Beyond the Iron Door: Doors of the Heart, #3

By P.F. Spencer

Ellen Grant leads a double, sometimes dangerous, life.

In her busy public life, she heads her late father's firm, Dale Grant Architects. Lately, her work has been featured in print, TV and social media. She is almost famous.

In her shadow life, Ellen is a spy for the CIA.

She is in Moscow to check on the progress of a building project she designed, and to meet with the American Ambassador for her next mission assignment. She hopes it will not interfere with the continuation of her affair with Russian Colonel Vladimir Ivanovich Morosov of the FSB, Russia's state security service and successor to the KGB.

Life is good, though sometimes lonely. Her cheating ex-husband is history, her mother, step-father, and half brother are in Witness Protection, and her best friend lives far away. Soon, she must honor a promise to disclose her secret life, and risk losing the person she depends on the most.

There may be a new love on the horizon. But, when you are in the public eye, and are also a spy, life can be uncertain.

What could happen?

• Language: English
• Publisher: P.F. Spencer
• Release date: Oct 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9780998192154

Book preview

Part I

Russia

Chapter One

Halfway across Moscow’s crowded Sheremetyevo airport terminal, I spotted Tony, a CIA field agent and a good friend. He seemed engrossed in his newspaper but as I approached, he closed it, checked his cell phone and pushed his eyeglasses higher on his nose. Then, near the street exit, I saw Eric, another CIA agent and an even better friend. He carefully folded his raincoat over his arm, and bent to pick up his briefcase. I breathed. I was safe so far, or one of them would have bumped into me and hustled me away.

Outside, I stood on the crowded sidewalk squinting into bright mid-afternoon sunshine. It was only the beginning of October, but even with the sun shining, it was colder here than in New York City. A brisk wind ruffled my hair and I shivered. I should have worn my warmer coat. The one with a hood.

I pulled the sunglasses off my head—I had been using them as a convenient headband to corral my long hair—and settled them on my nose. And there at the curb, leaning nonchalantly against the passenger door of the American Embassy limousine, was my driver, all six feet, four inches of ebony-skinned coolness. Mason.

I grinned. Hi, Mason. What’s new at the Embassy? Trevor Mason was an experienced CIA field agent, now playing the role of my limo driver. He was much more than that. I had worked with him several times over the past few years and I knew I would be safer with him than with almost any other agent. He was all bravery and professionalism, even humor.

Hey, Ms. Grant. He straightened and tipped his cap. It’s all good. Can’t complain, though of course, I do it all the time. Normally, he would have called me Ellen, but no American Embassy limo driver would have called me anything but Ms. Grant. Especially here in Moscow. You never knew who, exactly, was listening, but you knew someone was.

Okay Mason. I guess I’ll have to wait to find out all the dirt.

Yes, ma’am. That you will. He took my luggage, only two bags this trip, and loaded them into the trunk of the limo. I kept my briefcase and pocketbook.

Inside the car, I leaned back and closed my eyes. I was always a bit anxious flying into Moscow. The flight itself, from New York’s JFK airport, was long and tedious, though flying first class had its compensations. I had work to do during the flight, but my efforts did little to distract me from the familiar worries that always seemed a part of traveling here.

I never knew what to expect. That was the real problem. Would the Russians stop me this time? Well, not this time, so far, but there was always next time.

Sitting up straight again, I stared through my side window at the traffic, my thoughts drifting to my current work schedule and upcoming travel plans. I was here in Russia to check on the progress of the hospital expansion project I had designed. The exterior would soon be finished if all went well, with only minor delays. It was imperative to get it done before winter set in, so the builders could work inside. I expected to be in Moscow for three weeks, and then, after briefly visiting my architectural company’s office in Washington, D.C. and my headquarters in New York City, I would spend a few days at home in the house my father designed for our family in upstate New York.

I hoped my next stop after that would be a few days in Blue Ridge, Georgia, visiting my best friend, Suzanna Smith-Wolf and her husband Tom. During my visit with them last summer, I promised Tom I would tell Suzi my most closely guarded secret: my double life as an upcoming international architect while also working as a CIA agent. I know she will be shocked. I can only hope it will not end our friendship.

I pulled out my phone and texted her:

hi, suzi – im here. will check bldg progress tomorrow. home in 3 wks. u & tom ok? XOs 2 u both.

I put my phone away and sighed, my eyes drifting shut.

When Mason stopped the limo at the Embassy’s entrance gate, I came to with a start. After the guard waved us through, Mason carefully negotiated the long driveway and pulled the car under the portico. He hopped out and, very correctly, helped me exit the car.

Thanks, Mason.

No problem, Ms. Grant. I know they’re expecting you inside. I’ll wait for you here and take you to your hotel when you’re through.

Smiling, I nodded and headed for the door.

I greeted the military guards, showed my credentials and waited while they opened the enormous double doors for me. Inside, I climbed the graceful, sweeping staircase to the second level where the Ambassador and other Embassy officials had offices. A bulletproof glass wall separated me from a carved mahogany reception desk. I touched the security pad with my index finger and an almost invisible door swung open.

I approached the high desk and propped my elbows on its edge. The woman on the other side looked up and smiled.

Ms. Grant, welcome back to Moscow. I’ll go see if the Ambassador is free. I know he wants to see you as soon as possible.

Thanks, Joanie. It’s good to see you again.

She reappeared a moment later. The Ambassador can see you now. Just go right on back.

I smiled my thanks and hurried down the hallway. Ambassador Marshall A. Barkley’s spacious office was at the end. I tapped on the door and pushed it open. Through one of his windows I could see the Kremlin in the distance. The magnificent view served only to remind me of the menacing power residing there.

Barkley was standing, staring at the TV screens that lined the wall in front of his massive oak desk, each tuned to a different news feed. He was middle aged and paunchy, but he had a quick wit and intelligent eyes of a disarmingly clear blue. It was a mistake to underestimate him.

He turned and gestured for me to stand beside him. Shaking my hand, he turned back to the screens. I guess you’ve heard about this morning’s plane crash in Malta, right Ellen?

It was not a real question. He expected everyone around him to keep up to date with world events, no matter where or at what time they occurred. Luckily, I was rarely around him, but I had seen photos of the crash on my phone while I waited to clear customs in the Moscow airport.

He continued, The news people are all over it, with speculation rather than fact being the main story line. Of course, we don’t really know what happened yet, and the Russians aren’t telling us anything useful.

I wasn’t aware they had much of a presence in Malta, I said. Several of the screens were showing dramatic scenes of the wreckage, strewn over several acres near Valletta, Malta’s capital.

Funny, neither did we. Malta is an interesting place with a complicated history. Its tourist attractions are not that well known to most Americans, which is too bad. Great beaches, I hear. Anyway, Malta’s charms are a well-kept secret, except to the rest of the world. They get about a million and a half tourists each year.

I frowned. So, when a Russian fighter jet collides with a passenger plane from Malta Air, I guess it’s a pretty big story. Does the Russian fleet normally patrol the Mediterranean?

Barkley scratched his ear. Though they would like to have a much larger presence in the Mediterranean, it’s been mostly bluster so far. But, Russian warships have visited Malta from time to time.

I waited. I was sure the crash in Malta had little to do with my new mission, whatever it was going to be.

I was wrong.

Chapter Two

The Ambassador turned to me and smiled. This situation is related to your new assignment. It’s sensitive, but I’m confident you can handle it. I just wanted to welcome you back to Moscow, and now, I’ll turn you over to Jerry, who’ll brief you as usual. He looked up. Ah, Jerry, there you are. Here’s Ellen. I’ll let you do the honors.

I shook the Ambassador’s hand, and then Jerry’s. He opened the door for me and walked me down the hall to his office. There was no conversation.

Jeremiah Wilson Thurman III was younger than Barkley, and handsome. He was tall and well built, and his wavy blond hair was a little on the long side, giving him more than a passing resemblance to the nineteen seventies version of movie star heartthrob Robert Redford. His charcoal suit looked as if it were custom tailored in London, his black wingtips polished to a high gloss. His title was Deputy Ambassador, but an important part of his job was handling American spies in Russia and trying to keep our secrets out of the ears of every other nation’s spies. And, of course, to learn their secrets.

He stepped behind his outsized mahogany desk, motioned for me to take a seat in one of the upholstered armchairs facing it, and sat down in his huge, black leather desk chair. He pushed a pile of papers aside and leaned his elbows on the desk. He was trying out his I’m in charge look. I hid a smile. I was pretty sure it would be a mistake to underestimate him too.

Okay, Ellen. I’m going to get right to it. I’ll let you go in time to get to your hotel and freshen up before you head back here tonight for the reception.

I nodded. I had a cool, but decent, relationship with Jerry, at least so far. I thought he was probably no one’s friend. He was ambitious and was never afraid to show it.

He frowned. So, we know you’ve begun a relationship with Colonel Vladimir Morosov. His voice held a smirk.

What exactly was he accusing me of with those words and that tone of voice? I tilted my head. Obviously, we’re friends. We have a bit of shared history. We’ve not tried to hide that we know each other.

Yeah, but it’s gone way beyond friendship. You know each other now in the Biblical sense, right?

Was he serious? I wondered whether to be outraged. On second thought, I decided to play along. He came to visit me last month when we were both in Washington. We were discreet.

Ah, but first he went to see you in Georgia. It was last August, right? He was supposed to be in Washington at a diplomatic conference.

So, he was followed?

Not exactly. He’s too important to just drive away from diplomatic talks and not be subject to sophisticated surveillance. We were very curious to see where he was going. He showed his teeth in an unpleasant grin.

Inwardly, I fumed. I took a deep breath and impatiently sat forward, longing to finish this so-called briefing. Okay. Do you want me to stop seeing him? We’re adults, you know.

Yes, but one adult is an American CIA agent and the other is a Colonel in the Russian state security service. You’re spies for adversarial nations. Of course, we were interested in his, and your, whereabouts.

Okay. I’ll ask it again. Do you want me to stop seeing him?

Oh, no. Not at all. Your relationship, whether as ‘just friends’ or something much more intimate, is very important to us. You can, hopefully, extract valuable information from him.

Oh, no. Are you serious? There’s no way! I began to stand up, but he motioned me back into my seat.

Why not? I don’t follow. He leaned forward again, his disagreeable smile still in place. However, your reluctance is unimportant. He picked up a gold pen and rolled it between his palms. What is important is that you find out as much as you can about Russia’s military plans in the Mediterranean. You can start by finding out what a Russian war plane was doing flying over Malta. They’re not supposed to do that.

I can’t suddenly start asking him questions like that, and what makes you think he would discuss his country’s military plans with me, of all people, anyway? I’m an architect.

I’m sure you’ll find a way. That’s your mission. You plan to be here for three weeks, right?

I sighed. I knew I was going to have to agree. That’s not much time. What if he won’t play?

We’d have to find another way. But, don’t get so cozy with him that you forget what you’re here for.

Just in case you’ve forgotten, I’m also here to check on the final stages of construction of the hospital extension I designed. I’m not going to be spending my days lolling around with the Colonel.

Ah, but it’s your nights we’re talking about here.

This was disgusting. I rose to my feet and stared at Jerry with as much indifference as I could muster. Is that all?

For now.

Don’t get up. I’ll see myself out.

I glanced back at him as I stepped through the door. He was still smirking.

I shut the door as softly as I could and stalked away.

As promised, Mason was waiting for me near the limo.

Ready, Ms. Grant?

Yes, more ready than I can say!

He looked at me with sympathy and helped me into the limo.

Inside the car, I put on my sunglasses, again rested my head against the back of the seat, and closed my eyes. I was tired, even more so now than when I exited the plane. Jerry was infuriating, and he not only knew it, he seemed to revel in it. How was I supposed to get military secrets out of Vladi? It was going to be hard enough to see him alone even a few times, let alone often enough to somehow learn his country’s military plans.

Our relationship was physical, but still new. He thought he was too old for me. I disagreed.

Chapter Three

Vladi, whose full name is Vladimir Ivanovich Morosov, and my family have a long history stretching back almost three decades. In the early 1990s, my father, international architect Dale Grant, met Russian agents Nikolai Novikov and Vladimir Morosov, in the course of his CIA activities. Their teams worked together several times over the next decade, when the U.S. and Russian governments found it expedient, until my father died suddenly in 2002.

My mother, Sharon Grant, met Vladi two years later while he was posing as a waiter, called Ivan, on a two-week Russian river cruise sailing from Moscow to St. Petersburg. My mom was on board as the guest of a college friend. Early in the voyage, she also met Niko, Vladi’s superior officer in the FSB, Russia’s national security service and successor to the KGB. Niko was posing as the ship’s Russian language teacher and tour bus aide. He and my mom fell passionately in love. She had no idea that Niko and Ivan were Russian spies. She found that out much later.

Mom left Russia believing she would never see Niko again. Life can be strange though, full of unforeseen twists and turns. I can never thank Vladi enough for helping to bring Niko and my mother together again.

I met Vladi for the first time last spring. I was in Russia for a few days to check on the progress of the hospital extension project I had designed and to confer with my Russian business partner, Andrey Rublev. Construction of the building had only recently begun at that time, and there were design and materials procurement problems we needed to resolve.

On the evening of my third day in Russia, I was ordered to attend a cocktail party at our Embassy. Ambassador Barkley had just lost his wife after a long illness, and was on bereavement leave, so Jerry, in his official capacity as Deputy Ambassador, was hosting the event. He pulled me onto the receiving line as soon as I arrived, and one of the many people he introduced me to that evening was Vladi. I recognized his name immediately. I had been curious about him for a long time.

He seemed to know who I was even before our formal introduction. His large, pale blue eyes were sparkling as he approached me, and the polite smile touching his lips as he listened to Jerry’s introduction warmed to delight when his eyes met mine.

Ah, I am privileged to have met both of your parents. You resemble them. I would like very much to talk with you. He kissed my hand with a courtly bow and moved away so Jerry could introduce me to the next person in line. Eventually, Jerry excused me, and when I turned to walk away, Vladi appeared at my elbow holding two champagne flutes. He smiled as he handed one to me and, clinking glasses, we sipped. He was still smiling as he took my hand and drew me to a settee in a quiet corner of the ballroom.

Ms. Grant, may I call you Elena? It is one of our Russian names for Ellen. It has a softer sound, more fitting for a woman of your beauty.

I felt my face warm and knew I was blushing. Embarrassed, I looked down.

It is true. You are very beautiful, and please call me Vladi. It is not so formal. He squeezed the hand he was holding.

I looked up at him, wide-eyed. I had felt a tiny jolt of electricity when he kissed it. Now I was completely aware of him, my heart beating rapidly. He was years older than me, but ruggedly handsome, tall and muscular. His hair was silver-blond, cut short at the sides but longer on top. A few unruly locks fell forward onto his forehead, and I had a sudden urge to brush them back and tangle my fingers in them. He was looking expectantly at me.

I swallowed. Yes, Elena is fine, Vladi. He had wide cheekbones, a straight nose and a firm chin and jaw, but it was his lips that held my attention. They were sexy lips, full and wide and the top one was shaped like a cupid’s bow. I wondered how I would feel if he kissed me. I was holding my breath, I suddenly realized. Shakily, I emptied my lungs on a sigh, coughed and quickly swallowed the rest of my champagne.

Vladi was staring at me intently when I glanced up at him again. He turned his body to face me, took my empty glass out of my hand and set it on the floor along with his. He leaned his elbows on his knees and took both of my hands in his. His face was close to mine, but I had no urge to lean away.

Elena, I would like to know you better. May I come with you to your hotel tonight?

That shocked me out of my semi-dream state. Vladi, I’m sorry. I have a very early flight home tomorrow, and I must pack tonight and write up my notes on my building project…

He held up one hand to stop me. Elena, I am sorry too. Perhaps we can talk when you return to Russia. Do you know when that might be?

Not yet, but sometime in the fall, I think. I’ll let the Embassy know when.

He stood, drawing me up with him. He was still clasping one of my hands. Very formally, he bent and kissed it, and then, to my surprise, he turned it over and brushed the inside of my wrist with his lips. A tiny shiver ran through me. He straightened, clicked his heels, and strode away.

I watched him go. How intriguing. Who was this man who could set me on fire just by holding my hand? But, of course, I knew exactly who he was. And, I knew who I was—a married woman.

Just as Jerry