by Rebecca York
“No, I’ll have the same as the señor. Bien hecho tambien.”
Aleksei ordered a bottle of Portuguese white wine to go with the fish. When Mendoza had left, she was once again conscious of the hand that covered hers. The nails were blunt-cut, and a fairly recently healed scar ran from his little finger toward his thumb. Her own pulse was none too steady. Could he feel her reaction? Casually she slipped her hand out from under his and asked, “How did you get that scar?”
“I got in the way of some flying glass in Berlin.”
What did that mean? she wondered. “That sounds hazardous.”
He shrugged. “It goes with the job.”
“I hadn’t imagined your duties put you in jeopardy.”
“Didn’t you?”
The way he asked the question made her chest tighten. Unconsciously her fingers began to pleat the linen napkin on her lap. “You’re right. Working at any diplomatic assignment these days has its risks.”
“You could even go out for a drink in a tavern and get caught in a terrorist attack.”
She forced herself to give him a direct look. “Are you referring to the San Jeronimo?”
“Yes.” He paused. “Your friend wasn’t just out for a casual drink—he was playing a very dangerous game.”
Julie felt her stomach knot painfully, but she tried to hide her reaction. “I know.”
Before her companion could answer, a waiter appeared with their asparagus appetizers and wine. She wondered how she was going to choke the food down, but the Russian didn’t seem to be feeling the effects of the tense conversation. His blue eyes, which had been coldly appraising her reactions only seconds before, softened.
“I promise you’ll love the food here, querida,”he said, his voice low and intimate.
His sudden change of demeanor threw her off balance. He was such a convincing actor that when he called her sweetheart, she could almost believe he meant it. But then, she reminded herself, he was a professional and she was a rank amateur.
After ceremoniously opening the wine and putting the food on the table, the waiter departed. “We were speaking of your friend,” Rozonov resumed without missing a beat.
Julie marshaled her courage. “I’m prepared to take his place.”
He looked up sharply and she knew that now she’d caught him by surprise. A point for my side, she thought, enjoying the small triumph. But the satisfied feeling faded almost at once: she still didn’t know what game they were playing.
Chapter Eight
Rozonov recovered quickly. “That should prove interesting,” he murmured, leaning back and regarding her above the rim of his long-stemmed wineglass. She watched as he reached out, almost in slow motion, and lifted the glass to his lips. His eyes didn’t leave her face, even as he sipped the pale liquid. “It’s very good. You should try some.”
Julie reached for her own glass and sampled the dry but pleasant vintage. She was determined to play with as much aplomb as he. “To our mutual interest, then,” she offered.
A ghost of a smile flickered at the corners of his well-shaped lips. “Indeed.”
She expected him to continue, but instead he turned his attention to the food. The silence stretched as he savored the fresh asparagus in its flaky crust.
When he finally spoke, it was not to give her the cue she needed to steer a safe course through this precarious interchange. “The vegetables here in Spain are quite extraordinary, don’t you agree?” he asked.
“Definitely.” Her years of social training were standing her in good stead. She must preserve appearances at all costs. This afternoon she was succeeding at hiding the stress. She was even able to cut the buttery crust that surrounded the asparagus, and carry the fork to her mouth. But despite her unruffled appearance, she was unable to relish the food. For all she knew, the well-prepared first course might have been steamed grass.
By the time the hake arrived, Julie had thought up and rejected a dozen subtle ways of asking Rozonov what this luncheon was really about. Finally, when the waiter had left again, she settled on the direct approach.
“Why don’t we get back to our discussion.”
The Russian poured himself some more wine and filled her glass up again too. “I don’t think we can go into any detail here.” He paused and looked around significantly at the hallway and the open courtyard where an off-duty waiter was lounging at an empty table. “So why don’t you indulge me in one of my passions.”
Julie carefully laid down her fork. “And what exactly is that?”
“I’m a devotee of your American contemporary fiction. But there are so few people with whom I can discuss the subject. What do you like to read?”
The question took her completely by surprise. “Why—uh—mysteries and thrillers.” She stopped and shook her head, realizing the irony of what she’d just said. It was one thing to be a vicarious participant in international intrigue. It was quite another to be caught up in the real thing.
“Ah, American thrillers. I’ve read a number myself. The trouble is, we Russians are too often cast as the villains.”
“I see your problem.”
His face threatened to break into a grin. “If you promise to keep my secret, I’ll admit that I pick up a Ludlum or a MacInnes whenever I get the chance.”
He was giving her the opportunity to switch to a safe topic and she accepted. For the rest of the meal they exchanged opinions on books they’d read. He hadn’t been exaggerating about his enthusiasm for the topic. Was it her imagination, she wondered, or was he a frustrated writer? But she had little opportunity to pursue the thought.
After Rozonov had paid the check, he pushed back his chair. “You know, I think we must make arrangements to meet again.”
“Yes,” she agreed quickly, fighting down the apprehension that had been dissipated somewhat while they’d chatted about bestsellers.
“Somewhere outside where we can stroll and talk.”
“There’s always El Rastro on Sunday morning,” Julie suggested.
“Sunday is fine. But the flea market is too crowded. What about Casa de Campos?” He named the sprawling park that had once been the carefully tended property of Spanish royalty but was now partially reclaimed by nature.
Another conversation in a park, she thought. Maybe this one would go better than the last time with Cal and Fitz. It seemed a bad omen, but she couldn’t think of a good alternative. “All right.”
“Shall we say Sunday morning at ten, across from the boat dock?”
“I’ll be there.”
The business settled, he stood and she followed suit. He waited for a moment looking at her. Then, instead of moving toward the door as she had expected, he took a step closer to her. “You know, we really ought to reinforce the impression that our business here was very personal.”
“I think you’ve succeeded at that already.”
“One can never be too thorough.” As he spoke, he reached out and put his hands on her shoulders. She had been anticipating and dreading some kind of personal contact since the moment in the theater lobby when the Russian’s silver blue eyes had locked with hers. Now reason urged her to break the bond. But her body was powerless to obey her mind. Her senses were too full of the man who pulled her gently toward him. The warmth of his touch penetrated the cotton of her dress. The clean male scent of his body, unobscured by spicy cologne or after-shave lotion, seemed to envelop her. His face filled her field of vision as he lowered his lips toward hers.
Just before her lashes fluttered closed she saw that his eyes had deepened to the cobalt of a storm-dark sea. Then his lips were on hers, warm and firm and exciting with the taste of the wine they’d shared at lunch. His mouth moved back and forth, and then settled with a steady indrawn pressure that sealed their lips together with mutual heat. She felt totally captivated, almost dizzy, as though the wine had finally gone to her head. But she knew the sudden intoxication wasn’t from alcohol. To steady herself, she found his shoulders with her own ha
nds. They were broad and rock-solid, a fortress to save her from the whirlwind.
She forgot the restaurant, the wine, the purpose of their meeting. There was only this man and the way his mouth felt locked to hers as though drawing her essence into himself. His body seemed to turn her own to fire as he pulled her more tightly against his unyielding length.
For Aleksei, the kiss had been an impulse, but he wasn’t a man who yielded to impulses. Or perhaps it had been a challenge—to her, to himself. Now he was a hunter caught in his own snare, a deep-sea diver tangled in his own oxygen line.
He had told himself that her mouth would not taste this sweet and that her lips would not feel so incredibly tender and yielding beneath his own. The assurances had been a lie. He thought he’d be able to use the sexual tension that had been sparking between them to his advantage. Now he realized the arrogance of that assumption. The reality of folding her close was more than simply the physical pleasure of holding a woman in his arms. Just before her dark lashes had lowered, he’d seen the golden highlights in her eyes glimmer with desire. They had sparked an ache inside him. Now he was mesmerized by the way his fingers tangled in the raw silk of her hair, the way her delicate hands gripped his shoulders, and the pressure of her soft breasts against his chest.
Regret mingled with relief as he became aware of footsteps in the hall. Slowly, with the reluctance of a man concerned with protecting his lover’s reputation, he lifted his head and put a few inches of space between their bodies. But the movements were just slow enough so that when Mendoza rounded the corner with a tray of chocolates and change, his two patrons were still in a somewhat compromising position.
When Julie heard the restaurant owner clear his throat, her eyes snapped open. Suddenly she was catapulted from a world of sensation back to the inescapable truth that she and this man could never be more than deadly foes. The kind of mistake that she’d just made might be fatal. No matter how much she was attracted to Aleksei Rozonov, she must never forget that they were adversaries in the most basic sense.
* * *
CAL DIXON PUT DOWN the phone and pressed his weight against the adjustable back of his desk chair, realizing how tense his muscles felt. That call wasn’t the one he’d been expecting. But the information he’d just picked up was certainly welcome.
So his suspicion was confirmed. There was a Russian link to the San Jeronimo bombing. He’d already learned earlier in the week that the incident wasn’t what it had appeared to be. But had Eisenberg’s presence simply been bad luck, or was he into drug trafficking as well as spying? He was going to find out.
There was a lot riding on this case, he reminded himself, standing up and stretching before walking to the window. A blue-and-red cab pulled up in front of the embassy gate, and he waited to see who got out. It wasn’t Julie McLean.
Sighing, he looked back toward the pile of visa applications on his desk. They were going to have to wait. He had more important things to do.
The national security implications of this case were enough to justify any action he might have to take. But above and beyond that, this was the first operation of consequence that he’d had full responsibility for. He’d come up through the ranks doing his share of grunt work. Madrid had seemed like just another post where you cultivated the local contacts and hoped for tidbits of information on terrorist activities and technology export violations. Until he’d started digging into the San Jeronimo explosion, he’d almost given up hope that he was going to get a chance to match wits with the Russians. Now it looked as though he might be sitting on something almost as big as the Walker spy case.
The thought set his adrenaline pumping. He began to pace back and forth between the desk and the window, pausing every time he reached for the latter so that he could survey the street. Under his breath he cursed his luck at having to work with someone as green as Julie McLean.
She should have turned that theater ticket over to him in the first place. Instead she’d stupidly gone off on her own and made the contact with Rozonov. Now he was stuck with her, and he didn’t like it.
Julie’s unwillingness to wear a transmitter, coupled with Rozonov’s refusal to reveal the meeting place, had put her in a precarious position. The only choice had been to send two mobile units to the monument. But the Russian had chosen his location well. The heavy traffic and that quick evasive maneuver crossing the street just before the light changed had lost both the car and the van. Cal had been stewing over that ever since the report had come in.
He glanced at his watch. It was after four. What was the woman doing, bedding down for a siesta with the KGB? He’d take information any way he could get it, but he couldn’t picture proper little Julie McLean carrying off that kind of assignment, or anything else that required deep deception. For the security of the mission, he’d be smart to tell her the bare minimum of what she needed to know. He could just imagine her confessing everything to the Russian cultural attaché at the least provocation.
He’d arranged for her to report back to Fitzpatrick’s office for a number of reasons. She tended to get defensive the moment she walked through the door to the consular office. But more than that, he suspected that people were beginning to wonder why she was coming down here every day for a long meeting.
Another cab pulled up. This time the passenger was a woman with long brown hair wearing a bright blue dress. Julie was finally back. Cal was across his office and out the door before she had climbed the short flight of steps to the main entrance.
* * *
JULIE CHECKED with her secretary to find out if anything urgent needed her attention. Unfortunately, there were no messages that couldn’t wait. She had no excuse not to head for Fitz’s office. When she knocked on the door she’d been in the building less than ten minutes.
“What kept you?” Cal Dixon asked as she sank into the armchair across from her boss’s desk.
“I just got back.” She looked over at Fitz, who was sitting with his elbows on his desk and his hands clasped. Even though it was in his domain, it was obvious that he was going to let the CIA man run the meeting.
“I mean why the three-hour lunch?” Cal persisted.
“Have you ever tried to hurry through lunch in Madrid?”
“Rozonov’s not a Spaniard.”
She nodded tightly. “You’re right. He wanted to have an extended discussion about American bestsellers.”
“That can’t be all.”
“You didn’t expect him to come right out and recruit me as a spy, did you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous! Why don’t we take it from the top. Where did you have lunch?” Cal reached down and picked up a small tape recorder that she hadn’t noticed sitting beside his chair.
Julie’s chest tightened. “Is that necessary?”
“I’m assuming you have no objections to my taping this session,” he said. “I want to be able to go over the details later.” He turned on the machine. “Where did you have lunch?”
“A place called Casa Mendoza.”
“And what was the Russian’s cover story to the management?”
“He implied we were there for some sort of lover’s tryst.”
“How did that make you feel?”
Julie shrugged. “It didn’t bother me.”
Cal studied her tense expression. God, what he’d give for a polygraph machine right now—and a free hand to use it effectively. He wanted the facts. But this woman’s emotional response to the meeting might be just as important. What had been her real reaction to the Russian’s ploy? he wondered. Was she embarrassed? Insulted? Intrigued? She wasn’t saying, and he wanted to know why.
For the next fifteen minutes he fired questions at Julie, trying to get her to respond without censoring her comments. He’d been trained in reading facial expressions, and he watched them carefully for clues to her state of mind. He sensed that she wasn’t telling him everything. Was it from loyalty to Eisenberg or other motivations altogether?
“So you
think there was something going on between Rozonov and the captain? Or at least that the Russian was aware of some ‘game’ Eisenberg was playing?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you think so.”
“Maybe Dan was trying to recruit him.”
Cal snorted. “A seasoned KGB agent? You can do better than that.”
For the first time, Fitz inserted himself into the conversation. “This isn’t an interrogation.”
Don’t I wish, Cal kept himself from snapping back. He turned to Julie again. “Did he set up another meeting?”
“Yes. At Casa de Campos.”
“That probably means a rowboat in the middle of the lake. So much for overhearing the conversation.”
“Maybe we’ve run out of things to talk about,” Julie tried.
“Don’t count on it. You seem to have gotten him interested when you volunteered to take over for Dan. Now you can hint that you’re willing to trade some classified information for money.”
“Cal, I can’t—”
“Yes you can.”
“What information?” Fitz interjected.
The consular officer thought for a minute. “Files on NATO troop strength, strategic weapons, other things that Julie would have access to through her job.”
Fitz’s eyes widened. “Are you crazy?”
“I can sanitize the information so it will still look authentic but be worth less than a pound of Spanish olives on the open market. Besides, she doesn’t have to deliver right away.”
“But if he finds out she’s playing with him...”
“We’ll just have to hope he doesn’t find out.”
* * *
IT WAS DARK. Julie lay in bed, a sheet pulled up to her chin. Madrid’s sultry heat had penetrated her apartment, but she couldn’t bring herself to throw off the light covering. Somehow it made her feel safer, as though a thin piece of fabric could ward off the hobgoblins of the night.
Since she’d left Fitz’s office, exhausted from the day’s verbal sparring, she’d been thinking about “The Pit and the Pendulum,” Poe’s story of terror and inquisition. Like the hapless narrator, she was caught between two unattractive alternatives. And like him, she was sick unto death of it.
