Free Conspiracy by Dana Black Page B

Though the interest of many had waned visibly as Alec had become progressively more intoxicated, it was clear that several would gladly have traded places with Rachel for the remainder of the evening. The numbers on this napkin might well be a reminder from one of those women that she would be available in room 702 of the Ritz—or possibly in another hotel that she expected to remain in Alec’s memory after the haze of alcohol had cleared. Then too, the napkin might have been given to him by some other woman earlier in the evening, before Rachel had arrived. And the fifteen hundred dollars? Why would a woman in a room 702 somewhere in Madrid give Alec Conroy that much money? Or did the numbers have another meaning—a baggage claim, perhaps, or a post office box? If Alec had become involved for the money, it was plainly no trifling matter.
    And yet Alec had chosen not to tell her about it.
    Thoughtfully she replaced the money and the other things from Alec’s pockets. She would have to find out what he was up to, that much was certain. She would not ask him directly, for if he wanted to tell her, he would do so without her asking, and if he did not, he would only lie convincingly. Then, alerted to her suspicions and wary, he would cover his tracks, making her task more difficult.
    Her mind fastened on the one starting point for her inquiry: the gathering for the British team at the Ritz. Whatever Alec had done, the napkin proved that someone from that hotel suite was involved with him. How to find out which someone was the problem, also how to accomplish that feat while still attending to her job as a reporter—to her “comeback.” After Ross Cantrell’s dire-straits warning, which had reached her immediately following the Palermo interview, she knew she would have to find a way to distinguish herself, to produce something really memorable. Otherwise, people would say that an aging Rachel Quinn had dragged down the World Cup ratings and made the show fold.
    Quietly she folded Alec’s trousers and put them neatly on the chair beside Alec’s dressing table. She picked up a light cotton thermal blanket and pillow from the bed and returned to where Alec lay on the couch to tuck him in for the night. As she did, she noticed an unmistakable bulge protruding beneath his bikini-style briefs. Perhaps he was having an erotic dream, or perhaps the night air on his uncovered legs stimulated him. But whatever the cause, Alec had a lovely erection.
    On impulse, she dropped to her knees beside him, lifted the elastic of his briefs and slid them partway down, and took him into her mouth. He moved, but only slightly, and his breathing did not change. Soon she felt better, her worries and suspicions temporarily suspended. The touch of his skin against hers warmed her, a warmth of excitement, yes, but also a warmth that relaxed her and made her feel protective, almost maternal. Whatever he had done earlier tonight, now Alec was all hers.
    Unbidden, a plan began to shape itself in her mind.

18
     
    In the cramped, antiquated bathroom of the hotel room she shared with her official “companion,” Soviet gymnast Katya Romanova readied herself for another scene in what she knew would have to be a superlatively convincing performance.
    As was her habit before any important activity, whether on the parallel bars or the balance beam or in one of the weekly “evaluative interviews” with a government security man or woman, Katya prepared her mind. Her first coach at the Sport Academia had taught her the technique, after studying the Zen-influenced methods of the Japanese holders of five consecutive Olympic and World Team championships. The basis of the concentration exercise, he had told her, was the Zen principle of “no-mind,” the state in which there is no fear of failure or bodily harm, and where the intended actions—a gymnast’s moves, or replies indicating proper loyalty to the Moscow regime—seem to perform themselves.
    So