“There is a, ah, woman. She’s lived with him in the big house for, well, I guess about two years now. I believe she’s been taking care of him while he’s—incapacitated. There is also a Mexican couple who come in to help, but they are only there for half a day. They wouldn’t be there at this hour.”
Isaacs herded his team into the van and made sure they had the directions straight. A woman. He remembered the stories of the Soviet refugee he had heard from his contact in the FBI. Of course, she could be some old peasant lady who changes his sheets.
Chapter 17
Maria Latvin opened the door and knew the dreaded visit had come at last. The two men wore conservative western business suits, but she recognized the type and, despite herself, felt as if she had been suddenly yanked eight thousand miles back to the home she had fought so hard to leave.
The taller man stepped forward and reached into his inner jacket pocket for a small leather identification folder. He flipped it open and Maria stared at it. Not his papers, but photographs. Her mother and younger brother still trapped in Lithuania. Fighting the growing feeling of numbness, she stepped back and held the door open for them.
The tall man spoke quietly in Russian.
“We must see Paul Krone.”
“He’s not well,” Latvin replied, slipping into the same language.
“We know that. We must see him anyway and judge his condition for ourselves.”
“You know who I am. Why are you interested in Paul?”
“This is not necessary for you to know. You will take us to him.”
The woman led the two Russians into the study.
“There, you see,” she pointed to a figure seated before the fireplace, “he is very ill and cannot talk to you.”
The two men slowly approached the figure in the chair. They crouched next to the chair, then began to whisper animatedly to one another.
Finally the taller one stood and walked back across the room to where Maria Latvin stood.
“You take care of him?”
“He responds to me a little. Enough for me to feed and wash him, to see to his basic functions.”
“His research?”
The woman merely raised an eyebrow in a deeply skeptical look.
“What do you know of his work?” the man demanded.
“Nothing. I am no scientist. I know nothing.”
“Notes. Does he keep notes of his work?”
“If he does, they are at the lab. He never worked here.”
A faint crinkling cracked the frost around the man’s eyes. “I must report for instructions. He will stay with you,” he said, gesturing to his companion.
The woman’s face betrayed no expression. The man shot a glance at his companion, a silent order, and left the room rapidly.
He had been gone five minutes when they heard a car coming up the drive. Maria Latvin looked questioningly at the remaining Russian. He shook his head and slid a hand toward the bulge under his jacket.
“Quickly,” she said, “you can hide in a rear bedroom. I’ll see who it is.”
“Get rid of them. Immediately!” he demanded, as she hustled him down the hallway.
Isaacs scanned the house as they approached. It was a large, multi-level adobe structure, graceful despite the characteristic thick walls and solid projecting beams. It faced the southwest with a glorious view of the plains and the oncoming Sunset. Isaacs spoke to the agents and the pilot who had driven them up to the house.
“This is a private home, and we don’t want to come on like an invasion force. We’re just going to try to speak with the man who runs the complex up the road. I’d like you to sit tight here.”
The agents nodded.
Isaacs, Danielson, and Runyan walked up the flagstone walk to the massive carved front door. Not seeing a doorbell, Isaacs used his knuckles.
After a moment the door swung open. Runyan was not sure what he expected, but it was certainly not what he saw in his view over Isaacs’ shoulder. A lovely young woman stood there, one hand on the knob of the door. She was of medium height, dressed in a dark hostess gown. She had a smooth brown complexion, thick black hair in a longish page-boy cut, and high cheekbones. Her black eyes sparkled behind gold-rimmed eyeglasses, but registered no surprise at the three strangers in the doorway of her redoubt. Runyan saw her take in Isaacs and then swing her gaze to him. After a moment she looked past him to Danielson and raised one eyebrow in a slight quizzical gesture.
Isaacs displayed his badge and said, “We are here by authority of the President of the United States. May we come in?”
The woman seemed to instantly understand and accept the situation. She stepped aside and said, “Come in,” in a lilting slightly accented voice.
Inside the door was a foyer, high-ceilinged and about eight feet across. There was a closet door on the left. On the right was a small stand holding a lamp and fronting a mirror, which ran nearly to the ceiling and added even more width to the area.
The woman led them from the foyer to a large living room. The room was decorated in Spanish style. A massive fireplace dominated the wall directly across from where they entered. A thick Navaho rug lay on the dark tile floor in front of the fireplace. Bordering the rug were two heavy leather sofas at right angles with a high-backed overstuffed leather chair filling the gap on the right side of the fireplace. On the wall on either side of the door through which they had entered were floor to ceiling shelves of dark mahogany that contrasted with the whitewashed walls. The shelves were filled with books and excellent specimens of Mayan and Incan relics. To their left a large archway led to a dining room dominated by a great mahogany table, surrounded by twelve ornate chairs, but set, Isaacs noted, with only two places—the right end and the position to the immediate left of that, such that the diner would face away from the living room. To the right of the fireplace a hallway disappeared from view.
The woman stepped around the sofa that faced the fireplace and sat back in the chair, tucking her legs beneath her. Without taking his eyes off her, Runyan followed her and perched unbidden on the corner of the sofa nearest her chair. Danielson watched him with the closest scrutiny, but remained standing behind the central sofa with Isaacs. Isaacs asked the key question.
“Is Paul Krone here?” The woman looked back at Runyan and then at Isaacs.
“Yes,” she replied simply.
“May I ask who you are?”
“I am Maria Latvin, his companion.”
“I would like to speak with Dr. Krone.”
“Certainly.” She arose without further comment and proceeded down the hallway to the right of the fireplace.
Runyan rose with the woman as she led the three of them down the corridor. They passed a closed door on the right, but she paused before a door somewhat beyond that to the left. Opening that door, she stood aside and gestured for them to enter.
The room was a study, extending down to the left and ending in another large fireplace that backed up to the one in the living room. The other three walls were lined with shelves completely filled with books. A large desk dominated the middle of the room. Its surface looked well used, but was currently empty save for a pencil holder and a couple of mementos. Two high-backed large chairs, mates of the one in the other room, flanked the fireplace. Unlike the other fireplace this one had a small flame flickering in the grate. A figure was seated in the chair to the right of the hearth. From their vantage point just inside the door at the far end of the room, they could only see extended legs and the left arm draped on the armrest.
“Paul?”
Isaacs jumped slightly and turned at the sound of the voice behind him. Her tone had been gentle, but faintly condescending, as one might address a child. The figure gathered itself slowly and rose from the chair.