East of the Sun

by Janet Rogers

  Copyright © 2012 Janet Rogers

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1-4783-5448-8

  ISBN-13: 9781478354482

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-62347-506-2

  Once upon a time, east of the sun and west of the moon, there was a different place, but not too different . . .

  First words of many old Russian folktales

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Author’s note

  About the Author

  Prologue

  It was a welcome change to suffer neither delays nor tiresome stops and starts. At this hour, the normal chaotic traffic had long since disappeared. The city’s streets were deserted and the dark car could continue on its route unhindered. In the back seat Robert Preston glanced at his watch, then peered over the driver’s shoulder to look at the temperature reading on the dashboard: 2°C. Out of habit he quickly converted it to Fahrenheit – just under 36°. The season had turned, and he could smell the coming cold in the night air. He shivered in his coat at the thought, and laid his head against the headrest, briefly allowing himself to feel the full extent of his fatigue.

  ‘Everything all right, Mr Preston?’ the driver asked, his hand hovering in front of the heater setting.

  ‘Everything is fine, Sergey, thank you.’ Robert sighed. If only that were true. If only he knew where to find the answers he so desperately needed. If only this moment would pass and life could return to relative simplicity again. Tonight the burden of having to find solutions – and soon – felt too heavy. It had been a long day and he just wanted to get home.

  Maybe it was the way the car suddenly, unexpectedly stopped, or maybe he had known long before this night that something would happen, but in the instant his body lurched forward, he knew with immediate certainty that danger was near.

  He looked out of the tinted window, but was a fraction too slow. Before he could make sense of what was happening, the door was yanked open violently. The blow that followed knocked him sideways with such brutal force that his head hit the empty leather seat next to him with a dull thud. A moment of dizziness. He felt someone pull on his legs.

  It was then that fear engulfed him. This was no accident. He kicked wildly, using all the power he had left in his legs. For a brief second his foot made contact with something or someone. Urgently, frantically, he clawed at the frustratingly smooth surfaces, but his fingers couldn’t find a proper grip and he was helpless to prevent his body from being dragged out of the car. As the cold night air entered his lungs, he noticed a smear of his blood left behind on the seat and dread filled him. Was this it?

  The face hovering above him was in the dark, but behind it he glimpsed the faintly illuminated street name: Denezhniy Pereulok. Money Lane.

  Perhaps it was meant to be this way.

  1

  The Russian passengers applauded, as always when the plane landed, their joy at arriving safely back in the motherland evident on the smiling faces and sudden chatter around Amelia. She was impatient to get off the plane for various reasons, the first of which was the strong smell of garlic and alcohol coming from her neighbour, a smell exacerbated by the stale air inside the plane. Out of the corner of her eye she watched as his heavy eyelids started to lift and his slightly ragged, unshaven face awoke from what appeared to be much-needed rest after an obviously heavy week.

  Around her people started switching on mobile phones to call their families and loved ones. She listened to snippets of their conversations and closed her eyes to conjure the face of her own loved one, but today it was elusive. She kept her eyes closed for another moment, trying to concentrate. It was of no use. A flicker of anxiety about her inability to summon that face, she left unexamined for the moment. Today she couldn’t let herself get distressed. Today required focus. She turned her attention to the world that lay beyond the small window at her shoulder.

  From the sky there had been a moment of shock at how beautiful the land below looked from afar. Views of the meandering river and forest land surrounding the city had made her feel as if she’d arrived at the wrong destination. Down here on the runway it was an entirely different picture. It was November and the true cold had not hit Moscow yet, but the barren, grey landscape around the ugly buildings of Sheremetyevo airport looked cold and inhospitable. The snow that so magically transformed the city into a place of beauty from the air had been cleared away here and in places piles of dirty snow were waiting to be carried away. Despite the fact that she was anxious to escape the confines of the plane, the scene outside was so uniquely Russian, so stark and unsympathetic, that she felt a small shiver of hesitation about entering the country again.

  This was not a place that had been kind to her. Quite the opposite. However, everything that she had done in the past two weeks – since a moment of boredom had prompted her to read a discarded newspaper in a London café – had led to this moment. She had finally, voluntarily, returned.

  Her cosy home in London seemed like a distant memory already. She thought of all the hours she’d spent over the past year on sanding, fixing and painting to turn the neglected old house into a sanctuary. It felt like ages since she’d turned the key in her front door when in reality it had only been a few hours since she’d left it all behind. The knowledge that she wouldn’t be sleeping between those freshly painted walls tonight was unnerving, but much as she was tempted to, she couldn’t possibly turn back now. Not after everything she’d done. And not done.

  At last people started moving at the front of the plane. Sour whiffs accompanied her neighbour’s sighs and grunts as he collected his few belongings and shuffled into the aisle. When she’d made doubly sure she had the notebook and valuable wad of papers she’d so carefully collected over the past two weeks, she followed the stream of passengers into the airport building and down the familiar stairs to the passport control area where the normal pushing to get into the shortest line ensued straight away.

  Sheremetyevo was notorious for the chaotic nature of its queues at passport control and Amelia had to stand her ground to avoid losing her place, but when she’d finally succeeded in staking a claim to a spot in one of the crude lines, she looked around her to take it all in. She’d waited here many times before and apart from brighter lighting in the waiting area, very little appeared to have changed. The same tired faces and faint smell of old sweat surrounded her. On occasion in the past the process had taken in excess of an hour, but today the lines moved relatively quickly and it took only twenty minutes before she reached the front.

  Her heart hammered in her chest as she stepped up to the booth. A platinum blonde officer with severe black eyebrows and a surly expression took her documents. Long moments passed while the woman stared at the passport and newly acquired tourist visa. It had been a toss-up between using her diplomatic credentials and getting a single-entry tourist visa, but she’d finally opted for the latter, mainly because s
he wasn’t sure her diplomatic card was still valid, but also because she wanted to keep a low profile. The visa had been fairly straightforward to get with the help of a travel company, but the hostile face scrutinising it now looked distinctly suspicious. The woman raised her eyes and looked at her prey intently. Amelia knew the drill: make eye contact, keep your own face neutral, say nothing. The officer tapped on a keyboard in front of her, looked at Amelia again and frowned.

  After several more minutes, during which it became clear that she was in no rush to deal with the cause of her concern, she finally called her supervisor over. Amelia’s stomach tightened as she watched the supervisor repeat the process of inspecting the documents and scowling at what she saw. It was an effort not to ask them if there was a problem, but she knew she had to stay in control.

  Only speak when spoken to, she reminded herself.

  Never volunteer information – one of the first and most valuable things Robert had taught her.

  After more intense scrutiny, the two conversed in hushed voices. By now the passengers in the queue behind her were getting fidgety. She could feel their stares, ranging from curious to suspicious, on her. If she delayed them any longer, their impatience would soon turn to hostility. Amelia willed her cheeks not to turn red. She breathed slowly, hoping for composure and finally, to her utter relief, the blonde officer, after a last nerve-wracking word with her supervisor, pursed her lips and emphatically stamped the page before she slid the passport back over the counter.

  Quickly, before anyone could change their mind, Amelia exited into the baggage claim area, exhaling as she headed towards the luggage carousel. Were her diplomatic credentials still in the system and had they somehow raised concerns because she hadn’t used them in almost a year? Was there suspicion because she was travelling on a tourist visa? Was her identity flagged in the system because of Robert? There was no way of knowing, but there was no time to dwell on it either. Although she felt suddenly conspicuous, as if there were hidden eyes watching her every move, she focused on moving through and out of customs control with as much composure as possible. Once outside the glass doors, she breathed more evenly. Whatever the reason for the scrutiny, she felt a small thrill of triumph at being able to cross hurdle number one off her list: she’d arrived at last, she’d managed to enter the country successfully and the most important thing now was to focus her energies on the task at hand.

  Anticipating the normal barrage of taxi offers, she’d booked a car in advance and soon it was speeding through the city’s outskirts. To her relief the driver made no attempt at conversation and Amelia was able to look out at views of snowy roads without interruption. Everything was so familiar, yet felt so distant. There was a time when she’d yearned to understand all the small things that made this place so unique. It had seemed crucial to gain at least a measure of understanding and she’d celebrated every tiny success she’d achieved. Now she knew she would never be a part of this world she had chosen to return to. She also knew that she didn’t ever want to be a part of it again. Her return was necessary, but temporary.

  The Moscow River was already frozen over in places. A memory came to her of walking along a side branch of the river with Robert once, the water moving slowly but continuously so that the sound of ice shards breaking accompanied them all the way until they’d reached the bridge that had led them away from the river. She remembered clearly how good that day had been, filled with the excitement of exploring a new place. She turned to look the other way. Beautiful, fresh snow on the grey trees by the side of the highway stirred a forgotten emotion in her chest.

  Soon, however, they reached the less attractive areas of the city – kilometre after kilometre crammed with ugly billboards fighting to be noticed and old apartment blocks that looked just about ready to collapse. She wondered about the lives behind the depressing façades. Maybe someone somewhere behind a grimy window knew something about Robert’s disappearance. Maybe.

  What, if anything, would she discover in the days to come? Would she be able to put the events of the past year behind her? Would she be willing to?

  They reached the National Hotel in only an hour, a small miracle given the nightmarish reality of Moscow traffic. At the reception desk a number of guests were waiting to check in and Amelia took a moment to look out across the street onto Manezh Square. Just beyond the square lay the Kremlin’s red walls. Unexpectedly there was a lump in her throat. Robert had shared her excitement when they’d first glimpsed those imposing walls. They’d walked as far as they could along the perimeter, gazing up at the towers built onto the thick walls, thrilled about the new adventure and many challenges that lay ahead. They had been so ready to take it on, so sure of their own abilities to make a success of it.

  With sudden panic, she felt tears burning behind her eyes. She knew immediately, with the certainty of one who’d cried too many tears in the recent past, that they were barely under control. Desperately she fished in her coat’s pockets for a tissue. While she tried to stop the dreaded tears from spilling over, she kept her head down and pretended to search for something in her bag.

  When she looked up after several minutes, the queue had disappeared. Acutely aware of her red eyes, she had no choice but to step forward to check in and commit to her plan.

  It took only a few moments. The desk clerk was discreet enough to pretend not to notice Amelia’s blotchy skin. She took her passport, made a copy and checked the booking on the computer in front of her. When she looked up, there was something different in her expression.

  ‘Mrs Preston. Welcome back to Moscow. We’ve been expecting you.’ She smiled faintly and looked up from her computer screen. ‘We’ve been asked to ensure that your stay is . . . without problem.’

  Stunned, Amelia stared at the desk clerk.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ she asked before she could stop the words.

  ‘If you need anything, please let us know,’ the clerk said, not quite answering Amelia’s question.

  The hotel had been alerted of her arrival. How could that be? No one in Moscow knew she was returning. Absolutely no one. She’d made a point of not contacting anyone.

  Speechlessly she reached for the key the clerk had placed on the counter. She could read nothing in the young woman’s eyes. Had she been careless? But when? And where? Had it been in London – had she inadvertently said something to someone? Maybe when she’d stepped off the plane? Or was this due to the situation at Passport Control?

  It didn’t seem possible.

  She knew she’d been scrupulous about divulging nothing. But it was clear that someone already knew she was here and no veteran visitor to Russia could fail to hear the ominous overtones in those words of welcome.

  2

  ‘Zdes?’ the taxi driver asked, a little impatiently.

  She caught his eyes on her, the cool appraisal in them unmistakable. Had she been staring into space without realising that they’d reached the place she’d asked for? This wasn’t good. Already Moscow was getting to her. She really needed to get a grip.

  ‘Here good?’ he asked again, switching to heavily accented English, perhaps taking her silence for a lack of understanding.

  ‘Da, spasiba.’ She nodded her thanks and handed him the agreed upon money. With another nod she got out and watched as he drove off with a spinning of wheels.

  In front of her lay the Old Arbat, popular with both locals and tourists. A quick glance told her that it was already late enough in the day for the pedestrian traffic to have thickened along the cobbled street and she decided not to join the masses. It had never been a street she’d liked, mainly due to the over-supply of tacky souvenirs and garish signboards that detracted from the beauty of the old buildings on both sides of the closed-off pedestrian street.

  Despite the cold, many people were out. Although she was no stranger to cold, perpetually damp English winters, her body was no longer used to the penetrating freeze of the Russian winter and she huddled deeper into her thick c
oat. Instead of turning onto Old Arbat, she took the street that lay perpendicular to it – Denezhniy Pereulok – because she knew it provided a quieter route to the embassy. But there was another reason for wanting to follow this route. This was the last known place Robert had been, the last connection she had with him.

  On her right loomed one of Stalin’s seven sisters, one of a series of skyscrapers built in the late 1940’s and early 1950’s that still towered over Moscow like gloomy guards of the past. The building housed the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and consequently the area around it was littered with embassies and consulates. Her destination, the Canadian embassy, lay four blocks to the east of it on Starokonyushenny Pereulok.

  A few hundred metres down Denezhniy Pereulok she paused to look down the length of it, knowing full well the futility of searching for a link to the past in this way, but still unable to stop herself. What she saw was nothing more than evidence of a normal day in Moscow. People were simply going about their business, hurrying along, competing for space on the busy sidewalks. Resisting the familiar tug of melancholy, she turned left onto Sivtsev Vrazhek, an even quieter side street that ran parallel to Old Arbat, and carefully started making her way down the sidewalk to avoid the many spots of frozen black ice.

  Despite turbulent economic times, the pace of change had still not slowed down in Moscow. Restored buildings, new restaurants and shops could be seen everywhere. As her feet led her down the street, a strong sense of solitude took hold of Amelia. The ache in her chest reminded her that this was the last place where she and Robert had been together. Here, despite the pressures of life in the diplomatic service, they had discovered a fresh sense of adventure and also a reawakened passion for one another. This city that was so exciting and so intimidating had provided her with the most wonderful of times, but also the worst nightmare imaginable. On some level it felt wrong to be here without Robert. The thought of his absence was almost too much to bear and she quickened her pace to focus on reaching the Canadian embassy where she might find the first of so many answers she needed.