Free The Property of a Lady by Elizabeth Adler Page A

seller was.
We have to find the ‘Lady’ before Russia does.”
    She looked away, staring thoughtfully into the blazing fire. Cal watched her for a few moments, then he said, “I mentioned that I needed your help, but it’s not just for
me
, Genie Reese.
It’s for your country
. I am asking you to find out from Valentin Solovsky if he bought the emerald through this dealer, Markheim. And if not, who did.”
    She looked frightened as she said, “Why me? … I thought they
trained
people to be spies.”
    “Not a
spy
, Genie,” he said gently. “You are just asking a few innocent questions. There’s no danger. All you have to do is be as good a reporter when you’re talking to Solovsky as you have been with me. After all, you got the information you wanted from me, didn’t you?”
    He nodded in the direction of Solovsky, who was now sitting by the window staring out into the snowy night.“Why don’t I leave you to think it over? Meet me in my suite for breakfast tomorrow and let me know what happened. Nine o’clock okay with you?”
    She nodded but her eyes were still scared and he relented a little. “There’s really nothing to be afraid of,” he said. “It’s the Ivanoff woman they are after, not you.” After taking her limp hand in his, he kissed her fingers lightly, adding with a grin, “Besides, you’re no Mata Hari. You’re just a damned good reporter sitting on a hell of a story.
An exclusive story
. Remember?”
    With a casual wave he strolled to the door. As if drawn by an irresistible force, she turned her head to look at the man by the window. As her eyes met Valentin Solovsky’s, Genie faced her choices, and she knew what she had to do.

Valentin Solovsky had sat for a long time alone at his table in the deserted restaurant. A solitary waiter stood by the door, a white linen napkin folded over his clasped hands, waiting patiently for the distinguished guest to finish the last of his bottle of Château Margaux.
    He had swiveled around in his chair and was gazing at the blizzard raging outside the window. As a Russian, it was a sight he was used to although not one he had expected tonight, and he had certainly not expected the airport to close. He took another sip of the excellent claret, savoring the soft dark flavor on his tongue, but his mind was thousands of miles away, back in Moscow with his father.
    The day that had changed his life had started out as any other day. He had risen early in the small but elegant apartment in the mansion on the Kutuzovskiy Prospekt. It was an old building with high ceilings and carved marble fireplaces that had somehow survived the revolution intact, and some years ago it had been divided into apartments suitable for party members earmarked for the top. Thanks to his foreign postings, Valentin’s three rooms were furnished with Russian antiques brought back from London and Paris and his kitchen had the latest gadgets from New York City, though the only one that looked used was the coffeemaker. Floor-to-ceiling shelves held books on many subjects and in several languages, for hespoke French, English, German, and Italian as well as Russian and some of its dialects.
    Surprisingly for such a dedicated Party member, there were no gaudy Soviet paintings of the revolution, no propaganda posters of agricultural workers standing proudly beside a tractor or factory workers in front of shining modern machinery. But there was a picture of Lenin.
    The only other pictures were four framed photographs displayed on a table in his small sitting room. One was of his grandfather, Grigori Solovsky, taken at the age of sixty, dark-haired and swarthy, standing solidly on his short peasant legs, one arm flung around his wife. Her yellow-blond hair had faded early to white, but her blue eyes were as innocent and twinkling as a young girl’s. They had died within weeks of each other ten years before, he of a brain tumor and she of a broken heart.
    Next to them was an official