Buch lesen: «The Innocents Club»

Chapter One

Renata Hunter Carr was not remotely dead when Mariah Bolt first laid eyes on her. Far from it. That condition was soon to change, of course, and Mariah would be the agent of that change. For those who believe in fate, the wheel was set inexorably in motion three days before Renata’s ill-fated swim.

Three days and nearly three thousand miles away…

Jack Geist, deputy director of Operations, acted as if there were nothing unusual about summoning Mariah to his office on the seventh floor of CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia.

His secretary turned the handle on the big wooden door leading to the inner sanctum, her other hand raised to Mariah, indicating she should wait. Through the crack between the door and the frame, Mariah saw the deputy at his desk, flipping through a stack of files. When the DDO didn’t look up, the other woman cleared her throat softly.

“She’s here, sir. Ms. Bolt? Who you asked me to call in?”

He raised his head slowly, looking distracted and irritated, and gave her a curt nod. She scuttled back out, nodding to Mariah, then pulling the door shut behind her as Mariah entered.

Geist’s demeanor went through a transformation. He got to his feet and came around his massive desk, hand extended, lips stretching wide in a smile. “Mariah Bolt! I don’t think we’ve ever had the pleasure. Jack Geist.”

The smile stopped well short of his pallid green eyes, she noticed, taking his hand. He fixed her with a long, piercing look that could have been interpreted in any number of ways, none of which put her at ease.

His skin had the leathery texture of a pack-a-day man. When he finally released her hand and waved toward the leather sofa and chairs on one side of his wood-lined office, Mariah caught the scent of stale cigarettes only partially masked. She tried to picture the deputy huddled in the center courtyard with the rest of the agency’s nicotine junkies, but the image refused to come. He didn’t look the type to mingle with the masses, for one thing. Also, in her experience, covert Ops people played by their own rules, so she found herself looking around the office for the ashtrays she knew had to be there, despite the building-wide smoking ban—certain he’d have dismantled the office smoke detectors.

“Thanks for stopping by,” Geist added, following her across the room.

“No problem.” Not that this was anything but a command performance. Mariah passed up the deep leather sofa for one of the armchairs sitting at right angles to it around a low mahogany table. “My secretary said it was urgent.”

In fact, Jane had pulled her out of an interdepartmental meeting to breathlessly pass on the DDO’s summons. It wasn’t every day analysts were called to the deep-cover side of the shop, not even specialists like Mariah, who supervised a weapons watchdog group.

Geist settled his own lank frame at the end of the sofa nearest her. His close-cropped hair was straw-colored, the kind that turns imperceptibly white with age. With his loosened tie and rumpled white cotton shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, he looked as though he might have spent the night on that couch, working on some unfolding international crisis. Did men like this have family lives? Mariah wondered.

Nestled in the corner between them was a low, intricately carved table topped with a hammered-brass platter. It looked like an acquisition from some Arab souk. Like the ruby Persian wool carpet beneath their feet, the water pipe on the credenza and the carved, mother-of-pearl-inlaid wooden boxes scattered around the room, the table was a souvenir, no doubt, of Geist’s travels on behalf of the Company. On a lower shelf of the small table, she spotted another hammered-brass item—a bowl, empty at the moment, but its concave inner surface black with soot. The predicted ashtray. Bingo.

“The Last Days of the Romanov Dynasty,” Geist said, getting straight to the point. “Ever hear of it?”

“Yes, of course,” she said, nodding. “Largest and most valuable collection of Russian royal artifacts ever assembled since Czar Nicholas II and his family were assassinated by the Bolsheviks in 1917. Co-curated by the Hermitage Museum in Saint Petersburg and L.A.’s Arlen Hunter Museum. Starts a two-year North American tour this summer.”

“Tomorrow, matter of fact. At the Arlen Hunter.”

She resisted the temptation to say “So what?,” already dreading where this conversation was heading. Did he know about her vacation plans? And then, another stomach-sinking thought: Did Geist have any inkling about her connection to the Hunter family? As spectacular as the Romanov exhibit was reputed to be, the Arlen Hunter Museum was the last place on earth she’d voluntarily choose to set foot.

“We found out this morning that none other than Valery Zakharov is going to do the ribbon-cutting honors,” Geist said. “He arrives in exactly twenty-four hours.”

“The foreign minister himself? I know the exhibit’s an important revenue-generator for the Russian government, but that seems like overkill, doesn’t it?”

“My thoughts, too, although Zakharov was due in L.A. later this week, anyway. The conference of Pacific Rim states opens out there on the fifth. There’s going to be a big kick-off reception on board the Queen Mary the night of the fourth.”

“Nice timing. They’ll be able to see fireworks up and down the coast from there. The State Department should save a bundle on entertainment.”

“No kidding. Anyway, we’ve spotted several known intelligence figures on the list of names the Russians have submitted for diplomatic visas.”

“That’s not surprising, is it? Zakharov’s ex-KGB, after all. Well, ‘ex,”’ she amended. “Not precisely. It may be FSB now, but it’s not like they’ve gone out of business. It’s to be expected that Zakharov’s entourage would include some spooks, I would think.”

“No doubt. That’s why I want somebody there to keep an eye on things.”

“Isn’t that the FBI’s job?”

The deputy scowled. “Funny, that’s what our esteemed director said. Between you and me, Mariah, that man’s so pussy-whipped by the oversight committees he doesn’t take a piss without prenotifying Capitol Hill.”

Mariah said nothing. There was something tacky about a man bad-mouthing his boss to someone he’d never met before and who didn’t even work for him. Given that the director had appointed Geist to his current exalted position, it was also more than a little disloyal. So what was that all about? A bid to make her feel part of his inner circle of confidants?

Geist had held the deputy’s post only a few months. Like most covert operatives, he’d been little known inside the agency until his name had suddenly surfaced as the man who would take over the beleaguered Operations position. The press release announcing his appointment had said Geist was an eighteen-year veteran of the agency who’d served in a variety of positions, mostly in the Middle East. Only eighteen years, Mariah reflected—a relatively meteoric rise in a bureaucracy as large and byzantine as the CIA. It was safe to assume the man was both ambitious and ruthless.

“We have no mandate for operations on domestic soil,” she said, pointing out the obvious. Was that why she was here? So he could keep his hands technically clean by using a non-Ops employee for whatever scheme he was brewing?

“Who said anything about an operation? I’m talking observation. Simply keeping an eye on Company interests. The FBI’s worried about Russian moles and organized crime. Fair enough, but we’ve got bigger fish to fry. Zakharov’s making a big push for the presidency. He’s probably going to be the next man with his finger on the Russian arsenal. It’s not much direct threat to us these days, but the Russians have plenty of potential for mischief. You, of all people, are well aware of that, Mariah. Why, just the level of their arms shipments to sleazy customers is enough to turn my hair gray.”

She was tempted to point out that the Russians would have to quadruple their activity to begin to approach the level of American arms sales abroad, nor were U.S. clients any less unsavory, on the whole. But she let it slide. Her job was to monitor the other team, not her own. In any case, she was curious to know where this conversation was heading. Curious, and more than a little uneasy.

“Zakharov is a thug, but if he’s going to take over Russia, he’s going to be our thug,” Geist said. “We’re already working to ensure he’s in our pocket, but to be on the safe side, I’d like a little extra insurance. A reliable source in his inner circle would make me very happy.”

A source in Zakharov’s inner circle? That sounded suspiciously like co-opting a foreign agent—a covert operation if ever there was one. Mariah waited for the other shoe to drop. It didn’t take long.

“That’s why you’re going to attend the Romanov opening,” Geist said.

Bang. Just what she’d been afraid he was going to say. “Excuse me, sir—”

“Call me Jack.”

“—this doesn’t make any sense,” she went on, ignoring the invitation to familiarity, which, she suspected, could only breed contempt. “If you’re planning to mount a recruitment operation, you should send someone from your side of the shop with experience in this kind of thing.”

“I understand you’ve done some work for us in the past.”

Much to my everlasting regret. “Nothing of this order of magnitude,” she said. “I wouldn’t know where to begin identifying a susceptible target.”

“Ah, well! That’s the beauty of it, you see. The target has already identified himself. Someone you know. Yuri Belenko, Zakharov’s executive assistant.”

“Belenko? Really? I have met him,” she conceded.

“Twice in the last year, if I’m correctly informed. First, at last fall’s U.N. General Assembly session in New York. Then again in March, at the European security conference in Paris.”

She nodded. “I was seconded to the State Department to work with their disarmament delegation, but—”

Geist leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fixing her once more with that intense, thousand-yard stare. “Tell me about Belenko, Mariah.”

“I filed contact reports both times I met with him.” It sounded defensive, she knew, but what did Geist think had gone on between her and the Russian?

“I know you did, but I want to hear it from you. What’s he like?”

“He’s…nice,” she ventured, wincing internally. Oh, that’s brilliant, Mariah. What a wonderfully insightful analysis. She tried again. “Intelligent and personable. Well-educated, well-traveled. Forty-three. Divorced, apparently. Speaks excellent, idiomatic American English of the kind taught in KGB training courses—which we happen to know was his original stomping ground. We have to presume he still represents the FSB.”

“Personal quirks?”

“I’m not sure I know of any—unless you count the fact that he’s an avid collector of proverbs and American slang. It’s quite the running joke.”

“Proverbs, eh? What else does he collect?”

Mariah frowned. “I don’t follow your—Oh! Right. Well, yes, he is a bit of a ladies’ man, I suppose.”

“You suppose?”

“As I said, he can be charming, and he tends to turn it on around women.”

“Especially you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m led to believe that our man Yuri’s somewhat smitten with you, Mariah. Is that true?”

“What are you suggesting?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just waiting to hear what you have to report.”

“There’s nothing to report,” she said. “Look, I don’t know what you’ve heard from your watchers, but there’s nothing between me and Belenko. The idea’s ridiculous, not least because I lost my husband a year and a half ago, and my hands are full doing my job here and raising a teenage daughter. I’m hardly in a position or mood to carry on a wild social life with the likes of Yuri Belenko or anyone else.”

“You do get around, though.”

“How do you mean?”

Geist sat back and studied her for a moment. Then he got to his feet, walked back to his desk and reached for one of the files he’d been reading when she walked in. With-drawing a piece of paper, he returned and stood over her, holding it up.

Mariah’s heart sank. It was a photocopy of a Washington Post article that had appeared a few weeks earlier. The photograph accompanying the piece hadn’t copied well, but she knew exactly who the two shadowy figures in it were.

“For someone who claims to be out of commission, you do lead a high-profile life,” Geist said. He turned the article back toward himself. “The National Press Club awards. My, my! And there you are, recognizable enough, even though this is a lousy copy, gracing the arm of one of our top TV newscasters.”

“Paul Chaney’s an old friend of my husband’s. And mine,” she conceded, realizing it was stupid to pretend otherwise, despite her own ambivalence on the subject. “He was getting an award that night. He needed a date and I went along as a favor.”

“This article’s not about Chaney, though, is it? It’s about you. And your father. There’ve been a couple of others since this one, too.”

“Unfortunately.” She exhaled heavily. “Look, the whole thing was an accident. Some reporter found out I was Ben Bolt’s daughter and latched onto a rumor that an unpublished novel of his had been found.”

She should never have gone to that dinner. Not for the first time, she cursed Paul for letting slip the information about her father and his papers. Not for the first time, either, she wondered whether his gaffe had been as accidental as he kept claiming.

“Your late father’s considered to be one of the biggies of American lit, I guess.” Geist pursed his lips and shrugged. “Not surprising news like that would create a stir.”

“I suppose, but I certainly never intended to get caught at the center of a controversy.”

“So? Is there a novel?”

She shrugged. “There’s a draft manuscript and some journals that showed up in an old storage locker. My father’s agent is wading through the mess now, trying to see whether it adds up to much. I’m planning to see him next week to discuss what, if anything, we should do with it. In any case,” she added, “that’s all beside the point. We were discussing Yuri Belenko, and I don’t want to hold you up, sir. I’m sure you’re very busy. Why would you think Belenko’s susceptible to working for us?”

“Ah, well,” Geist said, laying aside the Post article, “that’s what I was trying to get at before you went all coy on me, Mariah. I don’t know if he’s susceptible to us, but he certainly seems to be susceptible to you.”

“Why would you think that?”

“My people have been keeping an eye on him, and we’ve intercepted a couple of conversations where he’s mentioned you in a most wistful manner. Also, did you know that when you were in Paris in March, he followed you back to your hotel one night? We think he was planning to pay a social call, only I gather your daughter was there with you…?”

“The conference was only a one-day affair, and she had spring break, so…” Mariah felt a tremor run through her. “Belenko was following me? He saw her?”

It was her old nightmare, come back to haunt her again—her child in danger because of her work. Deskbound as she was, it wasn’t much of an issue these days. But when the March conference had come up, she and Lindsay had just gone through their second Christmas without David, followed by a rough winter. The appeal of springtime in Paris had overshadowed the risk of taking her daughter along on the short business trip.

Never again.

Geist leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “My watchers said Belenko seemed real disappointed. Guess he decided he wasn’t going to get to first base that night. We decided to start keeping an eye on him, though. Then, day before yesterday, we hit pay dirt.”

“Pay dirt?”

“He had dinner with his brother in Moscow. The guy’s a literary critic for Isvestia, did you know that? Belenko told him he’d met Ben Bolt’s daughter. I guess your father’s novels are popular over there, too?”

Mariah nodded. “Your people bugged their conversation?”

“Yup. Belenko mentioned he was heading back to the States this week, said he was hoping to see you again. Maybe he was just trying to impress big brother, but from the way he spoke, it didn’t seem like it was the finer points of modern fiction he was looking to pursue, if you know what I mean.”

Mariah sat back, momentarily stunned. Then she shook her head. “I don’t think you’re reading this correctly.”

“You never noticed Belenko had the hots for you? You’re a very attractive woman, Mariah.”