by Rebecca York
Fitz’s face had gone even grayer.
“But any information we pass to Rozonov won’t stand up to close scrutiny,” Cal pointed out.
“Then maybe I’d better not be in Madrid when he finds out.”
“I don’t know,” he mused.
Julie gave him a direct look. “Perhaps if I fill in Ambassador Thomas, he’ll see things differently.”
Cal’s head snapped up.
“I thought you cleared this with him,” Fitz cut in.
“I don’t answer to the ambassador,” the CIA man pointed out.
The head of the political section swore. “Julie, you don’t know how sorry I am that I didn’t talk to Thomas about this myself.”
“Just start writing up my exit papers.”
“Wait a minute! Who’s going to give that NATO stuff to Rozonov?” Cal questioned.
“You’ll find a way,” Fitz assured him.
Julie looked at the consular officer. “I’d like to see Paula and let her know I’m all right and then go home and get some sleep now, if you don’t mind.”
Cal nodded. “All right. But you know what all this proves, don’t you?”
When she didn’t answer, he continued. “It proves that true-blue friend of yours, Dan Eisenberg, was passing information to the Russians.”
* * *
THE PHONE was ringing when he stepped out of the shower. Aleksei grabbed a towel, wrapped it around his narrow hips, and crossed the bedroom floor. He left a trail of wet footprints on the wide wooden floorboards. It wasn’t hard to guess who would be on the other end of the line.
The caller didn’t bother with a greeting. “You must have had a busy night.”
“What makes you say that, Comrade General?”
“I received a top priority call from Moscow—from the office of the foreign secretary—this morning. I have never received such a call before. It was not a request, it was a demand that I alter my course of action.”
Aleksei waited.
“How dare you presume that a major can get away with countermanding a general’s orders!” Bogolubov bellowed into the phone.
“You believe I...” he began.
“Ay-ay-ay! Don’t play dumb with me.”
“Comrade General...” A pool of water was beginning to collect on the floor by the bedside table.
“Aleksei Iliyanovich—” the general’s tone was uncharacteristically direct “—let me speak plainly. I have thought for some time that you were occupying a position far beyond your limited abilities. I can see now that you must have been trading on your father’s reputation to advance yourself. But this time you have gone too far. When you get those NATO papers—if you get those NATO papers—I will be going over them with a fine-tooth comb. And if they are not the genuine article, the very genuine article, you will be on your way to Siberia in the next rail shipment of prisoners. Do I make myself clear?”
“Very clear.”
“Now, I want you down here on the double. We will continue this discussion in the privacy of the embassy.”
The line went dead.
Aleksei hung up, feeling a strange mixture of elation and rage. So Bogolubov was coping with humiliation by threatening him. The bastard! The only consolation was that he had bought Julie the time she needed to get out of Spain. But at what cost to himself?
Chapter Eleven
The Raven knew that the third phase of Project Topaz was drawing to a close. He had pinpointed the planting of disinformation at various locations around the world and he knew who was coordinating the effect back in Moscow. The last—and most classified—phase was a Quadrozine field trial, to make absolutely sure the assumptions about its properties were true. He was fully aware that the top-secret report on such a trial could not be trusted to even the most secure satellite link.
The data would be sent home as hard copy. Since at least one report was being couriered from Afghanistan, it would probably pass through Madrid. That was his best hope—maybe now his only hope—of getting proof of the Kremlin’s very nasty scheme.
The Kremlin wouldn’t send something so important without prior warning. So his customary check of the communications traffic took on a sense of urgency. But day after day the Raven left the noisy communications center with nothing to show for his efforts but a headache.
He had almost given up hope when the message he had been looking for surfaced. It was sandwiched between two other communications from field stations to their central offices back in Moscow. Most observers would have pegged it as ordinary military correspondence. Only the “from” and “to” notations gave away its link to Project Topaz. Of course, it might still be just a piece of routine business. He had to hope that it wasn’t.
The actual communiqué would be in the next diplomatic pouch. Finding out when it was coming through was simply a matter of alerting one of the junior officers in the communications office that he wanted to send a priority one dispatch to headquarters. She informed him that a courier would be arriving the next afternoon, staying the night in Madrid, and taking an early morning plane to East Germany, where he could get a connecting flight to Moscow. That meant the diplomatic pouch would be in the building for approximately fourteen hours.
The Raven’s face betrayed none of his thoughts as he headed back to his office, but his mind was frantically examining and discarding possibilities. The pouch would be locked in the basement vault, and unfortunately he had no official reason to need access to that area at this time. He might be able to make up a story that would sound plausible to the guard. But when the book was checked the next morning and his signature was noted, he would be asked for an explanation.
The plan he finally decided upon was hazardous in the extreme. The KGB dirty-tricks department had been testing a gas designed to gain its agents entry to guarded facilities. When inhaled, the compound—which had been labeled with the code named RG-52—caused a temporary state somewhere between unconsciousness and amnesia. Anyone who wished to pass through the effective area could inject himself with a blocking agent. Although it was reputed to sting like the devil, it had been proven effective.
There were limitations to the new product. Since the gas dissipated quickly, it could be used only in enclosed areas. And the effective time was short—only about twenty minutes. That meant you had to plan on getting in and out of the area quickly.
There was, of course, one more factor that had to be considered. Using RG-52 inside his own embassy bordered on insanity. But since it was his only hope of getting the last piece of Topaz information, he had to take the risk.
“Borrowing” the key to the safe was only a minor problem. It was kept in a locked drawer in one of the third-floor offices, and he had the combination to that lock. There was little chance that the key would be missed in the early hours of the morning.
In preparation for his raid on the vault, the Raven stayed late at his desk readying the material bound for Moscow he had told one of the communications officers to expect. It was a status report on his present undercover assignments—with some manufactured details that made it seem urgent enough to include with the diplomatic dispatches.
He waited until after midnight to lock his office door, rolled up his sleeve, and swabbed some alcohol on the inside of his left arm. The rumors had been correct; the blocking agent for the gas felt like sulfuric acid as he injected it into his arm. A scream would have released some of the agony, but he could hardly chance that.
After counting off the required ten minutes for the antidote to take effect, he readied the small canister of gas and took the elevator to the basement. Because the guard station was around the corner from the elevator, he was able to discharge the canister in the hall without being seen.
He’d been half afraid the stuff wouldn’t work properly, but the guard promptly slumped over with his head on his desk. The Raven glanced at his watch. He now had about fifteen minutes to get into the vault, find the report in the diplomatic pouch, and photograph it.
It was one of the smoothest operations he’d ever pulled off, and he’d known from the start that it would be one of his last. Topaz was a heavily guarded state secret. That meant there was almost certainly an infrared seal on the all-important envelope being sent from Afghanistan to the Kremlin. It would probably pass a visual inspection tomorrow morning, but back in Moscow the recipient would know at once that someone had tampered with the material. The investigation into what had happened would likely start in Madrid. If he were very lucky, that meant he had perhaps forty-eight hours left as a trusted servant of the USSR.
* * *
ALEKSEI ILIYANOVICH turned to look at the lighted dial on the clock on the bedside table. It was only ten-thirty. Though the adrenaline pumping through his system urged him to get on with the evening’s business, he forced himself to clasp his hands behind his head again and relax. There was a lot to think about before he went out.
Long ago, as a schoolboy in New York, he had developed considerable skill at a card game called poker. It was a contest in which bluffing counted as much as holding the right cards. The trick, he’d quickly learned, was to keep your opponents off balance so they never knew whether you were holding a pair of twos or a full house. The strategy of the American game had appealed to him on an intellectual as well as a sporting level.
Although they certainly weren’t sitting across a felt-covered table from each other, Aleksei could imagine that he and Slava Bogolubov were playing poker now. The rules, however, were a bit modified. Aleksei knew the general had prudently slipped a number of extra cards up his sleeve. The best way to neutralize them was to pull out a couple of additional aces of his own.
Luckily he had already collected the material he needed and stashed it away for just such an emergency. Bogolubov’s career had included a number of unsavory episodes that would be highly embarrassing, even to an organization as liberal in its interpretation of the law as the KGB. If the general knew detailed reports of his past indiscretions were in danger of surfacing, he just might switch priorities from an attack to a fold.
Of course, bluffing wasn’t enough in this case. Aleksei must be able to convince the comrade general that the proof of his allegations was tucked away somewhere very safe. And he couldn’t do that unless he were convinced himself. That was what he had to take care of next—and quickly.
Cursing in impatience, he glanced at the clock again. Maybe it was late enough to get started. Swinging his long legs off the bed, he stood and looked for a moment at his reflection in the closet-door mirror. First he made a conscious effort to relax his tense features. Then he carefully inspected his clothing. Already dressed in a navy jogging suit, he slipped into a pair of dark running shoes and tied the laces. He might be just another Madrelino returning from an evening’s constitutional, he thought, as he crossed the room and picked up a nylon fannypack. In it was a small package wrapped in white tissue paper, a flashlight and some tools. After securing the pack around his waist, he headed for the back stairs.
Not until he was absolutely sure he wasn’t being followed did he hail a cab on a nearby avenue. Then he gave an address more than half a mile from his ultimate destination. The building was one with a lazy portero, who was seldom at his post in the lobby. Aleksei was able to walk in the front door and out the back without being seen. Once in the alley, he headed north, then west on a side street, then north in the next alley. The roundabout route was essential for his own safety—and that of someone else.
He approached the redbrick apartment building from the back. With his customary thoroughness he had checked it out weeks before. The pedestrian door to the garage was secured by a lock that was easy to pick. Less than two minutes later he was standing inside the service courtyard under the shadow of a kitchen balcony. Each apartment had one, and in between ran clotheslines where tenants could hang out freshly washed laundry. He paused for a minute, inhaling the cooking aromas of saffron, olives and onions. Then his eyes sought the third-floor balcony across the court. It was dark, and he could see only a dim light beyond. According to his best information, no one should be home. He hoped it was true.
Back stairs brought him to the third floor unseen. He passed up the front door to the apartment he wanted in favor of the entrance to the balcony. It gave way easily to his expertise, and the kitchen door lock was no better. His running shoes were silent on the white tile floor. But when he stepped onto the wide boards in the dining room, the wood creaked. He froze, his ears straining, but there was no response.
He waited a few moments, letting his eyes become accustomed to the dim light. Piles of plates and cups covered the dining room table. Cardboard boxes were strewn about the room, some empty, some filled with newspaper-wrapped household goods. Others were crammed with books. He took in the disorder and then looked over toward the shelves on the living room wall, hoping to see a collection of small china animals. It was still there, waiting to be packed.
He had just taken off his fannypack and was crossing to the shelves, when the door at the end of the hall was suddenly thrown open. For a moment Julie McLean stood framed in a rectangle of luminescence, her dark hair burnished by the light behind her. She was wearing a thin white robe, and with the back lighting he could see the shadow of her body as she tiptoed down the hall on bare feet.
Julie peered uncertainly into the darkness. Though Paula had wanted her to spend the night, she’d insisted on coming back to the apartment to pack her china and other breakables. After everything that had happened this week, worrying about her Limoges was ludicrous. But until a couple of minutes ago she’d been happy to focus on the task of packing. The creak of a floorboard had brought her out of the bedroom. The noise was probably nothing, but her heart was pounding nevertheless. In the last few days her imagination had become overactive. Now it was conjuring up a dozen different demons.
For a moment Aleksei wondered if he might fade into the shadows near the wall. Before he could move, Julie had switched on a small lamp beside the sofa. Her eyes found him almost immediately. She gasped. He was the demon she had feared the most.
Before she could call out he was across the room, one hand closing tightly over her mouth, the other catching her firmly by the shoulder and pulling her away from the living room windows and back into the hallway.
Her body went rigid.
“I won’t hurt you.”
She didn’t move.
“I can take my hand away if you promise not to scream. Do you agree?”
She nodded.
Slowly he loosened his fingers, ready to clamp them down again if necessary. “Why aren’t you with your friend Paula?”
In the semidarkness she glared at him, her eyes raking over the dark knit clothing. “Why are you dressed like a burglar?” she countered, trying to make her voice harsh. It came out thin and reedy.
The answer he had prepared just in case it might be needed came easily to his lips. “I wanted to give you something.”
Her eyes mirrored her disbelief. “So you picked a time when you thought I wouldn’t be here and broke in.”
He nodded tightly.
“Why?”
He was very conscious of the warmth of her body just inches from his, the softness of her skin where his hand still gripped her shoulder through the thin robe, the familiar scent that was hers alone. He had wanted to avoid something like this at all cost. “You know why.”
She looked down, turning her head away slightly. “I’m leaving the day after tomorrow.” The words were barely above a whisper.
“Then it went well with you at the embassy?”
“Yes.”
Without any conscious thought on his part, his fingers slid across the silky fabric of her robe and down her arm in a long, stroking caress. “I’m glad.”
She turned her face up toward him again, her dark eyes fathomless. “Who sent you?”
“No one.”
Her lips were trembling, and the most natural way in the world to steady them was with
his own.
“Julie.” The syllable was lost as he turned her in his arms, pulled her close, and lowered his head to hers.
His mouth moved hungrily back and forth against hers, but it was no less hungry than her own. She felt his hands gentle on her face, steadying her frantic movements so that his tongue could breach the barrier of her lips and find the moist warmth beyond. She opened to him with a sigh of arousal, her hands clutching at his shoulders, her body melting against him.
She had thought she’d never see him again and had almost convinced herself that it was for the best. Now she recognized the self-deception.
This time it was almost impossible to restrain his greed for her. His tongue teased the sensitive inner lining of her lips, stroked more deeply, tasted, coaxed. When he finally lifted his head, they were both trembling.
His lips sought the line of her jaw, the soft skin of her neck. She arched backward, giving him better access. But she needed more of him too. Her hands moved across his back and shoulders, kneading the firm muscles through the knit fabric of his running suit.
She felt his fingers skim her ribs and then the sides of her breasts.
“Oh, yes, please, yes.”
She sensed the subtle change in him even as his lips left her face.
“Aleksei...”
His hands dropped to his sides, fists clenched. “Julie, you must understand—I didn’t expect—didn’t want to find you here.” His eyes were veiled in the darkness. “I can’t stay.”
So here was the truth between them—finally. He really didn’t want this. She looked up at him with as much dignity as she could muster. “Then I believe you can leave the way you came in—whatever it was.” Turning, she started back down the hall.
Behind her, she heard him utter a savage curse. Catching up in seconds, he whirled her around and pulled her back into his arms, pressing her hard against him. The hands that ranged up and down her back trembled in betrayal of his desperation. “Never think that I don’t want you—or that I don’t need you. There have been too many times I’ve wakened in the night from dreams of making love to you.” The words were torn from his mouth unwillingly.
