“Show me where he is.”
“Wait until I move before you look,” he cautioned. “Over your right shoulder, talking to that peddler of cheap Vrubel reproductions. Two big guys. They’re Chechens.”
“Chechens? What the hell?” Despite his warning, Alexis could barely refrain from spinning around to stare.
Now that made no goddamn sense. No way she’d be getting heat from a repressed ethnic minority the Russians were doing their level best to eradicate. She monitored those ethnic tensions for Washington as part of her job, and she’d always felt a none-too-subtle sympathy for the underdogs.
Not only had she given the Chechens no reason to hate her. She was one of the few voices getting their story out.
“That seems unlikely, captain,” she murmured. “Why would your government hire its own enemies to tail me?”
“We wouldn’t,” he said curtly. “I ran the query through my channels yesterday, and the reply came back an hour ago. We’re not running them.”
“Then who—?”
He cut her short, brusque and to-the-point. “Two nights ago you were tailed by an off-duty U.S. Embassy security guard. One of the locally-based expats with a gambling habit which your Embassy inexplicably continues to hire.”
“Wait a minute—”
“In this case,” he continued flatly, “the guard’s girlfriend is Chechen. And now you have two suspected terrorists on your tail. Damn it, Alexis! I need to know what kind of bloody mess you’ve gotten yourself into.”
_____________________________________
On Monday, Alexis was still trying to extract herself from the bloody mess she’d gotten herself into. She’d filed a contact report on Kostenko with the security office first thing. Made her mea culpas and confessed, in strictly factual terms, to losing control and sleeping with the guy. And hoped the sucking noise in her head wasn’t the sound of her future being flushed down the toilet.
Of course she’d also reported her suspicions about being followed. But with several hundred people living and working on compound, she could hardly search every post herself for the guy who’d tailed her. And the security officer was out scouting terrain for the fast-approaching presidential visit.
Which meant she hadn’t yet run the gauntlet of his excruciating follow-up. And she still had no clue who was tailing her or why.
She was sorting through the daily deluge of email, doing triage on the emergencies, when her new secretary hesitated in her doorway. The diligent young redhead still didn’t seem comfortable enough to address Alexis by her first name, despite several invitations to do so.
“The Marines at the South Gate called, Ms. Castle,” the secretary reported, adjusting her fashionable spectacles. “Apparently there’s a delivery for you down there.”
“That’s peculiar. I’m not expecting anything.” Reflexively, Alexis glanced at her watch. Among other pressing issues, she was in the middle of clearing a scene-setter cable for President Cartwright’s visit. And the text required substantial edits if she wanted it in Washington by their start-of-business.
“Do you mind going down for the package, Candace?” she asked. “I really need to get this cable out.”
Candace bustled off, and Alexis returned to work.
God, this Ukraine situation was going right down the tubes. As she’d feared, Kiev’s threat to expel its Russian tenants from the naval base at Sevastopol had only made Moscow more belligerent. They’d tightened their blockade, and no ships were getting through under any flag. Today, the reformist Ukrainian president had officially requested U.S. intervention to get the Russians out.
But the prime minister from Ukraine’s opposition party was still telling the press it was a joint training exercise. That Russia and Ukraine, like Frog and Toad, were friends.
That meant the pot would be boiling when the new U.S. president walked into her first meeting with her Russian counterpart. President Cartwright would need to underscore the U.S. commitment to a free Ukraine, without jeopardizing the many strategic issues where the U.S. and Russia were in accord.
A polite rap on her door derailed Alexis’s train of thought for the second time. She glanced up with irritation bubbling on her lips, but choked back the words when she recognized her visitor: a tall, distinguished man whose tailored charcoal suit set off his silver hair and caramel-colored skin.
Ambassador Stuart Malvaux, the U.S. government’s senior representative in Russia. But he’d been just Stu to her father, and to her for many years—until she came to work for him in Moscow.
“Mind if I steal a moment of your time, Alexis?”
Taking for granted her concurrence, the Ambassador stepped in and quietly closed the door. Alertness prickled through her as he placed a document on her desk.
“This arrived from Washington last night,” he murmured, in the Louisiana drawl that twenty years in the Foreign Service still hadn’t smoothed away. “I’d like you to take a look.”
“Very well.” She skimmed the blocky text, all in caps with a cumbersome chunk of headings, dense with obscure abbreviations. A “no distribution” message, intended only for the Ambassador’s eyes and Geoff’s as his deputy. But Stu had just instructed her to read it.
Swiftly she absorbed the substance, her alarm mounting as she read. When she’d finished, she stared up at the Ambassador in dismay.
“Jesus. These instructions—this message we’re supposed to deliver. Why don’t they just start launching missiles?” She struggled against her growing misgivings. “Any chance this is a knee-jerk reaction based on, ah, Victor Kostenko’s comments?”
“His message about ethnic tensions in Ukraine was taken extremely seriously.” Stu’s amber eyes were canny as he assessed her reaction. “But Washington seems to have decided that was a smokescreen, to cover up these military maneuvers. They believe something more is going on, something that might jeopardize the elections and the future of democracy in Ukraine. President Cartwright wants the Russians out of there, Alexis—and before her visit.”
“We’d all like that,” Alexis said tartly. “But the entire Russian fleet isn’t going to steam back to Murmansk just because we’ve started screaming. Moreover, now that Ukraine has started pushing back, the Russians won’t feel secure making port in Sevastopol. It wouldn’t surprise me if they tell us to take Cartwright’s visit and shove it.”
“I noticed you weren’t copied on Geoff’s last report,” the Ambassador said casually. “Seems he briefed Washington on Kostenko’s message before I returned from Vladivostok.”
“That’s Geoff’s prerogative, Mr. Ambassador, since he was Acting Chief of Mission for you at the time.” Alexis struggled to contain a flare of resentment. She’d written the damn report at Geoff’s insistence. Yet her unscrupulous ex had inserted his name as drafting officer and smuggled it out behind her back. He’d cut her out of the loop, and misled Washington by inference, since it now appeared Victor was talking to Geoff, instead of her.
Stuart Malvaux was an observant man, and he’d known her a long time.
“It was you Captain Kostenko met with on Friday, wasn’t it.” His tone made clear that it wasn’t a question. “I wondered about that, after reading your report on those earlier discussions. Took you to the Bolshoi last week, didn’t he?”
Alexis fought down a blush. No way that Stu had seen the report on her Friday night date, since the security officer still hadn’t turned up to process it.
“Captain Kostenko did entrust this information to me,” she said briskly, “at a private dinner on Friday. I’ve made a full contact report to the RSO.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Stu murmured, kindly refraining from comment on her heightened color. “You’ve done a fine job cultivating him. Clearly, you’ve become the captain’s preferred contact.”
“We barely know each other.” Alexis forced a shrug. The fact that she’d slept with Kostenko was personnel-sensitive, not anything Stu needed to know, especially since she’d determined there w
ould be no further personal contact.
“Admittedly,” she continued, “he approached me at the art market yesterday, wanting to talk again. But we were under surveillance, and Kostenko broke off our discussion almost immediately. I don’t know what he wanted to say.”
“You do seem to have his attention, Counselor.” Stu looked far too speculative for her peace of mind. “He’s an interesting fellow, isn’t he?”
She managed a noncommittal murmur, her gaze flickering to the light fixture overhead. Since they weren’t in the soundproofed SCIF—the Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility, reserved for classified discussions on compound—the Ambassador was clearly weighing how much he could say.
“Unfortunately,” he said, “I can’t finish this discussion now. ECON is waiting for me downstairs. We have a meeting with the Minister of Economic Development and Trade in half an hour.”
Alexis nodded her understanding of the Ambassador’s crowded schedule. And concealed her relief at closing the uncomfortable topic of Victor Kostenko.
“I can stop by your office later,” she offered, “to finish this discussion on Ukraine.”
“Actually, I’d like you to do more than that,” Stu said frankly. “If you’re the U.S. contact Captain Kostenko has chosen to trust, we want to nurture that trust. We want to keep him as comfortable—and as talkative—as possible.
“I’d like you to meet with him, Alexis, convey the message from Washington you just read. Soften it a bit, if you can.” He paused, eyes crinkling as he held her gaze. “In fact, since Geoff has so much to handle these days, you can report back to me directly.”
And isn’t Geoff going to love that? She valued having the Ambassador’s confidence, and she was honest enough to acknowledge a certain grim satisfaction that Geoff’s underhanded tactics had backfired. She’d willingly implement any legitimate instruction Stu gave her. Still, when the target was Kostenko, she’d rather avoid weighing down her resume with another professional accomplishment her peers would attribute to her relationship with a man.
She supposed it was distaste for the notion that made her speak up, swallowing ambition for the sake of integrity.
“If my, ah, relationship with Captain Kostenko is the reason you’re tasking me with this, Mr. Ambassador, I feel obligated to point out that Geoff has more experience on Ukraine issues than I do. He served in Kiev for three years—”
“I’m aware of that, Alexis,” the Ambassador murmured. “His experience notwithstanding, Geoff doesn’t care about this issue the way you do. You’re sympathetic to the little guy in this scuffle, which happens to be Ukraine. Yet you’re also sensitive to the Russian ego. And that combination, Counselor, is what I need to resolve this crisis.”
So far, Stu had always shot straight with her. And his focus had obviously shifted to his next meeting. So Alexis swallowed her dismay for the moment. And she was dismayed—not at all excited—by this legitimate need to see Victor Kostenko.
“I’ll do my best, Mr. Ambassador,” she said firmly. “I appreciate your trust in me.”
With a distracted smile, the Ambassador excused himself. Her head was still spinning with the implications of what her ex had done, lying to Washington to promote his own career, as Alexis sifted through the sea of documents on her desk. Beneath the black-and-white Cyrillic newsprint of today’s Krasnaya Zvezda, she found her personal mail, flown in from New York for Embassy staff on a weekly basis. Unfortunately, today’s mail had done nothing to reassure her.
A fresh stab of anxiety shafted through her when she glimpsed the monthly statement from her investment broker, coolly detailing the recent losses in Wayne Castle’s mutual funds—and her nest egg. Just another uncomfortable reminder that now was not the time to play fast-and-loose with her income. She’d already kissed goodbye a substantial chunk of change to buy off Geoff in the divorce, and she considered the money well spent. Still, if the stock market kept tanking, she might really need the revenue stream her government salary provided.
Grimly, she put the financial report aside and focused her attention on her work. Moments later, her secretary hurried in. Candace beamed happily as she displayed a bouquet of gorgeously wrapped red roses.
“Look what was waiting for you downstairs, Ms. Castle! The delivery boy didn’t know who sent them, but here’s the card.”
Despite her concerns, a pleasurable warmth coursed through Alexis as she murmured over the roses, folded into pale gold tissue, their petals glowing like crimson velvet against the dark green leaves. God, she hadn’t gotten roses in ages. Their sensual perfume twined through the air like smoke from a luxury cigarette.
She made sure Candace left before she opened the sealed card. Though the message wasn’t signed, she knew instantly—inevitably—who must have sent it.
She read the words twice and memorized the details:
Leningrad Train Station
Platform Three
2345 hours tonight
Don’t be late.
Butterflies fluttered in her stomach, no doubt because she dreaded the appointment. She was furious with him, damn it. She couldn’t trust him, and she’d been relieved when he broke off their discussion yesterday. Yet she’d just been ordered to deliver an extremely unpleasant message.
And the Ambassador wanted her to remain available to Victor Kostenko. Though he hadn’t meant sexually available, of course. There were clear professional limits, and this time she’d stay strictly within them.
She read the message one last time, then fed the little card into the crosshatch shredder.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Her footsteps raised echoes against the worn marble floor as Alexis hurried late that night through the dingy fin de siecle opulence of the Leningrad train station. Despite a feeble sputter of heat from the old-fashioned radiators, her breath frosted the air. Tingling with wariness, she hurried past cluttered kiosks, huddles of disreputable migrant workers, peddlers whose cheap bags bulged with illegal goods. If not for her black-belt training and the importance of her errand, she wouldn’t have been caught dead here, alone, at this hour.
Outside, the long concrete platform marked three looked equally grim. On either side, waiting trains belched steam, their rows of windows reflecting back the electric lights like blind eyes.
But Alexis could hardly hope to remain unobserved. This was Russia, after all.
Uncertain, she paused near a second-class compartment and clutched her hood around her painfully cold face. On her left, the Red Arrow to St. Petersburg—formerly Leningrad—was chuffing like a monster as it prepared to depart. Laden passengers lumbered to present their documents to the vigilant provodnitsa on guard before each carriage.
Many of the travelers were swarthy skinned, of Central Asian or Caucasian descent, reminding her of the two Chechens who’d tailed her at the art market. She was hyped up, on edge, unhappy to be in this unsavory locale. Every hurrying figure seemed to be heading straight for her—
From behind, a hand gripped her shoulder. Alexis spun on instinct, her free hand sweeping up and out to dislodge her assailant.
“Easy,” Victor murmured, spreading his hands to show her they were empty, his electric blue eyes steady on hers. “You’re all right. Privyet, Alexis.”
“I wish you’d stop sneaking up on me.” Adrenaline still spurting through her system, she bent to scoop up the briefcase she’d dropped. “You do realize, I hope, that despite the designer footwear I’m not the world’s best person to startle.”
He was traveling incognito again, in a black civilian overcoat and stonewashed jeans with square-toed boots, his hat and muffler securely in place. A battered khaki backpack loomed over one shoulder. He looked casual and confident, though his arctic eyes were vigilant.
“You’re all right,” he repeated, his voice soothing. Impossibly, despite everything she knew about his background and probable motives, she felt her tension ease.
Even as his gaze scanned the platform. “Were you followed here?�
�
“Probably.” She too searched the current of down-turned faces flowing past them. “I’m not trained in counter-surveillance, so I can’t be sure. But I know I’ve never experienced such overt scrutiny as I did this weekend.”
Since I met you, she added silently. As if he’d read her mind, he arched a sardonic brow at her.
“We need to hurry,” he said briefly, tugging her along the platform toward the Red Arrow’s first-class carriages. “The train leaves in four minutes, and Russian trains are never late.”
“Wait a minute,” she protested, alarmed, as he hustled her along. “I can’t get on a train with you, captain! Among other impediments, I have no ticket and no passport.”
“Don’t get excited, Counselor.” He spared her a wry smile. “I booked our cabin twenty minutes ago. As for your passport, I have the next best thing.”
She shot him a look of pure disbelief as they bore down on an orange-haired provodnitsa the size of a munitions factory. The only reason she didn’t pull away, Alexis told herself, was because she knew they’d never get past that uniformed mountain.
“I suppose you mean rubles?” she questioned. “Not even you can pull this one off, captain.”
He uttered a short laugh, his cold eyes firing with challenge. Suddenly she knew how he must have looked on the bridge of his attack sub in the bad old days, leading his crew in some kamikaze maneuver against impossible odds.
Damn if he didn’t persuade the scowling old battleaxe, and seal the deal by flashing some kind of identification card Alexis couldn’t see, but which sweetened the provodnitsa right up. Alexis was still protesting when he whisked her down a corridor past a row of open cabins and ushered her into one.
Standard first-class fare, the slightly faded and fussy elegance of Russian domestic trains across eleven time zones. Scratchy blankets stretched drum-tight across two narrow berths, a rickety folding table between them, a dirty window screened with real lace curtains.
The fluorescent light would have silhouetted them to anyone outside, and Victor instantly switched it off. Alexis flicked on the dim amber reading lamp instead. A staticky drone buzzed from the speaker, and she wasn’t surprised when he twisted the dial to off.
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