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  FIREBIRD

  by Helaine Mario

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright 2012, Helaine Mario

  This book is dedicated to

  my children, Jessica & Sean

  my grandchildren,

  Ellie, Tyler & Clair Violet,

  who fill my world with magic.

  Always love books.

  and to

  Ron – love beyond words

  “And in my dreams I see myself on a wolf’s back

  riding along a forest path

  to do battle with a sorcerer-tsar

  In the land where a princess sits under lock and key

  pining behind massive walls.

  There gardens surround a palace all of glass;

  There Firebirds sing by night.”

  “Zimniy-put” by Yakov Polonsky

  “The Cold War is over. The rivalry is not.

  The Soviet Union is gone. But Russia remains.”

  excerpt from NBC-TV World News Tonight

  PROLOGUE

  1966

  “The Curtain Rises...”

  In a dense and mysterious forest, there are strange and ominous sounds. Then a dazzling, magical light...

  PROLOGUE

  “Beyond the curtain...”

  William Butler Yeats

  THE ROYAL OPERA HOUSE, LONDON

  SEPTEMBER 8, 1966

  The hunter waited in the shadows stage-left.

  The quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder sparked with silver light as his powerful body shifted with impatience. Soon, he told himself, keeping his eyes on the curtain. The final curtain will fall, and my new life will begin.

  With a whisper, the crimson curtain rose. The sinister forest on the stage sprang to life.

  The conductor raised his baton and violins filled the hall with the haunting music of Stravinsky’s Firebird Suite. The hunter stepped aside as the members of the Corps de Ballet rushed past him onto the stage for their curtain call.

  As he watched the sweeping bows of princesses and mystical creatures, the audience began a slow, steady clapping rhythm - a tribute to the Kirov Ballet’s historic first performance of The Firebird ballet in the West.

  In the shadowed wings on the far side of the stage he could see the two Soviet political officers responsible for the troupe. Their unblinking eyes never left the dancers. Six years earlier, Rudolph Nureyev had defected from the Kirov at Le Bourget Airport in Paris. In the resulting media madness, most of the Kirov’s international tours had been canceled. But there had been one compelling reason for this performance in London.

  The hunter searched the audience of Westerners, then scanned the flushed faces of the dancers. In minutes, the curtain would come down on their final performance in the West. Our very own Iron Curtain, he thought darkly. Freedom on one side. And on the other... an old and drafty aircraft that will take us back to the wintry nights of Mother Russia.

  It had to be tonight.

  Flushed ballerinas brushed against him as they left the stage. Then, one by one, the principal dancers glided into the spotlight to take their bows. The Czar and his golden-haired daughter, the evil sorcerer in his flowing black cloak. Finally, it was Prince Ivan’s turn.

  He strode center stage, tall and muscled in his emerald hunter’s jacket. A brooch of a plumed bird was pinned to the shoulder of his costume, and the gems caught the stage lights, spinning points of glittering fire into the audience. He stood, proud and still, his eyes sweeping the blur of pale faces.

  It had been an unforgettable performance for him. To be a principal dancer, and not yet eighteen… His muscles were still loose, hot and tingling with excitement. He raised his arm with noble dignity and caressed the brooch - his talisman, his passport to freedom - and bowed to the cheering crowd. Then he turned toward the wings and held out his hand.

  The music quickened as, glorious and triumphant, the Firebird flew into the spotlight. Half magical bird, half beautiful woman, she spun across the stage in a series of dizzying leaps, as shimmering and brilliant as the deep red of her feathered costume.

  Her flashing crimson slippers seemed to leave a wake of fire behind her. Shouts of Brava! rang in the hall as the audience leapt to its feet, applauding wildly.

  He walked toward her.

  She seemed to flutter across the stage, her shining eyes locked with his, scarlet feathers cascading down her slender form. With one last graceful swoop, she dropped into a deep curtsey, gathered a single red feather from her breast, and offered it to her prince. A magical feather, according to the Firebird’s legend, to keep him from danger.

  He caught his breath. Tonight was their night. He swept down on one knee and kissed her hand.

  “I love you, my Firebird,” he whispered in Russian.

  “And I love you, my heart...”

  His fingers pulled at the brooch pinned to his shoulder. He touched the bloodstones to his lips, then offered his princely gift to the flickering Firebird. “Wear this tonight,” he whispered. “It will protect you.”

  The audience roared its approval at his unexpected gesture.

  He felt her delicate fingers close over his. “All is ready,” he murmured, bending to whisper against her cheek. “Be at the backstage door in ten minutes.”

  The Firebird’s eyes flamed at him as she fastened the jeweled pin above her breast.

  Overcome by emotion, he hugged her narrow body against his chest.

  “My heart,” whispered the Firebird. “There is something I must tell you -”

  Over her feathered shoulder he saw the dark painted leaves of the Czar’s garden, then a spark of bright flame against the foliage. His arms tightened, crushing the words from her, as the painted forest exploded into orange fire.

  “Pazhar!” he shouted in Russian. “Fire!” The stagelights went dark. Someone knocked against him as the Firebird was dragged from his grasp.

  “Tatyana!” he shouted desperately. He heard her scream his name. Then he saw the bright red feathers erupt with fire as she was engulfed in flames.

  He lunged after her, but something hard hit him across the shoulders and he fell to the stage, dimly aware that he clutched only a broken red feather.

  It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

  Thick black smoke smothered him. For a moment he felt the heat, searing against his throat. He lifted his head, saw the heavy beam falling toward him. Pain knifed through his body. There was a roaring noise in his ears, a great flash of red light.

  He reached out to her as the darkness took him. “Firebird...”

  ACT I

  IN A DARK FOREST

  “appears the dazzling Firebird...”

  Part magical bird, part beautiful woman, she is terrified - leaping away, but leaving a scarlet feather from her breast as protection against danger...

  CHAPTER 1

  “In the middle of the journey of my life, I came to myself within a dark wood, where the straight way was lost...”

  Dante, The Divine Comedy

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  TUESDAY, OCTOBER 19. THE PRESENT

  A driving October rain whipped against the sea of black limousines and ran like tears down the stone face of Washington’s National Cathedral.

  Beyond the gothic doors, in the dimness of the nave, Bach’s Funeral Cantata echoed from the vast stone vaulting. Heads of state, politicians, millionaires and fur-coated celebrities sat shoulder to shoulder, lost in their private thoughts. In the shadowed aisles, Secret Service agents in raincoats and tinted glasses stood like silent sentinels, their eyes constantly moving over the endless rows of guests.

  With t
he crash of a final chord, the organ fell silent. Now the only sound was the steady drumming of the rain against the stained glass windows, sad as an elegy.

  Alexandra Marik gave up trying to pray and raised her eyes. To her left, her niece sat as still as one of the marble statues, her delicate hands clasped so tightly that knuckles showed white as bone. At the end of the row, her sister’s husband, Anthony Rhodes, stared straight ahead, his carved face expressionless.

  Just past his shoulder, in the cross of the marble aisles, rested the white-draped casket. The single red rose set on the lid was as startling as a pool of blood on snow.

  The Bishop raised his arms, his vestments a deep purple slash in the dim light. “And unto dust thou shalt return...”

  A soft choking sound came from her niece. Alexandra slipped off her dark glasses and reached over to clasp the girl’s frozen hands. “Juliet,” she whispered. “Hold on, Jules.”

  The girl’s stare was stony, her eyes as green as her mother’s. Very deliberately, she jerked her hands away and tilted her head so that her long hair swung like a gilt shield across her face.

  Alexandra turned toward the silver-framed photograph set among massed bouquets of lilies. Oh Eve, she thought, reaching out to her sister. How do I help your daughter? Tell me what to do.

  Her sister’s face gazed back at her, red-gold hair windblown, her eyes huge and full of secrets.

  The incense and the cloying scent of flowers were making Alexandra dizzy. She closed her eyes and covered her face with her palms.

  “May the souls of the faithful departed...”

  You’re in danger, Zan!

  Her sister’s voice, sharp and close, whispered the warning in her head. It was as clear as the desperate words she’d heard on her cell phone the night Eve died.

  A sudden shiver touched Alexandra’s spine, and she pressed back against the wooden chair, trying to breathe. For days, she’d felt the pale blue eyes on her, known that someone was watching her. Now, once again, she had the same unsettling feeling. Had he followed her to Washington? Was he here now, in the cathedral?

  Alexandra searched the shadows of the choir stalls, then slowly shifted in her chair to look over her shoulder. The faces behind her swam like pale petals on a sea of black water.

  She raised her eyes to the high loft, where shards of blue from the round stained-glass window spilled across bent heads. Where are you? I know you’re here, damn you.

  A slight movement to her right, there, beyond the pillar. A glimpse of a tall, elegant black woman in a dark hooded raincoat. In an instant, emptiness. She heard a wrought iron gate scrape softly.

  “Grant her peace, oh Lord,” intoned the Bishop as he swung the incense burner slowly over the casket in the sign of the cross.

  Peace? Alexandra blinked.

  In slow motion she saw the pall-bearers gather, watched as her brother-in-law took Juliet’s elbow, saw the girl reach out to touch the coffin in a tender farewell. The chords of Chopin’s Funeral March drew them slowly up the aisle, past the guttering candles.

  Out through the great doors, into a gust of stinging rain that carried the scent of wet boxwood and ancient stone. The roped-off media surged forward, flashbulbs popped too close to her face.

  Alexandra hesitated on the cathedral steps as the crush of black umbrellas closed in around her and, high above, the carillon bells began to toll.

  She ran down the steps into a waiting limousine.

  * * * *

  Two hours after the funeral, still shivering with cold, Alexandra stood at the tall window of her third floor room in the Hay-Adams Hotel on 16th Street. She could still hear the disappointment in the bellman’s voice. “But the view is so much better from the higher floors, Madame.” Not for her, she had assured him. For someone who was terrified of heights, the third floor was just fine, thank you very much.

  She rested her forehead against the cool windowpane. The rain had blown off, leaving a grey haze of mist behind. Below her, Lafayette Park was cloaked in darkness, the west wing of the White House gleaming through a blur of streetlamps. A circle of wind-ruffled flags caught a narrow shaft of moonlight and, far in the distance, shadows shifted across the tall needle of the Washington Monument.

  She looked once more at her watch, willing the terrible day to end. Just go to bed, she thought. You can catch the first train in the morning, be home in time to see Ruby and -

  A sudden movement on the sidewalk below caught her attention. A shape, blacker than the trees, shifted against the cobblestones. A silhouette in the lamplight. Shielded by heavy silken drapery, she watched the coated figure move, cup a glowing cigarette in the palm of his hand, then raise his face to her window. He was too far away for her to see his eyes, but she knew what color they would be. Blue, pale and unblinking, and cold as a Northern ocean.

  Alexandra pressed back into the shadows, her heart skipping fast in her chest. Stop it, she told herself. It’s just a stranger, smoking a cigarette. Your imagination is in overdrive. Get a grip, Marik. She closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe deeply.

  She waited, then looked once more. Nothing but darkness.

  A deep voice on the television behind her caught her attention, and she turned to see the river of black umbrellas fill the small screen.

  “Welcome to a special edition of Entertainment Tonight. Today in our nation’s capital, most of A-list Washington turned out to bid farewell to one of their own. Heavy rain could not keep away the overflow crowd of 900 movers and shakers who gathered in Washington’s National Cathedral for an 85 minute ceremony to mourn and honor socialite photographer Evangeline Marik Rhodes...”

  A photograph appeared, and there was Eve in her familiar safari jacket, her old Nikon slung casually over an elegant shoulder as she scrambled across a steep cliff face.

  You were always the brave one, Eve.

  She had a sudden memory of her sister, arms outstretched, a fearless young girl walking along the edge of a high balcony railing that was narrow as a tightrope. C’mon, Zan. Follow me. Don’t be afraid.

  Zan. Eve had given her the nickname that day, evolved from Alex-zan-dra to ‘Zandra to, finally, Zan.

  The television flickered. “Adored for years by her countless fans, this fearless photo-journalist roamed the capitals and remote corners of the world to gather information for her no-holds-barred profiles of the rich and famous.”

  The report cut to a film clip of Eve astride Lady Falcon, galloping across a verdant field. “After her third marriage, to the charismatic Ambassador Anthony Rhodes – a May-December romance that took many insiders by surprise - Eve became D.C.’s own doyenne, hosting those oh-so-private dinners at the Ambassador’s Georgetown residence and at Foxwood, the Ambassador’s horse country estate in Middleburg, Virginia. Many are wondering if Ambassador Rhodes will now cancel next week’s see-and-be-seen benefit for D.C.’s Children’s Hospital – a gala he and his wife have hosted at Foxwood every year since their marriage.

  “As benefactor and uber-hostess, Eve Rhodes burned her candle at both ends, kicking up those trademark stiletto heels of hers everywhere from Middleburg’s stables to State Dinners at the White House.”

  Another photograph sprang to the screen, Eve a sliver of spun gold standing between the tall tuxedoed President and one of his top advisors.

  “ET has learned that the President himself paid tribute to Eve this morning in an eloquent farewell, calling her ‘a rose among Washington’s thorns.’”

  The ET host flashed a brief smile. “The President described the day Eve photographed him in the Oval Office for the cover of Vanity Fair. ‘Everyone knew you’d only truly arrived in the halls of power,’ he said, ‘when you were photographed by the legendary Eve Marik Rhodes.’”

  More film, rain-splashed now, that caught glimpses of familiar faces leaving the cathedral. “The VIP invitation-only crowd included Harrison Ford and Stella McCartney, foreign dignitaries from the British, French and Russian embassies, and the international
philanthropist, Yuri Belankov. They were joined by many of our nation’s most powerful leaders, including the Chief Justice, who escorted the First Lady, and the publisher of the Washington Post, caught on camera sharing an umbrella with the recently appointed and controversial Vice Presidential nominee, New York Senator David Rossinski. As you know, the Senator was selected for the ticket after Vice President Grey suffered a serious stroke just weeks ago. We wish both men well.

  “And there, in the center of your screen, is a gathering you don’t see together very often - Washington’s powerful ‘Old Lions,’ the last of the Foreign Policy Elders who, along with Senator Rossinski, have ruled Congress, led Cabinet agencies and shaped foreign policy for so many years. Closing ranks around their old friend Ambassador Rhodes are Defense Secretary Admiral Ramon Alcazar, NSA Policy Advisor Rens Karpasian, Madame Secretary of State Naomi Lourdes and – on his ever-present iPhone - the new Director of the CIA, Gabe ‘Zee’ Zacarias. A veritable Who’s Who of Washington’s insiders.”

  Alexandra stared at the faces on the screen. One of the names had triggered a fleeting memory. A signature, scrawled on thick paper. Who was it?

  The newsman’s voice hurried on. “With the Start Treaty in jeopardy, the upcoming Nuclear Summit in St. Petersburg and the recent spy network scandal, next month’s Presidential election has created a frenzy of rumors regarding these powerful positions. Who will stay – and who will go? The lions are circling.

  “But today,” continued the reporter, “after all, is a day for mourning.” The screen flickered once more and Alexandra saw the unmistakable eagle profile and white-winged brows of her brother-in-law. “Ambassador Rhodes is one of the most influential American diplomats in recent history. He will assume the guardianship of his wife’s fifteen year old daughter from her second marriage, Juliet Marik.” Mercifully, there was no photograph of her niece.