Flight of the Raven

by Rebecca York

  “Couldn’t we just tell him what’s going on?”

  “Negative. If the Kremlin gets even the smallest hint that anyone in the U.S. intelligence community knows about Topaz, our source of information is going to be cut off as effectively as a guillotined head.”

  Connie shuddered at the graphic image, picturing the Raven’s neck under the guillotine blade.

  The Falcon broke into her thoughts. “You’ll want to look at Dixon’s report yourself,” he said. “Whatever else you can say about the man, he’s surfaced a number of interesting possibilities.”

  Connie picked up a pencil and notepad.

  “It’s not there in so many words, but I think Dixon suspects that the Russians are somehow tied to the drug angle.”

  “I’ll get our other sources working on that,” his assistant promised.

  “Thanks. And pull Dixon’s personnel file. I want to know everything about the man, including how he thinks. It’s just a hunch, but I’m beginning to suspect that Dixon is holding something back from the DCI.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “I think he wants to pull off some sort of grand coup.”

  Connie tapped her pencil on the desk. That kind of grandstanding had gotten more than one agent killed. She hoped that in this case the Falcon’s hunch was wrong. “Are there any other leads you want me to follow up?” she asked.

  “Maybe you can find out why that hole at the Prado is empty every time we send somebody to check it out, and see what you can discover about a KGB agent named Yuri Hramov.”

  His assistant’s hand froze in the act of jotting down the Falcon’s request. “Hramov! How does that beast figure in this?”

  “So you know of him?”

  Connie shuddered. “Only by reputation. Doesn’t the KGB use him when they want to make a victim into an object lesson?”

  Gordon nodded. “Yes. He’s also an expert in faking accidents, and he was spotted at the airport in Madrid. I have a feeling that Bogolubov brought him in to replace Ivanov.”

  Well, Connie thought, so there was ample reason for the Falcon’s black mood. There were already so many disturbing twists and turns in this damn case that she felt like a boatman lost in a swamp. And if she and Gordon couldn’t find their way out, the whole U.S. defense effort might sink with them.

  * * *

  CAL DIXON had his expression back under control, but when Julie had come in to report Rozonov’s call, she’d seen the surge of excitement in his hazel eyes.

  “You should have reported to me as soon as he hung up last night.”

  “It was pretty late.” Julie didn’t tell Cal, but she needed time to think and distance herself from the phone call before talking to him.

  “Tell me about it,” he demanded.

  Dutifully she began to recount the conversation, carefully omitting the personal byplay between herself and the Russian. She’d spent much of the sleepless night planning what she was going to say this morning. That is, when she wasn’t analyzing her conversation with Aleksei for the sexual awareness that had simmered beneath the words.

  Cal rubbed his hands together. “Pretty clever of the bastard not to name the restaurant. But I have a few tricks up my sleeve that will fix his wagon. If we can’t bug the place ahead of time, we’ll wire you for sound and get every syllable that comes out of his mouth on tape.”

  “No!” The word was out of Julie’s mouth before she had time to think. Damn! But Cal’s enthusiasm for spy hunting made her edgy. She’d intended to play it cool during this interview, and here she was losing her composure when they’d barely gotten started.

  “Listen, Julie, I can understand your concern, but I’ve had years of experience in this kind of operation.” His smooth voice let her know that his only concern about her was whether she’d mess up his plans.

  “And I’ve had years of experience with Julie McLean.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?’

  “I don’t even feel comfortable talking to a telephone-answering machine. I know I’d give it away if I were wired.”

  Cal leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the desk. “That’s going to make it a lot harder to protect you. What if he pulls you into a waiting KGB car and goes off to who knows where? There are ways to force anyone—especially defenseless women—to talk.”

  She knew the intimidating words were exaggerated. If Rozonov wanted to stuff her into a car, he could do it when she walked out the door of her apartment house. Nevertheless, the threat had the desired effect. She felt goose bumps rise up on the skin of her arms. “Cal, I don’t know anything. What’s he going to get out of me?”

  “Julie, that’s what they all say, whether they know anything or not. Even if you swear on Lenin’s grave, do you really think he’d believe you right away? And when he finally finds out it’s true, that would be even worse. If he thinks you’re expendable, he might just eliminate you.”

  Julie took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. “Quit scaring me. I agreed to help you, but you’re going to have to let me do it my way.”

  Cal studied her set features, noting the look of determination in her dark eyes. On that little stroll in Retiro Park he’d made her think she had no choice about cooperating. Now if he gave her the illusion of some control over the situation, she might be a little easier to handle. “Okay, we’ll do it your way,” he said.

  “Then I want to get one more thing straight before we continue this discussion.”

  “Yes?”

  “You know that my tour is up in six weeks. I’m not extending it even a day to continue in the spy business.”

  Getting out of the “spy business,” as Julie called it, was not something easily done. But explaining that wasn’t going to help him achieve his present purpose. “All right.”

  She seemed to visibly relax.

  “So let’s get down to work.” Cal opened a thick folder that had been sitting in the middle of his desk and began to thumb through it. “We need to spend the day prepping you on what to say and how to behave.”

  The thought flitted through her mind that she’d almost rather be spending the day in Rozonov’s company than in Cal’s. That she was identifying more with the Russian than with her own countryman was unsettling. She knew she had to get a grip on herself. The better she got to know Cal, the less she liked him, but that was irrelevant. The advice he was going to give her might keep her from ending up like Dan.

  For the next two hours she was a very attentive pupil as Cal gave her a crash course in the basics of undercover intelligence work.

  * * *

  THE RUSSIAN HAD PICKED a well-traveled part of the city. Julie watched the midday traffic speed by as she waited for the light on Serrano to change. The Puerta de Alcala was located in a small parque where two major streets intersected. Carefully tended flower beds surrounded the limestone and granite triumphal arch that seemed to shimmer in the early afternoon heat.

  There was no place to park on the busy avenues that flanked the arch. Anybody who wanted to observe a rendezvous here would have to station himself in a nearby building and bring along a telescope.

  Julie shaded her eyes and looked up at the Ionic columns supporting the cornice at the top of the monument. Guarding it were several groups of warrior angels. Angels with swords and shields had always struck her as a contradiction in terms. But they seemed to appeal to something in the Spanish character.

  Though the angels were visible, the man she had come to meet was nowhere in sight. Had second thoughts made him decide to cancel the appointment? Or was he late?

  The light changed and Julie crossed the avenue to the arch. The day was clear and bright, with none of the smog that sometimes hung over Madrid. It was too beautiful an afternoon for espionage. That was an activity better shrouded in mist and fog.

  The thought made her heart start to hammer against her ribs. For most of the morning she’d kept a lid on her emotions by doggedly working on the material for the N
ATO meeting that had been receiving so little of her attention lately. In actuality, much of her regular workload had gotten short shrift during the past couple of weeks because both Cal and the ongoing investigation of the San Jeronimo attack had been taking up so much of her time. Fitz had been understanding about not pressing her to meet the usual deadlines. But she didn’t feel comfortable about having him shift her assignments to other already overburdened staffers. What’s more, Cal had blandly advised that she keep things at the office as normal as possible. So she’d even agreed to a leisurely lunch with Paula early in the week, although keeping her mind on friendly chatter had taken considerable effort.

  As she stepped up onto the curb, she wondered how she’d been able to concentrate at all on something so removed from this afternoon’s appointment. Pausing by a bed of yellow and orange marigolds, she forced herself to take several deep breaths before threading her way through the flower beds toward the monument.

  The man Julie had come here to meet had been standing in the shade of the central archway for half an hour, letting himself absorb the feel of the park. He had selected the location because it was so easy to see anyone approaching on foot. Of course, that didn’t preclude the possibility of a car circling the arch, but the traffic here was heavy and the red lights long. A car that tried to stay abreast of two pedestrians heading down one of the nearby streets would have trouble keeping pace.

  His attention switched from the surroundings to Julie. A casual observer might simply think how attractive she looked in her royal blue dress, light stockings, and white shoes. But he had learned to see past the props people chose to support the various roles they played. He watched her scan the monument’s facade and noted the deep intake of breath as she paused beside a flower bed. He knew from her artificially rigid posture that the extra oxygen hadn’t done much to steady her nerves. She was off balance. All to the good. He’d never fished with a rod and reel, but he’d been fascinated by Hemingway’s descriptions. He’d come to think of cultivating intelligence sources as a similar process. After they’d taken the bait, you played out the line to let them think they had some control. Then you gently reeled them in so that they didn’t have a clue about what was happening until they found themselves out of familiar waters and in your wicker basket.

  She was almost in the shadow of the arch before she saw the Russian standing with his back to the gray stone. The suit he wore was practically the same color. His white shirt and navy tie did nothing to alter the subdued effect. Suddenly she felt very conspicuous in her royal blue dress. She’d picked it because she knew the color was flattering, and that had made her feel confident. Now she wished she could fade into the monument walls as effectively as Rozonov.

  He waited until she was only a few feet away before he spoke. “I’m so glad you didn’t change your mind,” he said, his resonant voice conveying the impression that the words were more than just a conventional greeting. His blue eyes seemed to deepen as they made a frank inspection that began with her white pumps and ended with her face. “You look lovely this afternoon,” he added.

  “Thank you.” His closeness was affecting her again as it always did, and she found she couldn’t quite meet his gaze.

  “Perhaps we’d better head for the restaurant.”

  She nodded. “You still haven’t told me where we’re going.”

  “It’s just down Serrano.” He gestured in the direction from which she’d come. “If we hurry, we can make the light.”

  Before she knew it, he had taken her arm and was escorting her rapidly back through the flower gardens to the curb and then in front of the lanes of stopped cars. They reached the opposite pavement just as the light changed. Instinctively Julie knew that he had been watching the flow of traffic and had timed their departure to make it more difficult for anyone on foot to follow.

  She sensed a certain reluctance to break the contact as he let go of her arm, and they started down the wide avenue. The shops in the area were some of Julie’s favorites, although she usually waited for a sale, an oportunidad, as the Spanish said, before she bought. Despite the circumstances, or maybe because of them, she found herself inspecting the contents of the store windows they passed.

  “Do you like to window-shop?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Here in Madrid you can assume that you’ll find the same thing inside. In Moscow, you know, the displays are often better than the actual merchandise.” He paused. “It’s the price we pay for keeping up with the arms race.”

  “I noticed that when I was there.” She stole a glance at her companion, wondering why he’d chosen to make that particular observation. Was he trying to hint at some dissatisfaction with his life-style? With his government? Or was he giving her an opening to express her own dissatisfactions?

  “The goods here may be attractive, but the prices are pretty high.”

  He paused in front of a shop that sold imported English china and turned slightly, glancing unobtrusively back the way they had come. She knew he was checking to see if they were being followed and that the precaution must be an ingrained habit. That told her volumes about the life he must lead.

  “With your salary, surely you can afford to buy whatever you like.”

  She laughed. “Almost anybody could use more money.”

  “True. But few are honest enough to admit it.”

  Or dishonest enough. She didn’t voice the thought. The turn the conversation was taking made her uncomfortable, and she found herself wanting to change the subject. “Look at that matched pair of borzois. They’ve always struck me as such aristocratic animals.” She pointed toward a set of fine porcelain figurines in the window.

  “Ah, yes, the Russian wolfhounds. They were originally developed to run down wolves for the idle rich who had the time to hunt.” He began to walk again.

  Julie’s eyebrows lifted at the insinuating statement, but he didn’t elaborate.

  They had reached a crossing. Aleksei gestured toward the right. “This way.”

  As they turned the corner, Julie was struck once again by the sharp contrast between Madrid’s wide, straight main thoroughfares and the narrow, twisting side streets. At the next crossing they turned down a narrow lane.

  The restaurant, which was called Casa Mendoza, was in the middle of the next block. From the outside it was modest enough, but the interior was warm and homey. There were large painted plates displayed on the wall and dark oak tables and chairs. Only a few other lunchtime patrons were seated at the tables, Julie noted as she and Aleksei waited beside a carved antique server.

  The man who came bustling out from behind a set of swinging doors was short, lean, and probably around thirty-five, Julie judged, noting all the details for Cal. Mendoza, if that was his name, seemed to know Aleksei quite well. The two men stood for a few moments talking in low but rapid Spanish, both glancing in Julie’s direction several times. Then the proprietor turned and bowed to her. “This way, señorita.”

  “What was it you told me about your Spanish?” Julie whispered to Aleksei as they followed the man toward the back of the establishment.

  “I said it’s not as good as my English. That’s true enough.”

  But it must be quite sufficient, she thought.

  Julie waited until they had been seated in an alcove that overlooked a small courtyard where bright flowers bloomed in decorative planters and lush green and white vines trailed downward from the balconies above.

  “And what exactly did you tell him in your very serviceable Castilian?” she inquired, gesturing toward the proprietor’s retreating back.

  “I told him that I wanted a table where you and I could be very private together.”

  “He probably thinks we’re having an affair.”

  “What better excuse for a man to have an intimate lunch with a beautiful woman? Perhaps we’re being cautious because you have a jealous husband.” The look in his eyes was devilish. Was he actually teasing her.

  “Aleks
ei...” Julie started to protest and then realized that this was the first time she’d spoken his name aloud. Was he aware of the breaking of that barrier?

  “Ah, Julie, so you understand the wisdom of the little deception.” Again the blue of his eyes seemed to deepen. Or was she reading her own emotions into his gaze?

  She tried to remember Cal’s instructions. They didn’t cover this particular scenario. Before she could think of an appropriate rejoinder, she heard footsteps on the tile floor. As Mendoza rounded the corner carrying two menus, the Russian reached across the table and pressed his hand over hers. Julie’s eyes were drawn first to the strong, well-shaped fingers covering her own; then to the unusual silver ring he wore. Its serpentine design featured a dark sapphire center. A KGB class insignia or a family crest? Julie wondered. Yet even as the thought flitted through her mind, she was aware of other sensations.

  His skin was warm and dry, the pressure of his hand powerful and gentle all at the same time. His touch brought a warmth to her and that was frankly unsettling. Suppose they really had come here for the reasons he had given?

  Risking a glance at him from under lowered lashes, she was struck by the intensity of his expression. She had expected to see triumph. She found something closer to vulnerability, but it vanished so quickly that she wondered if she’d imagined it.

  “Ah, Mendoza, what do you recommend today?” the Russian inquired.

  “For an appetizer, we have the asparagus and pastry. And the hake is very fresh. You could have it grilled or poached with a creamed wine sauce.”

  “That sounds good. I’ll have the hake grilled. Bien hecho, por favor.”

  She and Rozonov exchanged knowing glances. So the Spanish habit of passing the food lightly over the grill before serving it didn’t sit well with the Russians either. To ensure that it was half cooked, you had to ask for bien hecho, “well done.”

  The proprietor turned to Julie. “Would you like to see a menu?”