Firebird (26 page)

“I told you I would pay you back one day, my friend,” he told me, and handed me a file stamped Operation Firebird and a small jewelry box.”

The jewelry box, thought Alexandra.  It had to be important.

Fraser’s words raced on.

“
Over the years, the KGB has planted hundreds of agents in the United States.  According to Yuri’s father, one of the most potentially devastating operations was Operation Firebird, executed at the height of the Cold War in 1966.  Many defectors during the Cold War were suspected double agents whose information was not trusted by our CIA.  The Firebird needed to be different. 

For months, Yuri’s father met with his KGB cronies every week in the shadow of the Winter Palace, planning the ultimate spy operation.  Their plan called for the disappearance from a city in Europe of a loyal young communist.

The Firebird’s code name would be Prince Ivan.  You heard the name, Eve, last night.  His assignment was to ‘become American,’ to bury himself deep as a mole into our society, to eventually work his way up in the network of political Washington.  His paper trail would be beyond question.  He would wait until the Firebird was needed - and activated - once more.  The KGB planners were very careful.  When it was time for the mole to be activated, the signal would be a ruby-winged brooch in the shape of a fiery bird.  Yuri gave me this brooch last night.

Hide this Firebird somewhere safe, Eve, until I can decide what to do.”

Alexandra stiffened.  A brooch.  That was what was in the jewelry box he’d left for Eve.  A brooch in the shape of a firebird
.

Good God, that was it!
 
What her assailant had been searching for in Maine
. 
Not a recording, but a brooch.  A brooch from St. Petersburg in the form of a firebird.  Given to Eve. 
Hide it somewhere safe
.

Once more she bent to Fraser’s words.

“
The file had been hidden in the bowels of the KGB.  Even the planners would not know the Firebird’s new identity until the file was re-opened.  But they couldn’t have anticipated the chaos of Glasnost, certainly they didn’t expect Yuri’s father to steal the file.

The file Yuri discovered was torn, faded, only fragments of information, entire pages missing.  There was no photograph, no specific description.  Only the name Ivan, with a vague reference to his love for the poet Akhmatova and the best Russian vodka - and a fragment of a post-dated medical record indicating that he’d suffered a serious injury in a fire.

The last pages of the file were missing.  But Yuri found a note, hand-written by his father, indicating Ivan had succeeded beyond their wildest dreams.  Somehow, I’ve got to find a way to expose the mole before Ivan is activated.

Eve - everyone close to the President will be at your gala at Foxwood.  Ivan will have to be there.  Based on Yuri’s information - the age range, the probable Russian or Eastern European background - any one of several of the President’s men could be Prince Ivan.  These men could win powerful appointments in the next administration, and you and I know all of them.  They’re all members of the ‘Club.’

Please, Eve, don’t do anything rash.  I’ll wait at the inn until dawn.  We’ve got to talk, decide what to do next.”

Fraser’s letter was signed, simply, “I’ll always love you.  C.”

* * * *

Alexandra was still curled on the sofa in Billie Jordan’s dressing room when Garcia found her. 

“Alexandra.  Dios, what’s happened?”

“My sister was killed because she discovered a dangerous secret,” she said starkly.  “Operation Firebird refers to a Russian agent called Prince Ivan.”

She saw the flare, deep in the dark eyes.  “It was all planned decades ago, by the KGB, during the Cold War.  Charles Fraser found out, he was going to initiate a mole hunt.”  She handed him the letter with trembling fingers.

She paced the small dressing room, watching his face as he read the pages.  He was very still, hard.  Assessing.  He only showed surprise once, and spoke the name in a low shocked voice.  “Belankov!”

Finally he folded the letter and expelled his breath in a long whistle.  “Christ!  I’m so sorry, Alexandra.  For you, for Charley.  For Eve.”

“I don’t have time for sorrow.”  She stopped in front of him.  “Clearly you know Yuri Belankov.  Who he is?”

“Belankov is a major player – a Soviet businessman who became incredibly wealthy during the ‘anything goes’ Glasnost years by hitting it big in media and telecommunications.  He’s a patron of the arts, a lobbyist, you name it, with an extensive network of questionable Russian connections.  Smuggling, weapons, maybe worse.  And much of Russia’s business intrigue now takes place in D.C.  Yuri is that new breed of Russian, one who can maneuver in Moscow’s violent, chaotic business world, and then play the Washington game with equal ease.”

“
He’s
the Russian you were investigating when we met?”

He ignored her question.  “Big man, big flaws, big ideas, an inveterate name-dropper with a fondness for bad jokes and a palpable field of energy around him.  People either love him or hate him.  Me, I think he’s bad news.  I’ve been watching him for months, but I haven’t found anything.  Yet.”

“Now you have.  He may have been the last man to see Charles Fraser alive.”

Garcia hesitated.  “Your sister knew Belankov well enough to recognize his voice.”

“I have to talk to him!”

“Quisiera dejar esto en mi caja fuerte,” said Garcia quietly.  “Yuri Belankov is a thread, Alexandra, that I need to follow to its source.  I’m interested in the bigger fish. Leave it to me.”  He locked eyes with her.  “But hear me, Belankov can be dangerous.”

“You believe Fraser’s story.”

“His letter has the ring of truth.  When the Soviet Union collapsed, there were rumors of looting of the Presidential Archives – which held the personal files of leading officials and sensitive details from former KGB operations – and of the Old Guard plotting a comeback.  As for Eve, it’s true that she was playing in the big leagues - with the heaviest hitters.”  He held out his hand.  “Let’s have a look-see at the brooch.”

She shook her head.  “It wasn’t with the letter.  Eve must have taken it with her that night.”

“Was it found on her body?  Or among her personal belongings?”

“It wasn’t with her things.  I can search her bedroom in Georgetown, but...  what are the chances it will be in her jewelry box?”

He grinned at her.  “What are the chances I’ll be mistaken for Cary Grant?  But do it tonight.”

“Garcia, I think the intruder at Cliff House was looking for that brooch.”

His head came up.  “Jewelry is one of the easiest ways to move money.  Could Eve have hidden the brooch in Maine?”

“No.  Billie gave it to Eve after my sister returned to Georgetown.  But the intruder wouldn’t have known that.”

“Charley said it was the signal to activate the operation.  We’ve got to find that brooch, Alexandra.”

“Eve had two days before Charles’ funeral, before - oh, God, before her own death - to hide the brooch.  She would have tried to identify those men Fraser mentions in his letter - the Club, he called them - and then – ”  She swung toward him, eyes wide. “Oh, God, Garcia.  I know what she was going to do!  She would have used her gala at Foxwood to set a trap for the mole!”

“Slow down,” said Garcia.  “What gala?  What the devil are you talking about?”

“Anthony and Eve hold a huge charity benefit every year at their home in Virginia’s horse country.  The estate is called Foxwood.  It’s the A-list event of the season.  Eve said that everyone who is anyone in Washington goes.”  Her breath came out.  “Anthony insists on holding it this year in spite of everything.  He says Eve would have expected him to do it.  Garcia, now that we have this letter, we’ve got to -”

“Whoa.  You’re getting way ahead of yourself, Red.  We’ve got to apply the rules of evidence here.  What’s admissible, what’s hearsay?  Names, dates, places have to add up.  What we have is an account of events that took place in 1966 and undocumented accusations that are supposed to send us chasing after all the president’s men.  Only the barest of threads connects all of this, Red.”

“Fraser left names out on purpose!  He was afraid the wrong person would see his words.  ‘The President’s Men,’ he called them.  What’s this ‘club’ Fraser mentions?”

“The Lions,” answered Garcia.

Lions!  The word struck a chord, deep in her memory.  What was it?   She closed her eyes for a moment, heard the voice of the television newsman on the night of Eve’s funeral.  She said, “Of course.  Foreign Policy.  The Elder Statesmen. 
The Lions
.”

“Si,” said Garcia.  “The ‘Old Lions,’ they’re sometimes called.”

She nodded.   “I know Senator Rossinski is one of them.  And the Director of the CIA, Zee Zacarias.  And – Admiral Ramon Alcazar, from Defense?”

Garcia shot her a look.  “Not bad, Hotshot.  Also NSA’s Rens Karpasian, Judge Dunbar from Homeland Security.  And our Madame Secretary of State, Naomi Lourdes.”

“They meet for dinner once a month in some secret, out of the way location.”

Garcia raised an eyebrow.  “And how, exactly, did you come across that interesting bit of little-known information, Chica?”

Her shoulders lifted.  “Naomi Lourdes is Anthony’s mentor at State.  Anthony must have told me.”

“Isn’t your brother-in-law a member of the Club, too?”  Garcia raised an eyebrow and waited.

“Don’t go there,” said Alexandra quietly. 

“Several appointments - sensitive, critical positions - are expected after the election.  Any one of these men could play an important role in the next administration.”  He waited a heartbeat.  “And Charles Fraser’s letter suggests that several of these men could be Ivan.”

Her gaze held his.  “Anthony knows all these people.  There has to be a way that he can help us.”

“You said that your brother-in-law wants no part of this, Chica.”

She looked away from him while the thought swirled in her head.  Finally she said, “Until tonight, Garcia, my reasons were
personal
.  Find justice for my sister, keep a promise to Juliet.  Keep my daughter safe.  I honestly didn’t give a damn about your investigation.  But now - ”

She waved a hand toward Fraser’s letter.  “This is so much more.  We’re not talking about just my family now.  We’re talking about the
future
!  The election, the men and women who are going to run our county, make life changing decisions.   The wrong person in place could be a danger to
all
of us -  i
ncluding
my daughter and my niece.  We damn well better do something!”

He stood up.  “We’ll do more than something, Alexandra.  The ball is in my court now.  Or should I say the brooch?  A damned piece of jewelry may be our best shot at learning Ivan’s identity.”

She ran her fingers through the spikes of hair.  “Yes, the brooch is the key, it has to be.  A jeweled brooch somehow connected to Operation Firebird.  Yuri Belankov found it in St. Petersburg and brought it to Charles Fraser - who gave it to my sister for safekeeping. 
That
’s what everyone has been searching for!   So
– the firebird brooch is the irresistible bait for a trap
.  Something so crucial, so valuable, that someone will do anything to possess it.   That’s what my sister would have thought, I’m sure of it.  If Ivan thinks I have the firebird brooch -”

“Don’t even
think
about it, Red.”

“I hope you have a tuxedo, Garcia, because our plans have just changed.  You’re taking me to a reception tomorrow night at Anthony’s estate in Virginia.  We’re going to meet the members of that mysterious ‘Club’ Fraser mentioned.”

“That’s not gonna happen.”

“No?  Then why do I see that spark in your eyes?”  She held his gaze.  “We are going into the heart of that Lions’ den, Garcia.  And we’re going to unmask Ivan.”

CHAPTER 28

“...a night in Russia, when nights are longest there.”

Shakespeare, Measure for Measure

NEW YORK CITY

The Turkish Bath Club on 102nd Avenue in New York City was open 24 hours a day.

It was very late.  Ivan sat alone on a stone bench in a small windowless room, naked and sweating, a thin, once-white bath towel wrapped around his waist.  He sipped his sweet tea slowly, the clear glass of his cup fogged now by the moist heavy heat of the baths, and stared morosely at the cracked tiles.

No one knew him here.

The scalding red-hot rocks kept the temperature at 190 degrees.  He poured a bucket of ice water over his head and sipped his tea as the steam rose around him.  This fondness for heat was so unlike him.  Usually, he preferred the cold and snow of his northern woods. 

He pictured his lodge on the edge of the mountain, in the deep shadow of the pines, where he would pour himself an icy Stoli and listen to Stravinsky on the old stereo.  There, alone in the soft, silent snowfalls of winter, he felt close to his mother and little sister again.  The memory of those deep Russian forests haunted his dreams.

He inhaled deeply.  Blue steam spiraled upward toward the cracks in the ceiling.  He watched it, remembering.

Blue smoke curling up toward the slanted roof
. 

Russia, 1955.  Spit froze before it hit the ground, bouncing on the earth with a sharp marble sound.  Every night, in the small house in the forests north of Leningrad, he would sit with his mother and his baby sister, huddled in front of the fire, watching the blue smoke curl upward and listening to the hungry cry of the wolves.

Sometimes, his mother told him the old tales of czars and princesses while the tiny babe suckled at her breast.  Sometimes she told him of the ballet she’d seen when she herself was but a girl.  And sometimes, she drank cheap vodka and stared into the fire and didn’t speak at all.