Firebird

FIREBIRD

by Helaine Mario

Copyright © 2012 by Helaine Mario

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, businesses, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-1-60809-190-4

Published in the United States of America by Oceanview Publishing

Longboat Key, Florida

www.oceanviewpub.com

This book is dedicated to

my children, Jessica & Sean

my grandchildren,

Ellie, Tyler, Clair Violet & Declan

who fill my world with magic.

Always love books.

and to

Ron—love beyond words

"And in my dreams I see myself on a wolf’s back

riding along a forest path

to do battle with a sorcerer-tsar

In the land where a princess sits under lock and key

pining behind massive walls.

There gardens surround a palace all of glass;

There Firebirds sing by night."

—Zimniy put by Yakov Polonsky

"The Cold War is over. The rivalry is not.

The Soviet Union is gone. But Russia remains."

—Excerpt from NBC-TV Nightly News

PROLOGUE

1966

The Curtain Rises…

In a dense and mysterious forest, there are strange and ominous sounds.

Then a dazzling, magical light…

PROLOGUE

Beyond the curtain…

William Butler Yeats

THE ROYAL OPERA HOUSE, LONDON SEPTEMBER 8, 1966

The hunter waited in the shadows stage-left.

The quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder sparked with silver light as his powerful body shifted with impatience. Soon, he told himself, keeping his eyes on the curtain. The final curtain will fall, and my new life will begin.

With a whisper, the crimson curtain rose. The sinister forest on the stage sprang to life.

The conductor raised his baton and violins filled the hall with the haunting music of Stravinsky’s Firebird Suite. The hunter stepped aside as the members of the Corps de Ballet rushed past him onto the stage for their curtain call.

As he watched the sweeping bows of princesses and mystical creatures, the audience began a slow, steady clapping rhythm—a tribute to the Kirov Ballet’s historic first performance of The Firebird ballet in the West.

In the shadowed wings on the far side of the stage he could see the two Soviet political officers responsible for the troupe. Their unblinking eyes never left the dancers. Six years earlier, Rudolph Nureyev had defected from the Kirov at Le Bourget Airport in Paris. In the resulting media madness, most of the Kirov’s international tours had been canceled. But there had been one compelling reason for this performance in London.

The hunter searched the audience of Westerners, then scanned the flushed faces of the dancers. In minutes, the curtain would come down on their final performance in the West. Our very own Iron Curtain, he thought darkly. Freedom on one side. And on the other… an old and drafty aircraft that will take us back to the wintry nights of Mother Russia.

It had to be tonight.

Flushed ballerinas brushed against him as they left the stage. Then, one by one, the principal dancers glided into the spotlight to take their bows. The Czar and his golden-haired daughter, the evil sorcerer in his flowing black cloak. Finally, it was Prince Ivan’s turn.

He strode center stage, tall and muscled in his emerald hunter’s jacket. A brooch of a plumed bird was pinned to the shoulder of his costume, and the gems caught the stage lights, spinning points of glittering fire into the audience. He stood, proud and still, his eyes sweeping the blur of pale faces.

It had been an unforgettable performance for him. To be a principal dancer, and not yet eighteen… His muscles were still loose, hot and tingling with excitement. He raised his arm with noble dignity and caressed the brooch—his talisman, his passport to freedom—and bowed to the cheering crowd. Then he turned toward the wings and held out his hand.

The music quickened as, glorious and triumphant, the Firebird flew into the spotlight. Half magical bird, half beautiful woman, she spun across the stage in a series of dizzying leaps, as shimmering and brilliant as the deep red of her feathered costume.

Her flashing crimson slippers seemed to leave a wake of fire behind her. Shouts of Brava! rang in the hall as the audience leapt to its feet, applauding wildly.

He walked toward her.

She seemed to flutter across the stage, her shining eyes locked with his, scarlet feathers cascading down her slender form. With one last graceful swoop, she dropped into a deep curtsey, gathered a single red feather from her breast, and offered it to her prince. A magical feather, according to the Firebird’s legend, to keep him from danger.

He caught his breath. Tonight was their night. He swept down on one knee and kissed her hand.

I love you, my Firebird, he whispered in Russian.

And I love you, my heart…

His fingers pulled at the brooch pinned to his shoulder. He touched the bloodstones to his lips, then offered his princely gift to the flickering Firebird. Wear this tonight, he whispered. It will protect you.

The audience roared its approval at his unexpected gesture.

He felt her delicate fingers close over his. All is ready, he murmured, bending to whisper against her cheek. Be at the backstage door in ten minutes.

The Firebird’s eyes flamed at him as she fastened the jeweled pin above her breast.

Overcome by emotion, he hugged her narrow body against his chest.

My heart, whispered the Firebird. There is something I must tell you—

Over her feathered shoulder he saw the dark painted leaves of the Czar’s garden, then a spark of bright flame against the foliage. His arms tightened, crushing the words from her, as the painted forest exploded into orange fire.

Pazhar! he shouted in Russian. "Fire!" The stagelights went dark. Someone knocked against him as the Firebird was dragged from his grasp.

Tatyana! he shouted desperately. He heard her scream his name. Then he saw the bright red feathers erupt with fire as she was engulfed in flames.

He lunged after her, but something hard hit him across the shoulders and he fell to the stage, dimly aware that he clutched only a broken red feather.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

Thick black smoke smothered him. For a moment he felt the heat, searing against his throat. He lifted his head, saw the heavy beam falling toward him. Pain knifed through his body. There was a roaring noise in his ears, a great flash of red light.

He reached out to her as the darkness took him. Firebird…

ACT I

IN A DARK FOREST

appears the dazzling Firebird…

Part magical bird, part beautiful woman, she is terrified—leaping away, but leaving a scarlet feather from her breast as protection against danger…

CHAPTER 1

In the middle of the journey of my life, I came to myself within a dark wood, where the straight way was lost…

Dante, The Divine Comedy

WASHINGTON, D.C.

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 19. THE PRESENT

A driving October rain whipped against the sea of black limousines and ran like tears down the stone face of Washington’s National Cathedral.

Beyond the gothic doors, in the dimness of the nave, Bach’s Funeral Cantata echoed from the vast stone vaulting. Heads of state, politicians, millionaires and furcoated celebrities sat shoulder to shoulder, lost in their private thoughts. In the shadowed aisles, Secret Service agents in raincoats and tinted glasses stood like silent sentinels, their eyes constantly moving over the endless rows of guests.

With the crash of a final chord, the organ fell silent. Now the only sound was the steady drumming of the rain against the stained glass windows, sad as an elegy.

Alexandra Marik gave up trying to pray and raised her eyes. To her left, her niece sat as still as one of the marble statues, her delicate hands clasped so tightly that knuckles showed white as bone. At the end of the row, her sister’s husband, Anthony Rhodes, stared straight ahead, his carved face expressionless.

Just past his shoulder, in the cross of the marble aisles, rested the white-draped casket. The single red rose set on the lid was as startling as a pool of blood on snow.

The Bishop raised his arms, his vestments a deep purple slash in the dim light. And unto dust thou shalt return…

A soft choking sound came from her niece. Alexandra slipped off her dark glasses and reached over to clasp the girl’s frozen hands. Juliet, she whispered. Hold on, Jules.

The girl’s stare was stony, her eyes as green as her mother’s. Very deliberately, she jerked her hands away and tilted her head so that her long hair swung like a gilt shield across her face.

Alexandra turned toward the silver-framed photograph set among massed bouquets of lilies. Oh Eve, she thought, reaching out to her sister. How do I help your daughter? Tell me what to do.

Her sister’s face gazed back at her, red-gold hair windblown, her eyes huge and full of secrets.

The incense and the cloying scent of flowers were making Alexandra dizzy. She closed her eyes and covered her face with her palms.

May the souls of the faithful departed…

You’re in danger, Zan!

Her sister’s voice, sharp and close, whispered the warning in her head. It was as clear as the desperate words she’d heard on her cell phone the night Eve died.

A sudden shiver touched Alexandra’s spine, and she pressed back against the wooden chair, trying to breathe. For days, she’d felt the pale blue eyes on her, known that someone was watching her. Now, once again, she had the same unsettling feeling. Had he followed her to Washington? Was he here now, in the cathedral?

Alexandra searched the shadows of the choir stalls, then slowly shifted in her chair to look over her shoulder. The faces behind her swam like pale petals on a sea of black water.

She raised her eyes to the high loft, where shards of blue from the round stained-glass window spilled across bent heads. Where are you? I know you’re here, damn you.

A slight movement to her right, there, beyond the pillar. A glimpse of a tall, elegant black woman in a dark hooded raincoat. In an instant, emptiness. She heard a wrought iron gate scrape softly.

Grant her peace, oh Lord, intoned the Bishop as he swung the incense burner slowly over the casket in the sign of the cross.

Peace? Alexandra blinked.

In slow motion she saw the pall-bearers gather, watched as her brother-in-law took Juliet’s elbow, saw the girl reach out to touch the coffin in a tender farewell. The chords of Chopin’s Funeral March drew them slowly up the aisle, past the guttering candles.

Out through the great doors, into a gust of stinging rain that carried the scent of wet boxwood and ancient stone. The roped-off media surged forward, flashbulbs popped too close to her face.

Alexandra hesitated on the cathedral steps as the crush of black umbrellas closed in around her and, high above, the carillon bells began to toll.

She ran down the steps into a waiting limousine.

* * * *

Two hours after the funeral, still shivering with cold, Alexandra stood at the tall window of her third floor room in the Hay-Adams Hotel on 16th Street. She could still hear the disappointment in the bellman’s voice. But the view is so much better from the higher floors, Madame. Not for her, she had assured him. For someone who was terrified of heights, the third floor was just fine, thank you very much.

She rested her forehead against the cool windowpane. The rain had blown off, leaving a grey haze of mist behind. Below her, Lafayette Park was cloaked in darkness, the west wing of the White House gleaming through a blur of streetlamps. A circle of wind-ruffled flags caught a narrow shaft of moonlight and, far in the distance, shadows shifted across the tall needle of the Washington Monument.

She looked once more at her watch, willing the terrible day to end. Just go to bed, she thought. You can catch the first train in the morning, be home in time to see Ruby and—

A sudden movement on the sidewalk below caught her attention. A shape, blacker than the trees, shifted against the cobblestones. A silhouette in the lamplight. Shielded by heavy silken drapery, she watched the coated figure move, cup a glowing cigarette in the palm of his hand, then raise his face to her window. He was too far away for her to see his eyes, but she knew what color they would be. Blue, pale and unblinking, and cold as a Northern ocean.

Alexandra pressed back into the shadows, her heart skipping fast in her chest. Stop it, she told herself. It’s just a stranger, smoking a cigarette. Your imagination is in overdrive. Get a grip, Marik. She closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe deeply.

She waited, then looked once more. Nothing but darkness.

A deep voice on the television behind her caught her attention, and she turned to see the river of black umbrellas fill the small screen.

"Welcome to a special edition of Entertainment Tonight. Today in our nation’s capital, most of A-list Washington turned out to bid farewell to one of their own. Heavy rain could not keep away the overflow crowd of 900 movers and shakers who gathered in Washington’s National Cathedral for an 85 minute ceremony to mourn and honor socialite photographer Evangeline Marik Rhodes…"

A photograph appeared, and there was Eve in her familiar safari jacket, her old Nikon slung casually over an elegant shoulder as she scrambled across a steep cliff face.

You were always the brave one, Eve.

She had a sudden memory of her sister, arms outstretched, a fearless young girl walking along the edge of a high balcony railing that was narrow as a tightrope. C’mon, Zan. Follow me. Don’t be afraid.

Zan. Eve had given her the nickname that day, evolved from Alex-zan-dra to Zandra to, finally, Zan.

The television flickered. Adored for years by her countless fans, this fearless photojournalist roamed the capitals and remote corners of the world to gather information for her no-holds-barred profiles of the rich and famous.

The report cut to a film clip of Eve astride Lady Falcon, galloping across a verdant field. "After her third marriage, to the charismatic Ambassador Anthony Rhodes—a May-December romance that took many insiders by surprise—Eve became D.C.’s own doyenne, hosting those oh-so-private dinners at the Ambassador’s Georgetown residence and at Foxwood, the Ambassador’s horse country estate in Middleburg, Virginia. Many are wondering if Ambassador Rhodes will now cancel next week’s see-and-be-seen benefit for D.C.’s Children’s Hospital—a gala he and his wife have hosted at Foxwood every year since their marriage.

As benefactor and uber-hostess, Eve Rhodes burned her candle at both ends, kicking up those trademark stiletto heels of hers everywhere from Middleburg’s stables to State Dinners at the White House.

Another photograph sprang to the screen, Eve a sliver of spun gold standing between the tall tuxedoed President and one of his top advisors.

ET has learned that the President himself paid tribute to Eve this morning in an eloquent farewell, calling her ‘a rose among Washington’s thorns.’

The ET host flashed a brief smile. The President described the day Eve photographed him in the Oval Office for the cover of Vanity Fair. ‘Everyone knew you’d only truly arrived in the halls of power,’ he said, ‘when you were photographed by the legendary Eve Marik Rhodes.’

More film, rain-splashed now, that caught glimpses of familiar faces leaving the cathedral. "The VIP invitation-only crowd included Harrison Ford and Stella McCartney, foreign dignitaries from the British, French and Russian embassies, and the international philanthropist, Yuri Belankov. They were joined by many of our nation’s most powerful leaders, including the Chief Justice, who escorted the First Lady, and the publisher of the Washington Post, caught on camera sharing an umbrella with the recently appointed and controversial Vice Presidential nominee, New York Senator David Rossinski. As you know, the Senator was selected for the ticket after Vice President Grey suffered a serious stroke just weeks ago. We wish both men well.

And there, in the center of your screen, is a gathering you don’t see together very often—Washington’s powerful ‘Old Lions,’ the last of the Foreign Policy Elders who, along with Senator Rossinski, have ruled Congress, led Cabinet agencies and shaped foreign policy for so many years. Closing ranks around their old friend Ambassador Rhodes are Defense Secretary Admiral Ramon Alcazar, NSA Policy Advisor Rens Karpasian, Madame Secretary of State Naomi Lourdes and—on his ever-present iPhone—the new Director of the CIA, Gabe ‘Zee’ Zacarias. A veritable Who’s Who of Washington’s insiders.

Alexandra stared at the faces on the screen. One of the names had triggered a fleeting memory. A signature, scrawled on thick paper. Who was it?

The newsman’s voice hurried on. "With the Start Treaty in jeopardy, the upcoming Nuclear Summit in St. Petersburg and the recent spy network scandal, next month’s Presidential election has created a frenzy of rumors regarding these powerful positions. Who will stay, and who will go? The lions are circling.

But today, continued the reporter, after all, is a day for mourning. The screen flickered once more and Alexandra saw the unmistakable eagle profile and white-winged brows of her brother-in-law. Ambassador Rhodes is one of the most influential American diplomats in recent history. He will assume the guardianship of his wife’s fifteen year old daughter from her second marriage, Juliet Marik. Mercifully, there was no photograph of her niece.

Alexandra froze as a photograph of an ornate iron cemetery gate, stark against a wet sky, appeared. The burial at Oak Hill Cemetery in Georgetown was private, at the request of the family.

A discreet knock on the hotel room door broke into her thoughts. The housekeeper? As she reached to turn down the volume, she heard the reporter’s final words.

Just hours before the funeral, ET learned that there are still many questions and unsubstantiated rumors swirling around Evangeline Rhodes’ death. Why would she go to Maryland’s Great Falls Park after dark, when the park was closed? Why does the Coroner’s office refuse to confirm a report of death by drowning? Was her death accidental—or deliberate? Tomorrow night we’ll air an ET exclusive with the detectives who…

Deliberate? Alexandra’s stomach clutched as she stared at the terrible photograph that filled the screen.

It was a yellow-taped crime scene image of a narrow, rain-swept wooden bridge just steps above the swirling Potomac River rapids. Half buried in the soaked leaves lay a single red high-heeled shoe.

Oh, God, whispered Alexandra, punching the off button. Don’t think about Eve’s body by the river.

She remembered the knock on the door as she reached for her nightgown. Crossing the carpet, she checked the view window, then cracked the chained door cautiously.

The hallway was empty, but a narrow white box had been left on the Persian carpet. She retrieved the box and re-locked the door.

What on earth…

She gasped, flinging the box to the floor. A single rose scattered vibrant red petals across the pale carpet. A deep red rose, like blood on snow.

He had been at the funeral. She fell to her knees, searching the spilled tissue, but there was no note. She reached out and dragged the telephone toward her.

This is Alexandra Marik in 312. I need to know who just delivered a flower box to my room.

No one on our staff, Madam.

She dialed again, her fingers shaking and slick against the buttons.

Olivia? Liv, it’s Alexandra. Is Ruby all right?

Her breath came out in soft whoosh. Thank God. But go check on her, will you? I’ll hold.

She moved restlessly to the window, looked down at the misted street.

It was empty.

Just breathe.

The nanny’s voice spoke reassuringly in her ear and Alexandra sank into a chair. You’re still at your brother’s place, right? Good, stay there. Ask him to check all the door and window locks again, will you? She glanced at her watch. I can catch the last Amtrak, be in New York in a few hours. I’ll call you as soon as I get there. Kiss Ruby for me.

Alexandra disconnected the call and reached for her suitcase.

Thirty minutes later the elegant hotel room was empty. The crimson petals scattered across the carpet glimmered like drops of blood in the moonlight.

CHAPTER 2

…within the shadow, keeping watch…

James Russell Lowell

NEW YORK CITY

3 DAYS LATER

Something was wrong.

An icy shiver washed over Alexandra’s skin. Uneasy, she searched the faces in the crowded art gallery.

There, across the room. A shadow by the pillar. A tall silhouette. She closed her eyes, then looked once more. No one.

Just breathe.

A hand on her shoulder. She whirled.

Here you are, Dr. Marik! Why are you hiding back here in the shadows? Alexandra’s assistant peered at her through owlish glasses as he guided her gently from behind a marble column.

Alexandra stared at him. What would he think if she said, Because someone is watching me. I can feel his eyes on me right now. You know I prefer to be behind the scenes, she offered.

Not tonight, Madame Curator. The exhibit is a smashing success. He handed her a full flute of champagne and gestured at the spinning glass mobiles high overhead. Juxtaposing Modern Italian art against the Old Masters. Brilliant! Congratulations.

Once more her wary eyes swept the glittering opening-night crowd. So many places for a watchful stranger to hide…

Alexandra? Hello? Earth to Boss. The young assistant touched her shoulder. You look as if you’re somewhere else. His eyes widened. God, I’m sorry, I’ve been such an idiot. This has got to be so hard for you. Here I am going on and on about longdead Italians, and it’s only been days since your sister’s funeral. Forgive me.

Nothing to forgive, Ace. Honestly, it’s been good to be so busy these last few days. She forced a smile. "From Masters to Mobiles is going to be our best exhibit yet."

Until we open the St. Petersburg show.

One opening at a time, please! She was looking past him, distracted, searching the faces of the glamorous crowd. One thousand years of Russian treasures to gather in three months… Oh, God, what were we thinking?

Let’s worry about Mother Russia tomorrow, Scarlet. Tonight we’re all about Italy. He shook his head. It’s hard to believe we’re in New York City. You’ve transformed this place into a Venetian palace, Alexandra.

Couldn’t have done it without you, Ace. Alexandra’s eyes swept the grand foyer of the Baranski Gallery and she took a deep breath, finally allowing herself to feel a sense of accomplishment. The last Titian had been coaxed into place at four o’clock. Now, with golden autumn leaves and dusky sky filling the tall windows facing East 77th Street, the turn-of-the-century New York mansion did indeed resemble a beautiful old palazzo on the Grand Canal.

The high-ceilinged, Renaissance lobby glimmered with soft candlelight and women’s jewels. Costumed musicians lined the broad marble staircase, filling the hall with the pure sounds of Vivaldi. Glass display cases scattered among the antique furnishings shimmered with hammered gold, ancient lace and the exquisite, animal-faced masks of the Venice Carnival. On the soft grey walls, the Bellini and Cannaletto oils glowed as if they were alive.

She gave her assistant a gentle push. Now go and mingle with the tuxedos and dazzle them with your knowledge of the early Titians.

You’re sure?

Absolutely. You’ve earned this night, my friend. Make Titian proud.

Ok, but I’ll be back to check on you. Ciao, Bella!

She watched him disappear into the crowd. As she looked out at the swirling sea of faces, she felt, once more, that someone was watching her.

Damn you! she muttered under her breath, taking a step back. Where are you? I know you’re here.

Could she be imagining those frightening watchful eyes? But she’d felt them on her at the funeral. Hadn’t she? And someone had delivered that single red rose to her hotel room. And yet, when she’d rushed back to New York, she’d found her daughter safe and peacefully asleep at her nanny’s family home in Queens, and all was well. No more break-ins, no sign of any threat at all.

And yet…

At least she was safe tonight—wasn’t she?—surrounded by the paintings she loved. Relax, she told herself, trying to steady her racing heartbeat. Everyone is concentrating on Italian art. No one is interested in you.

She stepped back into the shadows with relief and forced herself to focus on the colorful, swirling scene in front of her. It had taken months to put this show together. Lighting was artfully positioned, walls were painted a soft grey to enhance the art, printed descriptions were placed at eye level, paintings were hung high enough for clustering crowds, but low enough for serious examination. And the last exhibit, of course, would empty into the gallery store, where The Venetians—from Masters to Mobiles catalogs were priced at a whopping $47.50.

But the startling Venetian glass Mobiles were the true stars of the new exhibit. Huge glass shapes in azure and ruby and deep purple spun lazily over the heads of the guests, showering their faces with jeweled sparks of light. Mysterious, beautiful—and highly dramatic.

You would have loved it, Eve, she told her sister.

Alexandra almost smiled. Her older sister would have been in her element. Eve would have waited, of course, until most of the guests had arrived. Then she would have made her usual grand entrance. Up there, on the balcony at the top of the high marble staircase.

You always loved the high places, Eve.

When every other woman in New York City wore black velvet on a cool autumn night, Eve would have appeared in bright scarlet—backless, of course—tossing her red-gold mane of hair like a lioness. And every eye would have been on her.

Even in death, her sister’s presence was everywhere.

Alexandra stared up at the empty balcony, then raised the still-full goblet of champagne with defiance.

To Evangeline Marik Rhodes, she said. And all we left unfinished.

She froze, glass halfway to her lips, as once more the eerie sensation of being watched brushed her skin.

* * * *

The man stood behind a marble pillar. Where had she gone?

There.

His blue eyes flared in the shadows as he gazed across the gallery at the stunning art curator.

She stood framed in an archway, a slender slash of charcoal, eyes huge in a pale sculpted face, long bright hair glinting red in the candlelight. More beautiful than any oil painting in the gallery.

He saw the tension in her face, the wariness in her body, as she scanned the guests. His stomach tightened with anticipation. He liked knowing that she felt his eyes on her.

You have something that belongs to me, Dr. Marik, he said.

* * * *

Alexandra stepped back into the shadows. Damn! Nothing was the same anymore.

She’d first glimpsed the icy blue eyes under a fringe of long wheat-colored hair, reflected in a store window near her apartment a few days before her sister’s death. Then the same unsettling pale blue stare a day later, just for an instant, as she hailed a cab. That night, she’d come home to find her lingerie scattered across the bedroom carpet. And the very next night, the frightening midnight phone message had come from Eve.

You could be in danger, Zan! I’ve hidden… Static. Then, "Go to—" A gasp, a whispered word that sounded like cliv.

Hidden what? Go where? Dramatic, drunken ravings.

More static. And finally, Help me, Zan!

Help me…

Those were the last words she’d heard her sister say. Just hours later, the horrifying phone call had come from Eve’s husband, Anthony Rhodes.

Alexandra, there’s been a terrible accident. Brace yourself, my dear. Your sister is gone. Eve is dead.

No, Anthony, no! Oh, God, no, please. Not my sister! Not Eve…

And everything had gone dark.

Now she watched the glass globes of the mobiles spin above the gallery, changing shape and color as they caught light and shadow. Flamboyant, mysterious, secretive. Brightening and darkening. Like Eve.

Help me, Zan. But she hadn’t.

Alexandra?

Startled, she spun around.

Her assistant was scowling down at her. You look as if you’ve seen a ghost, Boss.

Good grief! Don’t sneak up on person like that.

Sorry. I just thought you’d prefer this to champagne. He held out a large coffee container. High test, direct from Zabar’s. I know how much you despise our hazelnut decaf.

Espresso! Bless you! She handed him the still-full champagne glass, curved her hands around the hot container and drank deeply.

Are you sure you’re okay, Alexandra? You’re desperately pale.

Just tell him. I know it’s my imagination, Ace, but—I’ve just had this feeling all week that someone is watching me. She gave an uncertain smile. You must think I’m certifiable. Why would anyone be keeping watch on me?

"Not your imagination, Boss. Someone is watching you, right now."

She felt the color drain from her face.

Hey! Joke, Madame Curator! I meant our Mobile artist-du-jour. He hasn’t been able to take his eyes off you all night.

Oh, she murmured. "So our artist is gorgeous, brilliant, eccentric—and single! But I’m pushing 42, Ace, I could be his mother… and the last thing I need right now is a man. Tonight I just want Thai take-out and a rousing hour of Dr. Seuss with Ruby."

"Ah. And how is La Belle Ruby?"

Beautiful as ever. Except that my daughter spends more time with her nanny than with me. Thank God for Olivia. I don’t know what I’d do without her.

You just need that vacation, Boss.

Alexandra swallowed the last of the espresso, turned to her assistant and nodded slowly. You’re right, I need to get away from all the sadness. And now that the show is open, maybe Ruby and I can get away for a few days. She gave the young man a gentle push. Go impress our sponsors. I’ll be fine. And thanks for the coffee.

She sighed as he disappeared once more into the crowd. A vacation with Ruby was exactly what she needed. Someplace warm and sunny, with ‘just the two of us’ time on the beach with her child and the occasional rum-filled coconut shell with a tiny paper umbrella. Someplace to forget a sea of black umbrellas in the rain.

So much of the funeral was a blur. Maybe her mind just couldn’t handle the trauma of such unspeakable loss. Her brother-in-law had called just hours after the funeral, the pain raw in his voice. The rumors had proven to be true. Eve’s death had not been accidental. The investigators had found a high blood alcohol content, traces of antidepressants, muscle relaxants, a powerful narcotic. And a brief letter, written by Eve. But no answers.

Once more her eyes were drawn to the empty balcony. Why, Eve?

Why did you choose to take your life?

Why had Eve gone to that wooden bridge over Maryland’s roaring falls? Why had she jumped? And why now, what had suddenly gone so wrong in her life? How could such a dazzling presence suddenly be gone, with no explanation? Only the inexplicable suicide note, found deep in the pocket of the raincoat she’d left behind…

The devastating words spun through Alexandra’s mind. For Anthony, and my beautiful Juliet. I love you. I’m so sorry. Forgive me. That was all? The only final words she could leave for her heartbroken daughter?

Damn you, Eve. How could you do that to Juliet? Why did you throw it all away? A glamorous life in Washington, a dream job, a powerful and loving husband, a teenaged daughter who adored you. Her sister’s life was like one of the ornate Roman mosaics being restored in the gallery’s top floor workroom. Tiny bits of colored glass set into mortar. On the surface—glowing, complex, beautiful. But underneath, each fragment scarred, jagged. Broken.

And still too many missing pieces, she thought.

Still too many damned questions.

The crowded gallery was suddenly suffocating.

With a soft oath, she lifted her skirt and hurried down the dark hallway, bare feet flashing unexpectedly from beneath the hem of her long Donna Karan gown.

The small gold plaque on her office door read:

Alexandra K. Marik, Ph. D.

Curator

The knob turned easily.

Didn’t I lock this door? she asked herself.

Alexandra walked slowly into her office and switched on the lamp, then moved behind the familiar safety of her desk. This was her world. Cluttered desk, fax, phone, computer and printer. Scattered papers, empty Zabar’s containers, five-pound free weights, file cabinets with drawers bursting, chair piled precariously with well-thumbed research books. Black high-heeled sandals on the floor where she’d tossed them. Everything chaotically in order.

Or was it?

Hadn’t she left the lamp on? Hadn’t she left the St. Petersburg file in the center of her desk?

Her eyes moved across the office, past a fortune in stacked canvases and sealed boxes labeled in Russian for the upcoming Russian exhibit. Damn, damn, she was always so careful to lock her office door. But at least the double windows were locked. With a wary glance out at the darkness, she drew the blinds against the night.

Once more her eyes swept her desk. Stacks of yellow messages beneath her reading glasses, a week’s worth of mail, pre-Mongolian icons and photographs of modern Russian Impressionist works—all scattered together across her desk. Her eyes lingered on the quirky hand-painted playing chips used in card games by Catherine the Great. History, she murmured softly. "You can’t begin to put a price on it."

She shifted a file, her chest tightening as she saw the tumble of messages. Another friend of Eve’s had called with expressions of sympathy—Yuri Belankov, a Russian-American philanthropist who’d just made a very substantial contribution to the upcoming St. Petersburg exhibit. A memory slipped into place—she’d heard his name on the news. He’d been at her sister’s funeral.

The small winking light on her computer caught her attention.

Oh, no. Someone had been in her office. She’d turned off her computer hours ago. But now a recent E-mail message from The Hermitage curator in St. Petersburg blinked on the small computer screen.

Someone had accessed her email code.

She spun around as a man appeared in the doorway.

Dr. Marik, there you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Got an urgent message for you. One of the gallery guards handed her a folded note.

Good grief, what now? She unfolded the message and the words leaped at her.

Come to St. Theresa’s immediately. Juliet is missing.

CHAPTER 3

There is an island…

Giorgios Sefiriades

In the long hallway of St. Theresa’s Boarding School, the Mother Superior studied Alexandra’s face in the dim light. Come back into my office, child, urged Sister Joseph Maureen. "You’re so pale. I wish I could offer you a brandy. I wish we both could have one."

Sensing that the old nun was trying to calm her, Alexandra forced a small smile as she followed her down the narrow hall into an austere office.

Your niece calls this place St. Terribles, said the nun. And she calls me Jo-Mo. Behind my back, of course. The papery face broke into a thousand lines as her gnarled hand gestured to the simple cross on the bare wall behind her desk. The girls still don’t realize that He tells me everything.

Alexandra took a shuddering breath. Please, Mother, is there any news? A missing child is a mother’s worst nightmare!

No news yet, Ms. Marik. But we are going to find her. You must have faith.

Alexandra shook her head in disbelief. So much has happened to Juliet. Losing her mother in such a violent way.

I’m so very sorry about your sister, child, we all are. I’ve been praying for her. But Juliet is suffering more than any child should.

But, Mother, how can we—

God gave us chairs for a reason, Ms. Marik. Sit.

Please, call me Alexandra. She dropped wearily into the straight-backed chair in front of the desk. The gentle plaster face of St. Theresa stared blankly down at her from a small pedestal.

Did you see Juliet today? asked the nun gently.

No. Not since her mother’s funeral. I called her here at school, of course, after I returned to New York, but she never returned my call. Alexandra looked around the sparse office as if searching for answers. Jules and I haven’t been close in a very long time. I have no clue where she could be.

I’ve left several messages on her cell phone. I’ve even learned to text. The nun raised a wry eyebrow. No answer, of course. And it’s too soon to alert the NYPD of a missing teen, they’d laugh in my face. Your niece has run off before, you know. She’s always returned safely within a few hours.

Run off? I had no idea. Where does she go?

To the dorm attic. The theater. Juilliard’s rehearsal halls.

Juilliard? She’s studying music?

Sister Joseph Maureen stared at her in surprise. Dance. She’s a ballet student in a special high school preparatory program. It’s one of the reasons she chose our school.

I didn’t know…

The old nun smiled sadly. So you’ve never seen her dance.

Alexandra shook her head.

"You should. She attacks the stage, she becomes the music! Such wildness in that young body, such fury! You can’t take your eyes off her. She may be tiny and slender, but when she moves—dear God, when she moves—her face, her arms, her legs mesmerize you. The theater gets so quiet. She can simply raise her hand, spread her fingers—and break your heart."

The nun looked away. "Even before she lost her mother, you could see her anger, feel the poor child’s pain. But now—she dances like the devil’s inside her."

Why didn’t I know? All the more reason to find her.

We’ve checked the usual suspects. And her good-for-nothing father’s no help. The dark cloth of the long habit whispered as the nun gestured sharply. "Just where the devil—if you’ll pardon the expression—is her father these days?"

The Galapagos, the Himalayas, who knows? He walked out on my sister when Juliet was just a toddler. We have no way to contact him. I doubt he even knows about Eve’s death.

And his daughter is left in boarding school, all alone!

I should have realized, I should have been here for her. Alexandra looked down at her gripped hands. Rotten mother, rotten aunt, she said to herself.

"You’re human, Alexandra. And you’re here, aren’t you? Now let’s think where Juliet could be."

I just don’t know. My sister was always running off somewhere, and—clearly, I don’t know my niece at all. Unable to sit still, Alexandra stood and moved to the window, gazing down at the shadowed sidewalk of West 65th Street.

My sister and I were estranged for a very long time. I spent very little time with Jules when she was growing up.

Just leave me and my daughter alone! she heard her sister say.

Alexandra shook her head. Eve and I tried to reconnect when she married Anthony Rhodes, but— She let her words fall off.

But your sister only called when she needed something. Or when she was in trouble.

Which was often. Alexandra acknowledged the truth with a rueful shake of her head. "After a while, it was easier to let the phone ring. I just stopped listening. I gave up on her, Mother. And on Juliet, too."

She looked down at her hands. "At the funeral, Jules could barely look at me. How could I blame her? I hadn’t seen her in a