Midnight In Madrid

Then, as her mind focused back to reality, she knew. It had happened.

Her brain buzzed. She felt as if there were butterflies in her head. Her body ached where the two assailants had grabbed her.

She sat up again and this time was able to remain steady on her elbow. Across the room a double window that looked out onto sunlight and trees. There was a blue sky beyond. There was a door across the room on the other side. It was shut. There was a dresser and a mirror. The room had the feel of a private residence, the guest room of a comfortable home. For the first time in her life, she was waking up not even knowing what country she was in.

She looked across the room. Her attention fell upon the dresser near the window. It was low and wide, three rows of drawers, two drawers to a row. On top of the dresser was a fresh bouquet of flowers. Behind the flowers was a mirror.

Her weapon was gone. No surprise there. She looked at her wrist. Her watch was gone also.

She pushed the bedcover and sheet aside. She swung her legs off the bed to stand up. Realizations came upon her one by one as her brain began to function again.

The next realization was how she was dressed.

Holy-! She was wearing something that she had never seen before, much less worn. It was a deep ruby-red cheongsam, a traditional Asian silk gown with intricate gold embroidery. It felt cool against her body, and at that moment she realized that all her other garments had been removed, with the exception of the stone pendant that hung around her neck. Not only had she been abducted, but, yes, she had been undressed then re-dressed.

The gown flowed to her ankles but was slit at the side. She blinked and felt lightheaded. The moment passed.

On the floor by the bed was a pair of slippers. She slid her feet into them. They fit perfectly. Cautiously, she tried to stand, but wobbled, then sat back down hard on the bed.

Another second and she was up again, successfully this time. She took a few tentative steps that carried her to the window. She looked out. She had been correct. She was in a private home of some sort and was looking down into a garden. Beyond was a comfortable array of outdoor furniture. An expensive sitting area. The garden must have been an acre or more. She carefully studied what appeared to be the perimeter between this house and those that were contiguous. She noted quickly that there were high walls, maybe twelve feet, and on the top of the walls were wires, both barbed and those that formed a security link. She noted the position of the sun and the shadows it cast and reasoned that it was late morning.

She turned quickly and found exactly what she was looking for. In the corner of the room, where the wall met the ceiling, was a small security camera. She moved to the closet and opened the door. Neatly assembled on hangers were her clothes from the hotel. How nice. They had probably checked her out too. Maybe they had settled her bill for her as well.

But the next thing that occurred to her was much more ominous. If she had been abducted quietly overnight, she was here without backup. She would have no way to rendezvous with Peter or even contact him. And chances were, he would be unable to find her. Alex didn’t even know where she was, so how would Peter find out?

She turned toward the door, placed a hand on the knob, and turned it. It opened easily. She stepped out into a hallway onto the second floor landing of a modern house. There were other rooms in each direction, but she overlooked an entrance hall on what appeared to be the first floor below. There were stairs that led downward.

She saw no one. But she heard a distant man’s voice. A one-way conversation. She couldn’t discern what language and figured that the man was on the telephone.

She moved to the stairs. She began to walk down. The stairs had a slight creak to them, so whoever had abducted her now definitely knew she was up and awake, even if they hadn’t been watching via the camera.

At the bottom of the stairs, she was in a wide entrance hall that dominated the first floor of the house. To her left she saw a formal dining room with rich green walls. In its center was a long mahogany table that seated twelve. To the other side of the hall was a living room with plush sofas and several sitting areas.

There were various paintings on the wall-originals. She spotted a Picasso etching and a Miro. The living room, on second glance, was dominated by a Lautrec poster, again obviously an original, in exquisite condition. Minor works by major artists. Seven-figure price tags.

In the back of her mind, she was processing the conversation that she was tuned into, a man’s voice coming out of a study. It was in English, heavily accented, and seemed to be a consultation with a lawyer or financial advisor of some sort. There was some sort of legal flap in Canada.

It stood to reason. The owner of this place was rich, rich, rich. Art treasures and homes like this weren’t left by the tooth fairy.

She turned from the living room and walked softly to the open door of the study.

A handsome, rugged-faced man was seated at a wide desk with an enormous aquarium behind him.

He looked up at her and offered a broad smile, as if, on a very personal level, he was nothing short of thrilled to see her. He held aloft an index finger, indicating he would be another minute on his phone call.

She gave him a slow nod of assent. She more than recognized him.

Next to her in his office was half a wall of CDs. There must have been two thousand of them. She scanned the titles as he continued on the telephone.

Rachmaninoff. Peggy Lee. The Dixie Chicks.

What was it about high-testosterone Russian big shots that made their musical tastes so quirky? Was it the vastness of eastern European geography, or the bloody absolutism of the region’s history, or just something kinky in the DNA? She knew that John Gotti had liked Sinatra, Jerry Vale, and Bobby Darin, but who would have guessed that Yuri Federov was a fan of seventies Schlock Rock and had a complete set of Deep Purple? Spend a first night in a strange man’s home, her friend Laura had once said to her with a wry smile, and there’s no end to the things you discover about him.

How true it was! At her feet was a short stack of books and magazines that had slithered over onto its side. There was something about yoga, recent copies of Paris Match and Der Spiegel, a hardcover book with bookmark-Paris: The Secret History by Andrew Hussey-an oversized volume about Chelsea Football, and a couple of collections of comparative religious philosophies.

She turned back toward him as he concluded his phone call. Federov clicked the phone shut and placed it on his desk. He leaned back in his chair, almost to the fish tank, and smiled even more broadly.

“Good morning,” she said in English. Her tone was cold.

“Good morning,” Yuri Federov answered.

FIFTY-ONE

GENEVA, SEPTEMBER 14, 10:12 A.M.

Sleep well?” Federov asked. He leaned forward again and folded his hands.

“Not particularly, thanks to you.”

“The bed was uncomfortable?” he asked.

“What do you think? I ought to have you arrested for abducting me,” Alex said.

“You ought to, yes, but we both know that as much as you’d like to, you won’t,” he said. “So why are we even talking about it?” His eyes ran her up and down. “You look beautiful in that gown, by the way. You wear red so nicely. It’s yours to keep.”

“I can’t wait to get rid of it.”

He laughed. “Take it off right now and drop it on the floor if you wish. I would have no objection!”

She unloaded on him with a creative run of profanity.

“Wrong color?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Wrong way to present a woman with a gift,” she said.

“I apologize sincerely. But I’d be deeply honored if you would keep it.”