by Taylor Smith
Sure she was.
She glanced up, feeling dwarfed by the eight-foot-high letters of Arlen Hunter’s name deeply carved into the pearl-gray marble walls of this monument he’d built to himself on Santa Monica Boulevard. So why did suborning treason feel like a piece of cake compared to the prospect of meeting the late magnate’s home wrecker of a daughter?
Were her masters at Langley even aware of the grudge she bore Renata? she wondered. Did Geist know? Doubtful. It was conceivable that the woman’s name was lodged somewhere in her personnel record, a gossipy detail on her famous, philandering parent, noted in passing, then filed away by whatever spit-polished security specialist had done her recruitment background check—an insignificant detail by now, surely, after eighteen spotless years of service. If Jack Geist had realized how much that bit of personal history still rankled, though, he might have thought twice about sending her out on this ridiculous assignment. Then again, knowing Geist, maybe not.
She patted her hair self-consciously. It felt too fluffy. She’d amped up her cosmetics for the occasion, too, and her skin felt plaster-coated. An extra coat of mascara had her feeling as though she was peering out at the world from under lacy awnings.
Ah, well, she thought wryly, the spy, to be truly effective, must be an expert at camouflage, possessed of that subtle capacity to seem neither out of place nor conspicuous. With the bevy of California beauties gracing the arms of the assembled rich and powerful here, her own overdone look no doubt blended right in.
Several well-known figures dotted the patio. The mayor of Los Angeles had already arrived, as well as both of California’s senators and several politically connected Hollywood types. The guest list also included representatives of foreign governments who maintained consulates in Los Angeles, and business people dutifully networking on behalf of their multinational corporations.
Mariah sighed. And then there were the bureaucrats. A considerable number of them, from the State Department, FBI and Secret Service, plus at least one representative of the CIA—though, for all she knew, Geist could have sent others. All attempting, with greater or lesser success, to blend into the party scene. The Secret Service agents were hopeless at it, conspicuous by their stern expressions, coiled collar wires, and plastic earpieces carrying a subaudible stream of clipped commands and sitreps—situation reports—on the movements of and potential threats to Secretary of State Kidd and Russian Foreign Minister Zakharov. Dressed in almost identical dark suits, they also had a distracting tendency to mutter, Dick Tracy–style, into their shirt cuffs.
A flutter of wings sounded behind her as two doves landed nearby on the half wall lining two sides of the terrace. A third dove settled a little apart from the pair, cooing plaintively, keeping a lonely watch. Gossamer violet feathers shimmered as the bird craned her head this way and that.
“Where’s your fella, pretty girl?” Mariah murmured.
Black pearl eyes cast a baleful glance her way. Mourning doves were monogamous, she recalled, mating for life, slow to accept a new partner at the death of a mate. This one’s mate must have fallen prey to some urban catastrophe, dooming her to follow behind the other pairs in the flock, permitted to observe but never join their comfortable circle.
Mariah felt her own loss thrum like an arrhythmia of the heart, a dull, aching reminder of David’s absence and the permanent empty spaces his death had created inside and around her. The sense of isolation. She felt like someone stuck at the top of a broken Ferris wheel—rocking and waiting, looking at the world from a distance. Half the time, she ached for the wheel to start turning again. The rest of the time, she lived in terror of the next, inevitable downward plunge.
The melancholy cooing of the doves sounded a counter-point to the hum of traffic moving up and down Santa Monica Boulevard. Long shadows drifted like pale purple gauze across the courtyard walls. She glanced once more at her watch. Six-fifteen. Nine-fifteen, back in Virginia. Lindsay would be up for a while yet. Like most teenagers, she prowled late at the best of times, and it would only get worse now that she was on summer vacation. If she got back to the hotel in the next couple of hours, Mariah calculated, she could still call without disturbing anyone at Carol’s house.
Then she had another thought. Frank. Before this afternoon, she hadn’t heard his voice in weeks. Now, the prospect of hearing it again brought a smile to her lips.
She leaned over the balcony’s edge to see if the VIPs were in sight. The solitary dove followed her gaze, peering down at the steady stream of cars still pulling up, disgorging high-powered passengers into the building’s maw. A small crowd had gathered on either side of the entryway. In Los Angeles, apparently, all it took to assemble an audience was to string a barrier, roll out a red carpet and wait for the celebrity-seekers to materialize like ants at a picnic.
Suddenly, the doves scattered on a flutter of wings as a strong hand gripped Mariah’s elbow. In her ear, a low voice murmured, “Don’t jump!”
She swung around to find a pair of crystal-blue eyes grinning down at her. “Paul! What are you doing here?”
Chaney kissed her cheek, as eyes had turned in their direction. Paul tended to have that effect on crowded rooms. So much for blending.
“Thought I’d surprise you,” he said. “You look gorgeous.”
“Thank you. I am surprised, but I’m confused, too. How—?”
“I got an invitation to this shindig weeks ago. I wasn’t going to come until you mentioned yesterday that you were. Decided I’d deliver your keys in person.”
Based in Washington, Paul had friends everywhere he’d ever stood in front of a camera. The only reason Mariah had called to tell him she’d be in L.A. early was that the beach cottage near Chap Korman’s house where she and Lindsay were planning to spend their vacation belonged to some friend of Paul’s. He’d been making arrangements to get the keys to her that week.
His appearance always set off mixed reactions in her, but right now, it was mostly dismay Mariah felt. “You shouldn’t have come all this way,” she said, meaning it.
“I know, but I wanted to. I thought it might be a little tricky for you tonight, what with Renata Hunter Carr being here and all. I came to offer moral support.”
Oh, Lord, Mariah thought, I am an ungrateful wretch.
“I was running late, though. Thought I’d miss the whole shebang,” Paul said, glancing around. “I gather Zakharov’s plane was late arriving?”
Mariah nodded.
He settled on the low balcony wall, long legs crossing at the ankles. His charcoal suit—Armani, no doubt—draped his athletic body with an elegant ease that most mere mortals could only envy. He had also been blessed with the even, agreeable bone structure camera lenses favored. He was fair-haired, with just a little gray and white intermingling at the temples. His face, classically good-looking, was also slightly weathered, adding a patina of maturity to an appearance that might otherwise have been too boyish to carry the weight of the award-winning television news-magazine he anchored.
“Have you seen her yet?” he asked.
“No. Apparently, she’s part of the ribbon-cutting detail, so I imagine she’ll make her entrance with Zakharov and Kidd.”
“How are you holding up?”
“Just fine,” she lied. “It was sweet of you to do this, Paul, but it’s really not that big a deal. I’ve seen her picture in the paper dozens of times. I’m hardly going to have a nervous breakdown just because we happen to be in the same room.”
“What if you have to talk to her?”
“No reason I should. She doesn’t know me, and I’m obviously not going to go out of my way to introduce myself.”
Chaney studied her for a moment, then turned back to the crowd. “There’s Nolan,” he said.
“Nolan?”
“Nolan Carr, her son. The young Robert Redford clone over there with Mayor Riordan and the senators.”
Mariah followed his gaze across the courtyard to where an attractive, self-assured you
ng man was locked in close conversation with the three politicians.
“Looks like he’s lobbying,” Paul said.
“For what?”
He shrugged. “Who knows? Rumor has it his mother’s got political ambitions for her only child.”
Mariah studied the would-be politician. “He looks barely old enough to be out of school.”
“He’s pushing thirty, I think. As for school, he attended Princeton for a while, his late father’s alma mater. I don’t think he ever graduated from anywhere except Playboy U, though. Like I said, politics seems to be his mother’s idea.”
“His father was Jacob Carr, the former state attorney general, right?”
“Mmm…Plus, of course, Mrs. Hunter Carr’s a major contributor in her own right. When the time comes, I’m sure Nolan will have the backing he needs.”
Mariah gave Paul a curious look. “How do you know all this?”
“I interviewed Arlen Hunter not long before he died,” Paul said. “I met both Renata and Nolan, though he was just a kid at the time. Pretty rambunctious, at that. I’ve run into the mother once or twice since.”
“You never told me that,” Mariah said, frowning.
“Well, I knew it was a touchy subject. Frankly, there’s never really been a time before now when I thought it needed to be mentioned.”
“Hmm….” Mariah said. How very politically correct of him.
The director of the Arlen Hunter Museum, who’d been pointed out to Mariah when she’d passed through that afternoon, walked over and whispered something in Nolan Carr’s ear. Carr smiled and nodded without missing a beat, then shook hands with Mayor Riordan and the senators and headed off for the elevators. Along the way, he stopped and shook a few more hands, ever the dutiful host in his grandfather’s establishment. Preternaturally adept at the glad-handing game, Mariah thought. Clearly, the boy had a future.
“So, what exactly does he do for a living?” she asked Paul. “Not that he has to worry about where his next meal is coming from, I suppose.”
“Hard to say, exactly. He’s on the board of the various Hunter corporations and trusts. Dabbles in a little land development, I think. Skis. Sails. The usual.”
“Nice work if you can get it.”
“N’est-ce pas?” Paul said wryly.
A sudden change in the pitch of street noises set off a murmur on the terrace, and people began to gravitate toward the edge of the balcony. The distinct growl of high-powered, armor-encased motors and the deep, throaty whine of motorcycle outriders announced the arrival of the official cavalcade at the front of the building.
Chaney peeked over the edge, then got to his feet. As he took her arm, Mariah felt his fingertips lightly brushing the sensitive place at the inside of her elbow. “Here we go,” he said. “Ready?”
She glanced around, but jaded gazes used to celebrity-spotting had already shifted away from them, anticipating the arrival of bigger fish. “Paul, I don’t know how to put this delicately,” she murmured, “but I’m working here.”
He slipped his hand out of her arm. “Oops, sorry.” He knew what she did for a living. He’d been David’s friend first, but when he’d decided to investigate the suspicious car accident that had led up to David’s death, Paul’s and her professional paths had tangled. “I’ll stay out of your way,” he said. “But it had occurred to me, even if you were tied up for the evening, there’s always a window of opportunity between sunset and sunrise.” He flicked an imaginary cigar, his eyebrows doing a mischievous Groucho Marx bounce.
In spite of herself, Mariah smiled. “Where are you staying?”
His expression shifted to sheepish, and he fingered the almost imperceptible scar on his chin, an old hockey injury. Mariah had been drawn on more than one occasion to slowly trace that small, welcome imperfection. “With you?” he suggested.
“Oh, I don’t know about that. I have no idea what time I’ll be done tonight, and—”
“I have a confession to make. My bag’s already in your room.”
“What? How did you get into my hotel room?”
“I know the manager at the Beverly Wilshire. Stayed there a dozen times. I know it’s presumptuous, but you and I get so few opportunities to be together, I didn’t want to let this one pass. I told the manager we needed to keep it real low-key. In this town, believe me, it’s not the strangest request he’s ever had. He’s totally discreet, I swear.”
She studied those wide-open features, wondering how many times Paul had relied on that discretion in the past. Wondering, too, how thrilled the DDO would be to find out they were sharing quarters here. But there wasn’t time to argue the point now. In any case, when the chips were down, Paul had proven more loyal than the CIA brass. There were plenty of reasons for their relationship to go slow, but at this point, she couldn’t care less what Jack Geist thought about it.
The elevators pinged, doors opening on a rush of air. Several Secret Service men stepped off first, taking up positions at either side of the opening. Three or four of their beefy Russian security counterparts followed. Multiple pairs of dark glasses panned the room as they, too, fanned out, the Russians forming an inner cordon, the Security Service, like tugs around an ocean liner, keeping the dignitaries and Zakharov’s bodyguards in a containment pattern as they moved forward.
“All right,” she conceded. “I’ll catch up to you later. But right now—”
“I’m outta here. I’ll leave you to your spying, Janey Bond.”
She scolded softly, “I’m State Department here, buster, and don’t you forget it.”
Chaney grinned and walked off. She watched as he made his way to the front of the room. At least a hundred and fifty people separated him from the red velvet ribbon strung before the main gallery, but Paul Chaney was one of those people with a God-given gift for putting himself at the center of the action. As he threaded his way forward, faces in the crowd glanced up at him, temporarily distracted from the main attraction. Then, like the Red Sea at the approach of Moses, they parted to let him pass.
Turning back toward the elevator, Mariah recognized the cropped, silvery head of the secretary of state. Next to him was a short, chunky man in an expensive suit, the top of whose head barely cleared Shelby Kidd’s shoulder. Zakharov’s golden cuff links glittered as he lifted his hands to smooth the sides of his thick, snow-white hair. He looked almost cherubic, Mariah thought—Santa Claus in Savile Row—but Zakharov had been a KGB colonel with a reputation for unparalleled ruthlessness before making the transition to politician. She doubted the old leopard had changed his spots at this late date.
Why was it that the most ferocious characters were so often such stumpy little men? she wondered. There had to be a psychology thesis in there somewhere.
As the two ministers started toward the gallery, accompanied by their translators, Mariah spotted Yuri Belenko, Zakharov’s right-hand man and her main reason for being here. Belenko’s back was to her as he paused at the elevator threshold, reaching back to offer his arm to the last occupant, hidden till now.
Almost against her will, Mariah craned to see, but caught only the briefest glimpse of blond hair and a flash of earring before the small figure of a woman disappeared in the thicket of sturdy, protective bodies sweeping en masse toward the red velvet rope.
Suddenly, an awful memory flooded over her: her mother crying on the sofa, one arm curled protectively around the curve of her belly.
“Mommy? Where’s Daddy?”
“He’s gone.”
“Gone where? When’s he coming home?”
“I don’t know, sweetheart. I don’t know.”
Damn it to hell, Mariah thought, swallowing hard. She circled the wall, settling in a nook off to the side of the main gallery entrance, where her view was relatively unobstructed.
And there she was.
Heiress and culture maven Renata Hunter Carr was busy introducing the two ministers to her son and to the museum director. The woman obviously gloried in bein
g the center of attraction—and in her triumph. Both the Smithsonian and the Metropolitan Museum of Art had vied to host the inaugural stop on the Russian imperial treasures tour, but with deft lobbying in two capitals, Renata had done a run up the middle and scored the coup for the Los Angeles– based institute founded by her father.
Oil magnate Arlen Hunter had made the first of many fortunes in the early twenties, trading with a famine-stricken, postrevolutionary Russia whose Bolshevik government knew what it needed and scarcely valued what it had—furs for Ford trucks, priceless icons for U.S. wheat. For the rest of his life, Arlen Hunter acted as a self-appointed American trade and cultural ambassador to every Soviet leader from Lenin to Gorbachev, reaping huge profits for himself in the bargain. It was a measure of continuing Russian appreciation for the departed mogul that Moscow hadn’t hesitated to grant the opening of the Romanov exhibit to the museum that still bore his name, carved in those eight-foot-high letters on the marble walls.
Hence, Renata’s role in the opening ceremonies. Hence, too, Mariah’s own predicament, struggling to maintain some sort of professional detachment when she felt seven years old all over again.
She tried to keep her attention fixed on Zakharov and Belenko, who had yet to notice her, but her gaze kept wandering to that other unnerving presence. She’d wanted to see a wizened and stooped harpy. She’d wanted to find the woman Chap Korman had described—someone crushed by disappointment, still, after all these years, mourning the loss of the man she’d stolen. She saw nothing of the kind.
Renata was animated and vibrant, possessed of the kind of understated elegance that knows it needn’t strive to impress, and is all the more impressive for that careless confidence. Her oyster-blond hair was expertly razored to chin-length. A deceptively simple black dress draped her trim figure like ermine, her only jewelry a pair of discreet pearl and diamond earrings with a matching collier. Mariah knew the two of them were a full generation apart, but Renata could almost have passed for a contemporary, with that smooth complexion and those bluesteel eyes. Only a light crepiness around the neck betrayed her.
