By Dawn's Early Light

by Grant R. Jeffrey

  “Gentlemen.” Alanna brought her hands together, fingertips touching, and smiled at Vladimir. “The chef has prepared a wonderful meal. Shall we go into the dining room?”

  “By all means.” Vladimir stepped forward and slipped his arm around Alanna’s slender waist, pausing long enough to kiss her cheek and inhale the rich scent of her perfume. From the corner of his eye he saw that Petrov stood a respectful distance away, his eyes lowered.

  Good. Let him understand.

  “Lead me to your table, love,” he said, lacing his fingers with Alanna’s. “I have much to tell you before I leave for Paris.”

  “And I am eager to hear it,” Alanna answered, smiling.

  They dined on lobster and veal, then sipped Petrov’s wine and pronounced it excellent. Vladimir sat at the head of the table, with Alanna on his right and Petrov on his left, and throughout the conversation he found himself measuring the amount of eye contact between his two companions. For once, Alanna was playing the part of modest maiden, and gradually he relaxed. She knew her place. She was wiser than he had imagined.

  After dessert, he waited until the butler cleared the dishes away, then he pulled a small box from his pocket. “A small trinket,” he said, sliding it across the linen tablecloth. “Just something to remind you of me while I am gone.”

  “Vladimir!” She smiled, her sparkling blue eyes holding more than a hint of flirtation. Like an exuberant child, she tore off the wrappings and opened the box, then gasped in pleasure as she lifted the string of pearls from its resting place. “Oh, they’re simply gorgeous! You are so sweet!”

  She reached out and caught his neck, and willingly he bent to accept her kiss. When they parted, he glanced at Petrov just long enough to note that another dark flush had mantled the man’s cheeks.

  “Darling, I have something for you, too. One moment—let me get it.”

  As gracefully as a ballerina, she slipped from her seat and darted away. Vladimir picked up his goblet and sipped the wine, noting from the corner of his eye that the colonel had done the same.

  “She is a lovely woman,” Petrov said, placing his glass on the table. “You are a fortunate man.”

  “Thank you.” Vladimir lowered his glass, too, then idly ran his fingertip around the rim. “You might find a beautiful woman soon. If all goes well in Paris, things in Russia will change dramatically in the coming months. I will hold the reins of power, and as my second-in-command, beautiful women will compete for your attention.”

  Petrov shook his head. “I only want to serve you, General, so use me where you will.”

  Vladimir lifted his glass, his mouth twisting in bitter amusement.

  Petrov spoke like a loyal fool or a skilled diplomat, and he knew the colonel was no fool.

  He straightened in his chair as the swishing sound of Alanna’s silk gown announced her approach. A pretty blush marked her cheeks as she entered the dining room with a book and a package in her hands. “Vladimir,” she said, sliding into her chair, “the other day I was astounded to find this in the hotel lobby.” She placed a battered copy of Uncle Tom’s Cabin on the table before him. “You cannot imagine how much I have enjoyed reading it. English books are hard to find in Moscow, but the bookstore downstairs has a very good selection. I’ve made several trips just to browse, and if you keep leaving me, I’m afraid I shall have to buy more than one.” Her lower lip edged forward in her patented pout. “I have to do something to entertain myself while you are away.”

  “Buy as many books as you want,” Vladimir answered, feeling generous. “As long as you put them away when I return. I will not compete for your attention.”

  She reached out and stroked the curve of his upper arm with her fingertip. “You won’t have to.”

  Vladimir felt the blood surge from his arm to his toes, but this was not the proper time to indulge the passion roaring through him. He caught Alanna’s extended hand and glanced pointedly at the wrapped parcel on the table. “Is there something else, darling?”

  “Oh, yes.” She pushed the American volume aside and handed him the wrapped package—another book; he could feel the spine through the paper.

  “It’s for you, darling.” The warmth of her smile echoed in her voice. “I hope you like it.”

  Vladimir felt his heart turn over the way it always did when she looked at him that way. Flushed with pleasure, he ripped off the wrapping and found himself holding a slender book covered in thick, stamped leather, embossed with gold.

  Satisfaction pursed his mouth when he translated the title, written in the Russian Cyrillic alphabet: “Man of Destiny, A Biography of Martin Luther.” Opening the book, he nodded at the yellowed pages. “I know this book—I read it many years ago.”

  “It took me a while to decipher the title, but I thought you would enjoy a biography of another influential man.”

  “He was an interesting fellow. Martin Luther and I agreed on many things—including our distrust of the Jews.”

  He looked up in time to see Alanna’s face contract in a small grimace of pain, as though someone had suddenly struck her.

  “Darling—do you think I don’t like it? I do; it is a true classic. I am surprised you could even find a copy.”

  She gave him a small smile, then looked down at her hands. “I have to profess ignorance, Vladimir. I had no idea Martin Luther wrote about the Jews.”

  “Of course he did.” Vladimir flipped a few more pages, then thumped his finger against a paragraph. “Listen to what he says: ‘Know this, Christian, you have no greater enemy than the Jew.’ Ah—here he advises that if we are afraid the Jews might harm our wives, children, servants, cattle, etc., we should apply the same cleverness as the other nations, such as France, Spain, and Bohemia—in other words, we should expel them.”

  Petrov lifted his goblet in a mock toast. “Hitler was a madman, but he had the right idea. The first large-scale Nazi program in November 1938 was performed in honor of Luther’s birthday.”

  “You see?” Vladimir snapped the book shut, then reached out and took Alanna’s hand. “I love the book, darling. It is a wonderful gift. I will always treasure it.” He chafed her hand gently, noticing that her flesh had gone cold. “What’s this? Your fingers are like ice.”

  Alanna shivered and gripped Vladimir’s hand more tightly. “It’s chilly in here. Do you mind if we have our coffee by the fireplace?”

  “I am afraid we must be going.” Vladimir stood and helped her from her chair, then linked her arm through his as they led the way into the living room. “I am sorry I will not be able to visit you tonight,” he said, lowering his voice so Petrov would not hear. “I have many plans to finalize before departing for Paris.”

  “That’s all right, sweetheart.” Though she gave him a wavering smile, her eyes were wide blue pools of appeal.

  “Ah, Alanna, how you tempt me.” He pulled her closer and planted a kiss on her hair, then cradled her head against his chest. “I will be back soon with news that will change our world. Until then, be a good girl and stay inside. I do not want anything to happen to you, my treasure.”

  A soft sob escaped her, and the sound broke his heart. “Ah, my love.” Ignoring Petrov, he placed his hands alongside her delicate face and lifted it. Her eyes were closed, her face unhappy, and a brief shiver rippled through him when he saw the silvery tracks of tears upon her cheeks. None of his other women had ever wept when he left them, and even sweet Alanna had not wept before today.

  Spellbound with new and compelling sensations, he gently thumbed the tears from her cheeks. This moment marked a milestone, a new beginning. She must have sensed that together they stood on the threshold of a new epoch, a thrilling time of grandeur, power, and international prominence.

  “Do not cry, my love.” He drew her completely into the circle of his arms and whispered into her ear. “Never fear. My heart is half-returned before I even go.”

  Vladimir and Petrov rode down in the elevator together. The colonel did not say mu
ch during the ride, and Vladimir appreciated the man’s silence. His own heart was too full, too surprised by Alanna’s emotional reaction to his departure. She had never been reticent about showing affection or joy, but until now she had never let him see her cry.

  Had she fallen in love with him? Love could be a useful thing, but it could also result in problems. For the role Vladimir had in mind for her, love would be enjoyable, but loyalty would be far more useful.

  The polished brass doors of the elevator slid back, and together the two men walked through the lobby. Vladimir paused at the point where one corridor curved toward the front of the building. “One moment, Colonel—I think I would like to send Alanna one final present before we leave. Would you care to accompany me to the bookstore?”

  The colonel smiled and inclined his head. “My pleasure, sir.”

  They found the bookstore immediately. Vladimir had just discovered the English section when a dark-haired woman appeared at his side. “Can I help you, sir?” she asked.

  “I’m looking for something special.” As Petrov browsed at the front of the shop, Vladimir pointed to the shelf in front of him. “Are these the only English books? I’m looking for something that might interest an American woman.”

  “We’ve had quite a demand for American books of late.” The woman smiled and gestured toward a far wall. “We have a few contemporary titles over there. Many of the major American authors are represented.”

  “Do you know any that would particularly appeal to a woman?”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Madame Ivanova particularly likes John Grisham. She has also asked about Maeve Binchy, though I understand that author is Irish . . .”

  She turned and called a question over her shoulder in Hebrew, and Vladimir stiffened at the sound. A moment later a man appeared beyond the bookshelf, and upon his head he wore the telltale skullcap.

  Vladimir swallowed hard, trying not to reveal the rage simmering just beneath his skin. His darling Alanna had been consorting with filthy Jews? If he had known there were Jews working in this hotel, he would never have allowed her to live here.

  He stood still, his blood soaring with unbidden memories. As a little boy, he and his mother had lived outside Moscow in a small collective farm. Stalin ruled Moscow during Vladimir’s youth, and stories about the evils of the Jews—about how they used the blood of children in their rituals, how they hoarded wealth and loaned it at outrageous rates of interest in order to drain good people of their hard-won rubles—were woven into the fabric of his childhood. As a boy he had witnessed criminal Jews being loaded onto trucks and taken away; at the age of fifteen he had been horrified by Stalin’s report that the United States had hired a group of Jewish doctors to kill high-ranking Soviet officials.

  After Stalin’s sudden death, public officials released the imprisoned doctors and announced that there was no plot, but Vladimir did not doubt that one had existed. Jews lived among them in disguise, and many had risen to the heights of political power. Leon Trotsky, Stalin’s greatest political rival, had been born Lev Davidovich Bronstein, the son of Russian Jews.

  His own life had been scarred by the hand of an infiltrating Jew. His mother, an attractive widow, worked quietly in the collective, but her beauty caught the eye of a visiting commissar who worked for the Communist Party. One summer day not long after Stalin’s death, Vladimir came in from the fields just in time to see a uniformed officer pushing his mother into a low, black car. The commissar sat in the backseat, his thick hand gripping his mother’s arm, his voice overriding her wailing protests.

  Vladimir never saw his mother again. For two more years he worked on the collective, then, at the age of eighteen, went to Moscow to search for her. After weeks of knocking on doors, he discovered that his mother had died after being dumped in a Moscow hospital. With a hot, clenched ball of anger burning at his center, Vladimir stalked Red Square, circling the tall walls at least a dozen times a day, always searching for the commissar who had taken his mother. In fair weather and foul he searched, eating what he could, when he could, stealing to survive.

  Finally he saw the man. Remaining in the shadows, Vladimir followed the commissar to his house, then asked around and learned that the man was called Nikolai Kondratenko. He was now a powerful man in the Communist Party, but he had been born Uri Epstein, a Jew.

  Within a week, Vladimir had murdered Uri Epstein. After retrieving his dagger and washing the blood from his hands, he went to the enlistment office and registered for the Russian army, deciding that if he would have to kill people in order to find justice, he might as well be paid for it.

  “Sir? Are you all right?”

  Vladimir blinked the bloody images of the past away and stared at the woman before him. She stood with her head tilted, a quizzical expression on her face.

  “I am fine.” He waved her away, then turned on his heel and moved toward the doorway. He caught Petrov’s eye as he exited the shop, and the colonel joined him immediately.

  “Those people.” Vladimir pointed over his shoulder as they moved down the marble corridor. “Get rid of them. They are stinking Jews, and I won’t have them in the same building with Alanna.”

  Petrov’s brow wrinkled. “Do you have any suggestions how I should proceed?”

  Vladimir pulled his gloves from his pocket and smoothed the first one over his right hand. “Use any method you like,” he said, tugging on the bottom of his leather glove. “Just make certain it is a permanent solution— and flexible. We may have to rid Moscow of other Jews before many months have passed.”

  He paused as he slipped his left hand into the remaining glove. “And place a guard outside Alanna’s door at all times. She is an innocent and likely to stumble into trouble. See that she does not go out alone—I cannot allow anyone to harm her.”

  Petrov locked his hands behind his back, his smile softening his granite features. “Trust me, General. It shall all be arranged before you return from Paris.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Tel Aviv

  1300 hours

  MICHAEL SPENT MOST OF HIS FIRST DAY IN ISRAEL WARMING A WORN LEATHER sofa. His official letter of introduction from the Israeli ambassador served to get him into the building that housed Major General Yanai’s office, but the general kept Michael waiting for most of the morning.

  Michael finished reading an English edition of the Jerusalem Post someone had thoughtfully left on an end table, then tossed the paper aside and rubbed his hand across his stubbled chin. The electric razor he’d used in the airplane lavatory hadn’t quite done the job, and four hours of thin sleep in a cramped seat left him feeling achy and exhausted. If Major General Yanai didn’t see him soon, he might take his suitcase, find a hotel, and catch a couple hours of sleep. If Russia decided to attack while he slept, well—it would be the Israelis’ problem.

  The phone on the secretary’s desk buzzed softly. She picked it up and murmured something in Hebrew, then caught Michael’s eye. “Yes, he is still here,” she said, speaking English. “Yes, I will see to it.”

  Standing, the young woman folded her hands and gave Michael an apologetic smile. She wore a military uniform, and Michael knew she was one of several thousand young women in the Israeli army. All eligible Israeli citizens were drafted at age eighteen. Men served a compulsory three years; women, two.

  “The general is sorry to have kept you waiting, Captain Reed,” she said, amusement lurking in her eyes. “He has asked me to express his deepest apologies.”

  Michael felt his face stiffen, but kept gallantly smiling. This might be a gracious brush-off, but he hadn’t flown five thousand miles just to be told to get lost.

  “When might the general be available?” he drawled with distinct mockery. “The matter I wish to discuss is of some urgency.”

  The woman’s dark, silky brows rose a trifle. “Pardon me, sir, for not making myself clear. The general is waiting to see you now and has asked me to order some lunch. We have cleared his
calendar, and his time is now yours.”

  Michael nodded, grateful that at last something had gone his way. As the secretary moved to open the door into the general’s office, he sent her a smile of thanks, then squared his shoulders and went in to meet Doran Yanai.

  The general in charge of implementing IDF policy before foreign forces stationed in the area would function merely as a go-between, Michael realized, but his cooperation would be necessary if they were to pull off this charade without drawing undue attention. President Stedman fully intended Michael to speak to no less an authority than the chief of the general staff, but proper protocol had to be observed.

  General Yanai stood as Michael entered, and he stepped out from behind his desk to shake Michael’s hand. “Captain Reed, thank you for coming,” he said, his free hand coming to rest upon Michael’s during the handshake. “I am so sorry you have had to wait. But I needed the time for a full briefing on the situation that brings you to us.”

  Michael smiled, grateful that he had not voiced his frustration. “I understand, General.”

  Yanai dropped Michael’s hand and gestured to two chairs flanking a table near the window. “Shall we sit? Our lunch will arrive soon.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  Michael sank into the chair nearest the window and watched as the aging general lowered himself into the opposite seat. When Yanai smiled, Michael saw that he must have been handsome when he was younger. But age, and stress, perhaps, had etched deep lines around his mouth and eyes.

  “These are troubling times, indeed,” the general murmured, resting his elbows upon the linen-covered table. “Our people are enjoying a dearly bought peace, but we are in more danger than ever before. Yet few of them see it. They are foolish enough to think peace is the absence of war.”