by Rebecca York
Borman studied her for more than minute. She forced herself not to flinch under the scrutiny.
“Well, then,” he finally said, “I think we have all we need from you for the time being. You can go on leave-of-absence status as long as you stay in the Washington area.”
“I presume this means I’m free to go now?”
“Yes.” He had enough clout to pull her back in if he needed her. But he had the feeling that the best thing to do now was to give her enough rope and let her hang herself.
Another special agent came in to witness her statement and Julie went through the motions of signing the second set of forms. Twenty minutes later she was standing on the sidewalk in the muggy air of Foggy Bottom, blinking in the strong sunlight.
The interview with Borman had made her feel dirty. All she wanted was to head back to her town house and scrub herself in the shower, as though that could cleanse her of his lewd accusations. She’d hoped this nightmare would be over when she’d come back to Washington, but they still wouldn’t believe her. She had wanted to handle this by herself. Maybe she was going to have to turn to her uncle for help after all.
* * *
AFTER JULIE MCLEAN had left, Richard Borman picked up the phone and called his office at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia.
“I think Cal Dixon’s right on the money,” he reported.
“You mean she’s involved with the Russian?”
“Yes. He must have been dynamite in the sack. Her face brightens like a neon light every time you mention his name. Too bad I can’t put her under hypnosis and get the details. She’d never agree to it. And we can’t do that to an American citizen.”
“Well, as soon as she does something we know is illegal, she’s going to lose her protection under the law.”
“I wish we could put her under twenty-four-hour surveillance.”
“Yeah, but it could be months before anything breaks. Let’s just put a tap on her phone and sit tight.”
“Agreed.”
“I’d like to know what she’s told Rozonov and how he expects to use her now.”
“I have the feeling we’ll get it out of her—with her cooperation or not.”
Chapter Thirteen
He leaned back in his contoured cockpit seat, adjusted his earphones, and listened to the captain’s chatty tour guide spiel to the passengers. They were over Long Island and would be starting their approach to Baltimore-Washington International Airport soon. The weather at BWI was overcast and muggy, with a chance of thunderstorms. But Captain Leoni promised it would be clearing up by the weekend.
Would the 475 travelers in the belly of the Air Italia jetliner panic, the Raven wondered, if they knew the third officer was a last-minute replacement with no cockpit experience? And would good old Captain Leoni be fired for taking eight million lira under the table for signing the personnel switch? He had his own reasons for hoping the deception wouldn’t be discovered—for a while anyway.
The plane taxied to a smooth landing. Third Officer Mario Sabatino cleared customs with the rest of the crew. But when he changed out of his uniform in a staff men’s room, he burned his passport and took its replacement from the false bottom of his flight bag. When he emerged from the washroom cubical, he was wearing a baggy Windbreaker over a blue oxford cloth shirt and faded jeans. Scuffed Adidas completed the unassuming costume. The gun in the shoulder holster under his arm didn’t show, of course. It had nestled in his flight bag, protected by the assumption that a member of the crew wouldn’t bring a weapon on board.
He’d shaved off the scraggly beard he’d grown in the mountains just before he’d accepted the temporary third officer’s billet. But he’d kept a droopy mustache so out of character for his personality that it made him blink every time he caught sight of his face. The strenuous journey coupled with the skimpy diet in the rebel camp had taken more than fifteen pounds from his already lean body, giving his face a hollow look. Pausing in front of the mirror, he ruffled the longish hair he’d slicked down for the airline role. He hoped he could pass for a writer or artist. He certainly didn’t look like an American businessman.
The Raven glanced at his watch. It was after seven. If he spent an hour in the bar, it would be almost dark when he went to get the car that was supposed to be waiting for him in the satellite parking lot with its keys taped under the left front bumper. The whole time that he sipped his Scotch and soda—he didn’t dare order vodka—he inspected the other men in the room, and also the women. Most looked like bored travelers killing time between flights. But there was always the grim possibility that one of them might have orders to kill him.
The Ford Escort that had cost him double its legitimate price—in cash—was supposed to have been delivered several days ago. He hated having to rely on a long-distance arrangement, but he would compensate by proceeding with extreme caution.
After paying for his drink with some of the American money he’d gotten on the black market, he picked up his nylon tote bag and took the escalator downstairs. Instead of catching the shuttle bus to the parking lot, he watched it pull away and then started up the road on foot. The thunderstorm that Captain Leoni had forecast was approaching rapidly from the west. Nevertheless, instead of heading directly for the car, he circled the lot and climbed over the back fence. The Escort was supposed to be between the seventh and ninth rows about a quarter of the way from the end. Crouching behind the station wagon, he studied that section of the lot. Though it was almost full, it contained only one small blue sedan.
The evening shadows were very welcome as he slipped slowly from car to car. The bus had discharged its passengers ten minutes ago. It wouldn’t be back until it had made a circuit of the airport. Though the parking lot looked deserted enough, there was a tense prickly feeling at the back of his neck that had nothing to do with the large pellets of rain that were starting to hit his Windbreaker. The torrent that he had been expecting, however, held off.
He was within three vehicles of the blue car when a brilliant flash of lightning was followed by a loud clap of thunder. In the instant of illumination he saw something that made his blood run cold. A head had popped up in the back window of the Escort and then disappeared again. Chyort! So his misgivings had not been unfounded. The renegade Basque leader had taken his money and then turned around and sold his travel plans to the KGB.
Forget the car. Get the hell out of here while you still can, his mind screamed. But the decision had already been taken out of his hands. Something whizzed past his right ear and embedded itself in the side of a small pickup truck in back of him. It was a bullet. He ducked before the next one zinged through the patch of empty air where his head had been a moment before. The guy in the car wasn’t the only one waiting in ambush. He had company—someone whose gun was equipped with a silencer.
A crack of thunder shook the parking lot. At least the impending storm would mask his return fire. Pulling out his Makarov, he dropped to a crouch and zigzagged his way through several lines of cars. As he rounded a fender, he was greeted with two flashes of gunfire in the dim light and the spit of two more bullets. One deflated the tire next to him. The other slammed into his upper arm. The pain was like a hot slash of lightning. For a moment his vision blurred, but he managed to get off three shots of his own and was rewarded with a gasp of agony from the direction in which the fire flashes had gone. Gritting his teeth against his own pain, he moved forward. His aim had been lucky. The fading light revealed a man writhing on the ground, his hands pressed to his abdomen. Between the fingers, dark blood oozed.
Kicking the assassin’s gun out of reach, the Raven turned back toward the car. The interior was still dark, but some sixth sense told him it was now empty. The other man must be in the parking lot. He heard a low whistle. Then silence except for the rising wind. The sound was repeated. Still there was no reply. If he interpreted correctedly, there were only two of them and he’d gotten one. Or maybe it was a trick to throw him off.
His
left arm throbbed. It was like a foreign body, hanging uselessly at his side. The inside of his shirt felt wet and sticky. He wondered how much blood he had already lost.
Teeth still clamped together, he began to drag himself across the parking lot again. Lightning split the sky, spotlighting his position for an instant. The roll of thunder that followed masked the spit of three more bullets that spattered into the blacktop of the parking lot, sending chips of pavement flying. Instinctively he rolled, the pain in his arm multiplied a hundredfold by the pressure of the macadam surface. Hot fire skimmed against his body, this time over his hip. Holding his breath, he lay absolutely still on the ground between two cars. It was a calculated risk. But he knew that in his weakened condition he couldn’t keep up the battle much longer. His ears strained. At the barest crunch of leather on gravel, he rolled again and squeezed off four rapid shots. The man who had been coming forward to finish him off sagged to the pavement. He was dead before he hit the ground.
On a hunch the Raven felt through the man’s clothing. In the right front pocket was a set of car keys. Before turning away, he looked at the face. No one he knew. Perhaps the next one who came to try and kill him would be familiar.
After retrieving his flight bag, he staggered to the car. Once inside, he closed the door and took a damage assessment. The left arm was no surprise. He quickly made a tourniquet to stop the bleeding. He swore vehemently when he felt the skin over his right hip. That was where he had taped the vital Topaz film. The flat metal envelope had deflected a bullet. In the process, its contents had been destroyed. So now he no longer had the report. He would have to get the backup copy.
Chyort! He knew where it was—in the last place on earth he’d pick to visit. He was going to have to get in and out of there fast, no matter what the personal cost.
In his flight bag was a bottle of capsules that contained a powerful stimulant. After choking two down he waited for several minutes. The drug made him feel better, but he knew the effects were only temporary, and that it would be dangerous to repeat the dosage again too soon.
While he was marshaling his strength, the airport bus discharged another group of passengers, and the rain picked up in earnest. Convenient, he thought, as he started the engine, flipped on the wipers, and maneuvered into the line of cars waiting to pay the attendant. A few minutes later he was heading down the Baltimore-Washington Parkway toward D.C., fervently giving thanks that he was familiar with the city.
* * *
JULIE SHIFTED the heavy paper sack to her left hip and unlocked the inside door that connected the garage of her Georgetown town house to the kitchen. She was exhausted, but that seemed to be her natural condition these days. A good therapist could have told her that the physical symptom, along with her lack of appetite, was caused by depression. But she didn’t want to see a therapist. Her nerves were just too raw, her emotions too vulnerable to open herself up to any more strangers. She’d had enough of that recently to last a lifetime.
To the outside world she’d presented the image of a woman adjusting to past trauma. When she allowed herself to think about her mental state, she admitted privately that she felt as though she were existing inside a dead, gray cave. Somehow she was going to find a way out. She just didn’t have the strength to do it yet.
The couple who had been renting her house had vacated the month before, so she was able to move in as soon as some of her household belongings arrived. Instead of hiring a cleaning company to put the place back in order, she’d elected to do the polishing and scrubbing herself. The physical labor sent her to bed every night so tired that she was asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow. But that was what she wanted.
This evening she’d gone out to the Safeway to lay in a supply of scouring powder and bathroom cleaner so she could get started again first thing in the morning. In the bottom of the bag there was some canned soup and two of her favorite gourmet cheeses along with crackers. She gave herself two brownie points for that.
She walked into the dining room and stopped in horror. The box of dishes she’d left on the table was turned upside down, newspaper and broken crockery scattered about the room. But there was something else that made her heart stop and then leap into her throat. In the center of the gray rug were several small congealing red puddles. Blood.
She had started to back out the doorway when the glint of light on gray metal caught her eye. Her unwilling gaze lifted toward the archway that led to the living room, and she screamed.
Propped on the couch was a rumpled, desperate-looking man, his dark hair shaggy around his haggard, mustached face. The blood that had stained the dining room rug had made a little trail to the couch and soaked into the white velvet cushion beside his left arm. The gun in his other hand was pointed at her stomach.
“Don’t scream again.”
The face was contorted. The voice was the one she still heard in her troubled dreams. “Aleksei! My God! What—?”
“Just give me the wolfhound figurine and I’ll be on my way.”
The voice she remembered? No. A trick. A mistake. This voice was as cold as the dead of a Siberian winter.
“The wolfhound,” he snapped. Talking to her like this was tearing him apart. But he must leave quickly, for her sake.
“I—I don’t have it.”
“You’re lying.”
“No. It’s in the luggage that’s been delayed.”
“Sweet mother!” He tried to raise his left arm. The look of agony that crossed his features made her stomach lurch. Then he seemed to remember where he was. The gun leveled at her once more. At all cost he must keep her from sympathizing with him and just get the hell away from here.
She stared at his red-rimmed eyes, feeling something between despair and numbness. The void he’d left behind had almost destroyed her. Now here he was breaking into her life again, a wounded animal ready to strike out. Would this man who’d once held her so tenderly really shoot her? She honestly didn’t know. But if he were capable of that, maybe it was the best way to end her misery.
Slowly she began to advance across the carpet.
“Stay back.”
“No.” She reached his side and knelt. For a silent moment his blue gaze locked with her brown one. Then he muttered a curse and dropped the gun onto the sofa cushion.
Vitality seemed to seep out of him even as she watched. “I have to get out of here, Julie. If I could find you, others can too.” His voice was barely above a whisper.
“Oh, God. Aleksei, tell me what this is all about.”
“Anything I tell you puts you in more danger.”
“Dammit! I’ve heard that line before. You said Cal was using me. You’re using me too!”
“Yes.” He was so tired. He didn’t have the energy for any more pretense.
“What did you hide in the wolfhound?”
“Can’t tell you.” The words were slurred.
“Did you make love to me so I’d take it out of the country for you?”
It seemed to require a tremendous effort for him to make his eyes focus on her. Slowly, slowly the hand that had held the gun moved up so that the fingers could tenderly touch her lips. “No.” The hand fell back. His head slumped to the side. She realized that he had passed out.
Dear Lord, what was she going to do now? She slid up beside him on the sofa, cradling his head against her chest, stroking his face, his hair. Her fingers clutched his good hand, warming the chilly flesh. In a few moments she felt him stir.
“How long?” he whispered.
“How long were you unconscious?”
He nodded.
“Not long. Let me call a doctor.”
“No!” The syllable was edged with panic. It seemed to bring more adrenaline to his system. “No doctor. Have to get out of here.”
She eased him back against the cushions again. “You can’t. You must know that.”
“In my flight bag. Stimulant capsules.”
She looked at his gray skin. �
��A stimulant would probably kill you.”
“Julie...”
“Tell me. Give me some information. Aleksei, in the name of God, play fair with me just once.” He was so weak. The demand wrenched at her insides, but she had to make it. She had to know. Her fingers pressed over his. She needed to maintain the contact.
He closed his eyes, gathering his strength. Finally his voice rasped, “Dan and I were working together.”
Julie sucked in her breath. “You told me he wasn’t doing anything against the interests of his country.”
“He wasn’t.”
“Then...?”
“I was.”
She stared at him, her mind suddenly processing information in new ways. Aleksei Rozonov, a KGB agent giving away his country’s secrets. It still didn’t quite compute. “Why didn’t Cal know? He’s CIA, for God sakes.”
“Not the CIA. Another organization. More secret. Can’t...”
“You must have a code name. Tell me that.”
He hesitated, made a decision. “Raven.”
Dan’s calender. The Rs. “Was he supposed to meet you the night he was killed?”
“Yes.”
“And the theater?”
“We always had...backup meeting.”
“Then that’s why the notations on the calendar came in pairs?”
“Yes.”
“What did you hide in the wolfhound?” she asked gently.
“Vital information...for your government.”
Her eyes swept over his ravaged appearance. He had gone through hell to get here. “You’re in the country illegally?”
He closed his eyes, not bothering to answer.
“Who shot you?”
“KGB.”
She had made her own decision. “Can you walk a little way if I help you?”
“Don’t know.”
“We’re getting out of here.”
* * *
AMHERST GORDON tossed the FBI report he’d been scanning onto his desk. His thin lips were set in a grim line. “What do you think about this evening’s shoot-out at the OK Corral?” he asked his assistant.
