by Rebecca York
Cal, fair-haired CIA operative. He ought to be protecting her. But if he was her friend, who needed enemies?
Rozonov, the KGB’s best. He should be her enemy. But this afternoon when he’d kissed her it was as though the world had been turned upside down. She remembered the feeling of clinging to him as though he were the only anchored rock in an earthquake.
What gave the man such power over her? Perhaps it was the attraction of the forbidden. Did danger turn her on? Or was it something more basic, like explosive chemistry between two people whose lives never should have touched? Even thinking about the way his lips had caressed hers and the way the lean length of his body had molded itself against her own made her start to perspire under the sheet. Sitting up, she turned on the bedside lamp. As usual when she couldn’t sleep, she picked up a book. But though she was in the middle of an adventure novel, it was impossible to keep her eyes focused on the letters, which seemed to blur on the page.
When Cal had asked her about this afternoon, she’d done her best to hide her true feelings. Her emotions had always been very private, and baring them in front of co-workers had gone against all her training. Now, in the solitude of the night, she wanted to come up with some rational explanation for why she had reacted so strongly to the Russian’s gambit.
She wasn’t a trembling virgin, going all squishy the first time a man touched her. Over the years she’d drifted into a number of relationships. They’d been companionable, and she’d enjoyed the physical aspects of them. But sex just hadn’t been the awesome experience Cosmopolitan had taught her to expect.
So what was building between herself and Aleksei Rozonov? It couldn’t be that she’d suddenly found Mr. Right.
She started to frame an imaginary letter. “Dear Cosmo, I’m deeply involved with a wickedly attractive KGB agent. Can we reconcile our differences and forge a meaningful relationship even though I’m afraid he’ll murder me in my sleep? Signed, Anxious in Madrid.”
She laughed at the absurdity of her situation. The laughter triggered a shiver that traveled the length of her spine. Though she couldn’t help acknowledging her attraction, she was afraid of the man, and she had every right to be. He was an expert in a profession that thrived on lies and deceit, death and destruction. Politically he must be at odds with everything she believed in.
What had he been feeling when he’d folded her into his arms? From their first meeting she’d sensed that he was responding to her on a basic male-female level. Just as she had to him. And each meeting had intensified the feelings as if they’d been involved for years, not weeks. But the way he’d carefully calculated the end of their kiss made her almost certain that his ardor had all been an act. A man who could manipulate his passions in that way was the worst kind of liar.
The best thing for her would be never to see him again, but that just wasn’t one of her options. She already had an appointment with him for Sunday. That meant she was going to have to be on guard not only against the man’s calculated moves but also the part of herself that was drawn to him despite the awful risk.
* * *
SUNDAY MORNING came all too soon, Julie thought as she parked Fitz’s car in one of the half-empty lots at Casa de Campos. In deference to the day, which was already showing signs of becoming a scorcher, she was wearing a pair of pink culottes and a striped knit top. As she started up the hillside toward the lake, local artisans and vendors were already spreading their wares on blankets on either side of the gravel path. A display of painted figurines caught her eye, but she was much too anxious about her meeting with the Russian to give bargain hunting any attention.
This time Rozonov was in full view, leaning casually against a wooden railing as he watched her come up the hill. He too was dressed informally, in jeans and a pullover shirt. Again she was stuck with his ability to blend in. But if anything, the sportswear emphasized his dark good looks. She caught more than one señorita giving him the once-over.
Rozonov, however, kept his eyes fixed on her. Her fingers tightened on the strap of the pocketbook slung over one shoulder. Most men she knew were too polite to stare at a woman in that frankly assessing manner. Of course, the Russian didn’t play by anyone else’s rules.
“Buenos días,” he said when she drew within earshot.
“Have you decided to speak Spanish after all?” she asked in that language.
“Only until we’re out in the boat.”
So Cal had been right about his plans.
Julie had been afraid he might take her arm as they crossed the road to the boat dock. But he kept his hands shoved in his pockets and a closed expression on his face. It was almost as though he were on guard against any feelings that might have been stirred up between them at their last meeting. She found it hard to believe that he thought he had anything to fear from her.
She waited while he rented one of the wooden rowboats bobbing next to the pier. Then he settled himself in the bow and watched as the attendant helped her down to the bench seat across from him.
They pushed off and he began to row toward the middle of the lake. It took him a few moments to become comfortable with the rhythm. Once he did, he pulled in smooth, even strokes that propelled the boat rapidly through the water. He made it look effortless, Julie thought, unable to keep from admiring the play of strong muscles in his forearms. There were other boaters already out, but he headed for a section of the lake that was relatively deserted.
“Have you rowed before?” she asked curiously.
“On the Black Sea. We used to go there on holiday when I was a boy.” He paused. “I’d forgotten how satisfying it feels.”
“My brother was on the rowing team at Princeton,” Julie related. “But I prefer fencing myself.”
He laughed, and she was surprised how much she welcomed the sound. “I’ve noticed.”
She joined him in the private joke, at the same time realizing that in a way it was a compliment. “So what do we fence about this morning?” she inquired. Her stomach suddenly lurched and she knew it had nothing to do with the movement of the boat.
He gave her an appraising look. “At our last meeting you mentioned that you were prepared to take Eisenberg’s place.”
Julie nodded.
“How are you planning to do that?”
For a moment her mind went blank. Then she gathered her thoughts and tried to steady her racing pulse. “I worked with Dan in the political section. We had access to the same files.”
Rozonov’s blue eyes pinned her as though she were a butterfly in a specimen case. “Go on.”
“Material that would be of interest to your government.” By the time she reached the end of the sentence, her voice had risen half an octave.
Another boat was drifting in their direction. Rozonov unlocked the oars and rowed to a more secluded spot. He didn’t speak as he maneuvered the wooden craft.
“Are you proposing the same arrangement that Eisenberg had?” he finally asked.
“No. I’d want more money.” God, she had no idea what Dan had even been getting.
She watched as a dark eyebrow lifted. “The information would have to be very worthwhile.”
“What about NATO troop strength and deployment for starters?” she offered, her face averted as she looked out across the lake.
“I’ll have to think about it.”
Her head swiveled back to stare at the man on the other side of the small boat. She had expected him to jump at the offer. For just a moment an odd expression flickered across his austere features. Had she sounded too eager and put him on his guard? Did he suspect the trap that Cal was setting? But whatever his doubts, she had to play out her part. “When can I expect an answer?”
“Some time next week. I’ll be in touch.” He glanced at his watch and began to turn the boat so that he could head back toward the dock. “I think our hour rental is up.”
As he rowed toward shore, a duck made a ninety-degree turn and paddled in the opposite direction.
&
nbsp; “Not very friendly is he?” Julie observed.
“I understand the ravens here are even worse.” His blue gaze was intent on her face, watchful for any sign that she put more than surface value to the cryptic comment.
Her brow wrinkled. “Are there ravens in Madrid?”
“Occasionally.” From her puzzled expression, he was sure she had no idea what he was talking about. How would Bogolubov react to that?
He bent his concentration to the rowing, but his thoughts had rapidly outdistanced the water sliding past the side of the wooden craft. Julie McLean had revealed more than she’d planned this morning. He was now almost sure little Ms. McLean was a plant of some sort—probably an instrument of the CIA. All his instincts told him to walk away from this situation. But he was under orders from Bogolubov to discover her game. That meant he was going to have to make her play out her hand no matter how high the stakes.
Chapter Nine
Yuri Hramov was a disciplined man who never allowed his lean, compact frame to gain an ounce over its ideal fighting weight. Swiftness and agility were his trademarks. More than once they’d saved his life, and incidentally given him a success rate that was the envy of every other hit man in the KGB.
Over the past ten years his allegiance to that organization had been unswerving. As a kid back in Radomyshl, he’d shown a remarkable facility for lying, cheating, fighting and flouting authority. At eighteen he’d been well on his way to early Siberian exile when an astute KGB recruiter came across his records and recognized his potential.
At the isolated training camp outside of Novgorod, they’d started by pounding respect into him and then teaching him a skilled trade. What he’d known instinctively as a boy was honed to a fine art. He could pick off a mark with a high-powered rifle just as easily as he could slit a throat in a back alley or keep a torture victim on the agonizing edge of life long enough to get the information he wanted.
His mentors had also made sure he could blend into the lower and lower-middle class of almost any international setting. Although it had meant a considerable amount of pain, he’d seen the wisdom of the plastic surgery that had turned his coarse Slavic features into the blandest of European faces. When he shaved in the morning, he never failed to marvel at how unthreatening his countenance looked.
If he’d been asked to rate what he liked best about his work, Yuri Hramov would have had no trouble answering. He particularly enjoyed terrifying women and killing. The way things were going with this assignment, it looked as though he might get to do both.
When the phone rang in his downtown Madrid hotel room at seven in the morning, he picked up the receiver on the first ring and even managed to sound alert.
“General Bogolubov here,” the voice on the other end announced without any pleasantries.
“Yes, Comrade General?”
“I’d like your report on the Café Sabatini meeting.”
“There’s nothing to report.”
“What do you mean, nothing?”
“Nobody showed up.”
The outpouring of mat on the other end of the line was surprisingly creative for someone as stolid as the general. When he’d stumbled on that dead drop at the Prado, he was sure he’d cornered the Raven. But somehow the son of a whore had fluttered through his fingers again. The man must have an uncanny sixth sense for avoiding traps. He’d steered clear of the San Jeronimo, and now this! Well, there was more than one way to clip a bird’s wings.
Hramov waited. When Bogolubov got over his tantrum, he would issue new orders.
“Are you ready to move on the contingency plan we discussed for eliminating his new contact?” the general asked.
“I’m always ready. You tell me when, and I’ll make sure it looks like an accident.”
“Good. I’ll be in touch soon.”
The line went dead.
* * *
JULIE SIGHED and glanced at her watch. It was already late in the afternoon, and there was still one unpleasant job she had to finish before she called it a day.
Picking up a small stack of photocopied newspaper and magazine articles, she pushed back her chair and stood up. Filing Spanish media references to terrorist activities had become one of her least favorite activities. Before the San Jeronimo she’d felt somewhat removed from the reports of murders and bombings. Now every graphic account made her more aware of what could happen to innocent people who got in the way of political fanatics.
Pulling out the folder labeled ETA, she stuffed a copy inside. Then she cross-filed the same article under Barcelona, where the incident had taken place, and also under Juan Tomasa, the man suspected of engineering the murder.
She did the same for a dozen other articles. The task was also a reminder of the way Dan Eisenberg had completely pulled the wool over her eyes. She’d thought of him as a friend and a man whose loyalty to his country was beyond question. At the beginning she’d been convinced that Cal’s allegations were based on some misunderstanding. Even when things had looked bad, she’d clung to that hope. But Rozonov’s reaction to her offer in that boat last Sunday had been the confirmation she’d been dreading.
Julie slammed the file drawer closed. The new knowledge of Dan’s duplicity made her angry—at him for being such a charming liar and at herself for being so naive. God, what a mess she’d gotten herself into by using that ticket of his. If she emerged in one piece, she’d be lucky.
She wasn’t aware of the expression on her face until Paula knocked on the door and then stepped into her small but nicely furnished office.
“Julie, are you feeling all right?” she inquired.
“Do I look that bad?”
“You look pale and drawn. Maybe you’re getting that flu that’s been going around. Why don’t you stop downstairs at the nurse’s office?”
If it were only something as simple as the flu, Julie thought. “Maybe I will.” She was appalled at how readily the little fib sprang to her lips.
Paula continued to regard her co-worker with concern. “You could use a little R & R. Why don’t we go out to dinner this evening?” she asked.
“Thanks for the offer, but I feel more like going straight home.”
“And probably having a carton of yogurt for dinner.”
Julie looked down at her fingernails. There’d been so much on her mind that her appetite was almost nonexistent.
“Listen, I have the perfect prescription. We’ll stop downstairs for one of those pizza mixes from the PX. Then we’ll drop in at that market near your apartment and get peppers, mushrooms and sausage for toppings. How does that sound?”
Suddenly the idea of putting down the lead weight she’d been carrying around and spending the evening with a friend was very appealing. “Actually, that sounds great.”
Paula grinned. “Then I’ll come by for you in about half an hour.”
After locking up for the day the two young women took the elevator down to the small convenience store maintained for embassy employees and then headed for the market where Julie often picked up meat and fresh produce.
She felt her mood lighten as she inspected green peppers and inquired about the freshness of the chorizo. While the spicy Spanish sausage didn’t have quite the same flavor as pepperoni, it would still be a welcome pizza topping.
Paula, who had been in Madrid less than a year, stood back and let Julie do the talking. “I wish I knew the fine points of the language,” she observed when they were once again out on the sidewalk.
“Oh, it doesn’t take that long. The first time you bring home an overripe melon and want to make the shopkeeper understand why you’re taking it back, your facility picks up.”
“I already blew it on that one. I tossed the melon in the garbage and chalked up the loss to experience.”
As they strolled down the sidewalk, they continued to discuss some of their more amusing Foreign Service experiences. By the time they reached her apartment, Julie was feeling more carefree than she had in weeks.
“I’m really glad you suggested this,” she told Paula as they fried the chorizo and spread the sauce on the pizza dough.
“I’m having fun too. I’m sorry it’s been so long since we’ve gotten together in the evening like this.”
“Yes,” her friend agreed, beginning to distribute the toppings. By the time she had finished, the tomato sauce and cheese had almost disappeared under a layer of chopped green peppers, sliced mushrooms and sausage.
“It’s a masterpiece,” Paula proclaimed as she opened the oven door and Julie slid their dinner inside.
They had just taken glasses of white wine into the living room and kicked off their shoes when the door knocker sounded.
Paula raised questioning eyebrows, and Julie shrugged. Eduardo usually made strangers phone up from the lobby, so it must be someone he knew.
In fact, it turned out to be the portero himself.
“Excuse me, señorita,”he said in Spanish, “but a man left a message for you. He said it was important and I should deliver it right away.”
Julie accepted the sealed white envelope. “Gracias.”
“De nada.” The portero closed the door and left.
Julie looked nervously down at the thin white rectangle clutched in her fingers. The angular scrawl across the front was unfamiliar. Had Rozonov decided to use this method of setting up their next meeting? Somehow she’d pictured his handwriting as more controlled.
After breaking the seal, Julie scanned the message. It was in an odd mixture of Spanish and English, as though the writer was trying to use her language but didn’t know all the correct words.
“If you would like to uncover the meaning of Señor Eisenberg’s trabajo escondido and find out who ordered his asesinato at the San Jeronimo, meet me esto evening at 573 Calle Hermosillo. Take the pasadizo leading to the courtyard and wait by the small shrine directly opposite. Come alone at nueve.”The signature was simply “A friend.”
Julie slowly retraced her steps to the living room.
