Multiple Exposure A Sophie Medina Mystery (7 page)

Luke glanced at me. “We’d better make sure our stuff is locked up if there’s going to be that much traffic through here.”

“You said you had a key?” I said to Seth.

“Moses will have it for you tomorrow night.”

“The public relations director,” Luke reminded me. “Moses Rattigan.”

Seth nodded. “I’ll see you all here at six sharp.”

We went back to the main lobby, where Seth waved off the security guard who leapt to his feet to unlock the double doors of the Mall exit.

“I’d like a word with Sophie in private, if you don’t mind,” Seth said as everyone shook hands.

Luke looked surprised, but all he said was, “Sure. Ali and I will wait outside. Good night, Seth.”

The leather-clad door closed with a quiet thump and I said, “Is something wrong?”

“It’s about your background check,” Seth said. “Everyone who will be here tomorrow had to be vetted by Mr. Vasiliev’s people. I thought you should know Mr. Vasiliev himself phoned me to inquire about you, particularly your being a last-minute addition to the list of people who will be here tomorrow. Do you know him? Personally, I mean?”

“No,” I said. “But my husband knew him for business reasons.”

He nodded. “Luke mentioned that to Moses . . . and about what happened to your husband. I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Look, Seth, is there going to be a problem with my working at this reception?”

“Not at all. But I was curious why Mr. Vasiliev was especially interested in you.”

“I’m sure it’s because of Nick,” I said. “When he . . . disappeared . . . the story made the headlines of the British papers for quite a while.”

“I see,” he said. “I appreciate your clearing that up.”

He said good night and held the door for me. Outside the air felt warm and muggy and the eastern sky over the Capitol glowed with the sapphire brilliance of the Constellation egg. Above the Washington Monument to the west, the orange-red setting sun made the treetops look as though they were on fire.

“What was that all about?” Luke asked. He and Ali were waiting next to one of the enormous columns under the portico.

“Apparently you told Moses Rattigan that Nick knew Arkady Vasiliev, and Moses told Seth,” I said. “Seth wanted my version, specifically whether I knew Vasiliev . . . you heard what he said about everything needing to go perfectly. I guess he just wanted to double check.”

Luke looked concerned. “So everything’s okay?”

“Yup. ’Night, you two. See you tomorrow.” I ran down the steps to the Vespa before Luke could probe any further.

I drove along Madison Drive wondering what had prompted Arkady Vasiliev to personally call the director of the National Gallery of Art to ask about me. Nick’s CIA contacts had warned me to tell no one my husband was alive.

Had Vasiliev somehow found out? And if so, who had told him and what did he want with me?

5

Experience has taught me two things when someone says, “I’m afraid there’s a small problem.” First, the problem is never small, and second, it’s about to become my problem.

Luke, Ali, and I were standing in the main lobby of the National Gallery of Art with our equipment when Moses Rattigan made that statement just after we’d arrived. I liked Moses right away. He had a basketball player’s height and rangy build, stylish long gray hair, dark dancing eyes that hinted at a good sense of humor behind scholarly horn-rimmed glasses, and a Caribbean lilt to his voice that seemed to soften the impact of what he’d just told us.

“What small problem?” Luke asked, shooting a glance at me. I gave him an imperceptible shrug. Whatever it was, we’d handle it.

Before Moses could reply, the main door to the museum opened behind us and the security guard said, “Good evening, Dr. Gordon. The director is waiting for you in the East Garden Court. He asked me to tell you that he’d like to have a word with you before the guests arrive. I’d be happy to let him know you’re here.”

I couldn’t resist turning around. Katya Gordon was probably in her early fifties, a stunning ash blonde with pale skin and cool gray eyes. She reminded me of Queen Jadis, the White Witch in
The Chronicles of Narnia,
whose magic brought endless winter to her kingdom during her hundred-year reign.

“Very well. Tell him I’ve arrived.” Katya’s Russian accent was faint but distinct, and she sounded annoyed. I wondered how she got along with Seth and whether she had something to do with Moses’s small problem.

“Yes, ma’am,” the guard said.

“Katya, my dear.” Moses strode toward her with his hand extended. “You look absolutely stunning tonight.”

Moses bent over Katya Gordon’s outstretched hand and kissed it, a courtly gesture that earned him a fleeting smile. He was right. She looked gorgeous in a deep blue couture suit: shawl collar, nipped waistline, and pencil skirt with a sexy kick pleat slit. An unusual amber necklace, matching earrings, black slingback heels.

“Thank you, Moses,” she said. “Can you see to it that my notes are put at the podium in the West Garden Court?”

“Right away.” He summoned the guard and slipped him Katya Gordon’s folder in a neat sleight of hand. “Before you join Seth, I’d like you to meet Luke Santangelo and Sophie Medina from Focus Photography. And this is Alicia Jones, their assistant.”

Katya looked us over and murmured, “Nice to meet you,” with all the sincerity of an Election Day politician. Then she moved away, the staccato tapping of her heels on the marble floor echoing as she walked toward the Rotunda.

Moses waited until she was out of earshot and said, “Well, now you’ve met Katya Gordon, the exhibit curator. Working with her was . . . quite an experience. She oversaw every detail, everything had to be just perfect. Of course, Mr. Vasiliev backed her to the hilt.”

“It looks wonderful,” Luke said in a neutral voice, and Ali and I murmured polite agreement.

Moses winked and said, “As my mother used to say, every hallelujah’s got an amen—all good things must come to an end—and I can tell you I won’t be too sorry to say that final ‘amen’ to this one. No one’s ever tried to get us to change the architecture of the building before.” We laughed and he added, “Why don’t we finish our conversation in Seth’s office, where we’ll have privacy and you can get your equipment safely stowed?”

He touched the magic panel in the cloakroom wall and the door to the hidden corridor opened. A white-jacketed waiter pushing a cart filled with liquor followed us. Moses let us into Seth’s office and disappeared into the conference room to have a word with the waiter. Ali peeked through the connecting door and let out a surprised whoop.

“The silver bowls with the caviar in them are big enough to take a bath in,” she said as Moses joined us, closing the door behind him.

“Don’t get any ideas.” He grinned and wagged a finger at her. “Those fish eggs cost nearly as much as one or two of our paintings.”

“What did you want to talk to us about?” Luke asked.

“Ah, yes. A little situation that caught everyone by surprise. We’re going to have another high-profile guest this evening. Yuri Orlov, the Russian ambassador. Originally he didn’t plan on attending, but at the last minute he obviously changed his mind.” Moses leaned against Seth’s desk and crossed one foot over the other. “I’m sorry to get you involved in this, but we need to keep as much distance between him and Senator Hathaway as possible. Anything you can do to, uh, assist would be greatly appreciated.”

Scott Hathaway was the U.S. Senate majority leader and the husband of Roxanne Lane Hathaway, a member of the National Gallery’s board of directors and one of the VIP guests attending tonight. You couldn’t swing a cat along the Mall without hitting a museum that had received a significant donation from Lane Communications. The Lane Educational Center, which endowed promising young artists, was located across the street in the museum’s East Building.

“Why do those two need to be kept apart?” Luke slung his camera strap over his shoulder and adjusted the camera so the lens nestled protectively against the small of his back.

Moses sighed. “What I’m going to say can’t go beyond this room.”

Luke eyed Ali and me. “We know how to be discreet,” he said. “In our business, you have to know how to keep your mouth shut.”

“I appreciate that,” Moses said. “First of all, is anyone familiar with the name Taras Attar, the Russian author and politician?”

Luke and Ali shook their heads, but I said “I am” and hoped I sounded blasé, instead of like huge puzzle pieces were suddenly slamming together in my brain.

Taras Attar was Russian, as Moses said, but he was also ethnically from Abadistan, where Crowne Energy had been drilling their test well for the past few years. Though Nick never said anything to me, I always figured that part of his brief for the CIA was reporting on the escalating violence in the region because the Abadis were pushing for independence from Russia, as many of the other former Soviet republics had done.

Moses seemed surprised that I’d heard of Attar, but he continued. “Well, as I’m sure Sophie is aware, Taras Attar is from a region of Russia called Abadistan, which is a hotbed of political unrest at the moment. They want to be an independent country and the Russians want them to remain in the fold. If they do succeed in breaking away, Attar is probably the guy who’ll be their new president. He’s good-looking, talks in poetic and highly quotable sound bites, and was educated in the West—here and the U.K., in fact. He has less of an accent when he speaks English than I do.”

Everyone smiled and I said, “Attar just wrote a book that was translated into English. I read a great review of it the other day. It’s a memoir about growing up in the former Soviet Union woven between chapters on Abadistan’s contribution to world culture all the way back to Alexander the Great.”

Moses nodded. “Or, if you’re Yuri Orlov, the Russian ambassador to the U.S., it’s a manifesto that subliminally promotes independence. But Sophie’s right; the book is getting a lot of buzz in certain circles. Attar’s coming here to promote it as soon as he wraps up touring in Britain.”

“What does this have to do with Senator Hathaway?” Luke asked.

“Ah,” Moses said. “This is where it gets tricky, where you guys come in. Scott Hathaway and Taras Attar are old friends who went to Georgetown University together years ago. So when Attar’s in D.C. next week, the senator is hosting a book signing for him at the Library of Congress and it’s causing the Russians considerable heartburn. Hathaway says it’s a literary event celebrating the publication of a friend’s book, and the Russians are calling it a backhanded way of showing solidarity with the Abadi people. They also view it as meddling in what they claim are internal Russian affairs.”

“What do you think?” Ali asked.

Moses gave her a tolerant smile. “I think I want peace in the wigwam for the duration of this evening, that’s what I think.”

“You don’t really believe Yuri Orlov would get into something with Senator Hathaway tonight, do you?” I said.

Moses cleared his throat. “Well, I certainly hope nothing happens. But we’re already dealing with a couple of touchy issues from the get-go. It’s not exactly a love fest between the ambassador and Arkady Vasiliev, either.” He started ticking items off on his fingers. “First, Mr. Vasiliev outbid the Kremlin Armoury for the Fabergé eggs. Second, he approached an American museum to stage the international premiere, something the Russians perceive as a slap in the face. In fact, it was the unspoken reason neither Orlov nor anyone from the Russian embassy planned on attending tonight. Third, and possibly adding insult to injury, many of the paintings in our original collection were purchased from the Hermitage by Andrew Mellon when he was in Russia in the 1930s. A number of them once belonged to Catherine the Great.”

“Don’t tell us you’re worried Orlov might try to take the art off the walls and repatriate the paintings to Mother Russia?” Luke said with a grin.

Moses smiled and gave him another rueful look. “I don’t believe that’s going to be a problem, but I thought I’d mention it so you have the whole picture, so to speak. However, the alcohol is going to be flowing freely tonight, if you get my meaning. And Ambassador Orlov has a reputation for, ah, plain speaking when his, ah, tongue has been loosened.”

“So we’re not supposed to let him drink too much, either?” Ali asked.

“No. Figuring out a discreet way to handle that is just one of the many plates I need to keep spinning tonight,” Moses said as the phone on his belt chirped that he had a text message. He looked at it. “And now, folks, I do believe it’s showtime. That was Seth. Mr. Vasiliev and his entourage have arrived.”

*

When I finally saw Arkady Vasiliev, he was standing in front of the fountain in the Rotunda with his arm around a dazzling dark-haired slip of a girl. She wore a short cream-colored dress that looked like it was spun out of gossamer and showed off a perfect golden tan. Around her neck hung a diamond necklace with a blood-colored ruby pendant the size of a small egg. As I watched, Vasiliev leaned down and whispered in her ear. She gazed up at him and smiled and nodded.

So this was Lara Gordon, Katya’s daughter. She possessed her mother’s exotic beauty, but without the forbidding and haughty demeanor. No wonder Vasiliev, who had to be at least twice her age, had fallen for her. A man could feel immortal with a girl like that on his arm. Or in his bed.

As for Vasiliev, he was as I remembered him from pictures in the London newspapers. Boyish looking, close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, aquiline nose, high cheekbones, and the exotic slant of Tatar eyes behind rimless glasses. Nick described him as unfailingly polite on the few occasions when they’d met. But just now there was something in his eyes that gave me chills—once you got past the gee-whiz look of amused curiosity—a hint of a predatory show-no-mercy streak that no amount of Midas-like wealth or spectacular yachts and jets and mansions or his carefully cultivated image as a philanthropist and patron of the arts could erase. Even Lara Gordon, who looked as fragile and innocent as a Botticelli angel standing next to him, did nothing to dispel the aura of thuggishness he exuded.