Free Flight of the Raven by REBECCA YORK Page A

so many Soviet citizens had disappeared. The thought made a sudden chill dance down his spine. If his own sins against the state were discovered, he’d rot in the Russian version of hell. That was a risk he’d chosen to take, but still, Bosch’s graphic nightmares disturbed him.
    Turning away, he headed toward the Rubens collection, knowing that less moralistic subjects would lift his spirits. The amply endowed females the painter had favored reminded him of many of his countrywomen. But a Russian painter would have covered them in furs and heavy garments rather than mere wisps of lace.
    To even the most alert observer, his progress through the crowded galleries would seen random. He might be just another tourist taking in Madrid’s most celebrated cultural attraction. But he was really making his way toward a little-used stairway at the west end of the building. Just above the ground floor, a piece of marble molding was loose. Behind it, was the dead drop where he and Peregrine agents had left material for each other before the net around him had begun to tighten. On his way down it was impossible to stop because there were a number of people on the stairs. So he passed by the drop and went to look at some of the Flemish baroque paintings. Fifteen minutes later the stairwell was clear, except for a man holding the hand of a small girl. After waiting until they were out of sight, the Raven reached down quickly, slid the piece of marble aside, shoved an envelope into the opening, and replaced the marble. Then he strolled back to the main floor and out of the museum. In keeping with his tourist pose, he turned in the direction of the smaller building several blocks away that housed Picasso’s famous Guernica.
    The information he’d left was merely a test of the communications link with the Falcon—a photocopy of the embassy’s confidential telephone directory, information that would be of minor use to the West. Since the material could have been supplied by anyone on the staff, it wouldn’t point an incriminating finger at him. Now he’d just have to wait and see what sort of return message appeared in the clandestine mailbox.
    The strategy was sound. But waiting was like sitting on top of a live grenade that could go off at any minute.
    * * *
    J ULIE TOOK two 100-peseta notes from her evening bag and handed them to the cabdriver. After withdrawing her party invitation, she stepped out onto the sidewalk and allowed the folds of her long burgundy dress to settle gracefully into place. Then she made her way toward the high wall that shielded Byne House from view.
    She’d attended only a few previous soirees at the mansion. The occasions had simply been an extension of her business dealings with officials in the Spanish government. This evening was still business, but of quite a different type. It was to be her first contrived meeting with the Russian spy. The assignment had her nerves stretched taut. To calm them, she forced herself to think about the opulent setting rather than the dangerous man she’d been sent here to meet.
    Byne House was actually a small palace and one of the most carefully preserved legacies of Madrid’s elegant past. Ironically, it had been the home of an expatriate New York millionaire, Arthur Byne, whose widow had willed it to the United States. Now it was the official residence of the embassy’s second-in-command, Henry Sloane, and his wife Margaret.
    Much of the American’s diplomatic entertaining took place in its gracious public rooms and gardens. Tonight Byne House was the scene of a reception for the highly acclaimed Philadelphia Opera, which was mounting its first European tour. Though the opera singers had been well reviewed by the Madrid press, Raphael Conti, the flamboyant artistic director, had stolen the show. When Paula and the other staffers in Julie’s section had learned she was attending the reception for him and the rest of the cast and orchestra, they’d been jealous.