“Yes.” She’d been bracing herself for this one all day, but it didn’t stop her stomach from sinking to her shoes. “We were cut off before Stu could finish. I haven’t been able to reach him since.”
Geoff reached in his breast pocket and tossed a manila envelope on the table between them. Now a slight flush was spreading over his cheekbones, and his voice sounded tight.
“Your fifteen minutes of fame. Take a look.”
Alexis really didn’t want to look, especially with her ex-husband sitting there watching, looking like the top of his head would blow off. But she needed to know what she was dealing with. Pasting on her bland negotiating face, she picked up the envelope and slipped out a sheaf of black-and-white glossies.
She and Victor sitting at the Bolshoi Theater. Nothing too incriminating there, though the attraction between them crackled in the atmosphere like a special effect. Minutely Alexis relaxed, daring to hope that maybe this wouldn’t be as bad as she’d feared.
She and Victor slipping through the back door of the dacha, where he’d brought her the night they made love. The camera had captured her apprehensive glance over one shoulder, her hand tucked in his as he pulled her inside. Borderline suspicious to an outside eye because it looked covert, like the two of them had something to hide.
She and Victor standing on the bearskin rug, her arms twined around his neck as he bent to kiss her. A ragged breath spilled from her lips.
Oh my God. She and Victor naked on the rug: a perfect shot of her own heavy-lidded face, smoldering with sensuality, utterly absorbed in him and what he was doing to her. Then the look of predatory hunger stamped on his Slavic features as he crouched over her, blond hair falling in his eyes, her bare legs wrapped around him, heels digging against his—
With a choked sound, she thrust the photos back in their envelope, her face on fire. Her fingers shook so badly she spilled the incriminating pix all over the floor before she managed to tuck them away, out of sight.
“I have to give you credit,” Geoff said bitterly. “Looks like you gave the chap the ride of his life. To be candid, I didn’t think you fancied sex.”
“Damage control,” Alexis said hoarsely, grasping at the phrase Stu had thrown her like a lifeline. “The President arrives in two weeks. How are we going to handle this?”
“For starters,” he muttered, “it would be helpful if you could manage to stop fucking him.”
“Obviously, that stage of the relationship is over.” Fiercely she dashed a hand across her eyes, brushing away the tears that kept threatening to fall. Crying about it wasn’t going to fix a damn thing.
“Fine.” Her ex cleared his throat. “Our boys pointed out another aspect of the dacha shots. Did you notice that every shot was snapped from the same vantage point, from someplace inside the dacha?”
In fact, she hadn’t noticed it—too much going through her head. But now, thinking over what she’d seen, she realized he was right. From what she recalled of the layout, the photographer must have been hiding in the darkened bedroom, where she and Victor had never gone.
It gave her a cold chill to think of someone watching her, filming her, at such an intimate moment. She’d been as vulnerable then as a woman could be. But a jolt of realization slammed through her as she realized what Geoff was trying to tell her.
“That means,” he spelled out anyway, “that whoever took those shots had to know in advance that you’d be there. That photographer was waiting for you to show up. The way I see it, there’s only one person who could have known. He probably set it up before he picked you up.”
Yeah. Only one person knew, all right, since she hadn’t a clue where they’d been headed until they got there. The same person who’d been in control the whole time had arranged it, and set her up with the virtuosity of a maestro. Or an SVR agent.
Victor.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The hotel restaurant was a gourmand’s dream, decked out in stained glass and chandeliers—the pinnacle of Art Nouveau elegance, with a world-famous chef running the show. And Alexis was sitting there in her cocktail frock and her father’s diamond earrings, with hands-down the best looking guy in the place. Any woman in her right mind would have envied her.
Yet she was still so upset she could barely pin a polite smile in place while Two-Star Admiral Pavel Germanovich Grachev regaled the two of them with kindly humor. Her stomach was churning with nerves, and her face felt hot and tight beneath the cosmetics she’d applied to cover up the evidence of her pre-dinner crying jag. While her eyes kept burning with the tears she couldn’t shed.
With every listless nibble of Beluga caviar, every sip of fizzy Veuve Clicquot she managed to force down, she swallowed another reminder of the ill-gotten gains that were paying for it all.
“Ah,” the admiral wheezed, dabbing at his watery eyes, framed by the florid features and red-veined nose of a Russian who loved his vodka. “Victor Tarasovich, you were my greatest challenge in the classroom. Beyond a doubt the sharpest pupil I ever taught, but the Devil himself when it came to discipline!”
Alexis murmured something inane and appropriate, all too aware of the piercing looks Victor kept shooting her across the table. Of course it didn’t help her peace of mind any that he looked every inch the wealthy and powerful Mafia czar tonight. He exuded authority and confidence, broad shoulders encased in a tailored blazer of caramel suede over a jet-black shirt, open around the sun-bronzed sinew of his throat. The warm glow of candlelight ran over his dark gold hair and glittered in his icy gaze.
She’d managed to avoid an immediate confrontation with him by showing up late for dinner, after his guest had already arrived. But clearly he’d figured out something was up.
Considering the price she’d be paying—both personally and professionally—for her colossal mistake in falling for him, Alexis was determined to accomplish the evening’s diplomatic objectives. That was the only reason she’d stayed and continued the charade, rather than jilting the lying bastard who was her dinner date and getting on the next plane to Moscow.
But she needed to hang in there and learn what she could for her government’s sake, and for the young democracy of Ukraine, before she took an irrevocable action whose consequences she might not be able to control.
Now, to her relief, Victor’s narrowed gaze shifted away from her and zeroed in on the admiral.
“Pavel Germanovich,” he murmured, beneath the liquid glissade of music from the nearby harpist. “Before I left the navy, you tried to speak to me about…a certain matter. At the time, I was unprepared to listen. I’m ready to hear this now, if you still have something to tell me.”
Remarkable how quickly the old man sobered up, eyes veiled with caution as they slid toward Alexis. Though Victor had said nothing about her nationality or affiliations, and despite her own fluent Russian, Grachev would be understandably reluctant to broach a sensitive matter before a woman he barely knew.
Sharp comprehension flashed in Victor’s gaze. Before she could react, he captured her hand in his calloused grip and lifted it to his lips. Despite all her resolve, her heart skipped a beat beneath the gaslight fires that smoldered in his gaze. Even after everything he’d done to her, damn it, the brush of his lips still raised the fine hair on her forearms.
“You can speak freely before Alexis.” For the admiral’s benefit, Victor smiled tenderly against her skin, and a fresh tingle of reaction swept up her arm. “I think we can trust her.”
Now why the hell should she suddenly feel guilty? He was the one who’d betrayed her, the night he set her up.
See how well he lies? Painfully, she dragged air into her aching throat. Thank God she’d found out about his Mafia connections and his stunning array of deceptions before she did something truly stupid like giving up her career for him.
But God, they hadn’t even used a condom on the train, and again in the shower. He’d asked if she wanted protection, but she hadn’t wanted to stop what they were doing long enough
to grab it. For one misguided moment, she’d trusted him.
“Please don’t allow my presence to constrain you,” she said huskily to Grachev. She even managed a strained smile as she slipped her hand from Victor’s distracting grasp. “I’m very eager to learn more about Victor’s world.”
And wasn’t that the truth?
Grachev heaved a sigh, and squeezed the bridge of his bulbous nose. “Ah, what a tragedy that business was. Taras Kostenko was one of my dearest comrades, and one of the greatest patriots to the Motherland I’ve known.”
Victor leaned forward, gripping his vodka glass without drinking. “You told me he spoke to you before he went to sea for the last time.”
“He came to see me.” Morosely, the admiral studied the decimated platter of herring-in-a-blanket before him. “The V.I. Lenin was returning to sea after a lengthy refurbishment. But your father had grave misgivings about the boat.”
“What sort of misgivings?” The furrow deepened between Victor’s brows, and he dug out his cigarettes. “He loved that boat.”
“He was concerned about returning to sea with a new and unseasoned crew.” Grachev gestured in a way that suggested he sympathized with the problem. “Exercising his captain’s prerogative, Taras insisted on replacing several of the greenest officers. As it fell out, three of his replacements were of Ukrainian descent—like himself. And three other seasoned men had served with him before.”
“This is entirely unremarkable,” Victor murmured, propping a cigarette between his lips and lighting up. “I’ve done the same myself, and so have you.”
“At the time,” the old man continued, “no one considered these replacements unusual. But later, at the inquest, the prosecutors would argue that Taras had staffed the boat with Ukrainian sympathizers who would help him steal it.”
“Purely circumstantial and ridiculous,” Victor said tersely. “What else?”
Unobtrusively, Alexis refilled both men’s glasses from their bottle of premium vodka.
“Your father was concerned about the seawater cooling system.” Grachev paused to toss back his vodka. “In particular, he was concerned that the system’s new valves—just replaced in dry-dock—had been installed too hastily. He’d found and repaired several leaks during the sea trials.”
Alexis wanted to ask for clarification, but she hesitated to remind the admiral of her presence. She didn’t want to throw Grachev off his stride by taking notes, and he’d probably clam up. Instead, she focused on memorizing the key details. The navy guys in the Defense Attache’s office could always clarify the technical aspects for her later.
“But,” he went on, “Fleet Admiral Ivashov had already scheduled an important training exercise in the Black Sea around the Lenin, and he was eager to launch the vessel as soon as possible. Your father’s concerns were therefore overruled.”
“Bloody idiot,” Victor muttered, clenching his fist on the table. “If those valves failed, seawater would flood the boat. The sub could sink before she made port.”
The admiral nodded glumly, and Alexis seized her moment to refill his glass. It was disturbing to realize how much it bothered her to see Victor so clearly unhappy, how much she ached to offer comfort. Doggedly she sipped at her champagne, reminding herself of her objectives.
“So my father went to sea with a faulty boat and an untested crew.” Anger flashed in Victor’s gaze as he smoked. “Neither fact was noted during his trial in absentia. Pavel Germanovich, what else can you tell me?”
“Two days before she put to sea, the starpom—” Abruptly recalling her presence, Grachev shifted his attention to Alexis. “This is the ship’s executive officer—the captain’s number two, you understand, the man he must trust above all others.”
“I understand,” she said, not wanting to interrupt the story. “Please go on.”
“This event occurred late at night, two days before the launch.” The old man lowered his voice. “Taras’s starpom slipped in the metro, and fell before an oncoming train. He was blind drunk, they said, but Taras told me this officer never drank. A tragic accident, it was felt, to befall a promising young officer. Ivashov had the man replaced immediately with one of his own protégés.”
“Mikhail Mishkin.” Brooding, Victor jerked a nod. “My father must have had misgivings about this. But he was forced to sail anyway, with the unknown Mishkin.”
“The Lenin sank several days later.” Grachev tossed back another shot of Seven Samurai vodka and popped a sour pickle to chase it. “You already know the boat was deep in Ukrainian waters when she sank, only a few kilometers from the Crimean coast, where the Ukrainian president was vacationing at the time.”
“I remember,” Victor said curtly, refilling the admiral’s glass. “This was just before their parliamentary elections. The papers were full of reports that the reformist incumbent was running against a strong anti-Western candidate, who shared the desire of many to see Ukraine and Russia reunited.”
Alexis too recalled the tension that had pervaded bilateral relations at the time. Despite a clear U.S. interest in seeing Ukraine retain its independence as a key ally in the region, Washington had steered clear of any involvement in the domestic political process. She’d been finishing her language training at the Foreign Service Institute in D.C., in preparation for her Moscow assignment, and she’d closely followed the regional politics.
Again, with difficulty, she held her tongue and kept her composure. No way Grachev would keep talking if he glimpsed her burning interest. Her nationality alone would be enough to stop him. The more so after she’d managed to give the impression, without actually saying so, that she hailed from neutral (and harmless) Switzerland. If Victor hadn’t vouched for her, said that he trusted her…damn it, she was not going to tear up again.
“And so,” Grachev rumbled, from the depths of his vodka, “the Lenin sent a few garbled transmissions to the nearest ship before she sank. Based on these transmissions, the investigators concluded that Taras was trying to make off with the boat. It was speculated that he planned to intervene in the Ukrainian elections, and somehow to turn public sentiment against Russia.”
Scowling, Victor ground out his cigarette. “So, on these flimsy grounds—on the basis of bloody circumstance—these wise minds concluded that my father’s crew tried to mutiny. They also relied on this desperate hypothesis to explain the gunshots that were recorded just before the boat sank.”
A white-jacketed waiter chose this untimely moment to interrupt with a smiling offer to bring them another bottle of vodka. Victor dismissed him with a curt gesture.
“The Lenin sank in less than an hour, I’ve heard,” he said tersely. “If those valves failed catastrophically, the boat could have gone down that quickly. And given the depths she sank at, no salvage operation would be feasible.”
“So there she lies…the ballistic missile submarine that was once the pride of the Red Fleet.” Grachev smiled sadly. “And my dear comrade lies with her. More than two kilometers deep, crushed like an empty soda can on the ocean floor.”
“Too deep for divers,” Victor muttered around his cigarette. “And heavily contaminated by radiation from the destroyed reactor.”
“Yes, that’s been confirmed, when they sent the ROV to assess it.”
Desperately Alexis memorized the unfamiliar acronym, but Victor shot her a keen look and said briefly, “It’s a remote-operated vehicle. Standard procedure in deep waters, when it isn’t clear how a ship sank. Pavel Germanovich, were you able to see the resulting photos?”
“I never asked.” Pensive, Grachev studied his glass. “The nearest cruiser—the Moskva, if memory serves—sent Moscow a recording of your father’s last transmissions. I managed to obtain a copy. But by then, you’d already left the navy, and I couldn’t reach you.”
That would’ve been when the SVR got its claws in him, Alexis thought grimly. Apparently he’d spent time in some covert training camp before they shipped him off to spy on her country.
&
nbsp; Finally showing signs of his heavy alcohol intake, Grachev mumbled the remainder into his chest. “And so I decided that I didn’t need to know what went wrong in the Black Sea during those ill-fated exercises. Taras was already dead, after all, and you seemed to have moved on. I didn’t want to stir things up.”
A typical Russian reaction, Alexis noted wryly. A holdover from the Soviet era, when any bureaucrat who stuck up his head risked having it lopped off.
“Do you still have the recording?” Victor leaned forward.
“Locked in my safe at the academy.”
“And the ROV photos?”
“I never asked to see them, for the reasons I explained.” Morosely the old man eyed his empty glass, and Alexis helpfully topped it off. “But I do still possess some modest influence in Moscow. If you wish, I can call a friend in the morning and discover if he’s willing to transmit this data.”
“Pavel Germanovich,” Victor said grimly, “however it started, you know this is no mere historical exercise. It isn’t a research project assigned to me by the ministry. Then as now, Ukraine is staring elections in the face—only this time the stakes are higher. If the current president loses the race, and his socialist opponent takes charge, it could well be the first step toward reunification of the old Soviet empire. Moscow will not wish any internal force to disrupt this process.”
To hell with fizzy champagne. Alexis reached for her own Seven Samurai and tossed it back, feeling the high-octane burn as the vodka seared her esophagus. If the circumstances had allowed it, she would probably have gotten hammered, just to relieve the tension. She didn’t need Victor to tell her how high the stakes had gotten, for her government and his. Unfortunately, their respective capitals wanted opposing outcomes.
Looking troubled, the admiral furrowed his brow. “I too have suffered these doubts. If some hypothetical person tried two years ago to intervene in our neighbor’s political process, using the Lenin as a bargaining chip, that effort notably failed. The pro-Western forces retained their parliamentary majority, and our fleet lost another submarine. Certainly, one would not risk making the same mistake twice—”
The Russian Seduction Page 20
