by Rebecca York
He looked up to see the always impeccably dressed Gorlov threading his way through the tables of Spanish businessmen enjoying the customary extended lunch.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said as he slid into the blue banquette across from his junior colleague. “But Moscow is pushing me to firm up that agricultural exchange program. When Gomez finally got down to business just before I was due here, I could hardly walk out on the man.”
Krasin nodded and poured his colleague a glass of sangria, noting that while he might sound a bit distressed, there wasn’t a lock out of place in his stylishly cut hair. He’d wondered more than once how his fellow agent managed to live so well on his salary, even taking into consideration the perks that went with their particular line of work. Did Gorlov have something else going on the side? He kept that particular question to himself. “So what else is new in your department?” he asked instead.
Gorlov shrugged and gave a brief summary of the week’s ups and downs before opening his menu. The next several minutes were taken up with a discussion of what chanfaina, the restaurant’s special of the day, might be, and what precisely was in the seafood salad. There was no hope that the waiter could provide an explanation in Russian, so they were on their own.
After ordering, the two men continued to exchange inconsequential pleasantries. Spreading a thick layer of butter on the dry bread, Krasin reminded himself that lunch at a fine Spanish restaurant was never less than a two-hour affair. There’d be time enough to find out what Gorlov really wanted to talk about.
After the seafood bisque had arrived, his companion finally cleared his throat. “How’s your assignment for Bogolubov coming?”
Sensing more than casual interest behind the question, Krasin looked up cautiously. “Slow, but I’m making progress.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“And you?”
“About the same.”
“What aspect of the case are you working on, anyway?” Krasin tried. Gorlov and the general had seemed rather chummy, and he had wondered what was going on.
The other man picked up his butter knife and tested its edge against his thumb. There was a favor he needed, and he was confident that he could get it if he went about things in the right way. “I’ve been assigned to gather background information on our embassy personnel.”
“Oh?” Krasin’s face remained impassive, but he could feel a muscle twitching in his neck. No matter how careful you were, there was always some smirch on your record that could be dragged out in case Moscow needed a scapegoat.
“I just happened to be reviewing your file yesterday. You have had your share of minor infractions, haven’t you?”
“But you didn’t find I was a security risk.”
“No.”
Georgi let out the breath he’d been holding. “Then what are you getting at?”
“There are a few details I chose not to call to Bogolubov’s attention.”
No one did favors for free in this business. “I assume there’s something you want in return.”
“You’re a fast learner. You’ll probably go far in the service.”
Silence hung over the table as the waiter came to refill their glasses of mineral water. There was a chance that he might just understand Russian. When he had departed, Gorlov returned to his soup for a moment. “Not bad,” he commented. “But the squid’s a little rubbery.”
Georgi waited. He hadn’t known some of the seafood in the soup was squid, and he wished Feliks had kept that bit of information to himself.
“You know, the general and I have been working very closely on this case,” Feliks confided.
“I had that impression.”
“I understand there’s some pressure from Moscow to clear this whole thing up. And, I’ve been thinking, it will be a credit to both our records if we come through with what the general needs.”
“I’d been thinking the same thing,” Georgi agreed. But insuring that his reports on the explosion at the San Jeronimo met expectations had made him feel like an infantry man stumbling through a mine field without a metal detector.
“Why don’t we collaborate on this,” Feliks suggested. “If you show your raw data to me first, I can make sure it’s in the form Bogolubov wants and also alert you to any areas that need fleshing out.”
Georgi pushed his steel-rimmed glasses onto the bridge of his nose. There was no way Feliks was making this offer out of the goodness of his heart. It sounded as though he wanted access to the police reports of the investigation. But why? To find out, he’d have to play along.
“It’s flattering to have a senior officer taking a personal interest in my career,” he observed dryly.
“Then we can work together.”
“Yes.” For now, anyway, Georgi thought slyly.
* * *
ALEKSEI ROZONOV hoisted his lean body out of the easy chair where he’d been watching the evening news. The material that was aired in Europe, as well as in the United States, never ceased to amaze him. The Soviet censors selected news for its propaganda value. The West seemed to choose it for sensationalism.
After switching off the set, he crossed to the bookcase that served as a makeshift bar and poured himself a double shot of vodka. He didn’t like to drink alone, yet there was no one he really cared to drink with either.
He started to carry the glass back to his chair, then changed his mind and brought the bottle along. Vodka, he thought disconsolately, was a ready anesthetic for the Russian soul. He’d never understood the Western taste for whiskey, because it left you with an aching head. Overindulging in vodka only led to numbness which made it easy to drink too much. He’d seen too many of his disappointed contemporaries turn into alcoholics and had vowed it would never happen to him. But there’d been a time after Anna and the baby had died that he’d come close.
He downed the burning liquid in the glass and poured himself another. Then his eyes focused on Anna’s photograph in its silver frame on the mantelpiece. They had only been married for three years. Not very long, really. There were weeks now, sometimes months even, when he didn’t look at her picture anymore. He knew that if he closed his eyes and tried to bring her once-familiar features into his mind, he wouldn’t be able to recall them. The admission was painful.
She had been blond, he remembered, with green eyes that darkened to emerald when she was caught up by some strong emotion. It was strange to think how much he had changed since she had died. But she would never change, never age, never again enjoy the pleasure of snuggling under a heavy quilt and making love on a snowy Moscow evening.
They’d done their share of that. The memory no longer had the power to warm him. After almost a dozen years, the anguish was gone too.
He didn’t realize that he’d been sitting in the dark until the siren of a fire truck or ambulance speeding by on the street below brought him back to the present. He shook his head to sweep away the specters of the past and then glanced at his watch; it was almost ten. He’d planned to call Julie McLean tonight. Maybe it was too late. Or maybe not. After all, this was Madrid, where the siesta stole a chunk from the middle of the business day and where eight in the evening was still considered late afternoon.
“Dzulie.” He said the word aloud as it would transliterate into his own language. Then he practiced for a moment until he was satisfied that he’d been able to almost capture the true pronunciation.
The thought of talking to her lifted his spirits. For years he’d felt like a mountain climber pulling himself up a weathered crag one handhold at a time. When he’d met Julie, it was as though he’d suddenly reached a peak where he could take in for the first time the glory of a secret valley spread out below. He recognized the feeling for what it was and swore vehemently under his breath. Why, he asked himself once again, did he have to desire this particular woman?
He still didn’t know whether she was acting for some intelligence agency or simply being used by someone who wanted to get to him. He’d bet on the la
tter, but it didn’t matter. She was a threat to his survival. Yet, as he remembered the way she’d looked in that burgundy gown, her rich brown hair swept up to reveal the graceful line of her neck, the warmth in her large dark eyes as she gazed at him, it was impossible to think of her that way.
He swore again. You’re a fool, Aleksei Iliyanovich, he told himself. What do you imagine they want you to think about her? They want you to see her as soft and feminine, vulnerable and desirable. But even as his mind registered the sardonic observation, his hand reached for the phone.
She answered on the fifth ring, just as he was about to put the receiver down. “Julie, am I disturbing you?” he asked.
She knew who it was at once, and not just from the slightly exotic pronunciation of her name. Every time the phone had rung during the past few days, she had picked up the receiver expecting to hear the rich timbre of Aleksei Rozonov’s voice. She had been hoping for the call and dreading it by turns. Now she found the mere fact that he was on the other end of the line disturbing.
“Yes. I mean no,” she said, trying to keep her reaction in check so that she could carry out the assignment Cal had given her.
He laughed. “I hope I didn’t get you out of bed.”
“Oh, no. I was washing my hair.” My God, why did I tell him that?
“Shall I call back later so you can dry it?”
“No.” The denial came to her lips too quickly. “I’ve wrapped it in a towel.”
He caught the uneasiness in her voice. Had she really been washing her hair or was that just an excuse to throw him off guard? Whether it was or not, the tactic was working. He found himself wondering whether she’d been in the shower or just leaning over the sink in the type of lacy lingerie he’d seen in Western magazines. Or was she naked, her olive skin glistening with water? When the wayward thought flitted through his mind that it was too bad the KGB hadn’t installed a hidden camera in her apartment, he brought himself up short. Back to business. “I was calling to ask you to lunch this Friday, if you’re free,” he said.
With the phone between her shoulder and her ear, she shrugged into the light robe she’d brought from the bathroom. Of course Rozonov couldn’t see her. But the intimacy of talking to him with nothing on, coupled with the menace he presented, still had its effect. “Yes, Friday would be fine.” She hoped he couldn’t hear the tremble in her voice.
“I can make reservations at the restaurant I told you about for one o’clock.”
Her fingers played nervously with the belt of her robe while she waited for him to name the place.
“It’s near the Puerta de Alcala.”
“You mean in the Plaza del Independencia? I know where that is.”
“Good. Then I’ll meet you at the central archway and we can walk over to the restaurant together.”
That was a rather unusual way of doing things, she thought, and then she realized that he didn’t want her to know where they would be going. So the KGB would be aware of their destination, but not Cal.
“Will that be satisfactory?” he questioned. “Or would you prefer some other arrangement?”
She heard the silence lengthening between them, knowing that the longer she waited to answer, the more chance there was of arousing his suspicion. Feeling as though she were diving into uncharted waters, she answered. “Your arrangement will be fine.”
“Then I’m looking forward to having you all to myself for the afternoon.” The silky note in his voice made her feel as though she’d just agreed to a romantic rendezvous instead of an appointment to exchange secrets. She wondered which would be more dangerous.
She took a steadying breath. “I am too.” To her horror she realized that, despite the risk, the words she had spoken were true.
“Good night, then. And pleasant dreams, Julie.”
Chapter Seven
The young boy with the sealed envelope stuffed into the pocket of his navy shorts hurried along one of the wide pedestrian parkways lining the Paseo de Castellana. He was coming from the direction of the Prado. Drawing abreast of an outdoor café where afternoon strollers were seated at green-and-white tables, he stopped and looked around. As he expected, the tall, well-dressed foreigner who had given him a thousand-peseta note and sent him on the unusual errand was nowhere to be seen.
The man had had a summer cold, he recalled, and had held a handkerchief to his nose, effectively obscuring his features. His voice had been hoarse. But it was the eyes he remembered most. They had been intense and steely. And they had impressed upon the boy the importance of carrying out instructions. Those had been very precise. The boy was to walk down the Prado stairway closest to the Calle Felipe IV exit. If he found anything behind the loose marble baseboard near the first floor exit, he was to deliver it to the man selling ice cream and mineral water.
The boy waited patiently behind several patrons buying cold drinks. When he reached the front of the line, he fished in his pocket for the crumpled envelope and laid it on the counter. The white-jacketed attendant whisked it out of sight and handed the boy a second thousand-peseta note and an ice-cream bar. For a moment they looked at each other. Then the attendant shrugged, and the boy turned away and began to unwrap his confection. It was an unexpected bonus.
Half an hour later, a teenage girl dressed in jeans and sandals showed up and asked the ice-cream man if he could tell her what time the cathedral in Toledo closed for the afternoon. He gave her the correct answer and the envelope. Had it been unsealed, he might have satisfied his curiosity about the contents. But if he looked inside, he had no way of returning the package to its original condition. Since he suspected he was acting as a go-between in some underworld payoff, he refrained from meddling. Taking good money to hold a small envelope for part of the afternoon was one thing. Incurring the displeasure of whoever had purchased his services was quite another.
The girl, who took the envelope from the café, delivered it to a leather repair shop off the Gran Via, where it was picked up by the Raven, along with the pair of shoes he’d left to be resoled. Before heading home, he stopped at the specialty food department of El Corte Inglés and bought a bag of the freshly ground Columbian coffee he’d grown fond of.
There was a certain risk, he acknowledged, as he waited for the elevator to descend from the fourth floor of his apartment building, in relying on such a circuitous delivery route. But he had weighed that risk against the more obvious danger of returning to the Prado.
Not until he had double-locked the door to his apartment did he remove the crumpled envelope from his breast pocket. Inside was a folded sheet of paper with a message typed in English. It specified an emergency evening meeting for the next Thursday at Café Sabatini in the old quarter of town. Though the message looked as though it could have come from Eisenberg’s replacement, he knew it wasn’t from one of the Falcon’s agents. The headers and trailers that bracketed the message were similar to what he had expected but the validation sequence was missing. Peregrine agents didn’t make mistakes like that, which meant the message was forged.
Chyort! How in the devil had Bogolubov found out about the dead drop? Either it was horrible luck or the comrade general was a lot craftier than he’d thought. Either way, the noose around his neck was drawing tighter. The urgent request for a meeting was a trap.
* * *
THE ATMOSPHERE of tension in the Aviary was so heavy that Gordon’s beloved parrots were squawking like the chorus in a Greek tragedy. Constance McGuire closed the door to the concealed office, effectively cutting off the screeching. Gordon’s mood had deteriorated as the day had worn on. He’d gone from sending back the crab salad to the kitchen because the plate wasn’t chilled to dumping a box of government pens in the trash because they were the wrong shade of blue.
“Was there a break in the police investigation of the terrorist attack?” Connie asked as he put down his growing San Jeronimo folder.
“Damn right. It wasn’t terrorists at all.”
“Really?�
� Connie couldn’t keep the astonishment out of her voice as she swiveled to face him. She was thoroughly familiar with the terrorist modus operandi. This had matched up on almost all counts.
“Someone went to a lot of trouble to make it look that way,” Gordon informed her.
“Who?”
“The police have discovered it was drug-related. The bomb was intended to assassinate Juan Inurria, a local underworld kingpin who was trying to extend the boundaries of his territory and apparently stepped on someone else’s toes. Incidentally, he wasn’t killed. But he’s in hiding—supposedly on the Costa del Sol.”
Connie thought for a moment. “I hate to even ask, but are you sure there’s no possibility that either one of our men could have been involved?”
From the way Gordon tensed, she knew she’d hit a nerve. Maybe this very question was what had been bothering him all morning.
“Not the Raven, certainly,” he said quickly. “Since he hasn’t touched our money, I can’t imagine his going after dirty cash.”
“And Dan?”
A weary look crossed the veteran spymaster’s craggy features. “Connie, I pride myself on being a good judge of character, but there’s some angle to this that I just can’t figure out yet. I don’t want to think Dan had branched out from intelligence work to underworld activities. But right now I just can’t be sure.”
Connie had seldom seen her employer so distressed, but she knew the only comfort she could give him was to be as businesslike as possible. “So what sources of information are you tapping?” she asked.
“Well, there’s the report Cal Dixon made to the Director of Central Intelligence in Langley last night. He seems to have good connections with the Madrid police department, and that’s to our benefit, since we’re on the hidden drop list for all his communications.”
“Then why do I detect a note of reservation in your voice?”
“I’ve never met Dixon, but I have a gut feeling about him that makes me uneasy. The man’s ambitious, maybe too ambitious. And he has the potential for screwing up this whole delicate operation.”