Firebird (58 page)

A quirk of brow, a question in those serious eyes.  He waited.

“You make me feel
safe
.  But I didn’t know safe could feel so… intimate.”

She saw the leap of fire in the dark eyes. 

“And – you helped me find my sister, Garcia.  For so long, I wanted to change her, wanted her to be someone
else
, and all that anger kept us apart.  But now, finally, I understand that families remain linked in ways that are infinite.”  She looked up at him.  “I can still feel her hand in mine, walking on the beach so long ago.”

“Si.  Love is what matters, Chica.  It’s what we remember.”

Ruby chose that moment to burst into frustrated tears and run to him. 

“Ah, Little Red,” he said, “I know what will make you happy.”  Smiling, Garcia wiped her tears with a gentle finger and reached for his guitar case.  He lifted the guitar, and began to strum.  Ruby stopped crying and sat beside him, mesmerized, both small hands spread flat on the warm, pulsing wood.

Then Garcia began to sing softly, in Spanish.

I’m in big trouble, thought Alexandra.  She stood for a long time, barely able to breathe, watching her child fall in love.  She wanted to paint them, to capture forever this moment -  this tall dark man with the serious eyes and the beautiful bright child snuggled so trustingly against his side, her hair glowing scarlet in the dusky light.

Ending the ballad, Garcia raised his eyes.  “I’ve never seen you like this,” he said.

“Like what?”

“Happy.  That smile in your eyes – it looks good on you.  Real good.”  And then, “It’s getting late.  Time for pjs, then I’ll be on my way.”  He set the guitar down, bent to Ruby and, as Alexandra watched, gathered her child in his arms.

Ruby reached up to touch his face, and Alexandra’s heart stirred with emotion. Whatever happens, she thought, we have this moment.

Stay with me
.

CHAPTER 65

“Is the chair empty?  Is the sword unswayed?  Is the King dead?”

Shakespeare, King Henry VI

Forty blocks uptown, in the heart of the theater district, lamplight blazed in the narrow brownstone restaurant that housed the Palace of the Firebird.  It was almost time for the pre-theatre crowd, but at the moment the beautiful candlelit bar was hushed, waiting.

Yuri Belankov sat alone at a small table in the shadows, listening to a recording of Stravinsky’s
Firebird Suite
.  He’d enjoyed the ballet - the little he’d seen of it - until Anthony Rhodes was struck down.

He glanced over at the elegant young woman working behind the glistening bar.  He’d known and trusted her for years.  Panov was dead, after all, and they’d needed a bartender.  As Tatyana Danilova’s silent partner in the Palace of the Firebird, it was the very least he could do to help.

He swallowed the vodka and thought about the boy he had been so long ago, sitting in a Russian café, playing his cheap violin and longing for something he could not yet imagine.

Reaching into his jacket pocket, he removed the small jewelry box.  His thumb flicked it open.  Diamonds and rubies flashed in the candlelight.

He smiled.  It had not been difficult to search Panov’s apartment, to find the treasure hidden inside Panov’s boot.  Like most Russians, Panov had not had much imagination.

The music ended with a crash.  He stood and moved to the bar.  “How do you make a New Russian laugh on Saturday?” he asked the young woman.  “Tell him a joke on Wednesday.  Ha!”

He sat down on the leather barstool, smiling at the attractive bartender.  “So, my dear Natasha, all is going well for you?”

She returned his smile.  “I’ve missed you,” she said quietly.  “It’s been too long.”

“I told you to have patience.  Now, you will be rewarded.”

She moved closer, leaned her elbows on the polished bar.  “How did you pull it off?” she whispered.  “I can’t put all the pieces together.”

He bent toward her.  “When I met you in St. Petersburg,” he said softly, “my father had just died.  It was New Year’s Eve, 2000.  You remember?”

Her eyes sparked.  “Very well.”

He reached out to touch her chin with an intimate gesture.  “Ha.  My father never trusted me as a ‘true Communist believer,’ you know.  He was right, although now I hate the new Russians even more.  When I went to the dacha that night to take care of my father’s affairs, I discovered that he was a key member of the KGB’s ‘mole group’.  And I found the papers describing Operation Firebird behind a wall papered with worthless rubles, hidden with the Firebird brooch.”

He drank his vodka slowly, remembering.  “I had so much wealth by then, but I hated the chaos and corruption.  As you did.  And suddenly, by a stroke of luck, I knew about Ivan.  And Anthony Rhodes. The Firebird opened the way to the power that had eluded me.”

“You contacted Prince Ivan?”

“No.  Something better.  I found Tatyana Danilova, helped her move to the United States, and eventually became her financial partner for the purchase of this restaurant.”  He waved his hand around the dark, intimate bar.  “I recommended that she hire Panov as the bartender.  And then, when everything was in place…”

“You contacted Anthony Rhodes.”

“Da.  Anthony was a committed Russian agent and I threatened to expose him, and his Operation Firebird.  He became my man in the U.S. Government,
my
mole.  And, on my orders, he became a ‘friend’ of Tatyana.  She would be a leverage point with Ivan should he ever forget his commitment to our cause.”

“And so,” the young woman encouraged him, “you bided your time, with both Anthony and Ivan climbing their way toward the top of the power echelon in the U.S.”  Her breath came out with sudden realization.  “Until the discovery of the East Coast spy ring!”

He shook his smooth head as he emptied his glass.  “And the possibility of a mole hunt at the State Department.  I had to take action that would protect Anthony.  I was so close to having him named the new Secretary of State…  So.  I had a problem, and I solved it.  All Ivan had to do was kill Senator Rossinski.”

“Because the Senator supports conciliation with the current Russian leaders.”

“While I want them out.”  He shook his head, focused a laser stare on her.  “If I had stayed in Russia,” he murmured, “my fate would have been a metal cage.  Wealth attracts trouble these days.  No, it is time for my good friends to be in power now.  Oligarchs, or whatever you want to call us…  without us the Soviet Union would have collapsed decades ago.  We have been gray men for too long.  We know how to be successful in the New Russia, we understand our resource rich country.  It is time to take back our rightful place in the world.  Russia cannot be left out in the cold, ever again.”

“And Senator Rossinski would have supported the current regime.”

“We never expected him to replace Vice President Grey.”  He smiled.  “Poetic justice for Rossinski to be killed by a Russian agent, yes?”

She poured more Vodka into his flute.  “So Charles Fraser was the solution to your problem.  You provided him with the ammunition necessary for a mole hunt for Ivan.”

“Da.  I’d kept a watch on my old friend over the years.  I went to him with the information on Firebird.  But I told him my father had died recently, not years ago.   And I did not share the most important pages of my father’s file…”

“Ivan’s identity.  And Anthony Rhodes’ secret.”

“Charles would have identified poor Rens as the spy, of course.  Rossinski would have been out of the picture.  And Rhodes would have been safe.  Brilliant, yes?  It would have worked so perfectly, except for Eve Rhodes.”

“You didn’t know Charles Fraser was having an affair with Anthony’s wife!” she guessed.  

He frowned into his glass.  “I should have expected the unpredictable…  Charles told Eve about Operation Firebird.  Frightened for Charles, she told Anthony that there was a mole at the top of the U.S. government, and asked for his help.  Anthony panicked, began to drug her… and, in the end, he killed her.”  He gazed into the shadows.  “I had not expected that depth of ambition.”

“You told me once that it’s not power that corrupts. It’s the fear of losing power.”

“And Anthony Rhodes has proven me right.”

“What happened to the brooch?”

“Ah, the brooch.  I’d taken a chance, giving the original to Charles with the  Firebird documents.”

“You couldn’t have known he’d give it to Eve Rhodes.”

“Nor did I ever dream she would hide it for her sister to find.  God laughs at our plans, yes?”  He shook his head.  “Alexandra Marik is a formidable opponent.  And a remarkable art curator.  Our paths will cross again.”

“And now?  What will you do?”

“Patience is the ‘new black,’ Natasha.  Ha!  Espionage is the world’s second oldest profession.  As long as there are secrets, there will be spies.”

He held out his now empty glass.  “One more vodka, my dear Natasha.  A son of the old Russia has much to celebrate tonight.” 

The woman behind the bar poured a glass of Grey Goose and set the slim glass in front of him.

Yuri Belankov thought of his father and raised his glass.  “To the sons.” 

EPILOGUE

THE CURTAIN COMES DOWN

“...thy sister calls.”

William Blake

THREE WEEKS LATER

NEW YORK CITY

Candlelight flickered over the faces of the guests as they moved slowly past the display of black and white photographs.  On a small easel near the entrance doors, a discreet placard announced the night’s celebration.

Special Exhibit Opening Tonight

The Baranski Gallery is proud to present

Photographs - The Faces of Homelessness

by Evangeline Marik Rhodes

All proceeds from this exhibit will benefit Women’s Shelters

in New York City and Washington, D.C.

Opening January 1st:  

1,000 Years of Russian Art

Once again, Alexandra stood in the shadowed alcove at the back of the gallery, watching the guests.  Just five weeks earlier, she’d stood in this very place during the Baranski’s opening night exhibit, mourning her sister.

She let out her breath and raised her eyes to the balcony. 

Eve
?

High above the gallery, the velvet curtains quivered.  Just a whisper.

“I kept my promise, Eve,” Alexandra said softly.  “I finished what you began.  Your daughter’s going to be okay.”

Discovering why Eve had died was never the real mystery, Alexandra realized.  Once more she gazed up at the high balcony.  I needed to discover who you really were, Eve.  Who we were, together.  And who I am without you.

You have made me more, not less,
she told her sister. 
I’m growing closer to my daughter...  And now you’ve given yours to my care.

Alexandra held up her glass.  “Thank you for reminding me that I am strong,” she murmured.  “And thank you for Juliet.  I hope you know how much I loved you.”  Then she set down her glass, raised her hands and signed, ‘Sweet dreams.’ 

The tender farewell granted a final measure of grace.

Sighing, she turned away to join the guests who walked slowly past the gallery walls that displayed Eve’s powerful photographs.  Photographs that illuminated a very personal side of homelessness.

One after another, each telling a different story.  The final photograph was the most stunning of all.  The battered face of the teenaged LaVonda, staring at Eve’s camera lens with a child’s huge, haunted eyes.

Alexandra turned from that photograph to search the crowd, finally finding her new intern sitting shy but proud against the far wall.  LaVonda had done a beautiful job helping to organize and catalog the exhibit.  Although she still rarely spoke, it was her comments, written in touching, often heart-breaking poetry, that hung alongside many of Eve’s photographs.

“You did it, Baby Sister!  You and Garcia cleared my brother’s name.  My Charley can rest in peace.”

Alexandra spun around.  “Billie, there you are! 
We
did it, my friend.”  The two women linked arms in genuine fondness.  “Your brother was a hero, Billie.”

Billie nodded.  “Charley was so close to finding out the truth about Anthony Rhodes.  Damn Rhodes to hell!”

“It won’t be long.  They don’t think Anthony’s going to make it.”

Billie gazed across the gallery.  “At least there is one better ending.”

Alexandra’s eyes followed Billie’s.  Tatyana Danilova sat with the graceful long neck and straight posture of a prima ballerina on a velvet sofa.  High on her shoulder, her Firebird brooch sparked with ruby light.

Bending over her, holding her hand, was a tall, handsome man in his mid-forties with a shock of prematurely white hair over eyes the color of a Russian winter. 
The son looked so much like his father
.  

Alexandra’s sigh was achingly sad.  “I told Tatyana that Ivan saved Juliet’s life in Stratton,” she said softly.  “I know he was a spy, Billie, but – some of the things he said to me…”  She pictured Ivan in the snow-bound lodge, his tormented face in shadow.

Do you think you loved your sister more than I loved mine
?

“We can’t ever really know what is in another man’s soul, Billie.  Tatyana and Ivan’s love was pure. 
She
was the true Firebird all along.  Her love saved him.”

“And Ivan?”

“Still being questioned.  Garcia won’t say where.  But he’s out of the hospital.”

“So it’s over, then.”

Alexandra gazed at her friend.  “But does it really end with Anthony?  Or is there someone else, someone who’s been
controlling Anthony,
all this time?”