Flight of the Raven (7 page)

“Not on the Spanish drama, I assume,” Gorlov murmured under his breath.

The general either didn’t hear the remark or chose to ignore it. Sliding his chair back to reach in a drawer, he pulled out a black leather pocketbook and slapped it down on the polished surface of his desk as though it were exhibit A at an espionage trial. Even Aleksei looked surprised, although he recognized the black evening bag as the one the woman at the theater had been carrying. Apparently his phone call had inspired more than a simple surveillance. For a moment he felt a pang of regret. Then he reminded himself that he hadn’t gotten her into this. She’d done it herself as soon as she’d taken that seat.

Bogolubov emptied out the contents of the purse onto the desk top with careless nonchalance. Reaching into the small pile of personal effects, he fished out a wallet and flipped it open, revealing a personal identification card. From across the room it was impossible to read the information, although Aleksei could see it was neatly printed.

“I believe we’ve flushed out Eisenberg’s replacement. At least she showed up for a clandestine rendezvous that he’d set up before his accident.”

Three sets of eyes were riveted on the comrade general. He paused and pulled a crisp manila folder out of the same drawer that had held the evening bag. “She’s a mid-level political specialist at the U.S. embassy named Julie McLean.” The general stumbled over the consonant that began her first name since there was no
J
sound in the Russian alphabet. “Her last tour of duty was in Moscow,” he added. “And who knows what kind of damage she did there.”

Aleksei saw Georgi swallow convulsively as though the general’s supposition was causing him personal discomfort. Didn’t he see that the older man was just playing for dramatic effect? Americans in Moscow were watched more closely than bacteria under a microscope. He doubted there was much chance any of them could pull off an espionage coup. Still, he couldn’t help finding the information about Julie McLean’s last post interesting. The name fit her, Aleksei thought, remembering the way she’d looked standing with a glass of wine in her hand across that crowded theater lobby. Despite the circumstances, being able to put a name to her face brought him a surge of satisfaction.

“The tour in Moscow means we’ve got a file on her,” Bogolubov was saying. “I’ve had a facsimile of selected pages sent from headquarters. The microfiche will arrive by diplomatic pouch.”

He passed the sheets around and let the three men look them over. Aleksei quickly scanned the biographic material. Julie McLean was twenty-nine and single. A graduate of the Foreign Service school at Georgetown University. He raised an eyebrow at the notation on her uncle, Senator McLean, a hard-liner when it came to Soviet-American relations. Would he have encouraged his niece to become a spy?

His eyes moved down the page. She’d attended public school in the elementary grades and then switched to a private girl’s academy. She’d been raised in Baltimore, a city he’d once visited when his father had been with the Soviet delegation to the U.N. He and his parents had taken the train down to watch a friendship tour by the Bolshoi.

Gorlov was holding up a poor-quality facsimile of what looked like a newspaper photograph. “I think I met the woman,” he mused.

Bogolubov gave him a direct look. “And?”

“It was at one of the embassy nation-day parties—the German, I think. No, the French.”

“I don’t give a pig’s teat which party it was. What did you think of her?”

Gorlov was unfazed. “Polite but guarded. Not my type, really. You know how Western women are—not enough curves.”

The general grinned and nodded before turning to Aleksei. “And your opinion?”

A dozen details and perceptions leaped to mind as he remembered the green dress that had molded her slender but very appealing figure, the intelligence mirrored in her dark eyes, and the fear she’d struggled to suppress when she’d sensed his interest. “If she’s a spy, she’s new to the game.”

“Why?”

“She made too many mistakes.”

“Like what?”

“Using Eisenberg’s ticket in the first place. That was too big a risk. Or answering me in English when I spoke to her. But all that’s in my report.”

Bogolubov leaned forward so that his double chin was resting against his fingertips. His expression was thoughtful. “Perhaps she wanted to convey a certain impression.”

“To throw us off our guard,” Feliks Gorlov added, picking up the theme.

“Or maybe she was floundering because Eisenberg hadn’t given her the name of his contact,” Georgi interjected.

“Um.” The syllable, which might have signified agreement came from the general as he scooped up the contents of the black leather bag and returned it to his desk drawer. “The question is, can we use any of this information to our advantage?” he asked.

“You mean turn her?” Gorlov said.

“Too crude an approach. Besides, I suspect we only have one thing she might want.”

“Money?” Georgi Krasin asked.

The general snapped angrily. “You’re starting to believe all those Western news magazines. They’re not all motivated by greed.”

Aleksei filled in the blank. “She needs to make contact with Eisenberg’s turncoat.”

“The man who’s using the code name Raven,” Bogolubov added.

“But we can’t use him for bait. We don’t know who he is,” Gorlov pointed out.

“Not yet.” The general paused and looked around the room. “But I’m thinking of offering her a convincing substitute. And since she’s not Feliks’s type, and Georgi hasn’t had enough experience for the job, I think we’ll try Aleksei Iliyanovich.”

“You want me to pretend to be the Raven?” he clarified.

“Possibly. Or maybe just a comrade interested in selling some information—or even defecting. Either way, McLean ought to jump at the opportunity, and you can use your charm to find out what she knows.”

“Yes, Aleksei Iliyanovich would be a good choice,” Gorlov agreed, studying his colleague thoughtfully. “Wom- en respond to him, and he’s got an excellent command of the English language.”

“Didn’t you spend several years in the U.S.?” Georgi asked, unable to disguise the tone of envy in his voice. Hard-line propaganda to the contrary, a posting in Washington or New York was coveted by Soviet diplomats.

“Off and on, almost six.”

“So you’ve got a pretty good handle on how they think,” Gorlov said.

“Even in my father’s time we didn’t exactly mix freely with the natives.”

“More than the rest of us.”

“You don’t look pleased,” Bogolubov observed, addressing Aleksei. “What’s the matter? If you play it right you may get—what do the Americans call it?—a roll in the hay out of the assignment.” His use of the crude Western expression drew appreciative laughter from the other two men in the room.

After they had left, Aleksei remained seated.

Bogolubov raised his heavy-lidded eyes. “Yes?”

“This is a rather unusual assignment, Comrade General.”

“You’re not up to pretending to be the defector?”

Aleksei gave his superior a measured look. “That’s not the issue. I gather you’re taking sole responsibility for this operation.”

“Of course.”

“Then that increases the risk to me personally. What if someone who doesn’t know about the operation misinterprets what I’m doing? What if they think I really
am
the Raven? My career could be destroyed, or I could end up as dead as Kiril Ivanov.”

The general stroked his chin. “You accepted certain risks, Major Rozonov, when you joined our ranks.”

“Granted. But I’d be happier about this project if you would document your orders and put them in my file.”

Bogolubov shrugged. “As you wish.”

“Thank you, Comrade General.” Aleksei’s tone of voice was deferential but both men knew who had won that round.

* * *

B
RADLEY
F
ITZPATRICK
zipped up the black evening bag that had been dumped downtown in a Madrid mailbox and returned to the U.S. embassy by the Spanish civil guard Sunday morning.

According to the inventory Julie had given him, nothing inside was missing except the ten thousand pesetas she’d tucked into her wallet. However, the lining of the bag had been carefully slit in several places, as though the thief had been searching for something hidden inside. And when Fitzpatrick began to look more closely, he noted that her identification card was bent, as though it had been hurriedly stuffed back into its plastic holder. He’d seen his share of personal belongings returned to American citizens via the mail once the cash and values were removed, but the condition of this purse and wallet didn’t match the scenario of a simple robbery.

His mind flashed back to the note of panic in Julie’s voice when she’d called him from the Gran Via Friday night. Then he’d put it down to the stress of having been victimized.

Lord, he thought. Last Thursday Cal Dixon had called him in and made some pretty nasty allegations about Dan Eisenberg before firing off a barrage of questions about Julie’s relationship with the captain. Fitzpatrick had practically laid his career on the line defending her. Now he had to wonder exactly what the hell was going on.

Sighing, he picked up the phone. He had no choice but to call Cal.

Forty-five minutes later, Eduardo buzzed Julie’s apartment to tell her two colleagues from the office were downstairs. The Sunday paper was spread across the kitchen table, and she hadn’t yet bothered to get dressed.

“Send them up in five minutes,” she instructed the
portero.
By the time the knock came at the door, she was tucking a plaid shirt into the waistband of her jeans.

“Fitz, Cal?” Julie peered into the hallway, looking from one unreadable face to the other. A wave of apprehension suddenly made her feel cold in the cotton shirt she wore. “What’s happening?”

“We’ve come to take you for a walk, Julie,” Fitz replied, his voice vaguely apologetic.

“A walk?” What in the world was going on?

“In Retiro Park,” Cal added.

The well-groomed area with its wide paths, gardens, and lake was one of her favorite parts of the city. But from the tone of Cal’s voice and the somber expression on the two men’s faces, she suspected she wasn’t going to enjoy this particular Sunday outing.

Chapter Five

“J
ust let me get my purse.”

Cal and Fitz exchanged cryptic looks.

“Maybe you’d like to put your wallet in it,” the CIA man murmured.

She whirled to face him. “Was the evening bag returned?”

“Yes.”

Fitz offered her the brown paper bag that had been tucked under his arm.

When Julie reached inside, the purse was missing. Only its contents were there.

“Where...?”

Cal answered the question before she’d framed it. “We’ve sent it out to be cleaned.”

Oh, no, she thought.
The cleaners
was the code word for the forensic lab at Torrejon. She’d almost convinced herself that she’d been the victim of a simple robbery. Now she knew Cal Dixon didn’t think so. The realization made it suddenly hard to catch her breath. There were a dozen excuses she wanted to make and questions she burned to ask. But not until it was safe to talk.

Cal, who was dressed in a navy jogging suit, nodded to Eduardo as the threesome crossed the lobby. In their casual attire, they looked as though they might have been going out for a Sunday stroll. But from Julie’s perspective, with a large man at either shoulder, she felt as though she were heading for her own execution.

Though she had planned to talk with Cal first thing Monday morning, it was obvious the CIA man wanted some answers now.

She stole a quick glance at Fitz. From the tight look on his familiar freckled face she could tell Cal had already convinced him she had made a serious breach of security.

Only the inevitable Sunday choir music on the radio broke the silence as they rode down Paseo de la Castellana and turned off on Calle Alcala.

As they got out of the car and approached the park’s decorative iron fence, Julie could see dozens of Madrilenos enjoying the warm morning sunshine before the day grew too hot for more than sitting at one of the shaded café tables with a cold beer.

Many of the strollers were still wearing their Sunday best. Others had changed into jeans and casual shirts. She and her escorts didn’t look out of place.

It wasn’t until they had passed through the wide gates, and Cal had set a moderate pace, that he came to the point.

“Your bag was stolen and searched by professionals, Julie. Why?”

She glanced left toward Fitz. He kept his eyes straight ahead, his lips clamped together.

“I don’t know.” Though she tried to remain calm, her voice was quavery and barely above a whisper.

“Come on. You must have some clue.”

She sighed. “I was going to tell you about this tomorrow anyway.”

“Sure.”

“Keep it civil, Dixon,” Fitz broke in. She felt his shoulder press against hers for just a moment.

The small gesture made her turn to him. “Fitz, do you remember when I went through Dan’s office drawers?”

“Yes. You said you didn’t find anything important.”

“That’s right. But there was a theater ticket that matched an odd notation on Dan’s calendar.”

She wished Fitz would say something. Across the wide lawn, the strains of a guitar reached the threesome. “I put the ticket into my pocket and forgot all about it—until after Cal grilled me in his office. I suppose I should have given it to him the next morning. But I wanted to prove to myself that it was something innocent.”

“But it wasn’t, was it?” the consular officer interjected.

“No.”

“In fact, I’ll bet you found other notations on Dan’s calendar that look ‘odd.’”

“Yes.” Damn the man!

“Who was Dan meeting Friday?” Cal pressed.

“There was an empty seat next to his, but no one claimed it.”

“Then what had you so frightened that you didn’t tell Fitz about it when he came to pick you up after the robbery?”

“Someone I recognized was sitting in back of the two seats.”