Multiple Exposure A Sophie Medina Mystery (9 page)

I stood up. “You need to forget it, do you understand? Don’t repeat a word of this to anyone. The meeting, the conversation . . . it never happened.”

“Arkady Vasiliev threatened you, Sophie. And he thinks your husband is alive,” she said. “Is he? Is it true? I knew you thought he was, I just knew it.”

“Ali, stop!” I clenched my fists. What I really wanted to do was clap them over her mouth. “Stop asking questions. You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked. “This is like being in a spy movie.”

“No,” I said, my voice rising. “No, no, no. It is not. It’s the real thing. And I’m not going to do anything except carry on like nothing happened. And you’re going to do the same. But right now we need to get you out of here so Arkady Vasiliev doesn’t put two and two together and realize you were next door when he thought he and I were having a private conversation.”

Ali gave a little one-shoulder shrug. “That’s easy. I’ll just take the tunnel to the other side of the gallery. I can stop off in the kitchen . . . one of the waiters told me there’s an awful lot of food.”

“You’d better get back to Luke. He’s going to be wondering what happened to you.”

“Oh, come on,” she said. “What’s the harm? I’ll just take a quick peek. Sue me for having a little fun at a glam party.”

I opened the conference room door and listened. All we needed was for Vasiliev to have posted one of his bodyguards there, but the hall was silent. I turned back to Ali and said, “There’s no one there. I’ll see you back in the Rotunda in a few minutes, okay?”

She grinned, putting her arm over her mouth and nose like she was wearing a veil. “I always wanted to be Mata Hari.”

I groaned. “Just go.”

She left, and a moment later, the metal door at the end of the corridor scraped open and then closed. A text message from Luke chirped on my phone.

Where are you? Hathaway just arrived. Orlov still here.

This evening couldn’t end soon enough.

*

I left through the passageway door to the cloakroom and walked into the Founders’ Room in time to see Scott Hathaway standing in the lobby trailed by half a dozen dark-suited men and women who looked like members of his staff. A group of admirers surged around him—everyone seemed to want to touch him—and he waded into the crowd, laughing and chatting, backslapping the men and kissing the women. I’d run into Hathaway on a couple of occasions when he was overseas with some congressional delegation, and I’d always found him to be smart, personable, and well liked. Plenty of his peers lived up to the stereotype of foreign trips as party junkets or shopping sprees to fun or exotic places with taxpayers footing the bill, but Hathaway wasn’t one of them. Nor did he have the parochial ugly American view that the world revolved around Washington because the United States was the center of the universe.

Tall and lean with an athlete’s erect posture, dark blond hair turning white at the temples and just beginning to recede at the hairline, he was handsome in a craggy patrician way. Just now he was charming his fans with his crinkle-eyed grin and a sonorous voice that cut through the buzz of conversation, especially his thick-as-mustard Boston accent, all dropped
r
’s and elongated
a
’s.

“Scott!”

Hathaway looked up as his wife waved and called to him from the Rotunda. I had seen Roxanne Lane Hathaway from a distance for most of the evening. She was a pretty, petite redhead who moved with an easy charm and grace, a good foil for her husband.

I heard him say, “Theah’s the boss. I’d better get over there and join her. Good seeing you, Danny-boy. Stu, keep an eye on your pretty bride befoah someone steals her.”

Danny-boy or Stu leaned over and said something that made Hathaway roar with laughter. Hathaway patted the man on the back and moved toward his wife just as Yuri Orlov and his embassy entourage walked into the East Sculpture Hall. The two men saw each other instantly. I thought Moses had been exaggerating when he implied that a meeting between Orlov and Hathaway might be as combustible and drama laden as the gunfight at the O.K. Corral. But there was Orlov, a stocky, compact man with a bullet-shaped head and the florid face of a heavy drinker, barreling down the hallway toward the Rotunda, his body tilted forward as though battling a fierce headwind, and Hathaway standing there watching him, just like Wyatt Earp waiting for the Clantons and the McLaurys.

I raised my camera and a woman’s voice said in my ear, “Put the goddamn camera down or else. No photos of this meeting, got that?”

I obeyed, adding, “You could have said ‘please’ put the goddamn camera down.”

One of Hathaway’s aides. Dressed in a severe black suit, white silk blouse, black kitten heels, very young and very pretty, except for the glower on her face. “Please,” she said through gritted teeth and with not much sincerity and left to rejoin Hathaway who, by now, had extended his hand to Yuri Orlov.

Orlov’s group closed ranks around him; Hathaway’s people muscled in behind their boss. I lost sight of Roxanne, but a few guests had stopped to watch the meeting.

“Good to see you, Mr. Ambassador.” Hathaway sounded friendly and upbeat. “Especially on an occasion that showcases your country’s magnificent cultural heritage.”

Orlov played along. “It’s good to see you, too, Senator. I did not know you were so interested in Russian art.”

Hathaway flashed his genial smile. “Ah, but you’re mistaken, Yuri. I try to visit the Hermitage, the Pushkin, and the Tretyakov every time I’m in Moscow or St. Petersburg. And my wife is on the board of directors of the National Gallery. She’s been telling me about this exhibit for months.”

“Excellent,” Orlov said. “But you would be wise, Scott, to confine your interest to Russian art and refrain from supporting the literature of terrorists who plot against my government.”

There was a long moment of silence as Hathaway ducked his head and appeared to consider his response to Orlov’s polite insult.

“Now, Yuri. First, he’s no terrorist, and second, you’re talking about something that’s an entirely private matter. Third, this is the United States of America.” Though he continued to smile, his tone had turned professorial and no-nonsense and the Hahvad-yahd accent more pronounced. “Freedom of speech is one of our fundamental rights, whatevah or whoevah the source. You know that.”

Orlov snorted. “Don’t pull that with me, Scott. Do you really believe that this book signing you’re hosting for Taras Attar has no political significance? What message does it send to the Abadi rebels? I tell you what: that they have a friend in the United States of America. Come, come. I give you credit for more intelligence than to pretend otherwise.”

A tiny muscle flexed in Hathaway’s jaw and his eyes narrowed, but he held his tongue and his manners. “I’ve known Taras longer than I’ve known you. We were classmates at school thirty years ago. As far as I’m concerned this is a personal matter, a favor to an old friend, and it’s my business. There’s really nothing further to discuss.”

Orlov, on the other hand, had been drinking all night, and his boiling point was lower than Hathaway’s. His ruddy face became even more flushed and he shook his finger at Scott Hathaway. “This is
not
finished, Senator. We will not tolerate this situation, do you understand?”

The room became silent as Orlov’s ultimatum hung in the air and then started spinning, a dangerous, shimmering taunt. I caught a blur of motion that was Seth MacDonald moving swiftly across the Rotunda on his way to defuse this ticking time bomb about to go
boom
. Roxanne Hathaway, flaming red hair, glittering one-shouldered electric green dress, also hurried toward her husband. Before either of them could reach the two men, or Hathaway could counter with
Or else, what?
Katya Gordon appeared, sliding her arm through Orlov’s, and murmuring to him in Russian.

Whatever she said appeared to mollify him because he gave her a curt nod and said something that sounded like “
Udachi.
”

Good luck.

Katya turned to Scott Hathaway. “Senator, it would be my pleasure to give you a private tour of the
Lost Treasures
exhibit.”

She extended her hand as Seth and Roxanne surrounded Orlov and began talking to him in soothing voices, distracting him as they ushered him toward the exit.

Hathaway shook Katya’s hand. “Thank you. That’s very kind. And you are—?”

Katya’s smile froze as though she was stunned Hathaway needed to ask. “Dr. Katya Gordon. I am the curator of this exhibit.” She paused and added in a stiff voice, “I beg your pardon, but I thought you would remember me. You and I have met before.”

Hathaway gave her a tight smile. “Of course. Forgive me, it’s been awhile. I’d be delighted if you’d show me the exhibit, but I don’t want to impose with so many other guests here tonight. I’m sure you’re much in demand.”

“It’s no imposition at all.” Katya turned to Hathaway’s aides, who were starting to fall in line behind the two of them. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind allowing me to give the senator a private tour? Please check your tickets, as they are printed with the time you yourselves can view the exhibit. In the meantime there is plenty to eat and drink, so please enjoy yourselves. I’ll have Senator Hathaway back to you shortly.”

The young woman who’d ordered me to put my goddamn camera down didn’t look happy at being untethered from Scott Hathaway, who was already walking toward the East Garden Court with Katya Gordon. As she joined her colleagues who were drifting over to one of the bars, something flickered across her face, an emotion I couldn’t quite read. Anger, maybe.

“What was that all about?” Luke said in my ear. “What did I miss?”

I hadn’t heard him come up behind me and I jumped. “Yuri Orlov going at it with Scott Hathaway. Katya Gordon rescued Hathaway and took him off for a private tour. Seth and Roxanne Hathaway practically had to get Orlov in a headlock so they could escort him to the door.”

“Damn, I would have paid to see that,” he said. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. Everything all right? You seem sort of keyed up.”

“Me? No, I’m perfectly fine.” I changed the subject. “I tried to take pictures of the Orlov-Hathaway meeting, but some twelve-year-old from Hathaway’s staff threatened me with bodily harm when she saw my camera. I guess they’re exempt from child labor laws on Capitol Hill.”

Luke grinned but he shook his head. “We’re getting paid to take pictures of people having a good time, not the Russian ambassador and the Senate majority leader about to duke it out in the middle of the National Gallery.”

“They’d be newsworthy pictures.”

“Newsworthy for International Press Service, not for Focus Photography. So don’t go there. We wouldn’t get invited back to the next soiree if we pulled that crap.” He held up the key to Seth’s closet. “I need to get a fresh battery for my flash. You okay? Need anything?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “I’m going to wander down to the East Garden Court and wait for Katya Gordon and Scott Hathaway. Get them to pose for a few pictures.”

“Great,” he said. “Catch you later.”

*

Not anger, but jealousy. I figured it out while I was lingering by the fountain where the two cherubs that had once graced the courtyard of Versailles played the lyre. Hathaway’s aide hadn’t been angry that Katya Gordon spirited off her boss and forbade everyone else from tagging along. She’d been jealous.

An affair between her and her boss? Or was she just besotted with Hathaway and he didn’t know or wasn’t interested? Powerful older men and pretty young women—you almost expect it these days. I filed that thought away as a heavyset African-American man wearing a navy blazer with a badge with a gold eagle insignia and the words
PROTECTIVE STAFF NGA
came up to me.

“Sorry, miss. No photographs allowed here.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m one of the official photographers for tonight. They’re paying me to take pictures. I was hoping to ask Dr. Gordon and Senator Hathaway to pose for a couple of shots after they leave the exhibit.”

“In that case, no problem,” he said. “But it’s gotta be out here. They’re being real strict about the no-photo rule. I already had to ask a lady and her daughter to delete pictures on their phones even though there are signs up all over the place.”

“I understand,” I said. “Dr. MacDonald and Mr. Rattigan made sure we were aware of that restriction.”

“Good,” he said. “Senator Hathaway and Dr. Gordon have been in the gallery about fifteen minutes. Oughta be coming out soon. She asked to have the place to herself, so I had to shoo everyone else out. I don’t think they’re gonna take long. You can hang around here and wait if you want.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll do that.”

I had counted on Katya Gordon and Scott Hathaway leaving the exhibit through the main door, figuring she’d end her tour with the Fabergé eggs just as we’d done the day before with Seth. If they did, it would bring them back into the East Garden Court. What I’d forgotten was door number two, a side exit off the room where Maria Feodorovna’s paintings were displayed. It led to a lobby, a set of staircases, and a small atrium with a glassed-in balcony overlooking the 4th Street courtyard between the East and West buildings of the National Gallery. By the time I remembered that other door, I’d moved to the opposite side of the East Garden Court near the entrance to the East Sculpture Hall.

I looked up as the museum guard raised his hand and pointed to the atrium: They’d used the side door. From where I stood, the fountain blocked my view, but I could still get my shots of Katya Gordon and Scott Hathaway because they had to come through the East Garden Court in order to get to the East Sculpture Hall and the Rotunda.

Unless the reason they’d chosen that exit was that it was next to those staircases to the lower level.

What if Hathaway had decided to leave the museum after Katya’s private tour? The Senate majority leader probably had enough clout to persuade the guards downstairs to let him out the first-floor exit. I cursed and flew across the East Garden Court. If I had to take my photos in the atrium, I’d have to deal with the mirrored reflections from the glass, plus the glare of lights through that balcony window. Spotlights glinting off the East Building across the street and, in the plaza below, a lighted semiunderground fountain alongside pyramid-shaped skylights that would glitter like massive diamonds.