by Rebecca York
Julie received the new information in stunned silence. Cal’s sources must be a lot better than hers. The consular officer pressed his advantage. Getting up, he went to a combination safe in the corner and pulled out two fat folders, which he dropped in her lap. “The first file has pictures and fact sheets on all the known KGB agents in the area. Naturally, a lot of them have cover jobs at the Russian embassy. The second one has a number of miscellaneous troublemakers that have come to our attention. I’d like you to look through the pictures and tell me if you’ve seen any of these people with Dan. And note the names in case they come up in any of the information you find out about the incident. I expect you to report any of that back to me.”
“Is that all?” She stood up, the folders clutched in her hand.
Cal ran blunt fingers through his close-cropped light brown hair. “You can’t take that material out of this room. Sit down at the table in the corner and go over it. I’ll lock it up again when you’re finished.”
Julie nodded. She should have realized that Cal’s connection with the CIA was probably as classified as the material he had in the folders. Without another word she took the files over to the table he’d indicated and set to work.
* * *
THE REST OF THE DAY was not much better. Because Cal’s unpleasant assignment had taken up the morning, there wasn’t time to spare for even a late lunch away from her desk.
“I’m going down to pick up something to eat before the snack bar closes. Do you want me to get you a sandwich?” Paula Collins, one of the junior political aides, asked sympathetically, popping her blond curly head in the doorway of Julie’s office. Like the rest of the staff, she knew who was drawing extra duty because of the bombing.
Julie looked up gratefully from the newspaper she was scanning for details on the incident. “That would be wonderful. Do you know what’s edible down there today?”
Paula laughed. The basement cafeteria was one of the embassy’s secret weapons. It was often bandied about that all they’d have to do to disable the Russians would be to invite them in for a fast-food snack. “Probably nothing’s edible, but I hear today’s special is pizzaburgers.”
Julie grimaced. “Oh, what’s the difference! Everything they fix tastes the same anyway.”
“Isn’t it the truth,” Paula agreed. She hesitated for a moment. “You know, Julie, everybody was really shocked to hear about Dan. But since the two of you were...” She let the sentence trail off, not knowing quite what the relationship had been. “If there’s anything I can do, just let me know.”
“Maybe you could start a collection envelope, and we could send it to the hospital for handicapped kids across town where he was donating some time.”
“Gee, I didn’t know he was doing that.”
“He didn’t talk about it, but I think it’s because his older brother died of cerebral palsy. It really hit Dan hard, and he wanted to make a difference.” Julie felt her vision begin to mist again. Dan had been such a good person. It wasn’t fair that this had happened to him.
“I’ll take care of it,” Paula assured her. “But let me get you something to eat now.”
Julie nodded, reined in her emotions, and turned back to the papers that had been delivered that morning. Spain’s terrorist activity was relatively minor league, compared to that in the Middle East or Northern Ireland, for example. But there were sporadic outbreaks and always the chance that the U.S. presence could be the target. Scanning the local media for articles on the ETA, FRAP, and other agitators was part of her routine. Today, stories about the bombing covered the front page and spilled into the other sections. There was a lot of speculation on who was responsible, but despite earlier rumors, no one had claimed credit for the destruction.
The bombing had pushed to page five a story about a cornice from a library under renovation falling on the king’s limousine. Luckily, Juan Carlos had been inside the library making a speech. Other than that it had almost crushed the monarch’s car, Julie reflected, the accident wasn’t all that rare. Supervision of public construction under the previous regime had been all too lax, and almost every other month a part of a building came crashing to the pavement.
After thanking Paula for the hot sandwich and Coke, Julie turned quickly back to her newspaper. She didn’t really want to encourage any more sympathetic conversation about Dan, no matter how well-meaning. The subject was still too painful.
Later in the afternoon she canvased her contacts again and wasn’t surprised to find that there were details the newspapers didn’t yet have. The type of bomb had been determined. It had been a plastic explosive detonated by a clockwork egg timer. Tentative identifications had also been made on the other four victims. If the authorities had discovered a KGB link to one of them, they were still treating the intelligence as confidential. Because Julie had no official reason to know either, she couldn’t ask.
Hour by hour, she added bits and pieces of information to the file she was compiling, all the time trying to put the puzzle together.
Fitz came in at five-thirty and found her staring vacantly at the folder. Giving her an understanding look, he closed the file and locked it back in the safe.
“Enough for today,” he proclaimed.
Julie scanned the new lines etched into his freckled brow. “You look about as wrung out as I feel. I’ll quit for the day if you will.”
“Deal. I’ll even drive you home.”
It was an offer she couldn’t refuse.
As Fitz pulled his blue compact car up in front of her apartment, he put a hand on her arm. “I know this has really been an ordeal for you.”
She nodded.
“I wish I could say it was over, but I’m still getting pressure from Washington. There’s some extra research we’re going to have to do.”
“What?”
“We’ll talk about it in the morning—in the office. You just get some rest tonight.”
She sighed. Fitz was the kind of guy who leveled with you, even if it kept you on pins and needles all night wondering what he was going to drop on you tomorrow.
Julie was glad she’d opted for a building with an elevator as she leaned her head wearily against the brown-painted metal walls. Her eyes ached from perusing columns of tiny black type, her back ached from sitting in one position for too long, and her heart ached whenever she thought about Dan’s untimely death. After opening the front door to her apartment, she set her purse down on the carved-oak sideboard that she’d picked up at El Rastro, Madrid’s famous flea market.
A very private person, Julie had taken special joy in making her apartment into a haven where she could reenergize her spirit after a hectic day at the embassy. Every piece of furniture and accessory, from the Icelandic fur throw rug to the embroidered pillows on her Shepherd’s bench sofa, was there because it brought her pleasure. She stopped for a moment in front of the shelves that held her porcelain menagerie. She’d collected the delicate little animals from around the world. Often their appealing expressions amused her. Tonight there was nothing that could make her smile.
Sinking into a leather easy chair, she rubbed the throbbing tension spot between her brows. She’d been too busy to think about her surprise morning interview with Cal Dixon. Now the reaction was setting in.
After almost three hours with Cal’s rogues’ gallery, she’d been relieved to tell him that she hadn’t seen any of the men and women. Many of the candid shots depicted Soviet chauffeurs and clerical staffers. Others could have been vacation photos snapped at nearby castles and cathedrals—except that the multilingual tour guides, not the tourists, were the focus of the camera’s lens. She hadn’t thought about it before, but of course it would be easy for congenial “guides” to pick up tidbits from businessmen and military personnel enjoying the local sights.
The confirmation that Soviet spies moved in the same circles that she did was even more disconcerting. Naturally, being cautious about what one said and did in front of foreign nationals had
been drummed into her head so thoroughly that it was almost as automatic as brushing her teeth before going to bed. Still, she was surprised by photos of people with whom she’d interacted. Feliks Gorlov, the Russian agricultural under secretary, for example, had seemed quite personable at the French Bastille Day fete last year. Yelena Danchev, who held a position similar to her own, had started a pleasant conversation with her at last month’s diplomatic speaker’s forum.
Then there was Aleksei Rozonov, the cultural attaché. Her hand had paused on the photo. This morning in Cal’s office she had been trying to get through the material quickly, but there was something about the picture of the man that had warranted a second look. The candid shot of Rozonov had obviously been taken at a garden party. Though he was standing with a tall glass in hand, she saw that his shoulders were squared and his darkly handsome features alert. But his good looks were pushed to the background by a tangible aura of danger about his person. Julie had shivered and quickly turned the page.
In an effort to put Rozonov and his cohorts out of her mind, Julie strode purposefully into the bedroom and began sorting through the clothes she intended to drop off at the cleaners tomorrow. It was a relief to focus on a simple domestic chore rather than the morass of confusing details Cal had tossed in her lap.
One of the items that needed attention was the navy suit she’d worn for eighteen hours the day before. As she checked the pockets, her fingers closed around the ticket from Dan’s desk she’d stuffed there the night before. She’d forgotten all about it. When she drew out the blue rectangle, she felt an odd, disorienting sensation, as though she were looking through a kaleidoscope and some unseen hand had twisted the tube, giving the little pieces of glass a completely different pattern. She’d thought she knew Dan, but all her previous assumptions were being called into question.
Julie wanted to believe the ticket was the most innocent thing in the world, yet she couldn’t help remembering Cal’s veiled accusations. He suspected that Dan was involved in some sort of debatable activity—maybe even espionage. Did he know something more about her friend, something he wasn’t sharing with her?
The ticket, she knew, should be turned over to him. But then, if it were really something innocent, why get Cal involved? Why not just go to the play herself? When nothing out of the ordinary happened, she could toss away the ticket stub with a clear conscience.
She looked at the date. The performance was for seven o’clock tomorrow. As a Spanish major in college, she’d been interested in Alejandro Casona, and she had promised herself to see some of his work performed while she was in Spain. Somehow, with the pressures of her job, she hadn’t gotten around to it. This might be her last opportunity to see his dramas before her tour was up.
* * *
WITH A THEATRICAL flourish, Amherst Gordon tossed the report from Madrid into the office burn bag. “This doesn’t have any more details than The Washington Post,”he complained.
His assistant fished out the computer printouts, and smoothed the crumpled sheets. “I’ll bet those poor staffers were up all night putting it together. And I think if we read it carefully we’ll get some insights.”
The Falcon changed the subject. “There are just too many variables, and I don’t like it one damn bit.”
“Well, it could be worse. At least we know the Raven wasn’t killed in the blast,” Connie pointed out.
“But I’ll bet that Soviet ‘wine merchant,’ Ivanov, wasn’t there to sample the sangria.”
“I’d like to know who he was taking orders from,” Connie mused.
“The Raven might know. I’d give away the Liechtenstein diplomatic codes to have a ten-minute chat with him about it.”
Connie laughed at the inside joke. “Of course, that’s impossible. Right now, he doesn’t even have a contact for passing information.”
The Falcon balled his veined hand into a fist. “There are some even murkier details you haven’t heard yet. Dan’s theater ticket for the fallback meeting has vanished.” The fist came down and hit the mahogany surface of the desk.
Connie looked up sharply. “Wasn’t it in the box in his desk?”
“No. I’ve seen facsimilies of the pictures taken in his office—and the printed inventory of his effects. It’s missing. The mate’s still at the box office. I had an operative check on that last night. But the Russians have apparently expressed an interest too.”
The Falcon’s assistant uttered one of her rarely used expletives. “You don’t think they have someone in our embassy, do you?”
“It’s always a possibility.”
“Who inventoried Dan’s effects?”
The old spymaster pulled a crisp new folder out of his desk drawer. “A third-tour political officer named Julie McLean. She’s the same one who turned in this damn report full of empty speculation and holes.”
“Is she any relation to Senator William McLean?”
“Her uncle. It’s all in here.” He slapped the rigid file against his desk top. “On the surface she comes up clean. But I suggest you do some more digging into her background. She could have been recruited while she was stationed in Moscow during her last tour, for all we know.” He paused and rubbed a finger across his usually smooth-shaven cheek. The rasp of skin against gray stubble testified that he, like the embassy staff in Madrid, had been on overtime alert. “But Julie McLean isn’t our most urgent problem,” he reminded his assistant. “Dan was our only communications link to the Raven, and we’ve got to set up something else. The trouble is, almost any approach we make could put him in more danger.”
“What about the dead drop at the Prado?” Connie asked. She was thinking about the loose molding in a stairwell of Madrid’s world-renowned art museum where the Raven had once picked up and left enciphered communications.
“It’s a possibility. But we’d have to let him know it’s not a trap.”
“You’re already thinking of something, aren’t you?” Connie asked, noting the familiar glean in her employer’s green eyes.
“Yes. You do remember it was the Raven who told us the Russians were reading our communications on one of the European satellite links?”
She nodded.
“Since he routinely monitors those communications as part of his job, why don’t we send some carefully worded messages to the U.S. military of Torrejon. The Russians should be interested in that. If we embedded a code word the Raven has used, he ought to pick up on what we’re doing.”
Connie looked at him knowingly. Like a chess master planning a devious assault, he was deep into the strategy of this particular game. Only he wasn’t playing with carved figures on a red and black board. He was manipulating men’s lives.
* * *
BECAUSE JULIE HAD PUT in so much extra time over the bombing incident, she was entitled to get off early the next afternoon. But the project Fitz had hinted at involved going through three filing cabinets full of newspaper clippings looking for a link between known terrorist organizations and what had happened at the San Jeronimo. The search yielded a few tentative suspects who might be backed by European leftist groups, but the connections were well hidden, if they existed at all.
By the time she finished, she didn’t think she had the energy to drag herself to the theater. But as she walked past Dan’s closed office door on the way to the elevator, her resolve strengthened. She had felt helpless to do anything about the tragedy of his death. Well, this was one final loose end she could tie up.
She had time for only a quick shower before the 7:00 p.m. performance, but the needle spray hitting her bare skin had a reviving effect. Soon she was sweeping her hair up with silver combs and slipping into a soft green silk sheath.
To compensate for the weariness in her brown eyes and the pallor of her complexion, she took a bit of extra care with her mascara and green eye shadow and dabbed some blush onto her cheeks. A few minutes later, as she surveyed the effect, she decided that she would pass for someone out for nothing more than an evening’s
entertainment.
As her cab pulled up in front of the small theater on a side street off the Gran Via, she noted that it was sandwiched between a leather boutique and an antique shop. The location didn’t seem very promising, but the auditorium was a charming surprise. With its gold pilasters, crystal chandeliers and faded red brocade walls, it had once been elegant. Now, although it looked a bit like a dowager who had come on hard times, it was obviously enjoying a new popularity with Madrilenos interested in Spanish culture. She noted that the ground floor was already three-quarters full.
There were about a hundred people in the balcony. She glanced at the row the usher had indicated and saw two empty seats close to the center aisle. One was hers. Had Dan planned to meet someone here? If so, he or she had better hurry. Mentally shrugging, Julie began to descend the steps.
* * *
WHEN ALEKSEI ROZONOV arrived a few minutes later, he paused to scan the lower auditorium looking for familiar faces and noting the location of the exits. You never knew, he reflected soberly, when you might have to leave before the curtain calls.
When a bell sounded, signaling that the first act would begin soon, he turned and headed for the stairs, thinking that it would have been a lot more profitable to spend the evening going over embassy cables. Despite the general’s paranoia, he didn’t expect anyone to be occupying either seat he’d been sent to monitor. Under ordinary circumstances, that would mean he could go home after the first act. He would bet, however, that Bogolubov had someone working double time translating the play into Russian so the old toad could spring a quiz on the last act tomorrow morning.
