by Tom Savage
However, the bigger threat to their relationship wasn’t on Galina’s part, but his.
There were about a dozen top generals on the Russian staff, and they were all cronies of the president. Nikolai Malinkov was a particularly close friend, and his name was often mentioned in scandalous rumors. It was commonly believed that some of the top brass of the Russian hierarchy—military and civilian—had amassed great fortunes that they’d salted away in foreign bank accounts and shell corporations, far from the prying eyes of Mother Russia. General Malinkov’s alleged fortune was rumored to be one of the biggest; he supposedly had an impressively hefty Swiss bank account.
If these offshore stashes actually existed, it was a sure bet they’d been financed with funds stolen from the Russian treasury. The international press had recently been hinting that many of Russia’s most powerful men were no better than common thieves. If any of this could be proved, Nikolai Malinkov and the others would lose their exalted positions, and they might even go to prison—or worse.
Nora studied the two photos that accompanied the CIA report. The picture of Galina was the publicity still from Red Square that she’d seen the night she’d first become involved in all this. The shot of General Malinkov was also obviously posed, in full dress uniform with epaulets and ribbons and medals. He stood beside his desk with a Russian flag in the background, gazing into the camera with an expression that could only be described as imposing. Here was a man who did what he wanted and always succeeded at it, and anyone standing between him and his goal had best get out of the way. Despite his handsome face and form, there was something menacing, even cruel about him. It emanated from the picture, mainly from the intense, dark eyes above his trim mustache.
Nora knew little about Russia’s political scene, especially the most recent version. Still, she could connect the dots in this latest scandal. She’d heard the word oligarchy used to describe the new system, and that seemed about right—a bunch of greedy men in high positions, running things exactly as they pleased. But even these gods would have to answer to someone. Recent revelations, leaked to the world by anonymous hackers, actually named a few members of the president’s entourage as owners of shady bank accounts and phony corporations. The president wasn’t directly implicated, nor was General Malinkov, but Nora wondered if that indicated more about their cleverness than their honesty.
It occurred to Nora that this might be the secret at the center of Galina Rostova’s desperation to leave Russia. Ham Green hadn’t told her anything about the information Galina promised to share with the American authorities, but perhaps the actress had real evidence of her lover’s perfidy—and, by extension, even the president’s. But, if so, why blow the whistle on Malinkov? A rich, handsome general she presumably loved, who was all but offering to marry her? No, Nora decided. From a woman’s perspective, it didn’t make any sense. According to the CIA file, Galina was apolitical, as her parents were, so why would she care if the general had grabbed some loot? Everyone in the Kremlin seemed to be doing it. Galina’s secret had to be something else…
Glancing at her watch, Nora closed the folder and returned it to its hiding place, taped to the underside of the top drawer of the dressing table. She’d meet Galina Rostova tonight, but she wouldn’t have to worry about meeting the general—he wasn’t in Italy with Galina. Nora was grateful for that.
She slid the drawer shut, grabbed her coat and purse, and went downstairs to join the others.
Chapter 7
Galina Rostova was a star; that was Nora’s first impression of the young woman who arrived in act one of The Seagull and proceeded to take over the stage. Her Nina was more than just a troubled ingénue; she was an irresistible force of nature. Nora had seen Laura Linney, Natalie Portman, Carey Mulligan, and Romola Garai play the part onstage, and Vanessa Redgrave in Sidney Lumet’s film version. Galina compared favorably with all of them. She was even better here than she’d been in Winter Hearts. As an acting teacher of long standing, Nora knew a star when she saw one.
She was certainly in the right place for it. The deep red velvet and gilded details of La Fenice lent a suitable air of majesty to the handsome production of Anton Chekhov’s first major play. The opera house had been completely destroyed in a suspicious fire back in 1996 that was later determined to be arson. But here it was, lovingly reconstructed and open for business again.
Not for the first time, Nora wondered why a city as prominent as Venice didn’t seem to have a single large theater that wasn’t in a university. With seating for a thousand, La Fenice was the only facility in town big enough to accommodate the turnout for Russia’s most celebrated drama company. Both performances here were sold out, and tonight all of Venetian society was on silken, satiny, fur-lined, diamond-studded display in the audience.
At intermission, Nora glanced around at the crowd from her seat in the fifth row, a VIP placement courtesy of the management and the unseen hand of Hamilton Green. Everyone seemed to be enjoying the play, judging by the rapt silences and sudden bursts of laughter in all the right places. Even the four people flanking her were mesmerized. The supertitles were big and easy to read, easier than watching a subtitled foreign film. Compared with the productions of The Seagull she’d seen in New York and London, Nora found this version to be livelier and more comical, bringing out the ridiculous qualities of the melodramatic, self-absorbed characters. The healthy Russian sense of humor was a refreshing change from the stodgy air of gloom and doom Westerners favored when presenting the works of this difficult playwright.
The Moscow State Theater tour had already played Amsterdam, Munich, Frankfurt, Berlin, Vienna, Salzburg, Zurich, and Rome. Now it had two shows in Venice, with Paris and London still to go. Thinking of the company’s itinerary, Nora recalled what Ham Green had told her in New York. Galina had waited until they’d arrived in Rome from Switzerland a week ago because the American ambassador to Italy was in Rome, and—more important—the ambassador’s wife was there. Mrs. Anderson was an acquaintance of Galina’s; they’d met when the Andersons visited Moscow two years ago and saw Galina in a play. Galina didn’t know any American diplomats in the other countries on this tour, so Mrs. Anderson was her best bet to send a message to Washington.
Mrs. Anderson had attended a New Year’s Eve dinner party for the Russian actors last week, much like the party Nora would attend here tomorrow night. During that event, Galina had gotten the ambassador’s wife alone for a few minutes and made her plea. Mrs. Anderson had contacted the State Department, which contacted Langley, and the honchos there had consulted Hamilton Green. Ham had immediately thought of Jeff Baron’s wife. So here Nora was, in her brand-new black velvet dress, surrounded by her makeshift team, as the houselights dimmed for the second half of the performance.
The second part was even better than the first. The tone subtly downshifted from gentle comedy to a bittersweet mood of melancholy as the real tragedy arrived. Galina nailed her famous “I’m a seagull” speech in the final scene, bringing tears to Nora’s eyes. Yes, Nora thought, she really is an extraordinary artist. The curtain fell on an appropriate moment of shocked silence, followed by a loud burst of applause. By the time the curtain rose again for the bows, Nora and everyone else in the audience were on their feet. Roses were brought to the ladies, and the curtain went up and down several times. At the final call, the director—the old man who’d discovered Galina as a student—arrived onstage. He nodded to the audience and kissed the hands of Galina and the older woman who’d played Madame Arkadina. A final group bow, the curtain fell for the last time, and the houselights came up.
Of course, it was Patch who broke the silence of the group, and—of course—he said, “That was cool!” Frances and the two Italian men agreed with Patch’s assessment, and Nora certainly did too.
“What now?” Frances asked.
“We wait in the lobby for an escort,” Nora said. “Let’s get our coats and camera equipment out of hock. Then someone will take us backstage. Boys, y
ou got enough footage of the audience arriving beforehand, right? All we need now is some film of her dressing room, and our first meeting. I’m just going to introduce us all to her, and then we can walk back to the hotel. Signora Luchese said there’d be a midnight snack and drinks for us there.” She glanced at her watch. “Wow, it’s eleven-thirty. I guess midnight snack is exactly the right term.”
“I’m hungry again,” Paolo admitted.
“You’re expecting your first child,” his father-in-law reminded him. “Until the little one arrives, you’re always going to be hungry, believe me.”
As everyone laughed, Nora noticed that the departing crowds in the aisles had thinned.
“Come on,” she said, and led her group up the aisle to the ornate lobby. As she and Frances waited for the three men to retrieve coats, camera, and Paolo’s bulky portable recording device from the coat check room, she smiled around at everything, thinking, So far, so good. They’d made it to Italy, the group got along well, and they were now meeting the subject of their phony interview, right on schedule. It was going just as Ham Green had planned it.
Well, almost. She frowned, thinking of the man who’d observed them at the airport and followed them to the pensione. She’d have to call Ham before she went to bed tonight—not to mention Jeff. Her husband had surprised her with his immediate support of her involvement in the plan. She’d been expecting an argument, but Jeff clearly trusted her. This was yet another sign of his new respect for his bride of twenty-three years, the respect she’d earned in France and England eighteen months ago.
“Ms. Simmons?”
Nora was so deep in thought that she almost missed her cue. A smiling young blond woman stood before her. It took Nora a moment to remember that she was currently “Ms. Simmons.”
“Yes,” she said, smiling. “You must be Vera, Ms. Rostova’s assistant. Please call me Joan.”
“Joan,” the young woman said, and she smiled again. “Please to come with me.”
Vera led them outside, down the steps in front of the opera house, and around through an alley between buildings to the stage door. There was no crowd of fans; an announcement had been made that the actors would not be available to meet the public. Nora and her privileged few were admitted inside by two doormen—one clearly a La Fenice employee of long standing, the other just as clearly a Russian security agent.
Patch got off a few shots of the group being led through a backstage area where several men were storing scenery for the next performance in two days’ time. Nora noted with approval that her daughter’s clever boyfriend didn’t even attempt to film the Russian doorman. At last they entered a hallway just offstage, and Vera knocked softly on the door of the dressing room nearest to the stage.
The door was opened by another young woman who was clearly a dresser, as she had two of Galina’s costumes slung over her arm. With a smile, she stepped aside and waved them in on her way out.
The men remained in the doorway, filming. Mario was elaborately instructing the two younger men to get a shot of this and this and that. Nora went inside, with Frances discreetly behind her.
There were two women in the room, each at a dressing table fronting a mirror framed with lights. The woman on the left side of the big, well-appointed space was the older actress, Anya Danilova, who played Madame Arkadina. She smiled over at them, and then turned back to removing her makeup. To Nora’s right was Galina Rostova. She was already out of her costume, now wearing a beautiful blue kimono, but she’d left her Gibson Girl wig and thick stage makeup in place. For the camera, of course. Nora smiled, thinking, That’s exactly what I would have done. But Nora wasn’t an actor now; she was a reporter meeting the subject of her interview.
Galina rose from her chair and stepped forward, beaming. Patch’s camera recorded the moment when she placed her hands on Nora’s arms and leaned forward for the continental double-dip, the air kiss to each cheek. Then she slid her hands down to grasp Nora’s hands.
“Good evening,” she said in her low, velvety voice. She spoke English perfectly, with just a hint of an accent. “How delighted I am to meet you at last, Ms. Simmons.”
“I’ve been looking forward to it as well,” Nora said, “and you were superb!” She smiled over at the other actress, including her in the compliment. “You were both absolutely brilliant!”
Anya Danilova turned from her mirror and inclined her head in acknowledgment, but she didn’t reply. Nora gathered that the older actress probably spoke no English, so she merely smiled and nodded in return. Turning back to her subject, she said, “We won’t keep you tonight. I know how—I mean, I’m sure you must be exhausted after such a difficult performance.”
“Please call me Galina, and I shall call you Joan. Yes, I am tired. We can talk and get to know each other tomorrow at Florian, yes? Then in Murano, and at the party tomorrow night. I’m looking forward to it.”
She still had Nora’s hands firmly clasped in her own, and Nora realized with a shock that the woman was pressing something into her right palm: a folded sheet of paper. With a tiny nod of acknowledgment, Nora casually extracted her hand from Galina’s and lowered it into her coat pocket. She introduced Frances and the three men in the doorway, and Galina smiled and greeted them. Paolo was aiming a directional microphone at her as she said, “Thank you all for doing this.”
Now Galina turned her attention to a far corner of the room, behind Anya Danilova’s dressing table. Nora was surprised to see another young woman sitting in the shadows, watching them. She was very pretty, with dark hair and huge dark eyes. She looked like a slightly younger version of Galina, Nora decided, so she wasn’t surprised when Galina identified her.
“This is Natalia Fedorovna, my understudy.”
The young woman smiled and nodded. Nora nodded back, thinking, Yes. This woman will be perfect for her part in our operation Saturday afternoon…
Nora and Galina repeated the air-kiss thing, and Galina said, “Until tomorrow.”
“Yes, tomorrow,” Nora replied, and she ushered Frances out of the room. In the narrow hallway, Nora nearly collided with a tall, handsome young man who was approaching the dressing room. They both stopped abruptly.
“I beg your pardon,” the man said in accented English, and Nora realized that he was the actor who’d played Treplev, the sensitive young playwright whose hopeless love for Nina leads to tragedy in The Seagull.
“That’s quite all right,” Nora said. “You were excellent in the play. Congratulations!”
“You are most lovely,” he said, giving her a dazzling grin as he moved past her toward the dressing room door. Just before he went inside, he stopped and turned back to her. “I mean, you are most kind. Forgive me, please; my English is not very…”
Nora laughed. “Your English is fine. Good evening.”
“Come along, Joan,” Frances said, laughing as she took Nora’s arm and led her toward the stage door. “My, that kid is what they used to call a matinee idol.”
“Isn’t he gorgeous?” Nora said, and the two women giggled. The three men of her crew followed them back the way they’d come. The elderly doorman mumbled a buona notte and the young Russian guard nodded curtly as they went out through the stage door into the chilly night air.
The pensione was a fifteen-minute walk east and south from the opera house in Campo San Fantin, and Nora found herself searching all the shadows in the alleys as they passed them, half expecting to see the man from the airport. If he was still nearby, he wasn’t showing himself. In fact, very few people were about at all, mostly small groups in formal evening wear who’d probably just come from the opera house. They passed a trio of noisy men on their way to or from a bar, then a silent pair of lovers wandering arm-in-arm; otherwise no one.
Nora clutched her coat more closely to her as she walked. Most of these alleys were narrow, cobbled walkways flanked by high stone buildings. Nora had noticed the odd sound produced by footsteps on earlier visits, but it was somewhat more noticeable�
�and sinister—at night. Hard-soled shoes on cobblestones made a flat, hollow, electronic sound that echoed away in all directions. This unsettling effect, combined with the deep shadows that gathered in corners and under balconies and stairways between streetlights, made a simple journey from one campo to another seem like a walk on the moon. She was glad to be in a group; she wouldn’t want to make this trip alone at this hour. Only when she entered the guesthouse did her pulse return to normal.
Nora waited through the brief gathering for drinks and sandwiches in the lobby, making idle chat with her crew. They’d enjoyed tonight, as far as she could tell, which was a relief; she’d thought the men would be bored by Chekhov. As soon as she decently could, she excused herself and went upstairs to her bedroom. She locked the door and studied the room, making sure everything here was as she had left it. When she was satisfied that all was well, she retrieved the folded slip of paper from her coat pocket.
Galina Rostova had beautiful handwriting, and her written English was as good as her spoken English. The note read:
I apologize, but it is too dangerous. I will explain tomorrow. We must cancel the plan.
Chapter 8
“This isn’t good news,” Nora’s husband said.
“No, it isn’t,” Hamilton Green agreed.
“Well, that’s what she said in the note,” Nora told them. “I guess now I wait to hear what she has to say tomorrow, then try to talk her back into defecting. Is that the right term? I mean, do your people in Washington still use that word to describe this?”
“Yes, they do” Jeff said. “The basic structure of Russia has changed from the USSR days, and there’s somewhat more freedom of movement, but it’s still a defection. Well, we must hope it is, anyway.”
Nora said, “What should I do, Ham?”
She heard her husband’s sharp intake of breath on his end of their three-way conference call, and she suppressed an urge to laugh. Jeff still wasn’t used to the fact that his wife was allowed to be so familiar with his employer while he still called the man Mr. Green. She knew it galled him, and she rather liked the feeling of competitive one-upmanship, but she didn’t mention it.
