by Rebecca York
It had been a long time since someone had ministered to him like this. He knew that the soothing comfort carried its own danger. Devotion to a cause had brought him this far. Now at the edge of his mind was the tantalizing possibility of abandoning the weary chase and taking the personal comfort he knew he’d find with Julie McLean.
It was so tempting to say to hell with the rest of the world. He had plenty of money. Together he and Julie could find a hiding place in the Canadian wilderness. He wanted that so badly that he could picture their life in startling detail. The Canadian north would be something like the land he remembered, bitter cold in the winter, warm and tranquil in the summer. They could have a garden, raise vegetables, read the books he’d never had time for, listen to music. She was a good cook. She could learn the rich Russian dishes he loved. And in the nights... His face softened as he remembered again the taste and feel of her body.
He was still playing with the fantasy three days later.
“What are you thinking?” she asked gently. He had insisted on staying out of bed as much as possible during the day. They were sitting in wicker rocking chairs on the back veranda, watching distant sailboats skim by on the Patuxent River.
He turned to her, his gaze a warm embrace. Then his expression sobered. “Dangerous thoughts. I want to take you away with me somewhere safe and just live a normal, peaceful life. But the only thing that will buy us any permanent safety is to get the Topaz report to the Falcon.”
She had seen him gain strength every waking hour, though she knew he was still in pain. During the days and long nights, he had given her a good idea of the peril through which he had maneuvered and what had been at stake. “Aleksei, haven’t you done enough?”
The question firmed his own resolve. He must live in a world of realities, not fairy tales. “Don’t you see, I haven’t done anything unless the Topaz plot is exposed.” The vehemence in his voice was as much for himself as it was for her.
She reached out and clasped his hand, knowing in her heart that he was right. “What turned you into such an idealist?”
His mind raced back over memories from his youth. “My father, for one. He spent his whole career trying to ease tensions between my country and the West. He couldn’t move a mountain by himself. In the end, the disappointment killed him.”
He had told her something of Iliyan Alexandrovitch Rozonov already. Although the father had given the son his values, she doubted they alone could have been enough to trigger his total rejection of his country’s policies.
“There’s more, isn’t there?”
“Dushenka, you read me so well.” A shadow crossed his face. “There was only one person I could ever talk to about it.”
She waited, her chest tightening even though she didn’t know the cause of his pain. “Can you tell me?”
He nodded. “I had two choices when I was young. I was from the privileged class. I could have carved out a comfortable life by turning my back on the problems. Instead I chose to try and make a difference. I joined the diplomatic corps. When the KGB offered me a commission as well, I accepted, knowing that many of the decisions that counted were made by them.”
She twined her fingers with his and felt him respond to the contact.
“It was a disillusioning experience. You can’t imagine the corruption, the deceit, the striving for personal gain and power that takes precedence over national interests.”
“Like the game Cal Dixon was playing with my life, you mean?”
“No, much worse than Dixon. It’s a difference in the way he was raised, what he was taught to expect out of life. In the Soviet Union it’s different. My country’s leaders act as though we’re under siege—guns take precedence over butter. There isn’t enough of anything to go around. Food, clothing, good jobs, decent housing, prestige, self-esteem.” He hesitated for a moment. “Competent medical care.” The last was said with such disgust that she saw some of his hidden anger.
He disentangled his fingers and stood up. She saw the restlessness in his expression as he walked to the porch rail. Enough questioning for the afternoon, she thought. He would tell her the rest in his own good time.
“Dushenka.” He turned back to look at her. “We can’t stay in this house much longer.”
“Why not? No one knows we’re here.”
“Someone can find out. It’s not safe to remain anywhere too long. Tomorrow we’ll leave. It doesn’t really matter where we are when we get the Falcon’s reply to our advertisement.”
“Aleksei, are you strong enough to travel?”
“Thanks to you, yes.”
* * *
IN THE AVIARY’S small projection room, Connie ran the videotape back to the previous question. “Now, look at her face,” she requested. “She’s trying to keep her features neutral, but when anyone mention’s Aleksei’s name, they soften for just a second.”
“You’re right, I can detect the slight variation. How deep do you think the emotional involvement is?”
Connie didn’t answer immediately. “Let me put up the last McLean tape, the one with Borman.” They waited while she removed the previous cassette and inserted the new one.
As it played, the Falcon shook his head. “I’d say Borman’s enjoying making her squirm. Sadistic son of a bitch, isn’t he?”
“She’s avoiding his eyes, and her breathing is shallow,” Connie pointed out. “That could just be a reaction to being forced to discuss intimate sexual details with a stranger. But in this case, notice how carefully she’s choosing her words, even under the obvious stress.”
“So what’s the bottom line?”
“I’d guess that she’s in love with Aleksei Iliyanovich.”
Gordon was thoughtful. “He’s quite a man. She could do a lot worse—if circumstances were different. But she thinks he’s on the other side. The real question is, if he came to her would she protect him?”
“Or would he risk going to her in the first place?”
The Falcon’s brow wrinkled. “I just don’t know. He’s been a loner for so long, he might not trust anyone.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “Have you been able to reach her?”
“Negative. Her phone just rings.”
“Then send someone down there. And do me another favor—run a check on Borman. He just doesn’t hit me as a State Department type.”
Later that afternoon they had a great deal more to discuss as they sat in the tropical warmth of the solarium having tea and watercress sandwiches. In an open cage in the corner a pair of rare cockatoos were grooming each other.
“So he’s been there,” Connie mused, looking at the photograph of the sofa and rug.
“And probably the KGB too,” Gordon added. “But at least we know what they’re looking for.” He was holding the letter that had just been brought by courier from a post office box in Falls Church, Virginia. The envelope looked as though it had come via the Amazon jungle. “Damn incompetents,” he muttered. “You’d think a letter could get from here to Madrid in less than three weeks.”
A parrot fluttered to his shoulder and he paused absentmindedly to offer the bird a small sandwich.
“Well, we have the information now,” his assistant said.
“I hope it’s not too late to do us or the Raven any good.”
“If McLean brought the figurine back with her, either she’s still got it or the Russians do. But there’s a chance it’s still in her freight. Find out if the shipment’s still on a boat or if it’s arrived. I’m going to put in a call to the Director of the CIA.” He stood up and flexed his bad leg. “One more thing, I need to buy a mynah bird. Let me know the minute an ad for one hits the Washington Post.”
Connie nodded. “What agent should I tap for the meeting?” she asked.
The Falcon looked thoughtful. “Now that Dan Eisenberg’s dead, there’s probably no one Aleksei would recognize by sight. No, wait a minute,” he added, remembering an incident almost a year ago in Berlin when KGB Major Aleksei Rozonov
had helped save the life of another Peregrine agent. “Maybe there is.”
“Are you thinking of borrowing Mark Bradley from the Pentagon?”
“Yes, get the colonel down here right away. If Aleksei is going to trust anyone on sight, it’s Mark Bradley.”
“I already took the liberty of alerting him. He’s in a helicopter on his way now.”
“Connie, you’re damn efficient for a woman of your age.”
“And you don’t seem to have lost your way with words.”
* * *
JULIE DIDN’T QUESTION his decision to leave. That night she packed her suitcase again before slipping into a light cotton gown and getting into bed. They were still sharing the downstairs room where she had taken him that first night.
“What were you doing?” he asked. He was lying on his back, a pillow propped behind his head, another one easing the position of his arm. The white sling stood out against the darker tones of his skin.
He had turned out the light, but the room was lit by the silvery radiance of the moon. She smiled down at him. There was a special intimacy to their nights together. In the dark hours they had exchanged confidences, come to understand each other better.
Reaching out, she stroked her fingers lightly against his naked chest. He preferred to sleep that way, she had discovered. She was more modest. “I was getting ready to leave in the morning.”
“Do you always take me at my word?”
“Yes, now.”
“You remember when you were afraid of me?” His voice was husky in the darkness.
“A lifetime ago.”
“It hurt to see that in your eyes. But I didn’t dare let you know what I really was—or how much I loved you. The night in Madrid when you brought me to your bed, I wanted to tell you then. Very badly.”
“Alyoshenka.” She turned to him in the moonlight, her lips seeking his. She had meant it to be a gentle kiss, but it flared into passion like a spark hitting parched kindling. His right hand came up between them, finding her breasts. Through the cotton gown he stroked first one and then the other, groaning as he felt the peaks bead beneath his fingers.
Her breath was ragged, her heart pounding wildly, as she pulled away. “Aleksei, you’re still not well. You can’t.”
He laughed softly, taking her hand and carrying it lower. “I believe I can.”
She closed her eyes, feeling his hot, hard potency. “You shouldn’t.”
“Dushenka, let me be the judge of what will speed my recovery. I need to bury myself in your softness, feel you tight around me, holding, clinging, loving.”
She made a little sound of mingled pain and pleasure deep in her throat. What he needed, she needed too, had been needing as she’d lain beside him these past few nights.
Her hand closed around him, stroking, caressing. He felt like steel tipped with velvet. When he trembled in response to her touch, she knew a surge of desire and satisfaction at her power.
“Do you like that?” she whispered.
“I told you once before you have clever hands. Tonight they’re too clever. Come back up here.”
She released him, turning to look down into the cobalt of his eyes, her own expression serious and sensual all at once.
His hands stroked her dark hair. “You’re going to have to take the initiative tonight.” He gestured toward the sling on his arm.
“Alyoshenka, it will give me great pleasure to give you pleasure.”
“Take off your gown.” His voice had roughened with urgency. “I want to see your beautiful body, touch you, taste you.”
In truth the gown had been a shield, to prevent their bodies from brushing in the night. Now he was telling her there was no need to hold herself away from him. His words made her feel radiant, desired, sexy. She sat up and faced him, pulling the shift over her head with deliberate eroticism. When her eyes met his again, his passion-filled gaze made her shiver with anticipation.
“Come here.” His tone was husky and caressing.
She moved forward, knelt over him, looking into his eyes as her fingers played across his face, his hair. Lovingly his hand drifted over her breasts. Then he took her shoulder and pulled her gently forward so that his lips could continue the caress.
“Oh...” The wiry brush of his mustache lightly scoured her tender skin. Her exclamation of pleasure turned into a little sob as his mouth found one nipple.
He tasted, stroked, sucked—and felt her fingers tangle more urgently in his hair.
“I see you like that,” he whispered.
He turned to the other breast, repeating the moist caress while his hand stroked down her ribs and tried to reach farther. She felt him start to sit up, heard him wince, sensed his frustration as he fell back.
“Let me come to you.” She slid forward until he could reach the curve of her hip. She felt his fingers move inward, find the warm, dark place that was her womanhood.
His knowing touch set her body on fire, making her ache for a closer joining. She could feel his readiness. Gently she moved up onto the cradle of his hips and lowered herself on him. As he entered her, a soft gasp left his lips.
“Ahh, I can tell you like this, my love,” she laughed softly.
“You are magic,” he replied, reaching up with his good arm, pulling her closer.
Her own little cries mingled with his as she moved above him. Each new stroke brought its own thrill of discovery. She reveled in the control and power she felt and the electric response of the man beneath her. The potent sensations they created together urged her to a faster rhythm. His hand and then his mouth caressed her breasts, intensifying her need for more of him.
The long weeks of separation had made her ravenous for the joy that only he could bring her. A fine sheen of moisture glistened on her olive skin as she strove for release.
Below her she felt his body stiffen.
“Julie! I love you.” The words were a hoarse cry on his lips.
His shudders of gratification triggered her own shattering climax. She had felt ecstasy with him before. Now their spoken love for each other brought the experience new meaning.
She drifted back to earth slowly, her head on his shoulder, her hair a damp tangle around them.
“Until I met you, I didn’t know what love was,” she murmured.
His hand trailed across her shoulders. Love. Until a few months ago, he had told himself he would never feel that emotion again. After years of desolation, finding it with Julie was all the more sweet. He pushed her hair gently aside and kissed her face.
“I’m selfish enough to be glad that you were waiting for me,” he admitted. “But, Julie, I am a hunted man, a man without a country. There is nothing I can offer you.” His expression was melancholy.
She pressed her fingers to his lips. “Don’t say that. This is your country now. You’ve already given more to preserve our freedom than most men born here.”
He held her close against his side. There might be a home for him here, if he lived long enough to claim it, but for the present, the only haven he could imagine was in her arms.
For long moments neither of them spoke, then he stirred slightly. “This afternoon you asked me what turned me into an idealist,” he finally said. “I didn’t tell you the whole story. I couldn’t deal with all of it then. But you have the right to know.”
She could see the grief of past memories etching his features. “You don’t have to say anything more.”
“It will help you understand.” He turned to her, his eyes questioning. “Julie, did my dossier say that I had been married?”
“Yes.”
“It was a long time ago. We loved each other very much. She was the only person I dared share my real feelings with, the person who made the kind of life I led tolerable.”
Her fingers sought his. “What happened?”
“She died bearing our child. They couldn’t save the baby either.”
“Oh, Aleksei.” The pain in his voice tore at her heart.
/> “I might have accepted it if it couldn’t have been prevented. Have you ever heard the Soviet establishment proclaim that our medical care is the best in the world? Don’t believe it. Like every other national system in my country, our health care is riddled with incompetence. Anna developed diabetes during her pregnancy. But they didn’t find out until very late. By that time the baby was huge. Some fool of a midwife let her go into labor when she should have had a Caesarean. She was in agony for hours, and all my political connections couldn’t do a damn thing for her. Our son suffocated. Anna hemorrhaged. Even then, they could have saved her with the right injection or even surgery, but...”
“Oh God, Aleksei, what a terrible nightmare.”
Tenderly, so as not to press his injury, Julie put her arms around him. She wanted to take away the sorrow he’d buried inside himself for so long and envelop him with her love.
“For a long time it made me hate.” His voice was harsh. “Then it strengthened my resolve to do something to change things. When a man who had known and respected my father—an American who called himself the Falcon—cautiously approached me, I was ready to listen.” He had told her that part of the story earlier. Now he closed his eyes and let her comfort enfold him.
“Are you all right?” she asked gently after a time.
His lips grazed her brow, her cheek. “I feel better. Sharing the memory makes me feel closer to you.”
“I’m glad. The more I know about you, the more I understand why I was drawn to you from the first.”
“Dushenka, I don’t deserve you.”
“You deserve anything that brings you happiness.”
“And you, Julie. So do you. I’ve taken so much from you.”
She drew back so that her eyes could meet his. “Aleksei, you’ve given me more than you can possibly realize. You’ve taught me how to share myself with another human being.”
Still his eyes told her of his disbelief.
“It’s true, Alyoshenka. My parents gave me everything that money could buy, but they didn’t teach me about love. It wasn’t that they meant to be cold, exactly. But there was a stiff formality in their relationship with people and a high value placed on controlling their emotions. I grew up thinking that was the way I was supposed to be.”