Flight of the Raven (21 page)

* * *

S
PECIAL AGENT
Richard Borman took off his tortoiseshell glasses, set them on the desk beside him, and gave the woman across from him a level look. “Ms. McLean, you’ve been fairly cooperative in contributing to the State Department’s investigation of the Eisenberg murder.”

Fairly cooperative! Julie thought, looking curiously back at him. There was something about his close-cropped ash-blond hair, fair skin, and rigid posture that reminded her of Cal Dixon. The comparison did nothing to make her feel at ease. He wasn’t trying to help her relax either.

The tone of his voice implied that she had been anything but helpful. Yesterday she’d been led to believe that the questioning sessions were drawing to a close. But this morning Borman had taken the place of the two investigators she’d talked to for most of the week since her return to Washington and had started picking away at details she’d thought were already a matter of record. As she’d talked, his half-lidded gaze made her feel like a suspect rather than a trusted employee being debriefed at State Department headquarters. Was she going to have to go through the whole thing again for him? And why?

They had moved from yesterday’s conventional-looking office to a matchbox-size room that was already starting to give her claustrophobia. She had lost track of how many hours she had spent being grilled. Since security had made it clear that she wouldn’t be released from the State Department until they’d evaluated her part in the Madrid affair, she’d been desperately dredging up every piece of pertinent information she could think of.

She’d gone into detail about her relationship with Dan, her association with Cal, her conversations with Aleksei, and her narrow escape from death the night she’d received the note. The only thing she’d held back was her personal involvement with the Russian agent. In retrospect, that wasn’t so difficult to accomplish. The experience had been incredible, but so intensely private that she had wanted to lock it in a secret place in her heart like a finely cut, perfect white diamond nestled in a velvet-lined box. Only when she was alone did she dare take it out and admire its beauty.

She leaned back in the padded steel chair and straightened her shoulder. “I’ve been cooperating as best I can, Mr. Borman,” she said.

“But perhaps you haven’t told us everything.”

She stared back. His voice was mild enough. But something in the way his mud green eyes regarded her like a mutant cell under a microscope made her mouth go suddenly dry. “What do you mean?” she managed.

He paused and took out a government form. “Oh, yes, I’d better have your signature consenting to have this interview recorded and videotaped.”

That had been standard procedure throughout the week. Julie had read the form carefully the first few times. Now she scribbled her signature impatiently on the line indicated and pushed the paper back in Borman’s direction.

“Let’s continue.” His voice suddenly took on a hard edge. “Ms. McLean, we have reason to believe that you and Rozonov were involved in a sexual relationship.”

Julie’s heart stopped for a moment, then restarted in double time. Her first impulse was to grab back and tear up the consent form she had just signed.

“Is that correct?” Borman persisted.

“You have no right to ask me anything about that,” she shot back.

“Then you admit that there is something to discuss.”

“I admit nothing.” She started to stand up.

“Just a moment, Ms. McLean. I don’t have to remind you that collaborating with known enemy agents is a felony punishable by imprisonment.”

“Then I don’t have anything to worry about. I haven’t collaborated with an enemy agent.” Underneath the bravado, she could hear fear creeping into her voice.

“Maybe you had better let me be the judge of your involvement.”

Instead of continuing immediately, he rested his chin on his thumb and forefinger and regarded her speculatively. Under the scrutiny, Julie felt each breath become a pain in her chest. Why didn’t he go on? She forced herself not to ask.

Finally he cleared his throat. “Let’s try a slightly different tack. Did Rozonov ever touch you?”

Julie stared back. Under the table she clenched her hands together and tried to make herself think calmly before answering. God, was the hidden camera recording every play of emotion on her face? Touching someone was not a crime, she reminded herself.

“Ms. McLean, you’re taking a rather long time with your answer,” Borman observed, leaning toward her.

“Yes, he touched me.”

“When?”

“He pushed me away from the falling stone ornament. And—and—he put his arm around me to comfort me afterward.”

“Ah... And in the hotel room where he took you, did he touch you intimately?”

There was a roaring in her ears. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well, while he was—um—comforting you, did he try to physically arouse you? Or for that matter, did he try at any time to gain your loyalty through sexual involvement?”

“My God. You have a filthy mind. The only contact I had with Rozonov, that would have any relevance to you, was when I was carrying out the orders of Calvin Dixon.” She’d phrased the statement so that it wasn’t a lie, but her eyes remained fixed on a picture of the President in back of Borman.

“Mr. Dixon thinks otherwise.”

Julie’s eyes widened. So this was Cal’s parting present. “That bastard! he has no reason to think that, except for his own overactive imagination.”

Borman took a minute to look through the folder in front of him. “When was the last time you had sexual relations with anyone?”

“That’s entirely irrelevant. I don’t have to answer that.” What right did this stranger have to be probing into her sex life like a dentist drilling into a cavity without bothering to use Novocain?

“I’m afraid it is relevant. According to Dixon, your sexual contacts in Madrid were very limited.”

“You mean I’m damned if I did and damned if I didn’t?” Had the CIA been watching her bedroom door for three years?

“Ms. McLean, I have to assume from your psychological profile that you’re a normal woman with normal needs. If you were sexually inactive, that might have made you very vulnerable to the advances of a skilled foreign agent.”

Julie’s nails dug into the flesh of her palm. The idea that making love with Aleksei could be reduced to “the advances of a skilled foreign agent” was unthinkable. Or was it? Had that been what had happened, or was Borman intentionally tying her up in knots?

He pursed his lips. “Of course, there is this one fact that has me puzzled. If you weren’t sexually active, why did you have a standing order with the post pharmacy for birth control pills?”

Julie took a deep, steadying breath. “Mr. Borman, I’m surprised that you haven’t been over my medical record with as much care as you spent on my psychological profile. If you’d perused it, you would have discovered that I had monthly menstrual cramps that were interfering with my ability to do my job.” The very clinical explanation was issued between clenched teeth. “And now that I’ve satisfied your prurient interest, I think that’s all I’m going to say.”

“Then you’ll be willing to swear to all this under a lie detector test?”

“Yes,” Julie replied evenly. God, what if it came to that? She’d just have to pray that it didn’t.

Borman studied her for more than minute. She forced herself not to flinch under the scrutiny.

“Well, then,” he finally said, “I think we have all we need from you for the time being. You can go on leave-of-absence status as long as you stay in the Washington area.”

“I presume this means I’m free to go now?”

“Yes.” He had enough clout to pull her back in if he needed her. But he had the feeling that the best thing to do now was to give her enough rope and let her hang herself.

Another special agent came in to witness her statement and Julie went through the motions of signing the second set of forms. Twenty minutes later she was standing on the sidewalk in the muggy air of Foggy Bottom, blinking in the strong sunlight.

The interview with Borman had made her feel dirty. All she wanted was to head back to her town house and scrub herself in the shower, as though that could cleanse her of his lewd accusations. She’d hoped this nightmare would be over when she’d come back to Washington, but they still wouldn’t believe her. She had wanted to handle this by herself. Maybe she was going to have to turn to her uncle for help after all.

* * *

A
FTER
J
ULIE
M
C
L
EAN
had left, Richard Borman picked up the phone and called his office at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia.

“I think Cal Dixon’s right on the money,” he reported.

“You mean she’s involved with the Russian?”

“Yes. He must have been dynamite in the sack. Her face brightens like a neon light every time you mention his name. Too bad I can’t put her under hypnosis and get the details. She’d never agree to it. And we can’t do that to an American citizen.”

“Well, as soon as she does something we know is illegal, she’s going to lose her protection under the law.”

“I wish we could put her under twenty-four-hour surveillance.”

“Yeah, but it could be months before anything breaks. Let’s just put a tap on her phone and sit tight.”

“Agreed.”

“I’d like to know what she’s told Rozonov and how he expects to use her now.”

“I have the feeling we’ll get it out of her—with her cooperation or not.”

Chapter Thirteen

H
e leaned back in his contoured cockpit seat, adjusted his earphones, and listened to the captain’s chatty tour guide spiel to the passengers. They were over Long Island and would be starting their approach to Baltimore-Washington International Airport soon. The weather at BWI was overcast and muggy, with a chance of thunderstorms. But Captain Leoni promised it would be clearing up by the weekend.

Would the 475 travelers in the belly of the Air Italia jetliner panic, the Raven wondered, if they knew the third officer was a last-minute replacement with no cockpit experience? And would good old Captain Leoni be fired for taking eight million lira under the table for signing the personnel switch? He had his own reasons for hoping the deception wouldn’t be discovered—for a while anyway.

The plane taxied to a smooth landing. Third Officer Mario Sabatino cleared customs with the rest of the crew. But when he changed out of his uniform in a staff men’s room, he burned his passport and took its replacement from the false bottom of his flight bag. When he emerged from the washroom cubical, he was wearing a baggy Windbreaker over a blue oxford cloth shirt and faded jeans. Scuffed Adidas completed the unassuming costume. The gun in the shoulder holster under his arm didn’t show, of course. It had nestled in his flight bag, protected by the assumption that a member of the crew wouldn’t bring a weapon on board.

He’d shaved off the scraggly beard he’d grown in the mountains just before he’d accepted the temporary third officer’s billet. But he’d kept a droopy mustache so out of character for his personality that it made him blink every time he caught sight of his face. The strenuous journey coupled with the skimpy diet in the rebel camp had taken more than fifteen pounds from his already lean body, giving his face a hollow look. Pausing in front of the mirror, he ruffled the longish hair he’d slicked down for the airline role. He hoped he could pass for a writer or artist. He certainly didn’t look like an American businessman.

The Raven glanced at his watch. It was after seven. If he spent an hour in the bar, it would be almost dark when he went to get the car that was supposed to be waiting for him in the satellite parking lot with its keys taped under the left front bumper. The whole time that he sipped his Scotch and soda—he didn’t dare order vodka—he inspected the other men in the room, and also the women. Most looked like bored travelers killing time between flights. But there was always the grim possibility that one of them might have orders to kill him.

The Ford Escort that had cost him double its legitimate price—in cash—was supposed to have been delivered several days ago. He hated having to rely on a long-distance arrangement, but he would compensate by proceeding with extreme caution.

After paying for his drink with some of the American money he’d gotten on the black market, he picked up his nylon tote bag and took the escalator downstairs. Instead of catching the shuttle bus to the parking lot, he watched it pull away and then started up the road on foot. The thunderstorm that Captain Leoni had forecast was approaching rapidly from the west. Nevertheless, instead of heading directly for the car, he circled the lot and climbed over the back fence. The Escort was supposed to be between the seventh and ninth rows about a quarter of the way from the end. Crouching behind the station wagon, he studied that section of the lot. Though it was almost full, it contained only one small blue sedan.

The evening shadows were very welcome as he slipped slowly from car to car. The bus had discharged its passengers ten minutes ago. It wouldn’t be back until it had made a circuit of the airport. Though the parking lot looked deserted enough, there was a tense prickly feeling at the back of his neck that had nothing to do with the large pellets of rain that were starting to hit his Windbreaker. The torrent that he had been expecting, however, held off.

He was within three vehicles of the blue car when a brilliant flash of lightning was followed by a loud clap of thunder. In the instant of illumination he saw something that made his blood run cold. A head had popped up in the back window of the Escort and then disappeared again.
Chyort!
So his misgivings had not been unfounded. The renegade Basque leader had taken his money and then turned around and sold his travel plans to the KGB.

Forget the car. Get the hell out of here while you still can,
his mind screamed. But the decision had already been taken out of his hands. Something whizzed past his right ear and embedded itself in the side of a small pickup truck in back of him. It was a bullet. He ducked before the next one zinged through the patch of empty air where his head had been a moment before. The guy in the car wasn’t the only one waiting in ambush. He had company—someone whose gun was equipped with a silencer.