bathroom. Of course Rozonov couldn’t see her. But the intimacy of talking to him with nothing on, coupled with the menace he presented, still had its effect. “Yes, Friday would be fine.” She hoped he couldn’t hear the tremble in her voice.
“I can make reservations at the restaurant I told you about for one o’clock.”
Her fingers played nervously with the belt of her robe while she waited for him to name the place.
“It’s near the Puerta de Alcala.”
“You mean in the Plaza del Independencia? I know where that is.”
“Good. Then I’ll meet you at the central archway and we can walk over to the restaurant together.”
That was a rather unusual way of doing things, she thought, and then she realized that he didn’t want her to know where they would be going. So the KGB would be aware of their destination, but not Cal.
“Will that be satisfactory?” he questioned. “Or would you prefer some other arrangement?”
She heard the silence lengthening between them, knowing that the longer she waited to answer, the more chance there was of arousing his suspicion. Feeling as though she were diving into uncharted waters, she answered. “Your arrangement will be fine.”
“Then I’m looking forward to having you all to myself for the afternoon.” The silky note in his voice made her feel as though she’d just agreed to a romantic rendezvous instead of an appointment to exchange secrets. She wondered which would be more dangerous.
She took a steadying breath. “I am too.” To her horror she realized that, despite the risk, the words she had spoken were true.
“Good night, then. And pleasant dreams, Julie.”
Chapter Seven
T he young boy with the sealed envelope stuffed into the pocket of his navy shorts hurried along one of the wide pedestrian parkways lining the Paseo de Castellana. He was coming from the direction of the Prado. Drawing abreast of an outdoor café where afternoon strollers were seated at green-and-white tables, he stopped and looked around. As he expected, the tall, well-dressed foreigner who had given him a thousand-peseta note and sent him on the unusual errand was nowhere to be seen.
The man had had a summer cold, he recalled, and had held a handkerchief to his nose, effectively obscuring his features. His voice had been hoarse. But it was the eyes he remembered most. They had been intense and steely. And they had impressed upon the boy the importance of carrying out instructions. Those had been very precise. The boy was to walk down the Prado stairway closest to the Calle Felipe IV exit. If he found anything behind the loose marble baseboard near the first floor exit, he was to deliver it to the man selling ice cream and mineral water.
The boy waited patiently behind several patrons buying cold drinks. When he reached the front of the line, he fished in his pocket for the crumpled envelope and laid it on the counter. The white-jacketed attendant whisked it out of sight and handed the boy a second thousand-peseta note and an ice-cream bar. For a moment they looked at each other. Then the attendant shrugged, and the boy turned away and began to unwrap his confection. It was an unexpected bonus.
Half an hour later, a teenage girl dressed in jeans and sandals showed up and asked the ice-cream man if he could tell her what time the cathedral in Toledo closed for the afternoon. He gave her the correct answer and the envelope. Had it been unsealed, he might have satisfied his curiosity about the contents. But if he looked inside, he had no way of returning the package to its original condition. Since he suspected he was acting as a go-between in some underworld payoff, he refrained from meddling. Taking good money to hold a small envelope for part of the afternoon was one thing. Incurring the displeasure of whoever had purchased his services was quite another.
The girl, who took the envelope from the café, delivered it to a leather repair shop off the Gran Via, where it was
“I can make reservations at the restaurant I told you about for one o’clock.”
Her fingers played nervously with the belt of her robe while she waited for him to name the place.
“It’s near the Puerta de Alcala.”
“You mean in the Plaza del Independencia? I know where that is.”
“Good. Then I’ll meet you at the central archway and we can walk over to the restaurant together.”
That was a rather unusual way of doing things, she thought, and then she realized that he didn’t want her to know where they would be going. So the KGB would be aware of their destination, but not Cal.
“Will that be satisfactory?” he questioned. “Or would you prefer some other arrangement?”
She heard the silence lengthening between them, knowing that the longer she waited to answer, the more chance there was of arousing his suspicion. Feeling as though she were diving into uncharted waters, she answered. “Your arrangement will be fine.”
“Then I’m looking forward to having you all to myself for the afternoon.” The silky note in his voice made her feel as though she’d just agreed to a romantic rendezvous instead of an appointment to exchange secrets. She wondered which would be more dangerous.
She took a steadying breath. “I am too.” To her horror she realized that, despite the risk, the words she had spoken were true.
“Good night, then. And pleasant dreams, Julie.”
Chapter Seven
T he young boy with the sealed envelope stuffed into the pocket of his navy shorts hurried along one of the wide pedestrian parkways lining the Paseo de Castellana. He was coming from the direction of the Prado. Drawing abreast of an outdoor café where afternoon strollers were seated at green-and-white tables, he stopped and looked around. As he expected, the tall, well-dressed foreigner who had given him a thousand-peseta note and sent him on the unusual errand was nowhere to be seen.
The man had had a summer cold, he recalled, and had held a handkerchief to his nose, effectively obscuring his features. His voice had been hoarse. But it was the eyes he remembered most. They had been intense and steely. And they had impressed upon the boy the importance of carrying out instructions. Those had been very precise. The boy was to walk down the Prado stairway closest to the Calle Felipe IV exit. If he found anything behind the loose marble baseboard near the first floor exit, he was to deliver it to the man selling ice cream and mineral water.
The boy waited patiently behind several patrons buying cold drinks. When he reached the front of the line, he fished in his pocket for the crumpled envelope and laid it on the counter. The white-jacketed attendant whisked it out of sight and handed the boy a second thousand-peseta note and an ice-cream bar. For a moment they looked at each other. Then the attendant shrugged, and the boy turned away and began to unwrap his confection. It was an unexpected bonus.
Half an hour later, a teenage girl dressed in jeans and sandals showed up and asked the ice-cream man if he could tell her what time the cathedral in Toledo closed for the afternoon. He gave her the correct answer and the envelope. Had it been unsealed, he might have satisfied his curiosity about the contents. But if he looked inside, he had no way of returning the package to its original condition. Since he suspected he was acting as a go-between in some underworld payoff, he refrained from meddling. Taking good money to hold a small envelope for part of the afternoon was one thing. Incurring the displeasure of whoever had purchased his services was quite another.
The girl, who took the envelope from the café, delivered it to a leather repair shop off the Gran Via, where it was
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