by Taylor Smith
She was at a disadvantage, though. The crowd was dense and, typically, she was one of the shortest people there. Unless she stood on one of the marble benches, there was no way to see above the mass of shoulders and heads around her. She wove from room to room, watching for her target. Nervous at every turn about running into Renata.
Then, inspiration struck. There was a glass-enclosed atrium at the center of the building where the post-opening reception was to take place. If she slipped ahead of the wave of people, she could position herself strategically to spot Belenko when he came in, and look for an opportunity for their paths to cross casually—and, at the same time, stay out of the way of that other person.
She short-circuited the box-shaped route through the exhibit and cut straight across to the atrium, catching a brief glimpse of Shelby Kidd’s silver head bent over a case of ceremonial weapons. Foreign Minister Zhakarov was standing next to the secretary, engaged in a spirited explanation of some sort. The translator at Kidd’s elbow was frantically trying to keep up with the Russian’s scattershot lecture. But before Mariah could see if Yuri Belenko was still with his minister, the crowd closed in, and her view was blocked.
She pushed against the heavy glass doors leading into the atrium, and was immediately greeted by a fragrant welcome. Long, blue-draped tables held sparkling, leaded-crystal glasses. Copious amounts of champagne and vodka stood chilling on ice. Ivory porcelain plates, stamped in gold with Arlen Hunter’s curlicued initials, were stacked at either end of a groaning buffet table. Blue flames flickered under steaming silver chafing dishes of hot canapés, while seemingly endless varieties of cold ones covered every other available inch of blue tablecloth.
In the center of the buffet, a massive ice sculpture rose out of the biggest platter of beluga caviar Mariah had ever seen. The crystalline beast, a two-headed eagle, wings unfurled, clutched a scepter in one claw, an orb in the other, and the Romanov imperial crest between its great wings. It towered a good six feet above the spread, its fierce heads gazing east and west, as if still keeping watch over the vast expanse of the Russian empire.
A few other guests had already fast-tracked through the galleries and were getting a jump start on the free-flowing champagne. Mariah waved off a white-coated waiter and took up a position against a pillar with an open view of the doorway from the last room in the exhibit, determined to take command of the field.
She hadn’t counted on a sneak attack from the rear. When a voice sounded next to her, she nearly jumped out of her skin.
“You didn’t enjoy the exhibit?”
Mariah swung around, then recoiled. Renata Hunter Carr stood next to her, perfectly plucked eyebrows arched in question.
Up close, the woman looked older, she was gratified to see. Even unnaturally tight skin turned translucent and blue-veined with age, it seemed, and bright blue eyes, too, took on an opaque density with the years. Eternal youth was apparently harder to come by than the cosmetics industry would have us believe.
“I beg your pardon?” Mariah said.
“I was asking if you found the exhibit not to your liking.”
“It’s very impressive.”
“You didn’t spend much time inside.” It sounded like a reproach, as if her social graces had been examined and found to fall a little short of civilized. But before Mariah could reply, the other woman added, “It’s Mariah, isn’t it?”
She nodded slowly.
“I knew it. I excused myself with Shelby and Minister Zakharov and went to search out Paul Chaney, just to be sure. But I knew I couldn’t be mistaken.”
“Ah, yes. Paul,” Mariah said. “I hadn’t realized the two of you were acquainted.”
“Our paths have crossed a few times. He really is quite adorable, isn’t he?”
Mariah ignored the best-girlfriends-sharing-secrets smile. Only the woman’s thin, liver-spotted fingers, playing with heavy gold rings, betrayed any sign that she was less than utterly confident here. Mariah leaned back against the pillar and decided to let silence work for her. Refusing to be on the defensive.
“I would have thought you’d be at least a little interested in the Romanovs,” Renata said.
“They’re a source of perennial fascination, I’m sure. I had a quick look at everything when I came through with the security contingent.”
“Security? Did you think I was in the habit of setting traps for my guests?”
Still shaken at having been cornered, Mariah thought immediately of black widow spiders, but she resisted the temptation of sarcasm. “Some people would find Secretary Kidd or Minister Zakharov tempting targets.”
“That’s certainly true. But what does it have to do with you?”
Mariah shrugged. “Goes with the territory. Everyone in the secretary’s delegation needs to be security-conscious.”
“You’re here with Shelby Kidd’s entourage? But I thought…” Renata frowned, glancing back at the galleries. “Well, never mind. You are here. It’s all that matters.”
A waiter stepped up with a tray. “Mrs. Carr? Champagne?”
“No, I’ll wait. But, Mariah, please, you go ahead,” she said, waving a hand at the glasses.
Mariah shook her head. When the waiter moved on, she had an overwhelming desire to follow him. “Excuse me,” she said, “I should really—”
The other woman grabbed her arm with fingers like talons. Mariah stared at the hand, then the woman, until the grip loosened and the hand slithered off.
“What can I do for you, Mrs. Carr?”
“I think it’s more a question of what I can do for you, Mariah.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been wanting to talk to you. I’ve been keeping tabs on you for some time, you know.”
“I beg your pardon? Tabs?”
“And so I happen to know,” Renata said quietly, leaning close with another of those conspiratorial grins, “that you are not employed by the State Department, my dear.” She winked and touched a forefinger to her lips. Then her hands fluttered through the air, their little secret banished to the winds.
Mariah said nothing. Neither confirm nor deny—the unofficial agency motto.
The older woman seemed to need no confirmation, in any case. A line marred her unnaturally smooth forehead. “I’m also told your husband, David, passed away not too long ago. I’m sorry for your loss, dear. It can’t be easy, losing him so young, having to finish raising Lindsay all alone.”
The sympathy sounded rote. And there was something obscene, Mariah thought, about hearing David’s and Lindsay’s names come out of this woman’s mouth. Not to mention a little surreal. Renata offering sympathy? How about an apology, instead, for a ruined childhood? Or a little sympathy for that other woman she herself had turned into a struggling single mother?
“But I did want to meet you,” Renata went on, oblivious to the irony. “We might have picked a less awkward moment, mind you, but it’s become rather pressing, so the sooner the better, I suppose.”
“‘Awkward’ doesn’t begin to describe this situation, Mrs. Carr. And frankly, I can’t imagine we have much to say to each other.”
“Oh, but we do, Mariah, we really do. We have something in common, after all.”
“And what would that be?”
“Your father. We both loved him.” Renata’s lips pursed, and she gave the impression she’d picked up a whiff of something disagreeable. “But all this dredging into the past. Releasing his private papers and draft manuscripts. You don’t want to be doing that.”
Mariah felt her spine stiffen as she pushed off from the pillar. At her height, there weren’t many people she could look down on, but Renata, luckily, was one of the few who fell into that category. She was grateful for small mercies. Anything to gain some advantage in a situation that was taking a truly bizarre turn.
“You presume a lot,” she said. “In the first place, I don’t really remember my father with love. In the second, even if I did, you are without a doubt the
last person on earth with whom I would stand around sharing warm fuzzy memories of him.”
“We did share him, though.”
“We didn’t share him! You stole him. You ripped him out of our lives, mine and my mother’s. I was seven years old. She was his wife, and pregnant besides. Did you know that? Did you care?”
“That’s all very long ago, and—”
“Ancient history to you, no doubt. But painfully fresh in my mind, I can assure you. We never saw him again. In her entire, short life, my little sister never once set eyes on our father, nor he on her. Tell me, Mrs. Carr, what kind of ‘sharing’ was that?”
“I realize it must have seemed hurtful at the time.”
“How very insightful of you.”
The older woman finally had the grace to blush.
“And as for his papers,” Mariah went on, “that really is none of your business. I control them. I’ll do with them as I see fit.” Enough was enough. She glanced around, looking for the nearest exit.
But the room was beginning to fill, most of the crowd giving the two women a wide but curious berth. In the midst of it, however, she spotted one figure whose gaze was locked on them. When he realized he’d been made, Nolan Carr walked over.
“Excuse me for interrupting, ladies. Mother, I came to fetch you. Minister Zakharov was wondering where you’ve gotten to.”
Something flashed in those blue eyes. Impatience? Renata Hunter Carr, Mariah imagined, was not in the habit of being “fetched.”
“Tell him I’ll be along shortly,” Renata said.
“Shelby wants to hear about the Nova Krimsky project. We don’t want to neglect our guests of honor, do we?” Nolan said reasonably. Then he turned to Mariah and held out his hand. “I don’t think we’ve met. Nolan Carr.”
“This is Mariah Tardiff,” Renata said hastily. “Mariah, my son, Nolan Carr.” Her eyes locked onto Mariah’s.
A warning? A plea? Mariah wondered, curious that Renata would introduce her by the married name she rarely heard except from Lindsay’s teachers and friends. If she’d been checking up on her, as she said, she’d known Mariah had continued to use Bolt professionally after her marriage, as much to keep her personal life out of her workplace as anything else.
But what did the Bolt name mean to Nolan? Surely he had to know about his mother’s affair with Ben? It was hardly a secret, since it was mentioned in virtually every Ben Bolt biography ever written. Renata hadn’t been Ben’s only extramarital fling, but she did have the dubious distinction of being the last and most fateful. His final flight to Europe with Arlen Hunter’s headstrong daughter was part of the standard Bolt lore—as well as the fact that she’d dumped him there, so that when he fell ill, he was doomed to die alone and penniless on foreign turf. At the end of his life, it seemed, Ben finally met his female match.
But what about Nolan? Was his mother’s wild past a source of embarrassment to him? He didn’t look remotely embarrassed now, Mariah thought. He’d folded her hand between both of his and fixed her with a warm smile.
“Mariah? That’s a really great name. It’s nice to meet you.”
“You, too, Nolan.” What else was she going to say? It wasn’t his fault his mother was horrible. His father, Jacob Carr, had apparently been a decent man, a well-respected California attorney general before his career was cut short by a fatal heart attack. One out of two wasn’t bad in the parental lottery odds. She ought to know.
“I really am sorry to drag my mother away,” Nolan added, “but you know how it is. Duty calls.”
She nodded understandingly. “Don’t let me hold you up. We’re all done here, anyway. You wouldn’t want to keep the minister waiting,” she added to Renata.
“No, I suppose not. We’ll continue our conversation another time.” To Mariah’s utter astonishment, Renata leaned over and embraced her stiffened shoulders, planting an air kiss on her cheek. Hissing softly in her ear, “You’re being very stupid!” Then she pulled back, wearing a smile to charm the gods. “It was such a pleasure to see you again, dear.”
She looped a hand through her son’s arm and gave him a brisk nod. As they headed back into the gallery, the crack of Renata’s stiletto heels echoed like pistol shots off the atrium’s polished marble floor.
Mariah spotted Paul, standing near the two-headed ice sculpture with Mayor Riordan and some other people she didn’t recognize. He’d obviously seen her talking to Renata, because his furrowed brow telegraphed a question. She tried to send back a reassuring smile, but an arm reached across her field of vision, deftly rescuing two glasses from a passing tray.
Yuri Belenko handed one to her. “My dear Mariah! At last I catch you alone!” He took her free hand and lifted it to his lips.
“Yuri, there you are! I was just looking for you.”
“Ah, we are great minds to think so much alike, are we not? I spotted you back on the terrace. I have been looking for you ever since.”
“How have you been?”
“You know what they say—every day above ground is a good one.”
She smiled. “Well, I’m glad you’re having a good one.”
He clinked his glass against hers, grinning. “It just got much better.”
“It’s good to see you, too,” Mariah said. And it was, she decided, taking a grateful sip of the drink she sorely needed by now. How could anyone not warm to a fellow with such corny lines and the ingratiating habit of kissing a lady’s hand? The most charming thing about him was that he seemed perfectly aware how hokey it all was. If international intrigue was still “the great game,” Yuri Belenko played it with self-mocking humor and style.
His heavy-lidded brown eyes fixed her with a warm smile. “Bedroom eyes,” some would call them. Forty-three and divorced, according to his CIA file, he was a substantial physical presence, a six-footer, his barrel-chested girth imposing. Not fat, precisely, but with the well-nourished look of a man who denies himself few pleasures and submits to few exertions. His lips were sensual and port-colored, hinting at a decadence that might or might not be illusory. His hair was thick, dark and shining, parted off center and on the long side—unusually Byronic for a political hack—and he had a distracting tendency to rake it back languidly with one hand as he spoke.
“The world is a small place, after all,” he said. “I was hoping to see you here, but I wasn’t sure your State Department masters would let you out to play.”
“Oh, I rattled my cage when I heard you were coming with your minister,” Mariah said. This, too, was part of the game. Each of them knew the other’s true affiliation. Knew they knew, but pretended not to.
“What did you think of the exhibit?” he asked.
“Very Hollywood. Glamour, romance, murder—all the ingredients of a blockbuster movie, wouldn’t you say?”
“A piece of our history. A little glorious, a little shameful. Can you say your country’s history has no shameful chapters of its own?”
“We who burned witches and practiced slavery? Who’ve assassinated a few leaders of our own, and are still shooting at each other on a daily basis?” She shook her head. “I don’t think I’ll bother trying to claim the moral high ground today, Yuri. I didn’t mean to offend.”
“You could never offend, dear Mariah. And you’re right about the exhibit. It really is a little ghoulish, in some respects. History as entertainment. Inevitable, I suppose. No doubt the struggles of our own generation will also become the divertissements of the next.”
“I’m too tired to struggle today, Yuri. What do you say we deny the next generation its entertainment and just lead dull, boring lives?”
“Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die!” he said, nodding and tapping her glass once more. “It works for me.”
“Speaking of which,” Mariah said, “shall we check out that buffet? Something smells incredible and it’s making me very hungry.”
Belenko glanced over. “The line is very long. I think my minister is holding things up.”
Zakharov had been moving along the table, Mariah noted, loading a plate held for him by one of his bodyguards, but he had stopped midway. He was apparently delivering another long explanation to Shelby Kidd. The secretary, tall, rail-thin, patrician, was nodding with interest, while Renata and her son, Nolan, listened intently.
“Minister Zakharov seems very animated this evening.”
“Oh, yes, he’s in fine form,” Belenko agreed. “We just received word from Moscow that Premier Tolkachev has resigned.”
She pivoted toward him, surprised. “Tolkachev resigned? Has it been announced?”
“It will be shortly.”
“Oh, my. Doesn’t sound like you’re in for dull or boring times, after all.”
Premier Constantin Tolkachev was the third beleaguered head of government to fall victim in the last eighteen months to economic and political turmoil inside the Russian Federation. His departure cleared the way for another push forward by Zakharov and the powerful coalition of former Communists and rabid nationalists he led. Zakharov’s long-time rival, the ailing Russian president was running out of ways to avoid naming him to the premiership, which would bring the feisty foreign minister one step closer to his ultimate goal—the presidency itself.
Which explained Zakharov’s late arrival at the reception, Mariah thought. No doubt the next set of intercepts from the agency’s satellites would confirm the old bear had been talking with his political allies back in Moscow, looking to cement his position.
She studied the normally dour minister once more. “Think he’ll cut short his visit here and head back early? Seems to me he’d want to be home, getting his ducks in a row.”
Belenko gave her a puzzled look. “Ducks in a row?”
“Like a mother duckling? It means lining up resources. In the case of your minister, so he can make a bid for the prime minister’s job.”
