The Innocents Club

As the two ministers started toward the gallery, accompanied by their translators, Mariah spotted Yuri Belenko, Zakharov’s right-hand man and her main reason for being here. Belenko’s back was to her as he paused at the elevator threshold, reaching back to offer his arm to the last occupant, hidden till now.

Almost against her will, Mariah craned to see, but caught only the briefest glimpse of blond hair and a flash of earring before the small figure of a woman disappeared in the thicket of sturdy, protective bodies sweeping en masse toward the red velvet rope.

Suddenly, an awful memory flooded over her: her mother crying on the sofa, one arm curled protectively around the curve of her belly.

“Mommy? Where’s Daddy?”

“He’s gone.”

“Gone where? When’s he coming home?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart. I don’t know.”

Damn it to hell, Mariah thought, swallowing hard. She circled the wall, settling in a nook off to the side of the main gallery entrance, where her view was relatively unobstructed.

And there she was.

Heiress and culture maven Renata Hunter Carr was busy introducing the two ministers to her son and to the museum director. The woman obviously gloried in being the center of attraction—and in her triumph. Both the Smithsonian and the Metropolitan Museum of Art had vied to host the inaugural stop on the Russian imperial treasures tour, but with deft lobbying in two capitals, Renata had done a run up the middle and scored the coup for the Los Angeles– based institute founded by her father.