Watch Over Me

by Susan May Warren

  Gracie bumped past the cops dusting the room, kept her gaze off the sheet-draped body, and walked over to the coffee table where the black laptop hummed. With a jerk, Gracie unplugged the computer from the wall. It died with a gasp. She was putting her hand on the cover to push down the screen when a hand clamped her wrist.

  “Let me go!”

  “That’s evidence, we need it.” Shubnikov’s English seemed fine now.

  Games, games, Mr. FSB. So very typical of all men.

  “I need it. I have to write to America, tell them what’s happened.”

  “Call them.”

  Gracie snatched her arm out of his grasp. She tugged her coat around her and knotted the sash. “When can I have it?”

  His gaze roamed over her face. She felt it burn but kept her expression neutral. He turned and barked at one of the techs, who mumbled something in return.

  “Tomorrow.”

  The air puffed out of her. “What?” She licked her lips and scrambled for an answer. “Well. Fine. Tomorrow, then.”

  For the briefest moment she thought she saw him smile. Arrogant jerk. Brushing past him, she joined Andrei standing by the door. Her satchel dangled from his hand.

  “Take me home, please.”

  Andrei hung the satchel over her shoulder, then crooked his elbow. She slid her arm through his and left the Youngs’ apartment for the last time.

  7

  A muscle knotted in Vicktor’s neck as he watched Miss Benson leave with her chauffeur. But he didn’t realize his teeth were clenched until Arkady sidled up behind him.

  “She’s a looker, eh?”

  Yeah, looks like trouble. What was with her sudden about-face in demeanor, as if he was the one who’d dragged in reinforcements? He didn’t lead her on with a smile. He’d been warm, kind, supportive.

  She had all but kicked him in the teeth. So much for his feelings of pity. Vicktor turned and nearly plowed into Arkady behind him.

  Arkady smiled. “She got to you.”

  “Not a chance.” Vicktor stalked past him to the bedroom.

  “You know what this means,” Arkady called after him. “You’ve just inherited problems. You know Americans can’t keep their noses out of anything.”

  Vicktor stopped. “She’s got other things to worry about. Her boyfriend, for one.”

  Arkady drew in on his cigarette. “Chauffeur.”

  “Yeah, right. I saw the grip he had on her, and from the expression on her face, I don’t think she minded.”

  Arkady’s cheek twitched in another smile.

  “I gotta work,” Vicktor mumbled. He strode into the bedroom, Arkady’s chuckle ringing in his ears.

  The faster he solved this crime and washed his hands of the blonde American, the better. Arkady had her pegged. If Grace Benson were anything like Mae or David, he’d have to beat her away from the investigation with a stick. Americans never let anything lie.

  The woman’s body had been outlined and bagged. Two techs were taking blood samples from around the room, from the comforter, the carpet, a nearby bookshelf, and even the hallway. A scant trail of brownish red led from the bedroom to the front door. Vicktor stared at it, rubbing an irritating whisker on his cheek.

  “Why did he kill the two separately?” Arkady’s question voiced his thoughts.

  Vicktor glanced at him and watched Arkady blow smoke from his nose like a medieval dragon.

  “Why didn’t he just tie them both up and torture them until he got what they wanted?”

  “Maybe he came in, killed the husband, and then surprised the wife. Or vice versa,” Vicktor suggested.

  “What about motive? If it were a burglary, the computer would be gone.”

  “Seems that way.” Vicktor cupped the back of his neck with one hand and leaned his head back, stretching his taut muscles. Two Americans, from all outward appearances living like their Russian neighbors, here on goodwill visas, victims of a Wolf attack. Why would the Wolf murder missionaries?

  The Wolf always attacked key players—FSB agents, informants, even mafia brass. But missionaries? Tyomnaya delo. They had to be up to their elbows in something nasty. Vicktor strolled around the bedroom. He stopped at the tall bookshelf next to the door, squinted at dusty books, Bibles and commentaries, and nearly pulled out an English version of Last of the Breed, by Louis L’Amour. On the night table sat a photograph of a small boy wearing a cowboy hat. Cute. Chubby cheeks and blue eyes, with a patch of tawny brown hair.

  He lifted the edge of the bedspread and found dust balls, sunken suitcases, a broken pencil, and a pair of crumpled black dress socks.

  Rubbing a thumb and forefinger over his eyes, he tried to recall what Grace had said. They were missionaries. It seemed like Dr. Willie knew just about everybody, but I can’t tell you whom….

  Oh, that was helpful. Then again, that was during the cooperative stage of the interrogation. Perhaps she hadn’t been worth the effort of yanking off the train. His shin began to throb. Next time he had to apprehend her, he would wear his hockey gear.

  Next time? No, thanks.

  Stepping over the woman’s corpse, he crossed the room and noted a pair of glasses, a thin book, and a medicine bottle on the floor next to the bed. Sighing, he pulled back the lace curtains and stared out the window. Outside, children ran in a wild game of tag, their school backpacks propped against rotting wooden benches. Laughter and games. Life skipping by while inside the building that shadowed their play, two human beings lay slain, their lives spilled out like spoiled milk.

  Senseless. He wondered whom the victims had left behind.

  An angry and frightened blonde Americanka for one.

  He was about to let the lace fall when he noticed a curling photograph, covered with a translucent film of dust, wedged between two ceramic pots of blooming African violets. He pulled it out. A tanned and smiling version of the victim in the family room stood in the middle, his arms draped around the shoulders of two men. On the left stood a Russian with a wide face, a bushy salt-and-pepper goatee, and a mustache. Set against dark eyes, his smile could have been a wince.

  The other man was not Russian. He was small with straight dark hair, brown eyes, and a bright smile. Vicktor guessed Korean.

  Vicktor turned over the picture, hoping for identification. Nothing. Disappointed, he slid the photograph into his pocket.

  “Vicktor!” Arkady hollered from the family room.

  Vicktor found Arkady standing beside an opened sofa.

  “A storage drawer,” Vicktor said starkly. “With contraband?”

  Arkady snapped on surgical gloves and lifted a piece of manila paper. “Empty visa forms from the Russian embassy.” He handed Vicktor a black metal box. “Look in here.” His expression betrayed his knowledge of the contents.

  Vicktor found a black inkpad and two rubber stamps, one with the Russian seal and the other from the DPRK—Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. North Korea.

  He felt as if he’d been kicked in the gut.

  “It seems our American missionaries were into something a little more ‘humanitarian’ than just preaching the Bible,” Arkady muttered.

  “Tyomnaya delo.” Vicktor slammed the cover down. He just hoped he wouldn’t have to be the one to tell Gracie Benson.

  Gracie sat with her back propped against her living room sofa, the phone between her feet. She wound the cord around her finger as she listened to the line ring.

  “No one?” Larissa asked.

  Gracie shook her head.

  Taking off her glasses, Larissa rubbed a red spot on the bridge of her nose. “You would think they would give you the director’s home number.”

  Gracie set the receiver back in the cradle. “Dr. Willie probably has…had it. I’m just a missionary peon. Dr. Willie and Evelyn were the team leaders.” The caretakers. The winners-of-souls. The missionaries who mattered.

  And God had let them be slaughtered, like sheep.

  The low sun striped her brown rug with the hues
of twilight, and the chill of a spring evening crept into her noiseless flat. Sitting on the sofa, Andrei looked dazed, and his occasional deep, agonized sighs did nothing to assuage her grief.

  God had so vividly abandoned all of them, and she had not one word of hope to offer her friends.

  “We should call your Pastor Yuri,” Larissa mumbled. Andrei gave her a sharp look.

  Gracie cringed at her oversight. Of course Pastor Yuri should know. He was Dr. Willie’s coworker and friend and the closest thing she had to a supervisor. “I’ll call him.”

  Andrei put his hand over hers as she grabbed the receiver. “Wait, Gracie. Is there anyone else in the States you could call? Your brother? Anyone else from the mission? How about your mother?”

  Gracie eyes burned. “No, I can’t call her.” A lump balled in her throat. “She doesn’t need to worry.” Her mother would only panic and send her brother, or worse, her cousin and all his FBI buddies, after her. No, she had to keep this horror close to her chest until she disembarked from the plane. Then, she’d hide in the safety of her own bedroom overlooking the harbor on Skyline Drive in Duluth. They’d have to pry her out with a two-by-four. “No,” she repeated.

  “I think someone in America should know what happened.” He glowered at Larissa, and Gracie scowled at the obvious tension between the two. “For her own good.”

  “I have you two, and Pastor Yuri,” Gracie said. “Later tonight, when it is morning in America, I’ll call headquarters and talk to our missionary director. He’ll know what to do.”

  Larissa flattened her lips and nodded.

  Andrei slid off the sofa. His arms wrapped around her shoulders and she sank against his wide chest, welcoming his familiar leather and cologne smell. Andrei was safe. Honest. As opposed to the game-playing Mr. FSB she’d met today. And to think she’d actually thought she’d seen kindness in his eyes. He was probably laughing at her naiveté over a shot of vodka at this very moment.

  “Gracie.” Andrei’s voice was low. “I have to ask you. Do you know why the Youngs were murdered?”

  Gracie’s mouth opened. She felt as if she’d been slugged, and jerked away from him. “No, I don’t.”

  “They didn’t give you anything or mention anything that seemed out of place lately?”

  “No, Andrei. I have no idea who would kill the Youngs, or why.” Her voice shook.

  “Okay,” Andrei said and reached for her.

  She backed away from him. “Not okay.” She glanced from Andrei to Larissa. “Do you think I’d keep that from you? Or worse, maybe you suspect me?”

  Larissa’s mouth dropped open.

  “Davai, Gracie. Of course we don’t suspect you.” Andrei actually looked angry, his brown eyes glittering. “I just wanted to know what you thought. If you knew anything.” He looked away, and his expression made her wince.

  She stared in shame at the betrayal written on her friends’ faces.

  “We’ll talk about it tomorrow, when things have had a chance to…calm down,” Larissa said. “Right now I think you need some sleep.”

  Oh, sure, so she could dream about Evelyn’s chalky death expression? She’d probably never sleep again. She whisked tears from her cheeks. “No. I’m okay. I’m sorry. I’m just a little…yeah, maybe tired.” She suddenly wanted to curl into a ball and just stay there, perhaps under the covers, forever. Never. Wake. Up.

  Larissa returned the smile. “Let me tuck you into bed, Gracie. I’ll sleep on the sofa and Andrei will guard the front door.”

  Larissa silenced Gracie’s protests with a look. “In Russia, friends watch out for each other.”

  Oh, now she felt like a real give-me-a-prize-for-my-insensitivity type. She so obviously didn’t deserve these friends. She nodded, unable to speak.

  Andrei helped her to her feet. Tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear, he stared over her head, toward Larissa. “I’ll call Pastor Yuri.”

  Larissa didn’t answer as she guided Gracie from the room.

  Vicktor braced his elbows on his knees. The arena seat felt like it had been constructed with razor blades. He’d forgotten how long these matches were. Next to him, Roman waggled his fist.

  “Ooh-rah!” he shouted.

  From the court, Yanna looked in their direction and returned the fist-up victory gesture. Her spike had just landed her team another point, and they were well on their way to cleaning up the two-out-of-three game match. Vicktor watched them set up for another serve and tried to focus on the game.

  “Want a soda?” Roman asked.

  Vicktor shook his head.

  “I heard about the missionaries. Ouch.” Roman made a face. “Don’t jump to conclusions too quickly, my friend. You know the Wolf. If it is him, he kills good guys just as often as bad.”

  “These missionaries had a kit to make fake passports and visas. I wouldn’t call that your usual missionary paraphernalia.”

  Roman stared straight ahead, but Vicktor saw a muscle pull in his jaw. It had to stab his friend’s Christian pride to discover that one of his own had been found treading on the dark side. It didn’t make Vicktor happy to see his friend suffer. He respected Roman’s, David’s, and Mae’s religion, even if he didn’t agree with it. It had certainly changed Roman from a womanizing hooligan to a straight-shooting hero of the state. If anything, Roman’s Christian beliefs made him a better friend and soldier. Probably a better man.

  “Don’t worry,” Vicktor said quietly. “If your missionaries are clean, I’ll clear their names.”

  Roman’s gaze didn’t waver from the game, but Vicktor saw his slight nod.

  “Hey, check out the redhead in the corner by the south entrance.” Roman didn’t point, but angled his head slightly.

  “I knew you wouldn’t stay single long,” Vicktor said as he squinted in the direction of his friend’s gaze.

  “Look closely, Vicktor. I wouldn’t dream of chasing this one.”

  The small arena was packed, a sea of people jammed hip-to-hip up to the nosebleed bleacher section and elbowing one another in the doorways. He scanned the entrance, and when he spied a familiar curly mass of red hair, he couldn’t keep from grinning.

  “You saw her,” Roman confirmed.

  “What is she doing here? I thought she was sequestered at the base?”

  “Want a Coke?”

  Vicktor followed Roman down the row, pausing only a moment to ooh-rah when Yanna went airborne and blocked a spike from the opposing team. Vicktor winced at the sound of the ricochet off her arms.

  They hit the arena floor at a jog, scuttled into the corridor, and ran around the stadium to the opposite side. It felt like their college days, when a short skirt and a saucy smile had them fighting for position. Roman shot him a cocky grin.

  They dodged a woman selling programs and skidded to a halt near the entrance to the arena where Mae had been standing.

  “Do you see her?” Vicktor asked, hands on his knees.

  “You’re breathing like you’ve run a marathon.” On tiptoe, Roman peeked over the shoulder of a man in a Bulls sweatshirt. “Don’t see her.”

  Vicktor stood up, disappointment slowing his pulse. “Are you sure it was her?”

  “Are you?”

  “Point taken,” Vicktor acknowledged. “Okay. Where would she go?” He searched the crowd. Traffic thinned now and again as people streamed in and out of the arena, on their way to refreshments or facilities. Vicktor stepped aside to let pass a babushka toting a toddler by his collar. From inside the arena, ecstatic fans erupted, fanning the flames of victory for the Khabarovsk team.

  Roman raised his hands and shrugged.

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  Vicktor whirled and nearly upset the popcorn of a young boy. The kid’s eyes widened with fear.

  “Are you talking to me?” Vicktor asked, catching a few kernels.

  The boy nodded and held out the popcorn. “This is for you.”

  “For me?”

  The boy shrugged. “Some la
dy asked me to give it to you.” Vicktor took the popcorn and noticed a slip of paper nestled between dry kernels. He grabbed the paper. “Here, kid,” he said, handing back the popcorn.

  “So? What does it say?” Roman breathed over his shoulder.

  Vicktor opened the note. “‘Shadow, 2:00. Springtime, 11:00.’” He glanced at Roman and they exchanged grins.

  “I’ll get the shadow,” Roman said and turned on his heel, heading for a stout-looking solider in plain clothes hovering near a potted floor plant at two o’clock on an imaginary clock face. Vicktor so wanted to linger. The soldier had no idea he was about to be dressed down by a Red Beret captain on loan to the FSB COBRAs. But Vicktor had to find out why Mae had risked her stripes trying to contact them at Yanna’s volleyball match.

  Vicktor strode northeast, toward eleven o’clock and Mae Lund/Springtime. As he passed a cotton candy vendor, a hand snared his arm and yanked. He stumbled into the shadows of an unlit doorway, whirled, and fell into the laughing embrace of Mae Lund.

  “What are you doing here?” he whispered, holding her tight. She always smelled so fresh and clean, and he noticed her hair had grown longer, below her ears. Pulling away, he held her at arm’s length. Tall and wiry, she still came only to his shoulder.

  “Major Ward loves volleyball. He and Commander Belov are in a private military booth on the north end of the arena.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  She grinned. “Picking up pointers for our team. You know the commander’s daughter is on my squad.”

  “You amaze me.”

  Her hazel-green eyes sparkled and her nose wrinkled, blurring the array of freckles dotting it. “I’m supposed to be using the facilities. But I saw you and Roman, and you looked so down, I just had to see you. I missed you at our last online getaway.”

  Vicktor felt something unravel inside him and he glanced away. Mae could always read him like a book, and despite the fact they hadn’t seen each other in nearly two years, she knew how to peel away his defenses and peek right into his soul.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, smoothing the collar on his leather jacket.