The Property of a Lady (9 page)

The apartment had been Valentin’s home for ten years except when he was away on foreign assignments, and he hoped the only reason he would ever have to leave it would be because of a move to the top of the power ladder. And that was what he wanted more than anything in the world.

Like all young Russian boys, Valentin had joined the Pioneers organization and, later, when he was fourteen, the Komsomol—the Communist League of Youth. Religion and God had never entered his life because the children were taught to devote themselves only to the Communist Party, and very few ever disobeyed. Valentin remembered how his schoolmates had taunted two boys whose parents still attended church, baiting them until their lives became unbearable and the family had suddenly been “relocated” from Moscow to a remote, frozen territory on the North Cape. He also knew that anyone who did not join the Komsomol would not be able to continue his education at a university. Of course in his case—the son of an important Party member—these questions had never arisen. He was automatically enrolled in everything suitable for the education and grooming of a clever boy toward high political position.

He had completed his studies at Moscow University, reading international politics and law, followed by a year as an officer cadet at the infamous
Spetsnaz
training camp at Ryazan, in Byelorussia. His regiment’s motto was “Prepare to Sacrifice Yourself in the Name of Your Socialist Motherland,” and the unit lived up to that promise, training their ranks to obey their officers’ commands without hesitation, no matter how extreme. They soon
became experts in murder, assassination, and terrorism. A hundred soldiers were crammed into each small cramped barracks, and they worked day and night. They marched everywhere: to p.e. after reveille then on to six hours of unarmed combat training. Then they marched to their noontime meal and afterward marched out for more exercise and more training. Later they marched to supper and to roll call before marching back to their quarters and bed. Every Sunday a few men were given leave to visit the local town, but the only time they were permitted home leave was if a family member died. They earned just enough to buy themselves toilet articles and cigarettes, but alcohol in any form was forbidden.

Valentin never understood why young men joined the tough
Spetsnaz
regiment, though as an officer-cadet his lot was a very different one. He enjoyed the hard physical work but loathed the violence as well as the regimentation of his year’s training, and he hated even more the six months that followed it on active duty on the borders of Afghanistan. But he knew he was paying his dues.

His goal had been clear even as a boy. All his life he had been surrounded by men of great political power—his grandfather, his father, his uncle, and their friends. And like his father, his only other interest was music. When he was a boy his father had often taken him to the ballet to watch his mother dance, or to the opera and symphony concerts. They would sit side by side in the worn red-velvet seats of Moscow’s concert halls, lost in the music, and Valentin never felt closer to his father than he did at those times. Afterward, Sergei would treat him to supper at his favorite restaurant. It was run by an old gypsy family, and, to Valentin’s surprise, his father knew all their songs and sometimes he would sing along as the gypsies played their guitars and balalaikas.

But Sergei Solovsky had worried about his son. When Valentin was offered his first important post as an assistant
in the Foreign Service Department, he warned him about the single-mindedness of his ambitions.

“Do not leave love out of your life, Valentin,” he had said as they walked together in the gardens of their
dacha
, after the special dinner to celebrate Valentin’s new job. “It’s one of the last real human emotions still free to us Russians, and it is the most valuable.”

“Of course not, Father,” he had replied, surprised. But even then he had known that his goal, to be Russia’s leader, would always come first. Life had stretched before him with every step toward that goal marked out, and he vowed he would let nothing stand in his way because he knew he wanted to unite the turbulent regions that formed the Soviet Union in a way they had not been united since Lenin and the first days of revolution. And from there, he promised himself he would make his nation the leader of the world powers.

Everything had gone as he had planned. Promotion had followed rapidly on promotion, and he secured the important foreign postings he needed to allow him to study the weaknesses and strengths of other nations at first hand, learning all the time and storing that knowledge for his future use.

He had been surprised when his father had called three months ago, requesting his return from Washington on urgent business, and even more surprised when the nature of the problem had been explained to him. The Ivanoff jewels were finally appearing on the market. Russia wanted the person selling them found and brought back to Russia at once. His uncle Boris was in charge and had “requested” Valentin for the job.

“But why me?” he had protested, pacing the red carpet in his father’s large Kremlin office angrily. “Why doesn’t he just put the KGB on to it?”

There was a strange look in his father’s eyes as he replied, “This is a matter of extreme ‘delicacy.’ America knows why we want the person selling the jewels. You are
to be our front man, Valentin. As a diplomat you travel the world without attracting attention, you can attend the auction and bid for the jewel … but behind you, the KGB will be searching for this mysterious ‘Lady.’

“You will discuss the matter with Boris tomorrow,” his father concluded, holding up his hand to silence any further protest. “And now I am on my way to the TV station at Ostankino. They are televising a concert by the winners of the National Youth Orchestra Competition. Why don’t you join me?”

Valentin had known better than to bring up the subject of the Ivanoff emerald on the ride to the TV station in his father’s black bullet-nosed chauffeur-driven ZIL; if Sergei was not talking, there must be a reason, and besides he knew that even the cars of top executives were bugged. “Trust” was not a widely used word in the Kremlin. When they finally arrived Sergei dismissed the limousine, telling the chauffeur to return in two hours.

After the television program was over he suggested they take a stroll, and they crossed the road into Dzerzhinsky Park, walking silently through the Botanic Gardens, past the beautiful grove of hundred-year-old oak trees, toward the arboretum.

“What I have to tell you is extremely difficult,” Sergei said at last. “I thought that my secret would die with me, as it did with your grandfather.”

Valentin glanced at him in surprise.

“I know sometimes you have wondered at the difference between your uncle Boris and myself,” Sergei began. “Now I can tell you. It is because I was adopted by Grigori Solovsky when I was six years old.”

“Adopted?” Valentin cried, stopping dead in his tracks and staring, shocked, at his father. “It is not important,” he added hurriedly. “It doesn’t matter to me who you
were
. You are Grigori Solovsky’s son. You are my father.”

“It matters to Boris,” his father replied calmly. “He was a slow, clumsy boy and he always knew I was different.
Even at six I spoke French and English like the aristocrats, not just a Russian dialect like him. I was clever and a better horseman. I learned quickly and did well in school. He was jealous—and I was terrified of him. Boris was cruel, insane with jealousy. Today he would be called a psychopath.” He turned to face Valentin. “I want you to understand that Boris is your enemy as well as mine.” Sergei shrugged. “Black is black and white is white to a man like that. There is no middle road of gray. Those he wants removed, he kills.”

They walked on in silence for a while and then Sergei said, “The thing that most disturbed Boris was that Grigori never told his family
who
I was. He simply told them that I was an orphan of the revolution. But Boris always suspected I was an aristocrat and as soon as he was able, he set about trying to discover who I really was. When he found out, he intended to destroy me.” He sighed wearily. “All my life I’ve been walking a tightrope between two identities—the person I knew I was and the person I had become. And two loyalties; the one I had adopted, and the one I belonged to by birth. And always there, waiting to trap me, was Boris. For that reason I decided to live my life alone. I decided it wasn’t fair to marry because any day my true identity might be found out and I would be arrested and killed. But then, many years later, I met your mother and fell in love. I was older; I told myself selfishly that if Boris hadn’t found out by then, he never would.

“Boris was all smiles the day he came to my wedding. He kissed the bride and laughed and joked. I had never seen him so happy. As we were leaving for our honeymoon, he handed me an envelope.

“‘A little surprise for you, Sergei,’ he said with the same malevolent gleam in his eyes I remembered as a boy. And then he added, Or should I say Alexei?’

“I’ll never forget his laugh as he drove off. He sounded like the madman I
knew
he was.” Sergei’s voice shook as
he said, “Inside the envelope was a photograph of my real father.”

Sergei fell silent and as they strode through the park Valentin wondered, puzzled, why his real father’s photograph should be so important.

“Of course I realized Boris knew the truth,” Sergei said at last, “and on my honeymoon I waited for him to act. I waited for days, for weeks, then months. I was like a man on the scaffold waiting for the ax to fall. Until I realized that though Boris
knew
, he had no real proof. The fact that I resembled the man in the photograph, as you do, Valentin, was not enough to convince the powers that one of their top men was not who he claimed to be. It could be a mere coincidence, and in accusing me Boris would risk his own career.
He still needs that proof
. But all these years he has carried a duplicate of that photograph in his wallet. He knows that I know and that he has not forgotten.”

“Surely it can’t matter anymore who your father was?” Valentin said hopefully.

“It matters,” Sergei replied quietly, taking the ring he had carried with him all these years from an inner pocket. It was a large star ruby in an elaborate gold setting. Handing it to Valentin, he said, “This is all I have left of our inheritance. My real family was one of the richest in Russia. They were so important they were next after the tsar on the Cheka’s death list. My father—your grandfather—was Prince Misha Ivanoff. Our family owned those billions and those mines. And it is your own cousin—
your own blood—you
are being asked to track down and bring back to Russia. To Boris and certain death.”

And then, as they walked slowly through the park, Sergei had told him the story of what happened on the long, dark night in the forest so many years ago. And Valentin saw his whole life crashing in ruins in front of his eyes.

Valentin drained the last of the wonderful claret and, after pressing a lavish tip into the patient waiter’s hand, walked slowly from the restaurant.

He strode into the lounge and took a seat by the window. Cal Warrender was sitting by the fire talking earnestly to the American TV reporter, Genie Reese. He envied him his peace of mind—and the girl. She was the American Beauty rose foreigners like him always dreamed about, long-stemmed, beautiful, and fragile.

He sipped his coffee, wondering what they were saying, they were so absorbed in each other. But all the time, at the back of his mind, lay his father’s words: “It is your own cousin—
your own blood
—you are being sent to bring back to Russia … and certain death.” He had understood at once that Boris wanted the “Lady” not just for Russia, but because then he would be able to confirm the truth about Sergei.
Boris wanted his father dead
.

Valentin had realized early in his career that no one could achieve political power without personal sacrifice; a public figure could be called upon at any time to account for his actions and was expected to be an example to those beneath him. He had thought over his options for a long time. First, there was his duty to his country. The balance of power was at stake. If he found the Ivanoff “Lady” and brought her back to Russia, not only would his country finally get the money it rightfully believed belonged to the state, but even more important, it would finally have indisputable power over the Indian mines. There was only one way to save his father’s life as well as his own, and also protect the Russia he believed in.
And gain everything he had ever worked for
. He had to find the “Lady” before the Americans did.
And then kill her before Boris got to her
. He reflected bitterly that his training at Ryazan would finally come in useful, but he knew the “Lady” would find him a more merciful executioner than his uncle, whose favorite punishment was death by torture.

The race was on, he thought wearily. No matter how he did it, whom he had to use, he had to find the “Lady” first.