Red Midnight (27 page)

“Yes?”

“If … if Jarod should call home and I am not there until late, won’t he worry?”

“Nyet! No, no, he will know that you can be nowhere except with me.”

Erin settled back into the comfortable seat, glad of the companionable silence. They reached the airport a few moments later and were ushered to an amazingly plush private plane with deep, soft beige carpeting, engulfing beige seats, and the utmost in oak tables and bars.

Sergei smiled as the jet arced into the air and said that she could release the seatbelt. “I have been watching you, Erin. You are thinking that we are not at all a ‘classless’ society, that many of us live with far superior conditions.”

“I didn’t say anything, Sergei—” Erin protested with a flush. That had been exactly what she had been thinking.

“Ahh, my dear Erin, you are not good at deceit. I only wish to draw to your attention that I am a public servant. Your White House is a mansion, and your president has many such niceties at his disposal as this plane.”

Erin nodded, not entirely accepting his words, but sorry for the things she had said that he had surely overheard.

“Sergei,” she murmured. “I … I really don’t …” She lifted her hands helplessly, then grimaced. “For one, I really don’t know how to say this. I know you must have heard some of the things I said to Jarod this morning. I am an American; I will always think my system best. But I’ve learned a great deal about people on this trip, and I … well, I think you’re an exceptionally fine man, and that fine people come in any nationality.”

Sergei half smiled, reached for her hand, caught it, and squeezed it. “Thank you. You need say no more. You did not offend me this morning; I was just sorry to see you tear at one another. That is why we’ve come today. But for now, shall I get you a drink?”

Erin smiled gratefully and nodded. “Vodka and tonic?” she inquired hopefully. “With lime?”

“Certainly.”

He fixed the drink himself and handed it to her, shrugged, and mixed the same for himself. Then he sat, watching her and smiling at her again.

Erin sipped her drink, brooding for a moment. But he had promised to answer her questions, so she might as well begin asking them.

“Sergei—please explain my ring.”

He chuckled. “You must bear with me. You will get your answers in Leningrad.”

It was just after twelve when they reached the city, and Sergei was determined to take her on a whirlwind tour. He gave her exactly two hours to taste the treasures of the Hermitage, the one-time Winter Palace beloved by Catherine the Great. Next he took her outside the city to the fabulous Summer Palace—and she marveled at the cascading waterfalls that ran free and sparkling clear despite the cold. They picked up sausage sandwiches and warm beer from a street vendor, and then Sergei was guiding the car brought to him at the plane through outer city streets again. She was startled to realize he had brought her to a cemetery. Soft music played, and numerous monuments rose above the thin mist of snow over the endless mounds of grass.

Sergei looped an arm in hers as he led her along a row of the countless mounds. “Leningrad was held under a terrible siege in World War Two,” he told her. “You have probably studied this. I tell you now only because I wish you to realize what the terrible devastation of war did to us—and why it remains with us to this day.” He swept an arm out to encompass the row upon row of mounds. “Two thousand are buried to a mound. Men, women, children. In the war all told, Erin, twenty million of our people died. We are actually made up of fifteen nationalities, you know. But all suffered. The Belorussians, the Ukrainians, our Mongol people; those of our European cities the worst, of course. Leningrad, terribly. My mother is buried here, Erin.”

“I’m sorry,” Erin said softly.

“The war was long, long ago, but it is good that we do not forget that all suffer in war. I brought you here because I wanted you to see the fate of most of my family.” He paused, smiling kindly at her, his hazel eyes offering that unique warmth she had sensed from the beginning. “My mother had a younger sister, and she survived the siege and the war. She met and fell in love with an American war correspondent, and after the upheaval of war she was able to marry her American lover and receive permission to leave with him. She even managed to return to the U.S.S.R. with her husband years later. They were both well respected and liked—and trusted by their own government and ours.” He laughed suddenly. “Erin, you are so lovely. You listen so politely to the rumblings of a middle-aged man, far too courteous to ask, What has this to do with me? Well, I will tell you. That ring you wear belonged to my mother’s sister. She meant for my daughter to have it, but we lost Sibia when she was but an infant, and now I have only a son. Not one to care for diamonds. I have intended for many years to give it to Jarod—yet he had no need when he met Cara because they were both so impetuous—he purchased a ring in the States for her the day after he met her.”

“Sergei,” Erin murmured shaking her head, “wait, you’re losing me. I still don’t—”

“I do get ahead of myself, eh?” Sergei sighed an interruption. “My mother’s lovely younger sister was your husband’s mother. Jarod and I are first cousins. He has not told you? No, I thought not.”

“But … but …” Erin felt the draft of the cold seeping around her as she stuttered blankly. “Jarod … is … half Russian?”

Amusement touched Sergei’s eyes, a kindly, twinkling amusement. “Yes, and no. Yes, by the land, by blood, he is half Russian. No, he is an American, as all immigrants to your country become American. His heart and his soul and his beliefs are all American. He was conceived on Russian soil, but born on American. But like many Americans, he cannot completely throw away his past. He has ties to many old customs and ways. He speaks our language with his mother’s accent. And he plays the balalaika as few can.” Sergei paused. “You can see why Jarod is so excellent for his position. He knows the subtleties of both peoples, the temperaments, the desires, the fears. If there exists a man who can control a negotiation, that man is Jarod Steele.”

“He never aspired to be the president….” Erin heard herself murmur.

“No,” Sergei agreed. “It would be unlikely he could ever be elected president of your country. But secretary of state? Who knows? I believe many hope that it will be in the cards for him.”

Erin was shaking miserably. It was so cold out here. There was nothing especially morbid about the cemetery; it was even peaceful. But she was filled with the pain of knowing what she had inadvertently said. “You should be a Russian … the head of the KGB …” And all the while, he was a Russian … but an American.

“Come.” Sergei took her arm again. “We will have a lovely dinner, and then I will fly you home.”

It wasn’t until he had fulfilled his promise and wined and dined her elegantly and returned her to the apartment late that night that he paused to speak seriously again. “Erin, I know that this engagement and marriage was a foil on behalf of my cousin. But I would also tell you that he would not have taken the step if he didn’t care. He is a little lost in the clouds now. Jarod is a man who does nothing lightly. He lives intensely, he loves intensely. When he lost Cara, he was devastated: He is afraid to love again; he will not even admit to himself that he does love you. Give him time.”

Erin compressed her lips and lowered her lashes. He doesn’t admit it because he doesn’t love me, she thought, but she didn’t wish to say so to Sergei, not after all he had done to try to set things straight.

“Sergei—” Erin hesitated just a moment, chewing her lip. “Do you know what happened last night? Why Jarod was in such a terrible mood this morning?”

Sergei hesitated in turn. He didn’t wish to tell her the whole truth, and still he had no wish to lie. He hadn’t the emotional involvement with Erin that Jarod had, and therefore he was free to work on his instincts, which assured him Erin was as entirely innocent as she appeared of any wrongdoing. And yet keeping her in the dark was the thing that could leave her susceptible to being used.

He hesitated no longer. “I am sure Jarod has mentioned Project Midnight to you. That it exists is no secret to anyone. We Soviets and Americans can be alike in certain ways. When secrets are offered, we are like little children grasping for candy—even when we know we will be sick. We never know when we might get the edge. But we have both been betrayed—and we no longer know the truth from the lies.

“This double spy we seek has no loyalty, no nation. We seek a mercenary who looks for top dollar only. We know information is passed at midnight—and I, like Jarod, believe the action takes place on Red Square. There is someone who laughs before the very nose of the Soviet seat of power.

“I am a Russian, Erin. This is my country, my power. But like my American cousin, I dread war. I was a child when I saw my city of birth razed to the ground, the carcasses of horses lying with those of men—and children. Like Jarod, I wish to put a stop to this rubbing raw of possible negotiations.

“We know of a man who was involved in this razor-edged double-dealing. He was with the American embassy—a great embarrassment to the Americans. And we have all seen fit to allow his death to be forgotten. But before he was killed, he had begun to fear for his life. He fed certain clues into a computer—cryptic clues about who he was dealing with. That is why we are so close. We know this spy is American by birth, we know he was taking over operations himself—or herself—about the time you entered the Soviet Union. People are used, paid well sometimes, duped at other times. But the chain is an excellent one. No one ever knows who is at the top. Ivan could tell us nothing when he was arrested, but Ivan will still spend his remaining days in Siberia.

“Someone is afraid that Jarod is coming too close to the truth. Last night, warning shots were fired at him. I can only assume that you knew where he was going; that is why he was angry.”

She was sinking; her legs were refusing to hold her. Sergei grasped her arm and led her to the staircase, where she allowed her legs to buckle and sat on the second step.

She had become pale. Sergei sought to reassure her. “You must not worry, Erin. Jarod knows what he is doing. And”—Sergei winked—“whether he always knows it or not, he has me. He will be fine. We are different men, but we are also blood. Trust me, Erin.”

Erin nodded and tried to smile, though she was feeling very ill.

“And you must not worry about what you might have said or done. Jarod could easily have been seen by anyone heading for the square. He made no attempt to hide his movements.”

She tried to smile again. It was a better effort. Sergei left her and moved into the kitchen, returning with a snifter of brandy. He handed it to her. “Drink.”

Automatically, Erin obeyed. The liquid heat spread through her, and her color slowly returned.

“Erin …” Sergei said slowly. “Will you be all right?”

She nodded again.

“Yes, I believe you will be. You are a strong woman. Now, you must promise me you will not tell your husband how much I have told you! We will keep that a secret, like our trip to Leningrad. Jarod is a touchy man when it comes to interference in his private life!”

“I … promise,” Erin said weakly.

“Good.”

Erin was silent for several moments, her mind whirling with reproach and then guilt and then reassurance. She had spoken only to Gil, and she knew he was innocent. He had to be. No one could be so caring and giving. Sergei had said that anyone could have seen Jarod leave the house. If she had mentioned Gil to Jarod, she would have created new tensions for nothing. Her husband was simply contemptuous of Gil, and that was no reason to hound him.

Erin mentally stiffened herself, and the effort straightened her spine.

“Sergei,” she said. “I would like to apologize for some of the things I said to him. May I tell him that you did tell me you are his cousin? I’ll say you merely mentioned it at lunch.”

Sergei paused a minute and then gave her his typical shrug, hazel eyes dancing. “Yes—you may tell him I told you. It is not a great secret. Now I must get home, or I will have my wife shouting similar things at me!”

Erin managed a small laugh. She was able to stand and see him to the door. “Sergei—spa seeba. Thank you so very much. And—Do sveedah nyah.”

“Yes, Erin,” he smiled, warmly clasping her hand. “’Til we meet again.”

When she had closed the door on him, she walked into the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea and sat before the cold fireplace. If Jarod were here, she thought, the fire would be burning.

She pressed her fingers to her temples. All the information of the day kept shooting through her head, like shouts growing louder and louder. She simply couldn’t cope with it at the moment, and she had to learn that if she made a decision, she had to stick with it—not reproach herself for it hours and days after.

Jarod could take care of himself. He would be fine, and soon she would be gone, the entire, confusing nightmare would be over for her, and Jarod would no longer be a part of her life.

That hurt, even if she would be free from the endless web of deceit and confusion of her stay in the U.S.S.R. It hurt so badly it was like a knife twisting into her. But she couldn’t change anything. She could try to apologize for this morning, they could become civil acquaintances again, but the magic she had grabbed for fleeting moments was gone.

As she slowly mounted the staircase for bed, she prayed that Jarod would be fine. Because if she didn’t at least know that he was alive and well somewhere in the world, she didn’t think she could bear it.

The phone began ringing just as her head hit the pillow. She jerked up, racing into the den for the extension on Jarod’s desk.

“Erin? I’ve been trying to get you all day. Is everything okay there?”

“Yes—yes, fine. I was … out with Sergei.”

“Oh?”

“We kind of made a day of it.”

He was silent on the other end. “I wanted to apologize for my behavior,” he finally said stiffly.

Erin took a deep breath. “I wanted to apologize myself. I … Jarod, why didn’t you ever tell me that Sergei was your cousin? That … that your mother was Russian?”