Flight of the Raven (12 page)

The man Julie had come here to meet had been standing in the shade of the central archway for half an hour, letting himself absorb the feel of the park. He had selected the location because it was so easy to see anyone approaching on foot. Of course, that didn’t preclude the possibility of a car circling the arch, but the traffic here was heavy and the red lights long. A car that tried to stay abreast of two pedestrians heading down one of the nearby streets would have trouble keeping pace.

His attention switched from the surroundings to Julie. A casual observer might simply think how attractive she looked in her royal blue dress, light stockings, and white shoes. But he had learned to see past the props people chose to support the various roles they played. He watched her scan the monument’s facade and noted the deep intake of breath as she paused beside a flower bed. He knew from her artificially rigid posture that the extra oxygen hadn’t done much to steady her nerves. She was off balance. All to the good. He’d never fished with a rod and reel, but he’d been fascinated by Hemingway’s descriptions. He’d come to think of cultivating intelligence sources as a similar process. After they’d taken the bait, you played out the line to let them think they had some control. Then you gently reeled them in so that they didn’t have a clue about what was happening until they found themselves out of familiar waters and in your wicker basket.

She was almost in the shadow of the arch before she saw the Russian standing with his back to the gray stone. The suit he wore was practically the same color. His white shirt and navy tie did nothing to alter the subdued effect. Suddenly she felt very conspicuous in her royal blue dress. She’d picked it because she knew the color was flattering, and that had made her feel confident. Now she wished she could fade into the monument walls as effectively as Rozonov.

He waited until she was only a few feet away before he spoke. “I’m so glad you didn’t change your mind,” he said, his resonant voice conveying the impression that the words were more than just a conventional greeting. His blue eyes seemed to deepen as they made a frank inspection that began with her white pumps and ended with her face. “You look lovely this afternoon,” he added.

“Thank you.” His closeness was affecting her again as it always did, and she found she couldn’t quite meet his gaze.

“Perhaps we’d better head for the restaurant.”

She nodded. “You still haven’t told me where we’re going.”

“It’s just down Serrano.” He gestured in the direction from which she’d come. “If we hurry, we can make the light.”

Before she knew it, he had taken her arm and was escorting her rapidly back through the flower gardens to the curb and then in front of the lanes of stopped cars. They reached the opposite pavement just as the light changed. Instinctively Julie knew that he had been watching the flow of traffic and had timed their departure to make it more difficult for anyone on foot to follow.

She sensed a certain reluctance to break the contact as he let go of her arm, and they started down the wide avenue. The shops in the area were some of Julie’s favorites, although she usually waited for a sale, an
oportunidad,
as the Spanish said, before she bought. Despite the circumstances, or maybe because of them, she found herself inspecting the contents of the store windows they passed.

“Do you like to window-shop?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Here in Madrid you can assume that you’ll find the same thing inside. In Moscow, you know, the displays are often better than the actual merchandise.” He paused. “It’s the price we pay for keeping up with the arms race.”

“I noticed that when I was there.” She stole a glance at her companion, wondering why he’d chosen to make that particular observation. Was he trying to hint at some dissatisfaction with his life-style? With his government? Or was he giving her an opening to express her own dissatisfactions?

“The goods here may be attractive, but the prices are pretty high.”

He paused in front of a shop that sold imported English china and turned slightly, glancing unobtrusively back the way they had come. She knew he was checking to see if they were being followed and that the precaution must be an ingrained habit. That told her volumes about the life he must lead.

“With your salary, surely you can afford to buy whatever you like.”

She laughed. “Almost anybody could use more money.”

“True. But few are honest enough to admit it.”

Or dishonest enough. She didn’t voice the thought. The turn the conversation was taking made her uncomfortable, and she found herself wanting to change the subject. “Look at that matched pair of borzois. They’ve always struck me as such aristocratic animals.” She pointed toward a set of fine porcelain figurines in the window.

“Ah, yes, the Russian wolfhounds. They were originally developed to run down wolves for the idle rich who had the time to hunt.” He began to walk again.

Julie’s eyebrows lifted at the insinuating statement, but he didn’t elaborate.

They had reached a crossing. Aleksei gestured toward the right. “This way.”

As they turned the corner, Julie was struck once again by the sharp contrast between Madrid’s wide, straight main thoroughfares and the narrow, twisting side streets. At the next crossing they turned down a narrow lane.

The restaurant, which was called Casa Mendoza, was in the middle of the next block. From the outside it was modest enough, but the interior was warm and homey. There were large painted plates displayed on the wall and dark oak tables and chairs. Only a few other lunchtime patrons were seated at the tables, Julie noted as she and Aleksei waited beside a carved antique server.

The man who came bustling out from behind a set of swinging doors was short, lean, and probably around thirty-five, Julie judged, noting all the details for Cal. Mendoza, if that was his name, seemed to know Aleksei quite well. The two men stood for a few moments talking in low but rapid Spanish, both glancing in Julie’s direction several times. Then the proprietor turned and bowed to her. “This way,
señorita.
”

“What was it you told me about your Spanish?” Julie whispered to Aleksei as they followed the man toward the back of the establishment.

“I said it’s not as good as my English. That’s true enough.”

But it must be quite sufficient,
she thought.

Julie waited until they had been seated in an alcove that overlooked a small courtyard where bright flowers bloomed in decorative planters and lush green and white vines trailed downward from the balconies above.

“And what exactly did you tell him in your very serviceable Castilian?” she inquired, gesturing toward the proprietor’s retreating back.

“I told him that I wanted a table where you and I could be very private together.”

“He probably thinks we’re having an affair.”

“What better excuse for a man to have an intimate lunch with a beautiful woman? Perhaps we’re being cautious because you have a jealous husband.” The look in his eyes was devilish. Was he actually teasing her.

“Aleksei...” Julie started to protest and then realized that this was the first time she’d spoken his name aloud. Was he aware of the breaking of that barrier?

“Ah, Julie, so you understand the wisdom of the little deception.” Again the blue of his eyes seemed to deepen. Or was she reading her own emotions into his gaze?

She tried to remember Cal’s instructions. They didn’t cover this particular scenario. Before she could think of an appropriate rejoinder, she heard footsteps on the tile floor. As Mendoza rounded the corner carrying two menus, the Russian reached across the table and pressed his hand over hers. Julie’s eyes were drawn first to the strong, well-shaped fingers covering her own; then to the unusual silver ring he wore. Its serpentine design featured a dark sapphire center. A KGB class insignia or a family crest? Julie wondered. Yet even as the thought flitted through her mind, she was aware of other sensations.

His skin was warm and dry, the pressure of his hand powerful and gentle all at the same time. His touch brought a warmth to her and that was frankly unsettling. Suppose they really had come here for the reasons he had given?

Risking a glance at him from under lowered lashes, she was struck by the intensity of his expression. She had expected to see triumph. She found something closer to vulnerability, but it vanished so quickly that she wondered if she’d imagined it.

“Ah, Mendoza, what do you recommend today?” the Russian inquired.

“For an appetizer, we have the asparagus and pastry. And the hake is very fresh. You could have it grilled or poached with a creamed wine sauce.”

“That sounds good. I’ll have the hake grilled.
Bien hecho, por favor.
”

She and Rozonov exchanged knowing glances. So the Spanish habit of passing the food lightly over the grill before serving it didn’t sit well with the Russians either. To ensure that it was half cooked, you had to ask for
bien hecho,
“well done.”

The proprietor turned to Julie. “Would you like to see a menu?”

“No, I’ll have the same as the
señor. Bien hecho tambien.
”

Aleksei ordered a bottle of Portuguese white wine to go with the fish. When Mendoza had left, she was once again conscious of the hand that covered hers. The nails were blunt-cut, and a fairly recently healed scar ran from his little finger toward his thumb. Her own pulse was none too steady. Could he feel her reaction? Casually she slipped her hand out from under his and asked, “How did you get that scar?”

“I got in the way of some flying glass in Berlin.”

What did that mean? she wondered. “That sounds hazardous.”

He shrugged. “It goes with the job.”

“I hadn’t imagined your duties put you in jeopardy.”

“Didn’t you?”

The way he asked the question made her chest tighten. Unconsciously her fingers began to pleat the linen napkin on her lap. “You’re right. Working at any diplomatic assignment these days has its risks.”

“You could even go out for a drink in a tavern and get caught in a terrorist attack.”

She forced herself to give him a direct look. “Are you referring to the San Jeronimo?”

“Yes.” He paused. “Your friend wasn’t just out for a casual drink—he was playing a very dangerous game.”

Julie felt her stomach knot painfully, but she tried to hide her reaction. “I know.”

Before her companion could answer, a waiter appeared with their asparagus appetizers and wine. She wondered how she was going to choke the food down, but the Russian didn’t seem to be feeling the effects of the tense conversation. His blue eyes, which had been coldly appraising her reactions only seconds before, softened.

“I promise you’ll love the food here,
querida,
”he said, his voice low and intimate.

His sudden change of demeanor threw her off balance. He was such a convincing actor that when he called her sweetheart, she could almost believe he meant it. But then, she reminded herself, he was a professional and she was a rank amateur.

After ceremoniously opening the wine and putting the food on the table, the waiter departed. “We were speaking of your friend,” Rozonov resumed without missing a beat.

Julie marshaled her courage. “I’m prepared to take his place.”

He looked up sharply and she knew that now she’d caught him by surprise. A point for my side, she thought, enjoying the small triumph. But the satisfied feeling faded almost at once: she still didn’t know what game they were playing.

Chapter Eight

R
ozonov recovered quickly. “That should prove interesting,” he murmured, leaning back and regarding her above the rim of his long-stemmed wineglass. She watched as he reached out, almost in slow motion, and lifted the glass to his lips. His eyes didn’t leave her face, even as he sipped the pale liquid. “It’s very good. You should try some.”

Julie reached for her own glass and sampled the dry but pleasant vintage. She was determined to play with as much aplomb as he. “To our mutual interest, then,” she offered.

A ghost of a smile flickered at the corners of his well-shaped lips. “Indeed.”

She expected him to continue, but instead he turned his attention to the food. The silence stretched as he savored the fresh asparagus in its flaky crust.

When he finally spoke, it was not to give her the cue she needed to steer a safe course through this precarious interchange. “The vegetables here in Spain are quite extraordinary, don’t you agree?” he asked.

“Definitely.” Her years of social training were standing her in good stead. She must preserve appearances at all costs. This afternoon she was succeeding at hiding the stress. She was even able to cut the buttery crust that surrounded the asparagus, and carry the fork to her mouth. But despite her unruffled appearance, she was unable to relish the food. For all she knew, the well-prepared first course might have been steamed grass.

By the time the hake arrived, Julie had thought up and rejected a dozen subtle ways of asking Rozonov what this luncheon was really about. Finally, when the waiter had left again, she settled on the direct approach.

“Why don’t we get back to our discussion.”

The Russian poured himself some more wine and filled her glass up again too. “I don’t think we can go into any detail here.” He paused and looked around significantly at the hallway and the open courtyard where an off-duty waiter was lounging at an empty table. “So why don’t you indulge me in one of my passions.”

Julie carefully laid down her fork. “And what exactly is that?”

“I’m a devotee of your American contemporary fiction. But there are so few people with whom I can discuss the subject. What do you like to read?”

The question took her completely by surprise. “Why—uh—mysteries and thrillers.” She stopped and shook her head, realizing the irony of what she’d just said. It was one thing to be a vicarious participant in international intrigue. It was quite another to be caught up in the real thing.

“Ah, American thrillers. I’ve read a number myself. The trouble is, we Russians are too often cast as the villains.”