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“My wife is out for a few hours,” he told them.
“Which will make this easier,” she said. “The fewer people here the better.”
“Is this woman dangerous?”
“Definitely,” she said. “But I don’t think she’s coming here to harm you. She’s after something specific and we need to find out what that is. You don’t happen to know, do you?”
She watched carefully, gauging the man’s consideration of her question. Strobl had offered little to nothing about Hedlund, which could have been evasive or simply meant that he did not know. She was opting for the latter, hoping the answers she sought rested with this man.
“I realize that I also have the ceremonial title Keeper of Secrets,” he said with a smile. “But I assure you, that’s a holdover from a long time ago when there really may have been secrets. Today our society is a philanthropic, social organization that, to my knowledge, is totally transparent.”
Hedlund had already showed them his private library, a separate room devoted to early American history, especially the first fifty years of the republic. He told them that he’d been collecting colonial history books all of his adult life, delighted when he became the society’s historian.
“Did you know Bradley Charon?” she asked.
Hedlund nodded. “Brad and I were close friends. When he died, which was so sudden and unexpected, I was heartbroken. The plane crash came out of nowhere.”
“Did you know he kept a secret library?” Luke asked.
The younger Daniels had stayed uncharacteristically quiet for the past hour or so.
“I only knew of his collection that he kept at the estate, in his study, similar to mine. But all of those books came over to the society at his death. Thankfully, he had the foresight to gift them to us in writing. What with all the probate fighting, we would’ve never seen those volumes again. They’re now all safe, at Anderson House.”
She told him what they’d found at the Virginia estate.
“I would like to see that hidden room,” Hedlund said.
That would have to wait. She checked her watch, wondering what was happening in Russia. She desperately wanted to know. She’d forwarded all calls to the White House so Edwin Davis could handle them while she dealt with matters here. She’d briefly told Edwin about being fired and he sympathized, but she knew there was nothing he could do. She and Edwin decided the best course was simply to plow ahead with what was happening both here and overseas. Something big was up, something the Russians themselves were not sure about, since Osin’s aloofness at the Charon estate had quickly been replaced by active cooperation when it came to Anya Petrova.
The doorbell rang.
She signaled for Luke and Hedlund to flee upstairs. Both men retreated from the study. She stood and smoothed out her blouse and pants, catching her breath, regaining control.
The bell rang again.
She stepped from the study into a marble-floored entrance hall. Two oil paintings of Annapolis dominated the dark-blue walls. At the front door she opened the latch and smiled at the woman who stood out in the cold on the front stoop.
“Are you Mrs. Hedlund?” Anya Petrova asked.
“I am,” Stephanie replied.
* * *
Luke listened to what was happening below, safe inside one of the upstairs bedrooms, whose door opened to a second-floor balcony that overlooked the entrance hall.
At no time had Anya Petrova ever seen Stephanie, or even known that she existed, which was why the ruse would work. It seemed the fastest way to find out what this was all about. True, there was danger, as there was no telling what Petrova might do, but that was why he was here.
To keep an eye on things or, more accurately, an ear.
* * *
Stephanie invited Petrova inside and closed the door to the afternoon chill.
“What happened to you?” she asked her guest, pointing at the bruise on the woman’s face.
“I’m clumsy and fell. It looks worse than feels.”
“Are you Russian? I hear the accent.”
Petrova nodded. “I was born there, but I live here now. Is your husband home?”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”
“When does he return?”
“I have no idea.”
That lie was designed to force Petrova’s hand and not unnecessarily place Peter Hedlund in any jeopardy, though it would have been preferable for him to have handled this conversation.
“I come long way to speak to him. I must ask questions. About Society of Cincinnatis. He is society historian, is he not?”
Stephanie nodded. “For some time now.”
“Does he have library here, in house?”
She pointed down the short hall that led off the entranceway. “A lovely one, with many books.”
“May I see it?”
She hesitated, just enough for Petrova to not get suspicious. “Why do you want to?”
A look of irritation flooded the younger woman’s face. She’d wondered how much patience Petrova planned to show. They’d disarmed her at Anderson House, but there’d been the matter of her car and the fact that she may have also carried a backup weapon.
Petrova reached beneath her jacket and removed a small-caliber revolver. “I want to see books. Now.”
If Luke had not been upstairs, ready to act, she might be concerned. Anya Petrova cast the wary look of someone to be feared. Which made sense, as she was a product of a place where fear had evolved into a marketable commodity. Her words came simple and direct, with not the slightest hint of false bravado. Just matter-of-fact. Their meaning clear.
I. Will. Hurt. You.
“I,” Stephanie started, feigning concern, “have never had a … gun pointed at me before.”
Petrova said nothing.
Which spoke volumes.
Time to concede.
“All right,” Stephanie said. “Follow me … to the library.”
* * *
Luke watched through a cracked-open door as Stephanie and Petrova left the entrance hall. He should head down and find a closer vantage point from which to listen but, before he did, he ought to make a quick check on Hedlund. Their host had fled into another bedroom at the end of the second-floor hall. He crept down a carpet runner toward the half-open door, careful that nothing betrayed his presence.
At the door he stopped.
He heard a voice from the other side.
Low and throaty.
He carefully peered into the bedroom and saw Hedlund sitting in a chair, staring out the window, talking on his mobile phone. Odd, considering what was happening below. Earlier, Hedlund had appeared straight up, genuinely surprised, willing to help.
“It has to be that,” Hedlund said. “We thought all of this was long forgotten, but apparently we were wrong. It’s starting again.”
A few seconds of silence passed as Hedlund listened to what was being said in his ear.
“Nothing here to find. I made sure of that years ago,” Hedlund said.
More silence.
“I’ll keep you posted.”
He heard a beep as the call ended.
“Nothing here to find”?
This just kept getting better and better.
Which meant Stephanie could have a real problem on her hands.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Zorin dozed in and out, restless though the flight across the Atlantic had been smooth. He’d managed a couple of hours of fitful sleep, grateful that the two pilots stayed forward and to themselves. He’d utilized the desktop computer and found an appropriate landing spot, a national park on the north shore that should offer plenty of privacy. Weather would not be a problem. Northern Canada was having a mild winter, little snow had fallen, the skies tonight were moisture-free. The jump would still be tricky, but he could handle it. If all went as planned, he’d be about forty kilometers northwest of Charlottetown, the island’s capital, where the university was located. He’d found
the college’s website and learned that Jamie Kelly still worked there part-time. More checking on the Internet had also yielded a home address.
