A Date You Can't Refuse Page 25

  “‘—Stay irresponsible.’” I was shaken. If a guy knew Allen Ginsberg by heart, how bad could he be? “Yuri,” I said, taking the plunge. “You don't have to trust me with the knowledge of why you have several hundred machine guns or assault rifles or whatever they call themselves, not to mention the matching costumes, but you have to know I'm not stupid enough to think you're stupid enough to think that I'm too stupid to notice.” I stopped. The look on his face stopped me.

  Okay, maybe I was a little stupid.

  Yuri's eyes had lost their dreamlike quality. They flickered up to the surveillance camera, then back to me. “Take off the vest,” he said. “We're going for a walk.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  “I don't consider you stupid,” Yuri said, walking ahead of me in the dark. “I consider Vlad careless. He should never have shown you the guns. I thought I could distract you with a shooting lesson, but your interest isn't mere curiosity it's something more dangerous. You have a conscience.” He led me up a path that led to the canyon, illuminating the way with a flashlight he'd taken from the gun room.

  “It's not that well developed a conscience,” I said quickly. “And it's possible I'll forget it all by morning, everything I just saw. It could happen. I'm absentminded.” In fact, I was scared. “Anyway guns. Big deal. Some of my best friends are gun nuts. Second Amendment. Free country.”

  “Don't second-guess yourself. You asked me a serious question, deserving of an answer.”

  “Yes, but if this is one of those ‘I'll tell you but then I'll have to kill you’ situations, I'd rather not know.” My nose was running now too. First my mouth, then my nose. I stumbled, and then I stopped. “Yuri? I'm at the end of the road. I'm done. It's been a long and frankly dreadful day, enlivened by only a few bright moments, and I can't walk anymore. I'm cold, it's dark, I'm tired, I'm scared.”

  Yuri had stopped too and turned, and now he walked back to me.

  “Take my jacket. No one is killing anyone, certainly not you. Just a bit farther. Come.”

  I let myself be persuaded, I let him hand me his jacket, some thin Gore-Tex thing still warm from his body that raised my own temperature instantly. My fear subsided, but not my misgivings. So he gave me his jacket. That didn't mean he wasn't a murderer. This guy was full of paradoxes. However, since my chances of outrunning him were slim— he had twenty years on me, but he was also twice the athlete I was—I figured I'd trust him. I wanted to trust him. Was wanting to trust the same as trusting? Was trust like lust, something that just came over you, or was trust a matter of choice? This was a question for Uncle Theo.

  We reached a stone bench in a clearing that looked out over the canyon. Lights dotted the darkness below us like stars in an upside-down sky.

  “Sit,” Yuri said, and waited until I did. “I am creating an intelligence agency.”

  I blinked. “You're kidding. Like the FBI?”

  “A combination FBI, CIA, Secret Service, and Homeland Security is more accurate.”

  “That sounds—large. Do we need another agency?”

  “It's not for the United States.”

  “Who's it for?”

  “A very small country.”

  “Which one?”

  He hesitated. “We'll save that for another day. I'm doing nothing anti-American, believe me—quite the contrary. I am a patriot when it comes to my adopted country.”

  “So this is legal, what you're doing?”

  He smiled. The moonlight looked good on him. “Technically.”

  “How technical?”

  “California Penal Code 11460 prohibits the training of paramilitary groups, but we are not, by definition, a paramilitary group. Although our equipment and training would suggest that we are. The difference has to do with our intention.”

  “Which is what?”

  “To provide support for a new government, which will come about through legal, nonviolent means.”

  “In this small unnamed country.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yuri, I gotta say, when you talk about a nonparamilitary paramilitary group training on American soil, I start thinking—”

  “Terrorist.” He looked at me. “Wollie, my money is invested in the American stock market, I made sure my son was born here, I sent him to American schools, I own land and businesses here, I can recite to you forty-four American presidents and their vice presidents. Would you like me to?”

  “No, I feel ignorant enough.”

  “I am a Slav. I do not embrace every Western value, but your democratic ideal is my own. My life's work is the creation of open societies in former Communist countries.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yes, wow. And so I do business with men like Vlad, and worse than Vlad, as does everyone operating in that part of Europe. But here I respect the letter of the law. I love the judicial system. Why do you suppose I went to court rather than settle with Miss Lemon? My insurance would have paid. I am the farthest thing from a terrorist that you could imagine. I am a believer.”

  And I believed him. Which made ridiculous the idea that this guy was involved in film piracy; whatever DVD scam was going on at the compound didn't include Yuri. I was now sure of it. “If this spy training program isn't illegal,” I said, “why all the secrecy?”

  “I'm going to have a cigar. Do you mind?”

  “No.”

  He reached into the pocket of the Gore-Tex jacket I wore and removed a cigar and lighter. “Don't tell Kimberly Or Nell. Or Donatella, or Grusha, or Parashie.” He removed the cigar wrapper. “Why the secrecy? Proving our legal right to exist would create unwanted publicity. Staying under the radar of local law enforcement protects our friends.”

  “What friends?”

  “Don't worry, they're your friends too. Your country gives aid to people like me who promote democracy. Quietly. The aid might be in the form of money or arms, or a spirit of cooperation, but there is al ways an outcry when the relationships come to light. Think of Nicaragua, Angola, the Iraqi exiles, the financial scandal in Little Havana over the Cuban exiles and some misspent funds. I like to take care of my friends, not cause them trouble.”

  “And I imagine you need to stay off the international radar. Did Chai threaten to give up your secrets? When you took her to Kyiv last year?”

  He stuck the cigar in his mouth and lit it, squinting at me. “Chai knew nothing of this operation. She worked strictly with MediasRex, which is a legitimate media training group.”

  “Really, Yuri?” I asked.

  The lighter flicked off. “Really, Wollie. Yes, MediasRex makes for good cover, an international business requiring travel to and from southeastern Europe, where most of our operatives-in-training come from. But I promise you, Bronwen Bjöeling is not a spy.”

  I believed him. “Who are the spies, then?”

  “You've seen some of them. The workers supposedly building a pool behind House of Blue. That's one contingent. The landscapers. There are more, in various stages of training. We have a second facility in Slovakia and a third in Moldova.”

  “Where Zbiggo comes from.”

  “A coincidence. Zbiggo is not nearly intelligent enough for intelligence work.” He puffed on his cigar, watching me.

  “But—my God, this is wild. So you teach people to spy. To shoot, and fight, and decode stuff, and … surveillance techniques?”

  “We teach many things. Most of it more tedious than you might imagine, but occasionally entertaining. Tonight, for instance. What fell into the soup.”

  I froze. “What about it?”

  “It was a bugging device. That would be one of the novices, working on their counterintelligence merit badges, as Kimberly calls them. Spying on the spymaster.”

  “It couldn't have been actual counterintelligence? Like, another faction in this small, unnamed country?”

  “No.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Because it was so poorly done.”

  I tried not to feel offended. “Why
were you grilling us, then? That's what you were doing, wasn't it, going around the table, staring at everyone?”

  He smiled. “I wanted to see if someone on my media team was being used by my novices. An enterprising recruit will do that, befriend someone on the inside, persuade them to lend a hand during a training op. Intelligence is about seduction. And the recruits become extremely competitive. They are, of course, competitive to begin with. It's a necessary characteristic for spies. The gunshot that interrupted our lunch, the day you came? One of the advanced trainees, aiming at a target from down in the canyon. A stunt, nothing more. He missed and hit the house.”

  “Where's Nell?”

  Yuri rubbed his eyes. “Frankly, I am not certain. I'm working on that.”

  What on earth did all this mean? I believed what Yuri was saying, and it made sense of so many things I'd seen and not understood. But not everything.

  Bzzz. Something buzzed against my hip bone.

  “This jacket's vibrating,” I said.

  “My cell phone.” He stuck his cigar between his teeth and reached into the pocket of the jacket I wore, brushing my waist. I held my breath, worried about the DVD until he withdrew his hand. The camaraderie of moonlight and secret cigars and shared clothing was unexpected. And hard to describe. It wasn't sexual. It was something safer.

  “Hello,” Yuri said into his phone, then, “She's with me … can you patch him through? … Yes, hello? With whom am I speaking? … I'm Yuri Milos. She's here with me now. Would you like to speak with her?”

  “Who is it?” I asked, startled. I reached for the phone, but Yuri kept talking.

  “Entirely my fault,” he said. “I've been working her hard … Is that so? How would tomorrow be for you? … And if she brings a date? Is that all right? … Then it's done … My pleasure.” He hung up. “Your brother wants you to bring him a book called Superstrings and the Search for the Theory of Everything.” He reached over and stuck the phone back into the jacket I wore.

  “But I'm working tomorrow—or is that the ‘date’ you referred to?”

  “Yes. This work/family conflict Americans find so distressing is easily solved: either recruit your family into your business or adopt your colleagues and bring your work home. I do both. So will you.” He looked at his watch and stood. “Come. I need to make phone calls.” He took my hand and we started down the mountain path. “Tomorrow morning, go to Santa Barbara, see your brother, and take Stasik. You are not to let Stasik drive the car, which he will try to do, and you will not let him out of your sight, which will be a challenge.”

  “And what am I supposed to do with him?” I tried to see Stasik and P.B. conversing.

  “Your job. Help him acquire social skills, to alienate people a bit less.”

  “I'm not sure my brother's the guy to hang with for that exercise,” I said. “He's a little … atypical, socially speaking. Not a good role model.”

  “Stasik needs to see the country beyond the 310 and 818 area codes. And your brother counts too. Take care of your own, Wollie. That is the first rule.”

  I stumbled a little in the dark. “Is there a second rule?”

  “Us versus Them.”

  I wasn't crazy about these rules. What constituted one's own? Blood? Citizenship? Shared ammunition? Here I was being paid by both Yuri and Bennett Graham, and while Bennett Graham was a more obvious “us,” he hadn't killed any snakes on my behalf or dislocated an assailant's jaw. I wanted to make a case to the feds that Yuri Milos, while arguably eccentric, wasn't doing anything wrong. Of course, there was still the piracy problem and a few dead bodies to explain, so I'd have to give it some more thought.

  As if he'd read my mind, Yuri said, “Oh, Grusha says a call came in for you, before your brother's. The yogurt store is closed tonight and can't fill your order until tomorrow and asks you to be patient.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “Just as well. I think you are not getting enough sleep.” We'd come to the entrance to House of Blue. “Go right to bed, please. Will you do that?”

  “Yes.” I'd considered searching out a computer or TV, to view the pilfered DVD, but I'd had enough covert operations for one day. Besides, I was feeling distinctly under par, either because I'd barely touched dinner or from the stress of the day.

  “You know,” Yuri continued, “that anything you need, food, sundry items, you have only to tell Grusha about it and she will put it on the shopping list? Including yogurt.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “My jacket, please,” he said, smiling.

  “Oh,” I said, blushing. “Of course.”

  He helped me out of it and I was struck by how like a date this was, where a person who began the evening in one relationship to you now had a different relationship. And the negotiations went on and on. Did one kiss? Hug? Shake hands?

  Yuri put on his jacket and then took me by both shoulders, looking at me with deliberation. “Wollie, you now possess information that I would prefer not to have shared. But my gut tells me that I can trust you. Am I right? I haven't made a mistake, have I?”

  My heart beat loudly. His eyes peered into mine, in the moonlight, requiring a response. I felt as though I were about to be inducted into some secret society, that my answer had the significance of a pledge.

  “No,” I whispered. “You haven't made a mistake. You can trust me.”

  And to my dismay, I realized I meant it.

  THIRTY-NINE

  I 'd told Yuri I'd go to sleep, but here I was, an hour later, making my way through Big House by way of little night-lights that glowed near the baseboards. In the library I stumbled over an ottoman and found the phone. The lines weren't lit up; Yuri must have finished his own calls and gone to bed. Thank God. I sat and dialed Uncle Theo's number.

  The overhead light went on. “Who is here? Somebody?”

  I launched myself off the sofa, clutching my heart, suppressing a scream. I turned to see Donatella in the doorway of the library.

  “You scared me,” I said, stating the obvious. “I thought you were in—”

  “Mogilev. For forty-seven minutes, yes. Thousands of hours in the sky for forty-seven minutes on the ground.”

  “I didn't know that was even possible, flying to Europe and flying right back.”

  “You need proof? I am wearing the same clothes for thirty-eight hours. Unless I am dead, this will never happen again. The shoes are a disaster. I have blisters. I send them back to Jimmy Choo. What are you doing here awake at this hour? I thought you were Yuri.”

  “No, I'm me. I just—was it a business trip you just took?”

  “Would I fly there for a one-hour vacation? Tell me, has Nell been found?”

  I shook my head. “Maybe she flew to Mogilev too.”

  “Nell has no passport. It took sedatives to get her to the DMV for the driver's license. To fly in a plane? Never. Not even for Yuri.” Donatella perched on the arm of a chair and closed her eyes for a moment.

  I thought of Crispin, found dead while Donatella was on a very long round-trip flight. She could easily have killed him and then flown to Mogilev to avoid the police interview. Drastic, but possible. “Donatella, you do think Nell's still … alive?”

  “One can hope.” She removed a high heel and massaged her foot. I wondered if it would fall to her to give away Nell's clothes, as she had Chai's, in the event of a bad outcome. “Did you ever wonder,” she said, “why Fidel Castro was never seen in a suit? I have figured this out. It is so difficult to be a revolutionary and also dress well. I must be the pioneer.” She stood. “Va bene. I am too tired to sleep. I shall pack.”

  “Do you mean unpack?”

  “Pack. I go to Bratislava, you see. Tomorrow. I could have gone there from Mogilev. A lesser woman would have. Yuri begged me. He said Grusha will box up my clothes and ship them. Grusha? No. I don't leave couture in her hands. A Russian could. A Pole, yes. The Irish, would they come back? No. For what? The fisherman sweater? The clogs? Però, sono Italiana, io
. My path is not for everyone. Get sleep, please. Your skin looks like dead leaves. I go.”

  I watched her leave, disturbed by her rambling. Donatella, it seemed, was leaving America. Perhaps for good.

  Why?

  “It's a hotbed of activity over there,” Uncle Theo told me over the phone, three minutes later. “What country in particular are you curious about?”

  Leave it to my uncle to not ask why I needed to know about Eastern Europe late at night. Uncle Theo assumed the thirst for arcane knowledge was universal and self-justifying. “Which country is Mogilev in?” I asked.

  “Belarus.”

  “Belarus. Yes.” I moved from the office into the library and turned on a table lamp. Thousands of books came to life, their spines calling “Pick me!” I moved to a section of wall devoted to oversized shelves and pulled out an atlas.

  “The politics of Belarus,” Uncle Theo said, “are summed up in one word: Lukashenko.”

  “What's that?” I lugged the atlas to a worktable.

  “A president, dear, but between us, more of a dictator. Changes the constitution when it suits him. Alexander Lukashenko. His supporters call him Bat'ka.”

  “What's that mean?”

  “‘Father.’”

  An entire country with father issues, I thought. “Is anyone trying to overthrow him?” I found the page in the atlas that I needed, Belarus and its many neighbors.

  “Oh, wherever there's a government, there's someone trying to overthrow it. Belarus is well armed against a coup d'état, however, since the old KGB is active there.”

  “I thought the KBG went out with the Cold War.”

  “No, they're alive and well in Minsk, ready to whisk away opponents of the regime. Lukashenko struggled to take control of the country when the Soviet Union collapsed, fighting corruption and privatization. He probably made a deal with the Russian Mafia to do it, according to Mykola, my Ukranian barber. People that bent on claiming power generally like to keep it.”

  “Do you like him?”

  “My barber?”