Watch Over Me

by Susan May Warren

  Vicktor smiled. “Not yet. Maybe you can teach him some words.”

  “Oh sure. Great. Thanks.” She kept pumping Nickolai’s giant hand and noticed it was warm and strong. His brown eyes scanned her up and down, and she wondered what Vicktor had told him.

  Vicktor said something to his father, who nodded. Moving past her toward the door, Vicktor stopped and breathed into her ear. “Better yet, maybe you can learn some Russian.”

  She half glared, but noticed the playful glint had returned to his eyes. She gritted her teeth. Don’t. Be. Nice. Still, warmth lit in her stomach.

  Nickolai said something. Vicktor snapped his gaze to his father and she saw shock in Vicktor’s eyes. When he turned back to her and smiled, the look on his face turned the warmth to an inferno.

  Oh, she was downright pitiful. So much for her attempts not to like him.

  19

  Vicktor breezed past bowed heads and ringing phones, toward the dark cave of his office. He felt a billion times lighter—not only was Gracie in safe hands, but his father had thanked him for trusting him.

  Thanked him.

  After Vicktor’s mistakes, he had to admit, he’d never dreamed of hearing anything but anger or disappointment from his old man.

  Thank you, son.

  In a way, he owed it all to Gracie.

  He noticed a shape in Maxim’s chair, feet up, head lolled back, mouth half open. The heavy breathing sounds of slumber told him the body wasn’t dead. Ready to shake Maxim for his laziness, Vicktor flicked on the overhead light. Arkady sputtered to life, wincing in the abrupt fluorescence.

  “What are you doing here, Chief?” Vicktor plugged in the samovar and shrugged out of his coat. Arkady harrumphed, righting himself in the chair.

  “What kind of cushy hours do you keep, rookie? I’ve been here since daybreak like a real cop.”

  Vicktor rolled his eyes.

  Arkady patted his pockets, mumbling.

  “No smoking here,” Vicktor reminded him.

  The chief’s red-rimmed eyes nearly cracked from the pressure of his glare.

  Vicktor hung up his coat, grabbed his coffee mug, and plunked another in front of his old boss. “Coffee. It’s better than smokes. Not much, but at least it won’t turn your lungs to pitch.”

  “Just your teeth,” Arkady retorted, but grabbed the mug.

  Vicktor leaned against his desk. “You look like you spent the night in a dumpster.”

  “I can leave anytime. It’s your favor I’m doing.”

  Vicktor held up a hand in surrender. “Just an observation. Don’t get edgy. I’ll be nice.”

  The samovar steamed, and Arkady held out his cup. “Black. Very black.”

  Vicktor filled it and stirred in a generous helping of instant coffee. “So, what’s so important that you slept in my office last night?”

  Arkady began to sort through Maxim’s papers, as if he’d left something behind. “Utuzh got Leonid’s hospital records.”

  Vicktor sat down at the desk, turning on his computer. “And?”

  Arkady shook his head, patting his coat again. “The guy should have been dead a year ago, maybe even longer.”

  “Yeah, why’s that?” Vicktor grimaced, seeing the Bulldog had struck pay dirt and unearthed a wadded pack of Bonds.

  “He had cancer, that’s why. Stomach cancer.”

  “The scar.”

  “Right, and the missing parts, like his spleen. He had surgery over four years ago.”

  Vicktor drummed his fingers on his desk. His welcome page opened on his computer and he logged on to the internet. “So, why didn’t he die of natural causes?”

  Arkady lit his cigarette. “That’s a good question. Utuzh said the guy didn’t have a trace of cancer left in his body. As if it just disappeared. Strange, nyet?”

  Vicktor rubbed his chin with the back of his hand, humming in thought. He clicked on to his account and found no new mail. “Dr. Young. He was a medical doctor, right?”

  Arkady kept wading through the flood of paperwork swamping Maxim’s desk. “What a slob. Yeah, the good doc was a medical physician. But although he donated nearly 20K worth of equipment to the hospital, nobody seems to remember him practicing medicine. He certainly didn’t have surgical rights or hospital clearance. Advisor-only status.”

  Vicktor logged off and closed his screen. He pressed his temples with a finger and thumb. “How do you suppose he knew Evgeny?”

  “If he knew him.”

  “And how did Leonid the Red get cured of cancer?” The question swirled through Vicktor’s mind and hit him in a soft place near his heart. If only he’d known about this magical cure a couple years ago…

  Maxim’s chair groaned as Arkady pushed it back on two legs and threw his feet on Maxim’s pile. He dangled the cigarette from his lips, letting it bob as he smoked. “So, where’s the girl?” A smile teased his lips.

  “At Pop’s.”

  “He tells me you spent the night with her.”

  Whoa, Vicktor had never felt that emotion before—the one that made him glare at Arkady. It rattled him. “It’s not like that.”

  Arkady rolled the cigarette between two fingers. “I figured you’d come out of hiding sooner or later, but I never figured it being with an American. I guess missionaries aren’t worth their reputation.”

  Vicktor’s roll chair slammed into his file cabinet before thought could catch up to action. “Get out.”

  Arkady’s face darkened. “Don’t get your shirt in a knot.”

  “We were chaperoned. Yanna spent the night. And Gracie is due every bit of her reputation.”

  Arkady drew deeply on his cigarette and held the smoke in his lungs. “You got it bad, rookie.”

  Vicktor shook his head, realizing he’d probably taken out his heart and pinned it to his sleeve. “Listen, I have one hour to break into Dr. Young’s computer and figure out what he was up to, so if you’ll excuse me…”

  Striding past Arkady, he listened to the cop’s laughter trail him down the hall.

  The sun streaked through the grimy window, sliding across the carpet in streams of gold and orange. Gracie sat on the sofa, Alfred’s giant mug in her lap, twirling the dog’s spiked ear between two fingers and listening to Vicktor’s father spin tales about his son.

  If only she could understand one word of what he said.

  Nickolai’s face danced with expression. He traced the air with gestures that illustrated his story and his voice infused the tale with emotion and meaning.

  She nodded, smiled, and prayed for Andrei to show up.

  Nickolai leaned close, his brown eyes illuminated with some sort of fascinating mystery, and asked, “Da?”

  “Da,” Gracie agreed, wondering what she’d just acquiesced to.

  The old man clamped his hands on his knees, looking satisfied, got up, and shuffled to a bookshelf. Gracie followed his movements with curiosity. Why had Vicktor left her in the care of a man who couldn’t protect her from a wandering roach, let alone a serial killer? The question knotted her mind. Nickolai seemed strong, the way his biceps squeezed out of a T-shirt, and his lean face showed years of street-toughening. And the way he probed her gaze with a look of age-old wisdom, she couldn’t help but surmise Nickolai knew something about her. All she could do, however, was watch in befuddled amazement as the old cop shuffled around the room and pray Vicktor knew what he was doing.

  Nickolai pried a worn, fat book from its resting place between two leather-bound volumes, hobbled over to her, and plopped it on her lap. Gracie fingered it while he settled next to her. Then he took the book and opened it between them. Delight arrowed right to the soft parts of her heart. A photo album. Obviously the family photo album, judging from the boy on the first page. Vicktor as a preteen, on skates, posing with a hockey stick. A familiar, determined look glinted from his dark eyes. The yellowing black-and-white photo curled from the page, the old glue crumbling from the back side.

  “Vicktor?” she asked, po
inting. The man nodded, his eyes gleaming.

  He turned the page. Another yellowing picture, this time of Nickolai, a young woman, and a baby between them. It reminded her of a picture of her grandparents. Neither adult smiled. The baby was dressed in a christening gown, chubby and drooling.

  Gracie tapped the picture. “Vicktor?”

  Nickolai nodded. His finger moved lightly over the photo, along the woman’s profile. A shadow crossed his face. Gracie pointed to the woman. “Is this your wife?”

  His mouth stretched tight, nearly a flat line across his face. He turned the page without meeting Gracie’s eyes. Father and son wore that same look when they wanted to avoid a topic.

  The next few pictures showed Vicktor as a child, at the beach, taking a bath, beneath a Christmas tree. Gracie examined each one. Vicktor, what made you such a serious child?

  Pride lit Nickolai’s expression as he pointed to each picture and illuminated it with an explanation. Gracie longed to understand his words.

  She paused at a picture of Vicktor in a uniform—full-dress Russian Army—taken in the middle of Red Square. St. Basil’s Cathedral loomed in the background. She bit back a chuckle at Vicktor’s high and tight crew cut. Still, however, that driven look lurked in his eyes. It haunted her. She glanced at Nickolai, wondering if he noticed it. The man’s dark eyes scanned the picture. He ran a finger gently over the soldier’s form.

  Gracie glued her eyes to the book, chewing over questions about the history of these two men. What was it that made Vicktor burn with intensity in these photos and out of them? What was the sadness that washed across Nickolai’s face when he stared at his son and his young wife?

  The sound of metal grating at the door shattered her thoughts. Nickolai jumped to his feet. Gracie barely caught the book in her lap. Hobbling to the door, Nickolai peered out the hole. Beneath her hand, Alfred’s body stiffened. His lips drew back to reveal canines. A low growl rumbling at the base of his throat made her skin prickle.

  “It’s just Andrei,” she said, as if Nickolai could understand her. She patted Alfred. At least now, she might understand Nickolai’s stories. If she could get Andrei to translate.

  Nickolai turned, and his expression sent a chill up her spine.

  “What?” She stood and watched Nickolai hobble to the telephone. He lifted the receiver to his ear only to slam it into the cradle.

  Gracie went weak.

  Nickolai stared at her for an eternal second, frowning, something gathering in his eyes. Then he hobbled over and motioned her into his bedroom.

  “No, what is it?” Gracie fought him as he pushed her toward his room. Hadn’t Vicktor told his father that Andrei was coming? She yanked out of his grip, started for the door.

  The sound of the metal door groaning on its hinges made her freeze.

  Nickolai grabbed her arm. “Bwestra,” he said softly.

  Quickly? Gracie’s heart reacted and landed in her throat. “What—?”

  “Bwestra!” he hissed.

  Oh no, not again. Gracie’s head spun as she whirled and beelined to the bedroom.

  She stopped at the door, turned, and fear sucked the moisture from her mouth. Nickolai sat on the sofa, feet wide, back stiff. In his hands he gripped a…gun?

  Gracie dove into the bedroom, slammed the door, fumbled with a flimsy hook-and-eye latch, and scanned the room for escape.

  Trapped. The room smelled of old cotton sheets and dust. Dark shadows lurched from a closet door. On the other side of the room, a breeze snagged the grimy green floor-to-ceiling drapes.

  The metal door screeched again.

  She slouched against the door. Covered her ears with her hands. God, please protect Nickolai!

  A hammer against metal. The entire building shook. Gracie ran to the window. Throwing back the drapes, she spied a narrow balcony door. She yanked it open.

  Three flights down. It felt like thirty. She turned back to the room. Nickolai was yelling.

  No, no! Terror forced her to the edge of the balcony.

  “Oh, God!” she moaned, not able to complete her plea.

  Her slick hand clawed the balcony rail as she threw her leg over. What. Am. I. Doing? She angled the other leg over and hung from the edge. Below, the dirty alley glinted glass. A flock of pigeons clustered around a spattering of garbage. Her stockinged toes dug into the rough cement. She’d left her shoes by Nickolai’s front door, per Russian custom.

  Her hands were slick with moisture.

  For a second, the idea of surrender crossed her mind. She didn’t have anything of value—perhaps they would let her and Nickolai go. She was nothing more than a Sunday school teacher on her way home.

  The memory of Evelyn’s pale face drove the suggestion from her mind.

  She inched down. Felt with raw feet for the balcony below. Her foot scraped on a metal grate. Pain spiked up her leg, but relief rushed through her body.

  The neighbors downstairs had enclosed their balcony with ironwork.

  She shimmied down like a monkey, shredding her nylons, snagging her dress on a jagged piece of curled metal. Sharp edges sliced her hands. Her knees scrubbed against bricks, leaving skin. Gritting her teeth, she closed out Alfred’s barking from the apartment above and let her feet dangle from the next balcony. Thin air and a drop of over fifteen feet.

  A gunshot and a scream.

  Pigeons scattered in a flurry of wings and claws.

  Gracie fell backward, flinging her arms, screaming.

  20

  Vicktor sauntered into Artyom’s cubical and found the hacker peering into the grimy dark screen of an ancient laptop. Green letters flashed in neon as Artyom scrolled down and analyzed the language.

  Vicktor scanned the cubical and spotted the Youngs’ computer folded and tucked away on a stool under the tech’s desk. Irritation stabbed at him. He cleared his throat. “Hey, Artyom, got any good news for me?”

  Artyom jumped, knocking into Vicktor’s coffee hand.

  “Arrgh!” Vicktor jigged around, spattering liquid, wincing when the scalding beverage hit his pants leg. “There goes my suit.”

  Artyom scrambled to his feet. “Sorry, Vicktor Nickolaiovich, I’ll get you a towel.”

  A moment later he returned with two paper towels and Yanna on his heels.

  “I thought I heard you here. It’s about time. I think by now your father and Gracie have run out of topics.” She tapped her watch. “It’s been two hours. I’m shocked you’re able to stay away from her that long.”

  Vicktor scowled. “I promised her she’d get her laptop back before she left town.”

  Yanna’s eyebrows rose. “Is she leaving?”

  Vicktor wiped the bottom of his mug, then set it on Artyom’s desk. Dabbing at his pants leg, he looked over at Artyom. “What are you working on?”

  “It’s Gregori Strakhin’s notebook. They brought it in last night. It’s encrypted.”

  “Gregori Strakhin—Customs director?” Vicktor braced an arm on Artyom’s cubical wall and glanced at Yanna. “We’ve been watching him for years. The guy is clean.”

  Yanna shook her head. “The COBRAs picked him up last night. Part of a smuggling ring—Korean mafia.”

  “Really.” Vicktor picked up his cup. “I wonder if he knew the Youngs.”

  Artyom turned in his swivel chair. “I don’t know about Strakhin, but I know someone else who did.” The hacker smiled like the cat that caught the canary.

  “Who?” Yanna demanded.

  “My girlfriend.

  “Natasha?” Arkady’s daughter knew the Youngs? “How?” Vicktor asked.

  “Evidently, Dr. Young did a presentation in her academy class on first aid.”

  He looked at Yanna, then back at Vicktor. “We started talking about the case, and you know Arkady—”

  “Nosy.”

  “Let’s say inquisitive,” Artyom corrected. “He is going to be my father-in-law. Anyway, he told me a little about the case and…” He threaded his fingers together
and flexed them.

  “And?” Yanna demanded.

  “And,” Artyom answered, reaching for the Youngs’ laptop, “see what I found.”

  Vicktor set down his cup.

  “I don’t suppose you got the password?” Artyom asked offhandedly as he plugged the machine in and turned it on.

  Oh yeah, the password. Wasn’t he just on his game these days? Vicktor shook his head.

  Dr. Willie Young’s welcome page filled the screen and requested the password.

  Artyom leaned over Vicktor. “Type in L-e-o-n-i-d.”

  Vicktor froze for a moment before he typed in the name.

  Artyom’s chair creaked as he leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head. “Impressed, huh? When Arkady told me about your recent corpse, well, I guessed, but…” He waved a hand as the computer began to whiz, its electronic brain churning. “Wait ’til you see what he’s got tucked away.”

  “Which one? My Docs or Personal Journal?” Vicktor asked, reaching for the mouse.

  “Click on the journal.”

  Yanna’s perfume edged close as she leaned over Vicktor’s shoulder. “Leonid’s Cure,” she whispered as he opened it.

  A list of dates. Randomly, Vicktor picked one. February, two years ago. “Leonid took the first of the two Shtumm vaccines today.”

  Vicktor scowled at the screen. “What is it?”

  “I think it’s a history of treatment,” Artyom said.

  Vicktor popped open the file for March. “Today began air purification treatment. Leonid submitted to two hours of air therapy with Aleon 132 Lystra machine.”

  “I don’t get it. What did Dr. Young have to do with Leonid’s cure?” Yanna said. “He didn’t have hospital privileges or a license to practice in Russia. He wasn’t allowed to give shots or dispense medicine.”

  “Maybe because Russia’s health care doesn’t allow for individual treatment.” Vicktor remembered, too well, the wall-to-wall beds in the cancer ward, the expressionless doctors who offered hopelessness. The smells, the moans, the faces of death.

  No, he had no trouble at all understanding why Leonid might turn to an American for help in the area of medicine. He scrolled down the screen.