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Kathy was in the apartment when Dragov returned. he came in quietly and startled her. She saw him standing by the door, cool, watchful, alert, as if she had been expecting someone else.
"I was just checking to see if everything was alright," she said, glad it was him, showing him Michael's key and at the same time feeling angry with herself. Why should she apologize for being in her brother's apartment?
"I heard you were coming," Dragov said. "Michael tells me your pressure group is no longer backing us."
"That's a temporary situation," Kathy replied. "If we're successful, they'll fall over themselves to give us their support. In the meantime, we're backing you. Michael's got all the details. We're guaranteeing you all your expenses, so when can you return to California?"
"I'm waiting for someone to contact me," Dragov said.
"How long?" Kathy demanded impatiently.
"I don't know," Dragov answered impassively. "He doesn't keep a schedule."
Kathy glanced across the table and saw it strewn with articles, files, and open books. "What are you looking for? Maybe I can help speed it up?"
"I'm searching for anything to give me a lead," Dragov said. "Anything about her conditions in that institution, her routine. I've found something in some unpublished papers. There's a chance Lord Barton may have done our job for us. He could have secretly struck a deal with a high-ranking state official to fly the real Mischa Barton back to Britain and substituted her with someone else to serve the sentence in Pescadero, all without the judge's knowledge. Are you sure Lord Barton wasn't informed about his daughter's arrest?"
"I saw no evidence that Lord Barton was ever informed about what happened to Mischa. I'm convinced the woman trapped inside Pescadero is the real Mischa Barton. Michael sent me the clippings and at least 20 photographs of her. I'll go through the files and photocopies from the L.A. Times first because they're the best." She made some coffee and brought it to the table. Dragov nodded and took no further notice of her.
Kathy felt a flash of pique, but she brought up another reading lamp and worked with him for the rest of the evening. They sat across the table with the files open, each silhouetted in a pool of light. Michael's apartment was very small, with a narrow hall with a single bedroom on the one side and a tiny kitchen and bathroom on the other, opening out onto this larger living area. He had given a lot of thought to its decoration, mixing the old with the new, the spotlights from the brown walls illuminating modern paintings, antique figures and leather-bound books, a chess set by the slate-lined fireplace, and more books, occupying what space remained.
It was a good room, Kathy reflected, a place to think and listen to music and be at peace above the bustling streets. They spoke little, and as they worked she took the chance to study Dragov. It had been a long time since she had been so physically aware of a man. Certainly, he was good-looking, but she couldn't believe that she was attracted to him. He was too ungiving, too male-arrogant, and icily self-controlled.
She came back the next evening after setting up her research in the main library of the Sorbonne. She caught herself checking her appearance before knocking on the apartment door and shrugged it off, annoyed, telling herself that without the committee's support, she would have to work closer with Dragov now than in California. She was beginning to wonder just how far she could handle him.
"Do you know Paris?" Kathy asked.
"I know every city in the world," Dragov replied, "thanks to my job."
"What did you do?" Kathy inquired.
"I was conscripted into the Red Army," Dragov began, his tone tinged with bittersweet memories of the past. "Had to leave my family behind for a while. Life in those Soviet apartments wasn't easy."
"What was your rank?"
"Captain."
"When were you finally able to go home?"
"Not until after my tour was over," Dragov answered, with a hint of resignation. "But even then, I was approached by a KGB officer with an offer that piqued my interest." He pushed his plate away and stood up. She knew he didn't want to answer any more questions.
They went back to work. Occasionally Dragov would get up and put another log on the fire. His domesticity was strangely reassuring. Kathy found it good to have a man doing that again in her life, and in the mellow atmosphere of the room, she began to relax with him.
She found a cutting that she thought would interest him. "Well, it seems like Mischa Barton isn't just any Hollywood starlet; she's part of a fascinating lineage," she said. "She's the youngest of three sisters, born into a family with a rich history. Her eldest sister, Hania, is a renowned fashion model, gracing the covers of magazines worldwide. Then there's the middle sister, Zoe, who's made quite a name for herself as a successful entrepreneur in the tech industry. All of them are successful in their own right. But what's truly remarkable is their bond. Despite their differing careers, they've always remained close-knit, supporting each other through thick and thin. They've weathered the storms of fame and fortune together, forming an unbreakable sisterhood many envy. They have quite the story."
"Find me articles about what goes on inside the institution," Dragov said. He was resisting any emotional involvement with Barton.
"They don't write too much about that," Kathy replied. "Have you heard from this guy you're waiting for?" She knew they were just marking time.
"Not yet."
The next morning she came early to the apartment. "It's the weekend," she said, "and we've been cooped up here for days now. Let's give it a rest." Kathy went to the window. She grimaced at the weather then grew thoughtful. "The sun isn't exactly shining, but at least it's not sleeting. Why don't I show you something of Paris?" she asked.
Dragov stood up from the table. His eyes were tired and his head felt muggy. "Why not?" he said.
"What do you want to see?"
"I have no preference."
"Do you want to see the tourist spots?"
"Not really. Just show me the Paris you know."
"O.K.," she agreed happily. "I'll take you on a childhood walk. I spent most of the first 18 years of my life here. Some afternoons, she said as they clattered down the narrow stairs, "Dad would come and pick me up from school and we would visit the places Michael and I grew up in."
Once outside, Kathy took charge. She hardly seemed American now, she was streetwise and at ease in Paris. She had a sharp tongue and a quick answer for whoever jostled her. They took the Metro to the Boulevard de Clichy and walked along the cobbled streets packed with porn shops and neon signs. "This isn't what I brought you to see," she said. They turned left into the Rue de Steinkerque, wending their way through the colorful street market and on towards the dome of Sacre Coeur. They took a rest from walking, huddled up in their coats, on a bench in the stark tree-lined square opposite the old Theatre Trois Freres.
"You O.K.?" She smiled happily at him, looking radiant and full of well-being, glad to be out on the streets of Paris again. Dragov nodded. Now that they were relaxing together, away from a purely working relationship, he began to notice Kathy. She was almost as tall as him and though she dressed stylishly it was for comfort rather than for effect; but still, he was aware that beneath her coat was a lithe, full-breasted body, her tight blue jeans tucked into her boots. Her face was strikingly formed with high cheekbones and a small upturned nose, and there were times when he was almost dazzled by the fire in her eyes. He thought her beautiful now, her face happy and animated. He already knew of her courage; he was beginning to enjoy her directness and warmth. They strolled on through an area of attractive bohemian buildings with tall shuttered windows looking down over small cobbled squares. As they walked she told him about Paris and, because of the route they took, about herself.
"My father was an anthropologist," she said. "He spent most of his early career in China before the Second World War and he did some important work on the discovery of Peking Man. He was fascinated with China and got involved with the growth of their communist movement. The Japanese put him in a concentration camp after Pearl Harbor. When he came home to America at the end of the war, he expected his work to be recognized. Instead, because he was a communist and not ashamed of it, his work was suppressed and many of the men he thought were his friends took the honors he should have had and abandoned him. All he could find to support us was the odd teaching job at some small-town university, then, when the McCarthy era swept the nation, even though he had proved all over again that he was a truly brilliant man, he couldn't find a job at all and had to leave America.
"We settled over here in the '50s," she continued, "this was one of the few places where they'd let him teach. My mom and dad were tired and it was hard to make another start. It was O.K. for Michael and me. At least, if was better for me, Michael was older and got deeply hurt by it. But Dad could never really settle down, he was an American and he missed America. He never went back, though, he died here. Michael felt that Dad had been persecuted and that made him very bitter, he and Dad were close."
Watching her, Dragov knew she was speaking for herself.
"Is that why you have become so involved in the human rights cause?"
Kathy nodded. "After what happened to my father, I've always hated any kind of injustice. Michael stayed over here but I went back to fight. I got involved in the campus disturbances and a couple of times I came unglued, but don't get me wrong, Mr. Dragov, I'm stubborn and serious about Barton, Michael, too. If you can find a way to free that young woman, we'll back you."
They walked up the Rue de Ravignan, coming the steep cobbled streets toward Montmartre.
"Did you ever marry?" Dragov asked.
"No, but I lived with a man for nearly four years." Dragov's silence seemed to draw her out. What the hell if he knows, she thought, and she told him: "It seemed as close a relationship as any marriage could be, but it didn't work out. I know now that he was a vain, weak man but, God, at the time I loved him so completely, I nearly let him destroy me." Kathy had taught herself to strive against failure and she tried to keep from Dragov how inadequate the breakup of that relationship made her feel. She was aware that she had made more of a success in her academic and political career than her personal life, and giving of herself to a deep relationship brought a sharper sense of loneliness when it ended. Dragov could see this vulnerability in her, and from time to time a flash of her former wariness.
They came out into Montmartre and, for all its touristy, to Dragov, it was still holding much of its magic. As they walked the narrow streets he smelt hot bread and good cooking, and the door of some bar opening brought gusts of warmth into the cold air. Kathy took him into the church of St. Pierre just off the artists' square. On one side was the confessional and small altar with a few people singing Mass, their voices in soft, beautiful harmony. The massive columns held up the arched roof as if lifting the weight of the world off of the people inside.
"I warned you," she said wryly, as they came back into the gloom of the winter's afternoon, "I was going back into my past." The abrasiveness in her was gone. Dragov was seeing a different side to her character now.
"There was a time when I belonged here," she said. "As kids, we played in these streets above Pigalle. Some other kids were tough, but it never affected us. Michael and I used to protect one another. If we got into trouble we used a special mountain call and Dad would come rushing out to save us."
Kathy showed Dragov the small back streets and alleys and bars of Montmartre, where the flaking old buildings nearly touched each other across the cobbles. She was proud of her adopted city and she tried to make Dragov imagine what the old Montmartre of Toulouse-Lautrec and Renoir must have been like.487Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2y1eISWSv8
"Renoir used to live here," she said, pointing at a house that was now a museum. Dragov stared at it. It was almost dark and he realized that she must have lost all track of time.
"I preferred the bars," he said, stamping his feet. "It's warmer in there." He was teasing her, feeling warm with her after a good day, but their relationship was still too new for Kathy to understand his dry sense of humor.
"I don't know why I'm telling you all this," she flared angrily, suddenly trying to back off, feeling that she was making an ass of herself, getting too involved. Dragov shrugged, retreating as well, but they had left it too late to withdraw. They were awkward with each other after that, like strangers again, conscious of not being entirely in control of things. They stayed together wandering all over Paris that wet weekend, using the excuse that they needed a break from the data gathering.487Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0R4hJojBcJ
On Sunday evening, tired and cold from walking all day, they brought food back to the apartment. Neither of them knew when or how it happened, or to what lengths they would go to preserve or deepen what was between them, but after they had eaten, when it was time to leave, she asked him hesitantly though with her now familiar directness: "Listen, can I stay here tonight?"
Dragov reached out, his strong hands touched her face with surprising gentleness, and then he drew her to him. She promised herself that this was just going to be an affair, and that was all, but she had already begun to fall in love with him.487Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡoyin4OZCG1
