By Dawn's Early Light Page 3

  Against her better judgment, Alanna nodded and left the table. She met with Daniel twice more over the next few days, and at their third meeting was surprised to see him with an attractive blonde.

  Daniel stood as she approached, then made the introductions. “Alanna, this is my wife, Lauren. For security reasons, while we’re in Russia she is using the name Esther.”

  “Esther?” Alanna gave the woman a skeptical smile as she sat down. “That was my mother’s name.”

  Lauren smiled, an almost imperceptible note of pleading in her face. “We know, Alanna. It is a beautiful Hebrew name.”

  Alanna glanced sharply at Daniel. “Who told you?”

  A momentary look of discomfort crossed Daniel’s face, then he lifted his hand. “It’s all in the computer records. Your mother was Esther Honig; your father was Albert James. You finished your secondary education at Kennedy High School in Conroe, Texas; you graduated magna cum laude from Baylor with a degree in business administration.”

  “Good grief.” She frowned, a little unnerved by the fact that a stranger could know so much about her. Sarcasm chilled her voice. “Did you also learn that I used to go to Sunday school at the Little Creek Baptist Church? And that my father left us when I was ten and I haven’t heard from him since?”

  Daniel pressed his hands to the table and leaned toward her, his expression growing serious. “We need you, Alanna, and I’m praying you’ll have enough respect for your mother’s heritage to help us. This matter concerns the Jews . . . all Jews.”

  Lauren pressed her hand over Daniel’s. “Alanna, there is trouble stirring in Russia, just below the surface of things. Surely you know that Russian President Chapaev is very ill.”

  Alanna nodded slowly.

  “And the Russian economy is faltering,” Lauren continued, her blue eyes gleaming with intelligence and independence. “Combined with the rampant corruption of business and government and the rise of the Russian Mafia—”

  “The Russian government is ripe for a coup,” Daniel finished, his eyes never leaving Alanna’s face. “And all we are asking you to do is befriend the man who will most likely step into the power vacuum. He is the minister of defense, the man in charge of all Russian forces. He has nerves of steel, a fierce hatred for the Jews, and a weakness for American blondes.”

  Alanna flinched, momentarily wishing she had been born a brunette.

  Lauren must have noticed her unease. “We won’t let anything happen to you, Alanna. Daniel will be constantly in touch. And we’ll protect you as much as we are able. We’ll hack into the national computer registry and make an adjustment of your identification records—and those of your mother. We’ll change your mother’s name to something less Jewish.”

  Daniel nodded. “The man we’re watching is dangerous, Alanna, though he has never harmed one of his women. I can’t tell you much about him, but I can assure you of this—he may be the individual to launch the next world war. In his twenty-five year military career he has gained a reputation for ruthlessness and ambition. His anti-Semitism rivals Hitler’s. And he is courting dangerous and influential friends in the Middle East.”

  Alanna took a deep, quivering breath to quell the leaping pulse beneath her ribs. “What makes you think he would like me?”

  Daniel looked back at her and smiled without humor. “Like most Russians, he decries American excess while secretly coveting it. We know he keeps a framed poster of Grace Kelly in his bedroom, and your physical resemblance to that lady is remarkable. He has never been married but has enjoyed a string of mistresses and is currently on the outs with his last paramour. The timing is perfect—there’s a vacancy in his love life, and you’d be the perfect woman to fill it.”

  “And I would just be—” Alanna lifted a brow—“what?”

  “Be his friend; be his date—important men always like to have beautiful women on their arms in public. I’m not asking you to become his mistress, in fact, I’d seriously advise against it. But if he says or does anything that might affect international interests, let us know. We’ll give you the means to contact us, and you’ll be perfectly safe. We don’t want to move on this man, and you can believe me when I say we’re acting on Russia’s behalf. We just want to know what he’s doing.”

  Alanna carried Daniel’s proposition back to her apartment and spent the rest of the evening trying to see herself as a Texan Mata Hari. On the surface, the idea was ridiculous, but if Daniel’s information was correct, she would be safe from harm and she could back out at any time. As a favor to Daniel and Mrs. Nance, she could agree to see the general on a few occasions, then continue with her plans to return to the United States. Once she was home, she’d settle down with a solid, sturdy Texan and raise a half dozen young’uns. This little adventure would make a thrilling story to tell the grandkids.

  She poured herself a cup of tea and sipped it, considering. She had been living in Russia for nearly two years and had absolutely nothing to show for it. Because she had been daunted by the idea of learning a language with three genders, six cases for nouns, and an entirely different alphabet, she didn’t speak the language well and had made few friends in Moscow. She wanted to return home with the knowledge that these years had not been a total waste, that she had accomplished something worthwhile while she lived apart from friends and family.

  Daniel had agreed to let Alanna take all the time she needed to consider his proposal, but within twelve hours she had given him her answer—yes. If he would set up a meeting, she would do her best to charm the Russian general.

  Part of her brain railed against agreeing to such a foolhardy plan, but a far more vocal part insisted she break free of her ennui and do something with her life. In the months after Sergei’s death, her little apartment had grown bleak and forlorn; each day seemed a dreary succession of endless, joyless hours, enlivened only by her occasional meetings with Irene. During the week she considered Daniel’s proposal she had felt more alive than she had in years.

  The feeling increased as time passed. Three days later, after Daniel provided Alanna with the most elegant evening gown in Moscow, she accompanied her mysterious countryman and his wife to the American ambassador’s winter ball. Shortly after the festivities commenced, Daniel presented Alanna to Mrs. Nance, who introduced her to several Russian military officials, including Vladimir Vasilievich Gogol. Gogol asked Alanna for a waltz, then kept her by his side for the rest of the evening.

  She found nothing distasteful in the general’s appearance. He was a good-sized man, thick through the torso and shoulder, and the military uniform became him. His dark eyes framed a handsome square face, and his shining pate suggested neatness, not age or vulnerability. He spoke English with a careful dedication, and his eyes brimmed with admiration each time he looked at her.

  Vladimir sought out her company every evening for the next week. By the weekend, he had arranged for her to move from her small apartment into a luxurious suite at the Hotel Metropol, only a short distance from the Kremlin, Red Square, and the GUM, Russia’s approximation of a shopping mall. Without demanding anything in return, Vladimir bought her furs, clothing, and foods from the finest international markets. The average Russian woman would not in her lifetime obtain the myriad luxuries Alanna enjoyed in a week.

  She scarcely knew how, but within three months she had become his mistress. Perhaps something in her longed for masculine affection. Perhaps, she ruefully admitted, he had bought her attentions with extravagances she would not have enjoyed even in Houston. He had commandeered her mind and her body, but, she vowed, he would never touch her heart. The calluses around it had grown too thick.

  Still, Vladimir had never been unpleasant with her, and she seldom saw any sign of the ruthless, ironfisted leader Daniel had described. Sometimes she wondered if Gogol were two men—one a tough, merciless military general, the other a coddling, attentive gentleman. He loved to dress her up in beautiful gowns and take her to important banquets and social occasions, and she intui
tively understood that he displayed her as a bejeweled pet on a diamond-studded leash. During public appearances, he locked his arm around her waist and paraded through the crowds, rarely speaking to her but never allowing her to suffer insult or harm.

  The role of prized pet was an unexpected blessing, for it enabled Alanna to disguise her intellect behind a polished smile and a river of shining hair. Vladimir cared nothing for her brain, but he found her Southern accent and flirtatious kisses very satisfying. They had now been together nearly eight months, and Vladimir’s affections showed no sign of waning.

  She sank lower into the overstuffed chair and wondered if Daniel— whom she had not seen since agreeing to meet Vladimir Gogol—would approve her efforts thus far. He had warned her not to become Gogol’s mistress, but what else was she to do? A powerful man would not remain captivated by a less-than-willing woman for long.

  She brought her hand to her forehead, pushed back a wayward strand of hair, and frowned at the ornate chandelier hanging over the dining room table in the adjoining room. She had communicated with Daniel only a few times since meeting Vladimir; there had been no need to risk contacting him more often. The general kept his two selves quietly compartmentalized; he rarely mixed personal and professional concerns. But the phone call today was interesting. She had not known Gogol was involved with Adrian Romulus, president of the European Union.

  Summoning her energy, she stood and walked barefoot into the kitchen, then rummaged under the sink. Heedless of her expensive peignoir, she sat cross-legged on the tile floor, pushing bottles of cleaning solutions out of the way. Behind the pipes and garbage disposal, a small square had been cut into the back of the sink cabinet, ostensibly to allow a plumber access to the drain. But a week after her move into the Hotel Metropol, a mustachioed man identifying himself as Daniel’s assistant had cleared out a space for a small laptop computer and installed a secure phone line protected by an encryption program.

  She pulled on the single screw that jutted out from the square, then removed the laptop and pulled away the protective plastic wrap. Reaching up, she set the laptop on the counter, then crawled beneath the sink and hooked the modem into the telephone line, grumbling about spiders and the blasted inconvenience of Daniel’s paranoia.

  Within a few moments, she had booted the machine and accessed the e-mail program. She didn’t understand how her messages were accessed or who processed them, but she always received an acknowledgment within an hour after posting. She typed in the first four letters of the receiver’s name, then the computer picked up the thread and completed the address.

  She tabbed down to the message field, then typed:

  G. received an urgent phone call from A. Romulus this a.m.

  Mentioned a meeting that was supposed to be in Moscow, but now scheduled for Paris. Something about a clandestine convocation with Russian allies. G. left soon afterward. Seemed excited, and serious. Referred to his “ambitions.”

  Live and well from Moscow, A.

  As she’d been instructed, she clicked the key to encrypt the message with a privacy program of Daniel’s design, then clicked on the send button. The computer beeped and fuzzed through the speakers, then went silent.

  Alanna turned to the refrigerator and pulled out a soft drink, glancing back at the screen occasionally as she sipped the cola. Vladimir would scold her if he saw her barefoot and drinking from a can. He seemed to think that by dressing her in silks and chiding her about her manners he could drive Texas right out of her personality, but Alanna harbored no illusions about who she was and what she had become. In anybody’s book, she was a woman living without benefit of matrimony, at best a common-law wife, at worst a high-class courtesan. The day when she could give it all up and go home to marry a cowboy had long passed. She’d grown too comfortable in opulence.

  The spying, the harmless little reports, justified her charade. She could almost believe she had sold herself for a noble reason as long as Daniel received and acknowledged her messages.

  The computer beeped, and a tiny envelope appeared at the bottom of the screen. Alanna set the soft drink by the sink and clicked on the icon. Lines of gibberish appeared. She pressed the hotkey to activate her secure key code, then watched the letters unscramble.

  Hey, Texas. Thanks for the update. Are you ok? Still safe?

  She smiled as she placed her fingertips on the keyboard. Nice of Daniel to be concerned for her welfare, but Moscow muggers worried her far more than Vladimir Gogol. She typed:

  Fine as frog hair. That’s Texan for A-ok.

  She encrypted the message, pressed send, then turned off the computer, and knelt to unplug the modem from the phone line. She had another computer in her bedroom, a desktop she used for Internet access and e-mail correspondence with friends back home, but Daniel’s assistant had stressed that she could never use that computer for communication with Daniel’s people. There could be no records of her secret e-mail correspondence buried in its hard drive or cache, no incriminating addresses in the files.

  If anyone ever discovered the hidden phone line, Daniel had assured her they would follow it to an absolute dead end. Its fiberoptic wires conveyed electromagnetic waves that were picked up by transceivers outside the building, then bounced off a satellite that fed Daniel’s portable computer linkups. And if anyone actually tapped into the secure phone line, no one could crack the encrypted files without the password-protected key.

  She encased the laptop in its plastic cover, then settled it back into the niche behind the plumbing, her nose crinkling at the musty smell of humidity and ammonia. When the cover had been restored and her cleaning supplies returned to their places, she double-checked the disarray to be sure the maid would not notice anything out of the ordinary.

  And as she walked to her bedroom, Alanna smiled at the quiet message from her unknown contact. It was awfully nice of Daniel or whoever was manning the lines at GWJ@prenticetech.com to worry about her.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  District of Columbia

  1050 hours

  PRESIDENT SAMUEL STEDMAN SIPPED HIS COFFEE AND TRIED NOT TO LET THE zealot playing to the television cameras disturb the serenity of his morning. Outside the wide windows of the Oval Office, brilliant sunlight washed a bank of blooming red and white chrysanthemums beneath the canopy of a clear blue sky. The evergreens bordering the South Lawn swayed gently in an autumnal breeze, and a brilliant maple added a splash of gold to the landscape.

  Victoria had always loved October in Washington. The glowing foliage had reminded her of their home in North Carolina, a home she’d been anxious to return to . . . but to which Sam would be retreating alone if he lost next month’s election.

  “You’d think the American people would learn to see through all this garbage.” Jack Powell, Stedman’s chief of staff and only confidant since Lauren Mitchell left the White House, sat on the couch wearing an expression of remarkable malignity. “I mean, look at him! He’s ranting, he’s raving, but has he said a single thing that makes sense? I don’t think so!”

  Reluctantly, Sam lifted his gaze to the television set. William Blackstone, California senator and Democratic candidate for president, had come from out of nowhere, surprising even lifelong politicians like Sam. He’d certainly heard of Blackstone before the Democratic primaries began, but not even the most liberal mouthpieces in the national media had seriously believed Blackstone could capture the party’s nomination. But he had, handily winning primary after primary, charming voters with his Robert Redford looks and a platform containing anything and everything a voter could want.

  Powell opened his mouth to speak again, but Sam lifted his hand. “I think we’d better listen to this.” Obediently, Jack picked up the remote and punched up the volume.

  “The world’s economy is faltering even as I speak,” Blackstone was telling a star-studded crowd in Los Angeles. “The economic earthquake shook Asia two years ago, then rumbled through Russia and Brazil. The Y2K crisis has the European Union
in such a quandary they’ll be sorting out the mess for years! Through American ingenuity and character we have survived, but we must not let ourselves be pulled down by the rest of the world!”

  Suppressing a wry smile, Sam rubbed his hand over his chin. Europe’s financial woes could be laid squarely at the feet of Daniel Prentice, who had single-handedly managed to save America and her computers by inserting a hardware virus into the international financial network. Twelve hours after the stroke of midnight, January 1, 2000, the United States had literally disconnected its computers from those of the European Union. Sam had gone on national television to announce that America would weather the Y2K storm with flying colors, while Adrian Romulus and his cronies quietly began to unravel the tangled mess Prentice had wrapped around them.

  Very little of the truth had been made public. The average American had probably forgotten all about Adrian Romulus and his plans for a united America and Europe, just as Americans had wiped Sam’s successful efforts to repeal an overwhelming tax burden from their collective memory. Daniel Prentice had vanished as quietly and completely as D. B. Cooper, and the “sympathy vote” pollsters had predicted would result in a landslide reelection victory had all but evaporated in the heat of Blackstone’s charismatic campaigning.

  Victoria had always said the American people were as fickle as a weather vane. The same folks who voted for an admitted drug-user and womanizer in 1992 could easily thrust Bill Blackstone into the Oval Office. The average man on the street seemed not to care about character or principle these days; the mass of Americans wanted a leader who resembled them—a flashy, charming package, with all flaws and weaknesses wrapped up and tucked away behind a sympathetic smile.

  Blackstone was certainly an amalgamation of the best and worst in America. He’d been married three times, sired seven children with two wives and one girlfriend, and was currently married to Electra Zane, a tall, pale beauty who never failed to remind Sam of an x-ray. She had no children— rumor had it that she’d had a tubal ligation so pregnancy wouldn’t interfere with her modeling career—and she refused to play the traditional role of campaign wife. But her success as a model brought media attention from People, Time, Newsweek, and The New York Times Magazine, and the full-page spreads featuring the powerful couple living the glamorous life in Carmel guaranteed the public’s notice.