Flight of the Raven by REBECCA YORK

she was caught up by some strong emotion. It was strange to think how much he had changed since she had died. But she would never change, never age, never again enjoy the pleasure of snuggling under a heavy quilt and making love on a snowy Moscow evening.
    They’d done their share of that. The memory no longer had the power to warm him. After almost a dozen years, the anguish was gone too.
    He didn’t realize that he’d been sitting in the dark until the siren of a fire truck or ambulance speeding by on the street below brought him back to the present. He shook his head to sweep away the specters of the past and then glanced at his watch; it was almost ten. He’d planned to call Julie McLean tonight. Maybe it was too late. Or maybe not. After all, this was Madrid, where the siesta stole a chunk from the middle of the business day and where eight in the evening was still considered late afternoon.
    “Dzulie.” He said the word aloud as it would transliterate into his own language. Then he practiced for a moment until he was satisfied that he’d been able to almost capture the true pronunciation.
    The thought of talking to her lifted his spirits. For years he’d felt like a mountain climber pulling himself up a weathered crag one handhold at a time. When he’d met Julie, it was as though he’d suddenly reached a peak where he could take in for the first time the glory of a secret valley spread out below. He recognized the feeling for what it was and swore vehemently under his breath. Why, he asked himself once again, did he have to desire this particular woman?
    He still didn’t know whether she was acting for some intelligence agency or simply being used by someone who wanted to get to him. He’d bet on the latter, but it didn’t matter. She was a threat to his survival. Yet, as he remembered the way she’d looked in that burgundy gown, her rich brown hair swept up to reveal the graceful line of her neck, the warmth in her large dark eyes as she gazed at him, it was impossible to think of her that way.
    He swore again. You’re a fool, Aleksei Iliyanovich, he told himself. What do you imagine they want you to think about her? They want you to see her as soft and feminine, vulnerable and desirable. But even as his mind registered the sardonic observation, his hand reached for the phone.
    She answered on the fifth ring, just as he was about to put the receiver down. “Julie, am I disturbing you?” he asked.
    She knew who it was at once, and not just from the slightly exotic pronunciation of her name. Every time the phone had rung during the past few days, she had picked up the receiver expecting to hear the rich timbre of Aleksei Rozonov’s voice. She had been hoping for the call and dreading it by turns. Now she found the mere fact that he was on the other end of the line disturbing.
    “Yes. I mean no,” she said, trying to keep her reaction in check so that she could carry out the assignment Cal had given her.
    He laughed. “I hope I didn’t get you out of bed.”
    “Oh, no. I was washing my hair.” My God, why did I tell him that?
    “Shall I call back later so you can dry it?”
    “No.” The denial came to her lips too quickly. “I’ve wrapped it in a towel.”
    He caught the uneasiness in her voice. Had she really been washing her hair or was that just an excuse to throw him off guard? Whether it was or not, the tactic was working. He found himself wondering whether she’d been in the shower or just leaning over the sink in the type of lacy lingerie he’d seen in Western magazines. Or was she naked, her olive skin glistening with water? When the wayward thought flitted through his mind that it was too bad the KGB hadn’t installed a hidden camera in her apartment, he brought himself up short. Back to business. “I was calling to ask you to lunch this Friday, if you’re free,” he said.
    With the phone between her shoulder and her ear, she shrugged into the light robe she’d brought from the