by Rebecca York
The bar was set up near the French doors that connected a casually decorated garden room to the courtyard. After getting her soda, Julie drifted inside.
Where was Rozonov? she wondered. Had he arrived yet, or had he decided to skip the party after all? She’d spent the past few days psyching herself up to confront him this evening. Although she still dreaded the meeting, she wanted to get it over with.
In the wide hallway one of the senior political officers gave her an appreciative smile. “You look absolutely terrific, Julie. You ought to dress this way for the office. It would certainly liven things up.”
Julie accepted the compliment graciously. In truth, she had dressed carefully for the occasion, finding it easier to think about her hair and makeup than about her assignment for the evening. Her dark tresses were swept up in a French twist with just a few dark curls artfully arranged at her cheeks. The upswept hairstyle was a perfect foil for her long burgundy evening dress. From the front it was almost demure. But the provocative back plunged almost to her waistline.
Upstairs, she could hear one of the musicians engaged in an impromptu performance. As she climbed the wide marble steps, a piano rendition of the overture to The Barber of Seville drifted downward. Ordinarily its energetic baroque rhythm would have put her in a carefree mood. But not this evening. Even the seventeenth-century splendor of the house with its carved stone fireplaces and elaborately painted ceilings failed to capture her interest for long.
Many of the singers and orchestra members had gathered in the music room. Julie skirted the entrance and made her way to the main reception hall. The moment she entered she felt a chill down the bare expanse of her back. Rozonov was there. She knew it.
Her eyes scanned the crowd and found him standing near one of the stone columns that decorated the room. He was turned away from her, talking to Conti. Even in a black tuxedo, the male uniform for the occasion, he was instantly recognizable. Had she really memorized the erect carriage of his broad shoulders and the way his dark hair tapered at the back of his neck?
All the anxiety that had enveloped her in the theater suddenly came swirling back, threatening to suffocate her. Just as it had before, her survival instinct urged her to turn and run. But it was too late for that.
She walked toward the fireplace, where she could get a better view of the two men. They were both tall, dark, and good-looking, though Conti’s skin had a deeper, more Mediterranean cast. But their personal styles were quite different. The Russian was dressed to blend into the crowd. The conductor, with his scarlet cummerbund and matching bow tie, obviously wanted to be noticed. After all, he was the star.
Conti must have been approaching the punch line of an outrageous story. He gestured expansively with his hands, punched his friend’s shoulder playfully. Both men appeared to be enjoying the joke. Julie’s ears caught the deep resonance of Rozonov’s laugh. The shared merriment softened his austere face for just a moment. Then he looked up and caught her appraisal. Taking a deep breath, she fixed a polite smile on her face and ordered her legs to take her across the room.
She’d prepared a complimentary opening line addressed to Maestro Conti, but she didn’t get a chance to use it.
“Ms. McLean, what a pleasure to see you here this evening. Let me introduce you to my friend Rafe Conti.”
Julie shot the Russian a startled look. He had used her name as though they were old friends. Recovering, she turned to the conductor. “Maestro, I’ve been a fan of yours since my uncle took me to hear you conduct the Eroica Symphony at the Kennedy Center.”
“I’m always delighted to meet such a charming admirer,” he drawled in a cultivated voice that held just the hint of an Italian accent. Instead of shaking her proffered hand, he lifted it to his lips. “You’ve just made me wish our tour wasn’t moving on to Barcelona tomorrow.”
“If the newspaper accounts of your week’s stay here are true, my friend, you’ve probably already broken your quota of hearts in Madrid,” Aleksei cut in.
“Well, you Russians may be confined by quotas, but thank God for good old capitalistic enterprise.” While he chuckled at his own witticism, Julie’s brown eyes met Aleksei’s blue ones. For just an instant they seemed to be conspirators in a private observation. When she realized what was happening, she quickly lowered her lashes.
“But the press exaggerates,” the flamboyant conductor continued, addressing himself to his old friend. “Anyway, I get the feeling you’ve already staked out a claim on Ms. McLean.”
An automatic denial leaped to Julie’s lips. But before she could voice it, Aleksei corrected the impression. “The lady and I have only recently met, although I won’t deny that I’m very interested in getting to know her better.”
The fact that he was making her assignment easier did nothing to steady her pulse. And when a group of admirers came to claim Conti’s attention, leaving her standing with the Russian, her mouth was suddenly dry.
“I’m surprised to find you here,” he remarked, leaning slightly toward her and lowering his voice.
“I didn’t expect to see you either.” She knew instantly from his expression that he knew she was lying. The cat-and-mouse game had begun.
Chapter Six
“Well, perhaps it’s what you Americans call fate,” Aleksei continued. “You may recall that I predicted we’d meet again.”
“Yes.” Almost every word he’d spoken had engraved itself on her mind.
“You’ve visited Byne House before?”
Julie nodded. He was so close, so overwhelmingly attractive. She had tried to prepare herself to fight the sexual pull she’d known she’d feel. Her defenses were inadequate.
“It’s fascinating. You must show me around.” So no one can listen to our conversation, she thought.
“I’d be glad to.” She was about to lead the way when she turned back to him, her brown eyes lifting questioningly to his face. “Would you rather converse in Spanish? Or maybe Russian?” Cal had told her to be accommodating.
The offer to continue in his native tongue was all too tempting. His English had once been excellent. But he knew from experience that subtleties of expression and word choice were easily forgotten. That meant he was going to have to keep a step ahead of the conversation, anticipating her responses and weighing the precision of his own. “My English is far better than my Spanish, and I’m afraid Russian would be a bit conspicuous here. But where did you learn my language?”
“My last tour was in Moscow.”
“Oh.”
Somehow the single syllable told her he’d already possessed that piece of information. The insight was a reminder to stay alert. They weren’t just a man and a woman enjoying each other’s company at a party, although on one level she couldn’t help wishing that were true.
“Do you know the history of the house?” she asked.
“Only that it was owned by an American millionaire. And that it’s supposed to have a resident ghost.”
“How did you know that?”
“Oh, we have our sources.” His voice was low and confiding. “It’s hard to hide anything from us—even something as insubstantial as a ghost.”
Did he mean the KGB or just the Soviet bloc in general? And then she laughed, realizing the absurdity of trying to find hidden meaning in a joke.
As they had been speaking, they had made their way across the main reception room. Several couples were standing near the door, and Aleksei put his hand on Julie’s back to guide her out into the hall. He felt her little shiver of awareness as his fingers brushed her bare skin. Even this light touch of flesh on flesh brought back all the sexual feelings he’d fought against that first evening at the theater. He didn’t know whether to be irritated or elated that she’d picked such an alluring dress. He did know that he had to fight the desire to stroke his thumb across the warm, velvety surface of her exposed back.
“Arthur Byne, the man who restored the house, was an architect. He was killed in a car accident at Christmas
time, and his wife is supposed to have grieved for him for eight years before she died, too. She’s the one who’s said to be haunting the premises. But from all reports she’s friendly—or at least not unfriendly,” she informed him in a breathy rush of words. She wasn’t even quite sure what she’d just said. The warmth of his strong fingers against her bare skin made it hard to think coherently.
To her relief he removed the disturbing hand once they’d passed through the doorway.
“A benevolent ghost. You Americans have all the luck.” He looked down at the dark tendrils of hair curling around her face and the equally dark lashes that all but brushed her cheek as she looked down. Why did this woman have to be so damn attractive to him? Why did her every unconscious gesture have to let him know that the feelings were not one-sided?
They paused at the entrance to the music room, where members of the chorus had begun to sing along with the piano player. Sometime during the evening he’d switched from Mozart to Broadway tunes.
“I enjoyed your show music when I lived in New York,” he remarked. “But if I join in the singing, it’s going to worsen Soviet-American relations.”
She laughed. “You must be exaggerating.”
“Don’t put me to the test.”
Julie had been searching for other topics of conversation. He had just given her the perfect entrée. “You lived in New York?”
“Yes. My father was a member of the Soviet U.N. delegation for a number of years. Getting to know your countrymen has proved very helpful in my work.”
“It would.” And which line of work was that—diplomacy or spying? She gave him an appraising look. “But I’m curious about something. I thought Soviets living abroad, especially in the U.S., were pretty limited in their contacts.” Except for their assignments as intelligence agents.
“That’s certainly true now. But in my father’s day we had a bit more freedom. I went to a private school in Manhattan.”
“That’s where you met Maestro Conti?”
“Yes.” So you’ve been reading my file too.
Her curiosity about this man was stretching beyond the scope of the assignment. “What was it like growing up as a foreigner in New York?”
A shadow crossed his face. “New York is an exciting city. But it’s hard not to be homesick so far from your own country.”
“I know.” The melancholy note in his voice struck a responsive chord within herself. She knew too well the loneliness of living surrounded by foreigners. For her that had been a recent discovery. She could imagine it would be worse for a young boy with parents who had their own concerns and problems to cope with. But why, she suddenly asked herself, was she starting to identify with the enemy?
The music faded as they moved into the dining room. Julie paused and gestured toward the paintings on the wall. “I’ve been told the house boasts a good ‘second-rate’ collection.”
Her companion smiled. “So you’re interested in art as well as the theater.”
Although she really didn’t need reminding, the casual remark made her vividly aware again that she and Rozonov were playing a game of cat and mouse, only she wasn’t sure who was stalking whom. Her chin lifted slightly and she forced her eyes to meet his unwavering gaze. “I have a variety of interests, as I know you must, too.”
His dark eyebrows arched slightly. “Perhaps we even have some in common. I look forward to our discovering them together.”
Cal had cautioned her not to risk pumping the Russian for information at the party but to hint that she was interested in a more private meeting. Clearly, it wasn’t going to be all that difficult to manage. The realization made her feel a bit like a butterfly fluttering dangerously close to a flame.
“That sounds intriguing,” she murmured.
“Does your interest in Spanish culture extend to the local cuisine?”
“Yes.”
“Then perhaps you might allow me to show you one of my favorite restaurants some time soon. It’s off the beaten track and very quiet. You Americans don’t appear to have discovered it yet. It would be a good place to get to know each other better.”
She could feel her heart rate accelerating. Although she was inexperienced in setting up clandestine meetings, she knew he was making this too easy. That meant he had his own reasons for establishing contact. For a moment she studied his features. A casual observer might have thought they were relaxed, but she already knew enough about him not to make that mistake. Even at ease, he projected a sense of leashed power that she found both frightening and exciting.
“I’d like that,” she managed. “Perhaps you could call me next week at home.”
He pulled a small black leather notebook and pen from his inside breast pocket and waited for her to give him the number.
She complied. But even as she spoke the numerals, she felt a sense of trepidation. When he snapped the book closed and put it back into his jacket, she felt almost as though he was pocketing her as well.
* * *
BY PREARRANGEMENT the call from Moscow on the secure line was timed for the middle of the siesta, when most of the embassy staff was at lunch. But General Slava Bogolubov had prudently stayed by the phone. For the past few weeks he had been resenting the fact that Department H was looking over his shoulder. This afternoon he was actually anticipating the call. There was a major development to report and he was going to make the most of it.
When the phone rang, he picked up the receiver and identified himself. “Bogolubov here.”
“Good of you to make yourself available.”
The general rolled his eyes. As if he had a choice. “Just doing my duty as a servant of the state.” The platitude was calculated to annoy the caller, but it couldn’t be faulted for its orthodox dogma.
“Yes. Well, that’s as it may be. But I don’t have to remind you that we’re at a critical stage in this operation. I suppose you still haven’t made any progress exterminating that mole burrowed in the embassy?”
“It’s hardly my fault that my main operative was blown up shadowing the American agent.”
“But it was bad timing, Comrade.”
Bogolubov repressed the retort that was begging to tumble from his lips. “I agree. According to our police sources, it looks as if the incident was drug-related.”
“Last week you reported that it was a terrorist attack.”
“The police have unearthed some new information. A local drug dealer was the target, and the hit man wanted to throw the authorities off the track.”
“Of course all this has nothing to do with our problem.”
“On the contrary, Comrade. It’s helped me narrow my investigation down to three prime suspects. And I’m putting the pressure on. At this point, our mole must feel as though all his escape holes are being locked.”
“I was hoping for something more concrete than a psychological analysis of the suspect’s state of mind.”
“Then perhaps you’d be interested to hear the latest development.” The general paused and stroked the waddle of his double chin.
“Yes?”
“One of my agents uncovered a dead drop at the Prado.” He let that information sink in for a minute.
Actually, recovery of the photocopied phone directory had been a stroke of pure luck. It had been discovered by one of the museum’s maintenance workers, who was just literate enough to recognize Cyrillic characters when he saw them. Making the brilliant deduction that the hidden material might be something of value to the Russians, he’d phoned the embassy to arrange a sale. But Bogolubov saw no reason not to claim the credit. “The papers inside could only have been left by someone with access to classified material.”
“Do you think it was the spy Eisenberg referred to as the Raven?” There was a note of excitement in the other man’s voice that couldn’t be completely hidden.
“Let’s hope so. At any rate, I have a plan for trapping him.”
“What?”
The general briefly outlined his s
trategy.
“That sounds reasonable. But remember that the man you’re trying to snare has been eluding our clutches for years.”
“This time he’s met his match.”
“I hope your self-confidence is warranted. We’ve discovered some evidence that he may be after Project Topaz. So if you don’t bring him to ground soon, you’d better at least eliminate that new American female agent.” The man in Moscow paused for a moment. “Remember, if Operation Topaz is jeopardized in any way, your head is going to be on the chopping block.”
The general ran a pudgy finger underneath the coarse material of his shirt collar and then unfastened the button that was suddenly pressing against his windpipe. Even he didn’t know the full details of the supersecret project called Topaz. But he knew millions of rubles and the next five-year defense plan were riding on its success. His voice, however, conveyed nothing but confidence. “When I succeed, I’ll expect that promotion I’ve been waiting for.”
“If you succeed, you’ll be able to name your reward.”
* * *
GEORGI KRASIN cast another nervous glance at the doorway of the blue and beige dining room. His stomach fluttered every time he wondered why Feliks Gorlov, a man who didn’t socialize much with lower-rank embassy staffers, had extended this luncheon invitation.
Since Gorlov had a morning appointment at the Ministry of Agriculture, they had arranged to meet at the small but comfortable restaurant in the Hotel Suecia. But the older man was more than fifteen minutes late. To pass the time, Krasin had used the restaurant’s linen napkin to clean his glasses and then had ordered a pitcher of sangria. The waiter had brought it, along with a plate of octopus vinaigrette and the inevitable basket of hard white rolls. One of the things he liked least about Spain was the food. But he was sure the food here was a damn sight better than in Nicaragua.
