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“I gather the Russians have sent forces southward through Armenia,” he said.
The deputy grimaced. “Bastards just can’t resist mixing into it, can they?”
“They’ll say they’re looking to protect the country’s soft underbelly in case the situation spills across borders.”
“That’s what they’re saying, all right. Situation’s turning into a bloody circus. The Russians, Iran, Iraq, Greece, Cyprus—all getting their knickers in a twist. And, of course, the usual charges that we’re behind everything, orchestrating the situation for our own nefarious ends.”
Tucker nodded. The truth was less tidy than anybody’s simplistic explanations would have it, but it didn’t change the fact that once again, policy wonks like Geist here had gotten themselves caught on the horns of their own short-sightedness. It had probably seemed like a good idea after the Gulf War to enforce a no-fly zone to protect Saddam Hussein’s Kurdish opponents in northern Iraq. Except now that they no longer had Baghdad to worry about, the Iraqi Kurds were free to come to the aid of their unhappy brethren living across the border in Turkey, launching a full-scale assault on the weakest link in the NATO chain.
“Kind of makes you long for the good old black hat– white hat days of the cold war, doesn’t it, Jack?”
“No kidding. Look, I gotta get back upstairs real quick. National Security Council’s meeting this afternoon, and we’re trying to come up with a position that doesn’t absolve the bloody Turks, who are anything but blameless, but doesn’t piss them off so much they take their ball and go home.” Geist laced his fingers across his flat belly and tipped his chair back on two legs. “So where are we on this Navigator business? Learn anything useful over there?”
He fixed Tucker with the dramatic, piercing stare that was infamous inside the agency for setting younger, less experienced operatives off on uncontrollable fits of stammering. The effect was lost on Tucker, who could out-glower anyone—although he did consider pointing out that the furniture in this crummy office was strictly ancient government surplus and probably not up to the physics of two-legged rocking.
He decided against it. Geist was an ambitious hotshot looking for quick glory, the first to claim credit when an operation went right, and to distance himself when one went sour. If he ended up ass-over-teakettle, it’d be nice payback for the open cynicism he’d shown when he heard that a has-been like Tucker had been handed a personal message from the Navigator.
It was no surprise that, rather than call a meeting of the small committee that had vetted Tucker’s trip to meet the Navigator, Geist had nominated himself to drop in alone for a debriefing. He was hedging his bets—still downplaying the business internally, but determined to stay on top of things in case there was any chance of a major payoff.
“We’ve got about fifteen hundred pages’ worth of what looks to be the genuine article,” Tucker said carefully. “Originals, not copies. I can do the initial examination myself. Eventually, I’ll need a couple of computer people, Russian-language capable, to log it all in and create a secure database I can cross-reference and run against our own files.”
One of Geist’s eyebrows rose. “That all? Sure you don’t want us to take one of the Crays offline and dedicate it to this little assignment?”
Tucker ignored the sarcasm. “I could do it manually, but it would take time. I get the sense we don’t have that long. There’s a reason the Navigator chose to give us these particular documents out of all the millions inside Moscow Center. Sooner we know what all’s in them, sooner we’ll know why.”
“Did he give any hint where they’re coming down on support to Iraq or the Kurds?”
Bloody Geist, right on schedule, Tucker thought. Man suffered from chronic, extreme tunnel vision, never seeing past his immediate interests.
“He never mentioned the Kurds,” he said evenly, walking a fine line between overplaying or underplaying his hand. He didn’t want anyone he couldn’t control looking over his shoulder until he knew how much damaging information was in the files.
The key, he realized as he studied the deputy’s rumpled shirt and the bags under his sleep-deprived eyes, was to reinforce the notion there was nothing here that bore on Geist’s current problem. Once Geist was satisfied of that, he’d be out the door, hurrying to put himself back at the center of the high-profile crisis du jour. Jack Geist wasn’t the type to let a little thing like a door opening into an old enemy’s inner sanctum distract him from those areas in which he felt he could shine.
Still balancing on the chair’s rear legs, Geist two-fingered the mottled yellow manila file Tucker had set apart from the others. It was a nice fake from a guy who, Tucker happened to know, didn’t read a word of Russian. A good thing, too, since the name spelled out on the spine, albeit phonetically and in Cyrillic script, was “Benjamin Bolt.”
“Have you got the slightest reason to believe there’s anything important here?” Geist inquired, flipping disdainfully through the pages.
Tucker suppressed the urge to yank the file out of his hands, but there was little chance Geist would recognize what he was looking at. Geist had come up the ranks through a series of mostly Middle East–station assignments. The Soviet collapse, combined with the recent agitation of tin-pot dictatorships like Iran, Iraq, Syria and Libya, had fallen on his career like manna from heaven.
“I’ve done a preliminary flip-through,” he said. “It’s a mixed bag of old KGB operations—external agents, a few internal dissidents who were ‘disappeared’ into the Gulag.”
“Sounds like ancient history. KGB’s dead.”
“Not dead. Not even dying. Regimes come and go in Russia, but the security service is forever. New guys come to power, think they’ve lopped off its head, but it just grows two more. Been that way for centuries. The Navigator, more than anyone, knows that. That’s how he managed to survive as long as he did.”
“No doubt. But I think we’ve got the situation pretty much in hand these days, Frank. There’ve been a lot of changes since you were on the old Soviet desk—operations you’re not aware of, new sources we’re running over there. Hell, we’ve even got some cooperative bilateral programs going with our new Russian friends.”
Watching the deputy’s smug self-assurance, Tucker’s thoughts flashed on the Navigator sitting across from him, the dwindling bottle of vodka between them. Lifting his glass at one point, Deriabin had offered a raspy toast. “To friendship between nations. Of course,” he added, “there are no friendly intelligence agencies, are there, my friend? After all, where would we be without our enemies?”
Geist closed the manila folder. “You say these are old ops?”
“Pretty much. Doesn’t mean some of the players aren’t still in place.”
“You saying he gave us active sources? Now, why the hell would he do that?” The deputy’s voice dripped disbelief, and he pushed the file away. “I’m having a lot of trouble buying that this isn’t some whopping disinformation ploy designed to waste our time. What do you want to bet this Navigator character wants us looking the other way while his people are busy on some new scheme?”
“No argument.”
“You agree?” Geist sounded surprised.
“That this could be nothing but a bunch of irrelevant junk, manufactured to distract us for God knows what purpose? It’s possible. Unlikely, though.”
“Why unlikely?”
“Because of the source.”
“The source is Georgi goddamn Deriabin. Right? You did meet him? He’s not dead, like Moscow Station was thinking?”
“Met him face-to-face for five hours.”
“Guy’s got cheek, I’ll give him that,” Geist said, shaking his head and leaning back on his precarious perch again. “Forty years he’s worked against us, now I’m supposed to believe he wants to make nice? Give me a break.”
“I’m just telling you how I read it.”
“How you read it?”
Tucker found himself once more the object of that practiced, thousand-yard stare. Seconds ticked by, the silence broken only by the drumming of the deputy’s fingers. He had the impression he was supposed to be quaking in his boots, worrying about whether his own loyalty was suspect.
He waited it out, knowing that if Geist sniffed any hint of anxiety, he’d take the files away and either bury them or pass them over to someone else. Tucker couldn’t let that happen. He needed to maintain control. Impress Geist with the files’ potential so he’d get the time he needed, but not get him so worked up that he’d panic and set up some kind of task force.
“So, what’s the deal?” Geist said finally. “Deriabin looking to walk? Cold war glory days are over, so now he wants us to set him up in a Miami Beach mansion?”
“Nope.”
“Then what?”
What, indeed? Tucker frowned, wishing he had an easy answer. “He wants to leave a legacy, I think. I don’t know exactly what, but I can tell you this—he’s dying.”
The chair legs finally dropped to the floor. “Say what? He tell you that?”
“Yeah, but even if he hadn’t, I would’ve known. His skin’s the color of that folder there.”
The deputy’s eyes strayed back to the mottled yellow file on the desk. “No kidding.”
“Liver cancer, apparently. He says they’ve given him three months, max.”
Geist’s right hand rotated in an impatient, forward-rolling notion. “And so—?”
“I think he’s looking to settle a score before he kicks off.”
“And he wants us to help him to do it?”
“That’s my guess.”
“So, what’s in it for us?”
Tucker hesitated. This was the tricky part. He was pretty sure part of the Navigator’s plan was to undermine the presidential ambitions of Foreign Minister Zakharov. But who stood to benefit from that? Russia? America? International peace and stability? Some unknown protégé to whom the dying old man was preparing to hand his torch of secret power?
Tucker didn’t know. He only knew who had the most to lose if this wasn’t handled carefully. But how could he tell the deputy director of the CIA that he’d burn these files and the evidence they contained before he’d let any harm from them rain down on the woman whose name the bloody Navigator had known would be the key to forcing his cooperation?
“Just give me a little more time, Jack. I’ll do you up a full report.”
“How much time are we talking?”
“Twenty-four hours.”
“Done,” Geist said abruptly. He got to his feet.
Tucker watched him head for the door. He knew he should leave well enough alone, but he couldn’t. “One more thing,” he said. “Why was Mariah Bolt assigned to cover the Zakharov visit?”
Geist paused at the door, frowning. “That’s pretty much ‘need to know,’ buddy. She doesn’t work for you anymore.”
“I know that.”
“And so? You got some proprietary interest there? That’d be tough, since I hear she’s seeing that hotshot TV anchorman…what’s his name?”
“Paul Chaney.”
“Right, Chaney. So…?”
Tucker shrugged. “I’m just curious why an analyst gets sent out in the field.”
“I had a little job needed doing, and she was the best person for it. Anyway,” the deputy said briskly, pulling open the door, “this is awesome work, Frank, getting your hands on this stuff. Truly awesome. I’ll need that memorandum on my desk soon as possible, though. You’ll get right on it, won’t you, big guy?”
He winked and pointed his finger in a stagy “you-the-man!” gesture, then was gone before Tucker had a chance to respond with the contempt the performance deserved.
Chapter Seven
So, how exactly did one go about luring a man into betraying his country? Mariah wondered. Bat her eyelashes? Show a little leg? Offer to meet him at the Casbah?
Really. This was hardly her area. As femmes fatales went, she felt about as lethal as a librarian.
One thing was certain. Even if the DDO’s sources were right and Yuri Belenko was carrying some sort of torch for her—something she highly doubted, since their previous meetings had been pretty innocuous as far as she was concerned—she would not sleep with the man. Once again, she cursed herself for not having turned Geist down flat.
She hovered at the edge of an upper-level courtyard of the Arlen Hunter Museum, her second visit of the afternoon. By the time she’d arrived earlier, after stopping at Courier Express to arrange for Frank to collect Chap Korman’s package in Virginia, the security detail had already finished their sweep of the site. She’d had just enough time to show her credentials, walk around and get the lay of the land, and run over the program for the Romanov opening, before heading back to the hotel to change into what she was coming to think of as her Tokyo Rose dress.
Now, after all her scrambling, the guests of honor were running late. Typical Murphy’s Law. It was already after six, and the early-evening sun was casting a magical, luminescent glow over the restless crowd waiting for Secretary of State Kidd and his Russian counterpart to show up.
It was nearly twenty years since she’d last set foot in California, and she’d forgotten this strange quality of the light, Mariah realized—the way it cast a magical glow on everything it touched, lulling with seductive promises it had no intention of keeping. Like a smiling thief, the place could rip out your heart in an instant and leave you too stunned to do anything but offer up your soul as well.
A warm Pacific breeze wafted over the balcony walls, and potted palms and crimson hibiscus rustled softly. The air was thick with expensive perfume and the ripe, masculine scent of the cigars in which one or two of the guests were indulging while they waited to see the Russian imperial treasures.
The irony was not lost on Mariah that the Last Days of the Romanov Dynasty tour should kick off here in the capital of American glitz and materialism. On display were the lavish worldly possessions of that family whose bloody murder had set in motion decades of deadly struggle between Moscow and the West, bringing the planet several times to the brink of a nuclear catastrophe unimaginable in the Romanovs’ day. But eighty years after their massacre at the hands of the Bolsheviks—shot, stabbed, their bodies acid-drenched, burned, then dumped down a mineshaft in an orgy of overkill—the last czar and his family were finally going to be buried in a St. Petersburg royal crypt with appropriate, if tardy, pomp and circumstance. The niceties taken care of, Russia’s cash-strapped regime could get on with the profitable business of exploiting the luckless royals in a manner that would have seemed hypocritical coming from previous communist governments. America, for its part, seemed willing to let bygones be bygones.
Looking over the list of dignitaries expected at the opening, Mariah’s heart had sunk to discover Renata Hunter Carr’s name near the top, just as she’d feared. Well, no matter. The woman was ancient history, and she herself was a long way from the confused little girl whose daddy had run off with the rich man’s daughter.
Sure she was.
She glanced up, feeling dwarfed by the eight-foot-high letters of Arlen Hunter’s name deeply carved into the pearl-gray marble walls of this monument he’d built to himself on Santa Monica Boulevard. So why did suborning treason feel like a piece of cake compared to the prospect of meeting the late magnate’s home wrecker of a daughter?
Were her masters at Langley even aware of the grudge she bore Renata? she wondered. Did Geist know? Doubtful. It was conceivable that the woman’s name was lodged somewhere in her personnel record, a gossipy detail on her famous, philandering parent, noted in passing, then filed away by whatever spit-polished security specialist had done her recruitment background check—an insignificant detail by now, surely, after eighteen spotless years of service. If Jack Geist had realized how much that bit of personal history still rankled, though, he might have thought twice about sending her out on this ridiculous assignment. Then again, knowing Geist, maybe not.
She patted her hair self-consciously. It felt too fluffy. She’d amped up her cosmetics for the occasion, too, and her skin felt plaster-coated. An extra coat of mascara had her feeling as though she was peering out at the world from under lacy awnings.
Ah, well, she thought wryly, the spy, to be truly effective, must be an expert at camouflage, possessed of that subtle capacity to seem neither out of place nor conspicuous. With the bevy of California beauties gracing the arms of the assembled rich and powerful here, her own overdone look no doubt blended right in.
Several well-known figures dotted the patio. The mayor of Los Angeles had already arrived, as well as both of California’s senators and several politically connected Hollywood types. The guest list also included representatives of foreign governments who maintained consulates in Los Angeles, and business people dutifully networking on behalf of their multinational corporations.
Mariah sighed. And then there were the bureaucrats. A considerable number of them, from the State Department, FBI and Secret Service, plus at least one representative of the CIA—though, for all she knew, Geist could have sent others. All attempting, with greater or lesser success, to blend into the party scene. The Secret Service agents were hopeless at it, conspicuous by their stern expressions, coiled collar wires, and plastic earpieces carrying a subaudible stream of clipped commands and sitreps—situation reports—on the movements of and potential threats to Secretary of State Kidd and Russian Foreign Minister Zakharov. Dressed in almost identical dark suits, they also had a distracting tendency to mutter, Dick Tracy–style, into their shirt cuffs.
A flutter of wings sounded behind her as two doves landed nearby on the half wall lining two sides of the terrace. A third dove settled a little apart from the pair, cooing plaintively, keeping a lonely watch. Gossamer violet feathers shimmered as the bird craned her head this way and that.
“Where’s your fella, pretty girl?” Mariah murmured.
Black pearl eyes cast a baleful glance her way. Mourning doves were monogamous, she recalled, mating for life, slow to accept a new partner at the death of a mate. This one’s mate must have fallen prey to some urban catastrophe, dooming her to follow behind the other pairs in the flock, permitted to observe but never join their comfortable circle.
Mariah felt her own loss thrum like an arrhythmia of the heart, a dull, aching reminder of David’s absence and the permanent empty spaces his death had created inside and around her. The sense of isolation. She felt like someone stuck at the top of a broken Ferris wheel—rocking and waiting, looking at the world from a distance. Half the time, she ached for the wheel to start turning again. The rest of the time, she lived in terror of the next, inevitable downward plunge.
The melancholy cooing of the doves sounded a counter-point to the hum of traffic moving up and down Santa Monica Boulevard. Long shadows drifted like pale purple gauze across the courtyard walls. She glanced once more at her watch. Six-fifteen. Nine-fifteen, back in Virginia. Lindsay would be up for a while yet. Like most teenagers, she prowled late at the best of times, and it would only get worse now that she was on summer vacation. If she got back to the hotel in the next couple of hours, Mariah calculated, she could still call without disturbing anyone at Carol’s house.
Then she had another thought. Frank. Before this afternoon, she hadn’t heard his voice in weeks. Now, the prospect of hearing it again brought a smile to her lips.
She leaned over the balcony’s edge to see if the VIPs were in sight. The solitary dove followed her gaze, peering down at the steady stream of cars still pulling up, disgorging high-powered passengers into the building’s maw. A small crowd had gathered on either side of the entryway. In Los Angeles, apparently, all it took to assemble an audience was to string a barrier, roll out a red carpet and wait for the celebrity-seekers to materialize like ants at a picnic.
Suddenly, the doves scattered on a flutter of wings as a strong hand gripped Mariah’s elbow. In her ear, a low voice murmured, “Don’t jump!”
She swung around to find a pair of crystal-blue eyes grinning down at her. “Paul! What are you doing here?”
Chaney kissed her cheek, as eyes had turned in their direction. Paul tended to have that effect on crowded rooms. So much for blending.
“Thought I’d surprise you,” he said. “You look gorgeous.”
“Thank you. I am surprised, but I’m confused, too. How—?”
“I got an invitation to this shindig weeks ago. I wasn’t going to come until you mentioned yesterday that you were. Decided I’d deliver your keys in person.”
Based in Washington, Paul had friends everywhere he’d ever stood in front of a camera. The only reason Mariah had called to tell him she’d be in L.A. early was that the beach cottage near Chap Korman’s house where she and Lindsay were planning to spend their vacation belonged to some friend of Paul’s. He’d been making arrangements to get the keys to her that week.
His appearance always set off mixed reactions in her, but right now, it was mostly dismay Mariah felt. “You shouldn’t have come all this way,” she said, meaning it.
