Firebird (45 page)

A wisp of memory stirred, vanished into mist.  What was it?  Alexandra glanced out her window.  White flurries whirled in the grey light.  Madame Danilova had been right.  No wonder she felt so cold. 

The anchor’s voice continued.  “And on the political front.  Four days from now, Americans will be flocking to the polls to elect the next President of the United States.  Pollsters are predicting a record voter turn-out, as Americans say they are more concerned than ever about the future of this country.  Today’s Associated Press lead story is ominous.  ‘Russia Warns the World of a New Cold War.’  And there are new rumors on Capitol Hill of another mole in the U.S. intelligence community…”

“Oh, yes,” murmured Alexandra.  “He’s there all right.  But not for long.”  The blank Macintosh computer stared back at her, and she clicked the keys.  The blue screen blinked on.

She flinched as a gust of wind hurled ice crystals against her windowpane with a sharp crack.  So much for light snow.  Waiting with impatience for the icons to appear, she rifled through the stack of yellow messages and mail piled in the center of her desk, then eyed the frantically blinking message light on her phone.

Who was trying to reach her?  Probably most of the 300 artists she’d ignored for the last three days.  Or… Garcia?  No.  He had made his feelings perfectly clear on the boat, hadn’t he?  Crystal clear.  He wanted her
out
of his investigation. 

“We’ll see about that,” she murmured.

Don’t think about him. 

But no matter how hard she tried to lock them out, the last moments with Garcia on the Vaya con Dios slipped once more into her mind.  His gaze, dark eyes so intent, fastened on her.  The feel of his long fingers on her cheek.  That moment when he - Lord!  The blasted memory wouldn’t leave her alone.

She swallowed.  Deal with it!  She punched the message button on her phone.  The Times art critic, a Baranski board member, a new artist in need of hand-holding.  Not Garcia. 

He still had no idea that the brooch had led her to Ivan.  He needed to know. 

But first, she had to be sure.  With an oath she shoved her glasses down hard on her nose and uploaded into her Mac the three photographs she’d taken in Madame Danilova’s restaurant.

Her heart throbbed in her throat as she gazed at the face she’d seen in the old Kirov Ballet photograph.  Enlarging the photo several times, she leaned closer.  The proud thrust of chin – and those clear wintry eyes – were familiar still, nearly five decades later.  But not the proof Garcia would need.

First order of business, she needed to find the man she thought was Ivan.  She pulled the phone toward her and punched information.  She would call his Washington office, try to discover his whereabouts.  And then?  She had to be careful.  She smiled grimly, hearing Garcia’s voice in her head.  
Ivan is a dangerous man.  Are you going to just walk up to him and demand to know why he killed your sister?  And then what?

Okay.  But, somehow, she had to find out what he planned.  

My sister died trying to stop you, she told him.  Now it’s my turn.  I’ll finish what Eve started.  I swear it.  

She jotted down the 202 number and dialed.  Would anyone be there at – she glanced down at her watch -  7 a.m. on a cold Saturday morning?

Listening to the distant ringing, she tried to ignore the shaking of her hand.  Then a message in her ear.  A woman’s voice, cool and professional.   The office would open at 9 a.m.  Would she like to leave a message?

Yes.  I know who you are, Ivan
.

“No message,” she murmured, dropping the phone back into its cradle.

Ok, she thought.  Where do I look for you? 

She initiated a Google search with his name.  Because he was a public figure, endless pages of information sprang to the screen.  She scanned his bio carefully, hoping for something to click - the New England wife and heiress who’d died too young, his Harvard Law degree, sailboat races and philanthropic awards, published opinions on international politics in respected journals, membership in the rarefied inner circle of Presidents...  On and on it went, a terrible litany of success, secrets and lies.   She scrolled quickly, staring at the words. 

Had he really gone to Harvard, she wondered suddenly?  Or had one lie led to so many more.

Twenty minutes later, a place-name caught her eye.  A property was listed in Stratton, a town in Southern Vermont, purchased under his wife’s maiden name in 1973. 

Seven years after the fire in London.

Stratton.  Why was it so familiar? 

She caught her lower lip between her teeth and closed her eyes.  Someone had mentioned Stratton recently.  At the Foxwood reception?  She searched her memory.   A dense crowd of guests, an overheard fragment of conversation -  a mention of skiing in Colorado.  A deep voice, saying, “The Green Mountains in Vermont have some beautiful ski villages - Sugarbush, Stratton, Killington.”

Ivan’s voice?  It couldn’t be a coincidence.  She heard the voice of Tatyana in her head.  “My partner Sergei loved the mountains, especially when the forests were hushed with snow.”

Another Russian Matroyoska doll, twisting open
.  Another secret revealed...

“The Green Mountains!” said Alexandra, triumph shimmering in her voice.  Ivan had a place in Stratton.

She typed the key words for Stratton Mountain and waited for the Internet to perform its magic.  Hurry, hurry.  She had to find Ivan before he hurt anyone else.

The words spilled onto her Mac screen. 
Stratton.  Since its creation in 1961, an Alpine community, a mountain to come home to.  Summit elevation, 3,875 feet. 

Whoa, high!  She forced her eyes to focus.

Ninety trails, 600 acres of terrain, high speed summit gondola,
snowcat to mid-mountain restaurant, luxury lodgings include condos, townhouses, private mountainside chalets
...

And there it was.  Private mountainside chalets.

She grabbed a pad and wrote quickly.  From NYC, I-95 North to I-91.  Exit in Brattleboro, Vermont, onto Route 30 north to Bondville and Stratton Mountain Road.

Driving time, four and one half hours.  In
goo
d weather.  She glanced at her watch, surprised to see that it was after nine.  Her eyes flew to the snow-filled window.  If she left within the hour, she wouldn’t get there until almost nightfall – five o’clock at the earliest.  She’d need to borrow Danny’s four-wheel drive...

Alexandra began to dial, then stopped and disconnected the call.  What do you think you’re doing? she asked herself.   She had no proof that Ivan was in Stratton.  He could be
anywhere
.  What if she wasted her time driving to Vermont when he was somewhere in D.C.?  You should be calling Garcia, or the police.  Garcia had been blunt. 
Go home to Ruby and let the professionals take over.  You can’t stop Ivan alone
.

And yet...

No one would believe her.  If she was right about his identity, Ivan was well-known, well-liked.  It was unbelievable, really.  Unthinkable that this charming, brilliant, powerful man could be a Russian spy.

She needed the proof.

And yet - the small voice in the back of her head urged her to call Garcia.  He would believe her, she was sure of it.  He would have her back. 
She trusted him.
  She’d forgotten what trust felt like.

Tell him.  He would listen.

She lifted the phone, dialed his cell.  It rang and rang until his message clicked on.  Bloody hell!  “Call me,” she said.  “It’s important.  I know who Ivan is.  He has a place on Stratton Mountain, in Vermont.  I don’t know if he’s there, but - ”  His machine disconnected. 

Damn.  Okay, she was on her own.  There had to be a way she could find the proof she needed, and still be safe.  A wisp of an idea stirred. 

At the end of the day, this was still her journey.  
This man was responsible for the death of her sister
.  Had he asked Eve to meet him on that dark Maryland cliff above the Potomac?  Had he been the one to push her over the edge, the one to end her sister’s life?

She wanted to look Ivan in the eyes.  She wanted to know why.  She wanted to know the truth!

She wanted justice for her sister, yes.  But more than that, she owed the truth to Juliet. 
And above all, she had to keep her child safe
.

“You son of a bitch!” she whispered.  “I made a promise to that kid.  And, for once, someone is damn well going to keep a promise to her.”

But how?   For now, she’d keep calling his office until she tracked him down.

Where are you, Ivan?

* * * *

Panov ran quickly past the other runners on the 1.6 mile path encircling the Central Park Reservoir, eyes straight ahead, muscled arms and legs pumping, unaware of the snow crunching underfoot or the beauty of the white flakes that swirled around the ancient oaks and blurred the Fifth Avenue skyline.

His mind raced.  Something was very wrong.  Prince Ivan hadn’t shown up for their meeting at the Boat House this morning.  He’d waited over an hour, then called Ivan’s private line.  Ivan was on his way to Stratton!

Stratton.  Now, when the Marik woman had shown herself to be such a threat? 

Panov’s feet pounded the path.  Last night, after Alexandra Marik found Tatyana at the Palace of the Firebird, he’d known it was only a matter of time.  He should have taken care of her when she left the restaurant, but then he’d seen the man.  Tall, muscular, watchful – waiting for her? – leaning against a jeep double-parked just outside the restaurant’s door.

A mistake, not to have taken care of her.  He knew that now, in the cold light of day.  He should never have listened to Ivan.

But Ivan had been adamant.  “We have questions only she can answer.  We cannot risk another death, Panov.  Not now.” 

Why was Prince Ivan so protective of that woman
?

Was he losing his edge?  Dangerous, when they were so close to achieving their goal.  But since Eve Rhodes’ death - and the Marik woman’s interference – Ivan had changed.   He no longer seemed truly committed to Operation Firebird.  It was up to Panov to remove the threat - Alexandra Marik.  And, now, it was up to him to force Ivan to complete their mission.  The question was, how?

How, when the key player was now hours away, deep in the mountains of Vermont?  He ran on, brushing past other runners, heedless of their presence.  

And then there was the brooch.  No question in his mind, now, that the Marik woman had found the original.  It had to be worth a king’s ransom.  There had to be a way he could force her to tell him where she’d hidden it.  And then he could silence her for good.

He had to find a way to take care of both Ivan and the Marik woman.  Clearly, Ivan cared about this woman. 
Use her
!

Panov’s blue eyes barely blinked as he listed alternatives in his mind.  Names, faces, places spun across his vision, were considered and discarded.  Billie Jordan, Jon Garcia.  Her daughter Ruby…  perfect, but too well protected.  He skidded to a halt on the slushy path.  “Dyen-ta!”

Juliet Marik

He turned and ran across the park toward St. Theresa’s school. 

* * * *

Alexandra disconnected her phone.  Ivan’s assistant had just told her that her boss was out of town.  Location unavailable.  Now what?

It was getting late.  She couldn’t wait for Garcia any longer.  She had to do something!

Restless, impatient, not sure if she should go home or back to D.C., Alexandra stood, reached for her boots, then stopped.  One more thing.  She turned, unlocked a small desk drawer, searched.  Where was it?  She would need the small machine if she was able to locate Ivan.  Her fingers closed around cool metal, and she thrust the item deep into her purse.

Thank you, Eve
.

She was closing the drawer when she saw the bit of feathered crimson, slipped into the drawer after her return from Maine.  She reached for it, held it in her palm.

The Firebird’s feather, left by Eve to keep her family safe.

I’m going to need all the help I can get, Eve
.  When an animal is cornered, it’s the most dangerous.

Alexandra tucked the feather deep into her jeans pocket.  She was struggling with her boots when her phone beeped. 

She glanced down at the text, stiffened, felt the fear close like ice around her heart.  Then the photograph appeared. 
Dear God, no
! 

Barely able to breathe, she grabbed her coat and purse, spun to search for the keys to the gallery safe. Now, she knew where Ivan was, where she had to go.

She bolted from her office and ran down the long hallway.

* * * *

The
Vaya con Dios
skimmed over the choppy Potomac River.

Jon Garcia stood at the wheel, watching the sleek prow pierce the waves and listening to the steady throb of the engines.   Hoover sat beside him, nose lifted to the wind.  Garcia tightened his hood against the cold and breathed deeply.

Half-remembered words of a country song kept rolling though his head
.  I don’t know where this river’s flowing.  Let it flow.  Can’t fight the tide, I’m letting go… There’s nothing here to hold me anymore.

He blew out his breath.  Nothing to hold him anymore…  He used to love these morning runs, times when he could convince himself that he could just keep going, straight to the edge of the world.  Didn’t need anything – or any
body
– except Hoover.  But now, dammit, the boat seemed so empty without Alexandra Marik. 

Riding the swells toward the distant marina, he gazed at the dark water and shook his head in irritation.  The sea was a metaphor for his life.  Cold, turbulent, lonely.  But also renewing, healing.  For so long, it had been the only place he could find peace.

And now – the peace was gone.  All he could see was Alexandra on the Vaya con Dios yesterday morning.  Barefoot, wearing his robe, looking at him over the rim of her coffee cup with those huge eyes under a fringe of fire.  Cerebral, irreverent, complicated - and sexy as hell. 
Vital
.  When had she managed to break through his defenses?