conspirators ourselves.

“The American said something to the Russian that made it sound like Hathaway knows what’s going to happen. The Russian told him all he has to do is turn his back . . . maybe Hathaway is supposed to do the same thing.”

Below us in the Roosevelt’s parking lot, someone started a car, a late-night run for cigarettes or beer, or maybe a midnight rendezvous. The moon had disappeared from view, leaving a bronze-tinged night sky bright from the glow of city lights, too bright to be able to see any stars.

“And why would Scott Hathaway do something like that?” Luke leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. He sounded like an adult parsing each sentence of a child’s tall tale, until finally we both would agree that someone had a vivid imagination, didn’t she, making up a story like that?

I knew he wouldn’t believe me. “How the hell should I know why he’d do it?”

“Calm down. Jeez, don’t bite my head off.”

“Then don’t patronize me.”

He blew out a long breath and laid both hands palms down on the table, fingers splayed like he was trying to compose himself. “All right, sorry. Let’s start over. Do you know who these guys are, other than a Russian and an American? You’re sure about their nationalities?”

“Yes, I’m sure. And no, I don’t know who they are. I told you. I heard them, but I didn’t see them. The Russian knew about the conference room, so I imagine he worked for Vasiliev. As for the American—” I shrugged. “It’s a guess, but I figure he works for Scott Hathaway. He showed up with a bunch of aides, remember?”

“Okay. Why are you sure they were talking about Taras Attar?”

“I’m not one hundred percent sure. But they said something about a guy who was arriving in a couple of days . . . and that he was a Russian who lived in Russia.”

“You’re also positive these guys mentioned Hathaway’s name?”

I nodded. “The American did.”

“You’re right. It is a hell of a story.” Luke took a bite of cold pizza. “What are you going to do about it?”

I couldn’t tell if it was a dare or a challenge, but I didn’t think he knew himself how to handle this because of what it might unleash. The possible consequences not only for me but also for Focus, repercussions that could boomerang back to the National Gallery of Art.

“What do you think I should do?” I said.

He was silent for a moment. “I don’t know. What’s the post-nine/eleven Homeland Security slogan? ‘If you see something, say something.’ ”

On my way over to the National Gallery this evening I’d followed a car with a bumper sticker that had the stars and stripes on it. An unblinking eye peeking out from among the stars, and fingers, like they were parting window blinds, parting the stripes. Underneath were the words
ONE NATION, UNDER SURVEILLANCE.

That’s who we were now. Our brothers’ keepers.

“All right, say I call somebody. Who is going to believe me when I bring up Scott Hathaway? You didn’t.” I gave him a pointed look. “You still don’t, do you?”