“Yes, exactly so,” replied Novyck, still standing. “But that was some time ago. I have not seen her recently.”
“Didn’t you help her get the alexandrite to America?”
“Ah, so, you know about Katya’s treasure? Yes, she seemed frightened. We both worried she might be set upon by villains, either in this country or yours. I helped her disguise the stone so she could transport it safely. As you may know, my family has a history of service to hers.” Novyck’s shoulders dipped in a near bow. “I was relieved,” he said, “to learn that Katya arrived safely in New York, with her health and dowry intact.”
Again, Blake noted Novyck’s obvious familiarity with Kate. He was clearly aware of her quest and all that it implied. And there was the hint of a relationship that went deeper—calling her Katya, something Simon himself had never done. “We both worried,” had the clear ring of they as a couple worried. Of the two of them, after all, Novyck obviously had a deeper knowledge of Kate’s family and background. Perhaps his, Blake’s, best tack would be to exploit that knowledge.
Blake rubbed his forehead, bunching the flesh between his eyes into a small ridge. “Do you have any idea why she would check into a cheap hotel, with an entourage of men, in the middle of the night?”
Novyck blinked, momentarily surprised by the bluntness of Blake’s question. “None at all. Not unless they were all part of some celebratory revelry. Miss Gavrill, however, doesn’t strike me as the sort of woman who engages in such bacchanal frivolity.”
Blake rose, facing Novyck. “Nor does she me.” A chiming clock drew Blake’s eyes to the bookshelf; he was swept by an overwhelming sense of urgency. “How can I find her?”
Novyck smiled, but without humor. “If one wishes to, it is easy to lose oneself in Russia. It sounds as if Kate may not wish to be found, at least by you.”
Blake felt his blood rise. Who was this faux priest to presume to know Kate’s wishes?
Novyck pulled a green velvet chair from beneath an ornate writing desk, and sat down. “I have many questions of my own”, the prelate continued. “Why did Kate return to Russia? Why did she want to see me? Why are you two here?”
Without warning, the conversational tables had turned. Now he and Kate were paired. Blake’s mind seemed sluggish, but he sensed a risk in specificity. “We both had personal business in Russia,” he replied vaguely, “so we decided to come together.”
Novyck settled back in the chair. He clearly felt more comfortable directing their exchange. “I’m sure I can help,” he said expansively, as if bestowing a gift. “What is your business, Mr. Blake?”
“Right now, my business is secondary,” said Blake, hearing the evasive tone in his own words. He must keep the spotlight on the missing woman. “I want to find Miss Gavrill.”
“And, of course, I will do anything I can to assist you.” Novyck stood, and took Blake’s hand.
For the first time, Blake felt the full power of Novyck’s eyes. Set deeply in his skull, they were dark brown and incredibly bright. They seemed rarely to shift position. The effect gave the man’s gaze an uncommon intensity, quite unlike anything Blake had encountered.
“If you learn anything,” Novyck continued, handing him his card, “please contact me. The chances are Miss Gavrill is simply behaving in the inexplicable way women often do, and you, or I, will hear from her soon. Nonetheless, I am concerned.”
“Know that I am your blood brother in this mission,” he continued, rising. He smiled and pressed Blake’s hand tightly between both of his own. “No-one has a greater concern for Miss Gavrill’s safety than I.” He bowed his head slightly.
“Thanks,” Blake replied, his focus seeming to return. “For now at least, I will look for Miss Gavrill on my own. If I need your help I’ll call.”
“As you wish.” Novyck again offered a slight bow of his head.
Outside, the air felt closer than before. To cool off, Blake decided to walk toward the river before returning to his hotel. He passed the three-tier Menshikov Tower, built by an apparatchik to Peter the Great. The egomaniacal adviser had grown wealthy, and constructed the wedding cake-edifice as part of a church, crowned by Moscow’s highest spire, on the grounds of his own estate. The edifice had later been consumed in a fire and then partially rebuilt.
Blake looked at the lavishly decorated tower and wondered: was his own ego charting a course for disaster? Was it vainglorious to believe that, by himself, he could find one woman in a city of eight million people?
A better approach might be to accept Novyck’s help, but covertly. If he retraced his steps, he could watch the one place where, sooner or later, he was convinced Kate would appear: before the same black door where he had stood a short time ago, and which was clearly visible from across Christoprudny.
Blake re-crossed the wide street. Reaching the curb, he walked in long strides until dense foliage swallowed him from view. He stopped when he stood in a stand of tall bushes directly across from Novyck’s residence. He was unaware of the parked taxi that had trailed his movements since early afternoon.
Chapter 47
From an upstairs window, Imre Novyck watched Blake leave. Then, crossing a hallway, he slowly opened the door to the bedroom in which Kate Gavrill slept. He walked to a small locked cabinet, inserted a key and—stooping—withdrew an empty hospital syringe, sealed in a sterilized plastic bag. He would use this to withdraw a small sample of Kate’s blood, and with it, her DNA.
Novyck recrossed the room and stood at the foot of her bed. She looked utterly relaxed; the powerful sedative he’d slipped into her sherry appeared to have done its work. Soon, he mused, he would no longer need or want drugs to control this subject. Heavy medication would be unseemly—and sure to draw attention—in the patrician world of Threadneedle Street.
The ebony silk sheets clung to Kate’s form. The outline of her body against the thin fabric made it obvious that, in the summer heat, she’d slipped under the covers without any clothing.
Kate’s body shifted and desire rose in Novyck like a hot wind. Her white skin seemed almost newborn in its purity. Damp from her bath, her short black hair curled in a fringe of small ringlets. Thick dark lashes touched her cheeks.
Setting the syringe on a small table near the wall, Novyck eased onto the bed. He brought his right forefinger to his lips, wetting the end with his tongue. He touched Kate for the first time then, through the fabric, making feather-light circles at the apex of her left breast.
He imagined placing his hands on her knees and opening her, suffocating in the heavy mists of her.
He would feel remorse later, and flagellation would lift his soul to the highest joy of all, cleansing his spirit, purging the foul vessel of his body. First would come the colonics, until his excrement ran clear as a stream. Then he would beat himself, especially about his genitals and buttocks, using the knotted leather lashes he kept in a locked cabinet. The whipping would continue until blood spattered his legs in a gentle rain.
His penance would be conducted entirely in private.
Novyck had gone into seclusion after his recent debauchery with the young nun. When it was over, he threw open the windows, rubbed his wounds with salve and prayed.
Beneath the sheets, Kate’s hips stirred slightly.
Novyck jerked his hand back. He felt suddenly and outrageously stupid, as if his intellect were an elephant, backed into a corner by a herd of lecherous mice. You utter fool, he remonstrated himself. Are you ruled by your phallus? Is one fling with her worth billions of rubles and all the power they could bring? You’ll have her, your way, later.
Novyck walked to the table and picked up the syringe. Recrossing the room, he drew back the sheet. Gently, he slid the needle into her upper arm.
* * *
A sharp tingle awakened her. Kate rubbed her arm above the elbow. Her eyes opened slowly.
Abruptly, t
hey opened wide—a man sat on the side of the bed. She pulled the bedclothes to her collar bone.
Imre Novyck’s voice came to her, calmly, reassuringly.
“You’ve been out for hours, Katya. It’s still early evening. Go back to sleep.”
“Wha—what day is this?”
“Saturday, my dear.”
He took her hand, which lay limp in his. Drowsiness settled back around her. But she couldn’t sleep; she had to get back to the hotel. It was August 26th, Simon must be looking all over Moscow for her.
Novyck crossed the room. Standing at a side table, he turned his back to her. When he returned, he held two glasses.
“Try this, my dear. A little sherry to send you back to dream land.”
Sitting on the bed, he took her hand again. Kate sipped the drink, and her head spun. Her hand curled into his. This time she sensed his flesh, and her fingers crawled slightly in his palm.
Behind Novyck’s professional detachment, Kate sensed a smoldering hunger. He caught her recognition and, pulling back his hand, rose quickly from the bed in a smooth motion. After making a slight bow, he turned off the main ceiling light. Now the only source of illumination was a small lamp on the table where he’d momentarily laid the syringe. He tucked the device beneath his coat and quietly closed the door.
Kate turned her face into the pillow. Like the Romanov Stone, her nature seemed to swing from fire to ice. Blake had risked his professional future for her, yet an instant ago she’d sparked, however briefly, to the touch of another man—and that man was Imre Novyck.
Chapter 48
Kate’s eyes opened. After hours of sleep, she felt refreshed and strong. Cool air touched her skin as, nude, she crossed the room to her garment bag, hanging in an open closet. Rummaging through its contents, she found underwear, shoes, a pair of jeans and a faded “Marion Athletic Dept.” tank top.
As she dressed, she noted a curious salmon-colored spot on her arm. She’d obviously been given an injection, but what? And when?
She had to call Simon and let him know she was all right.
Finding no telephone, she walked to the door, turned the knob and stepped into the hallway.
A large man wearing a black turtleneck and a putty-colored suit sat in a wooden chair directly opposite her door. Earlier, Novyck had introduced him as a valet.
“Tyeh-lyeh-FAW-nah?” She asked him, trying to sound out the Russian word for telephone.
“So sorry, Madame, no puh-AHN-GLEE-ski,” he replied
“Yah khah-CHOO V’EE-dyet Comrade Novyck?” She had no idea why she used the Communist era relic, ‘comrade,’ in stating her desire to see Imre.
A few minutes later, Imre Novyck stood beside her in the hallway. “I really must go,” Kate said. “There are people who are anxious for me. I don’t want to worry them needlessly.”
“Of course, my dear,” he replied, taking her hand. “But in good time. You are simply not well enough at the moment.” His demeanor of overt concern, Kate sensed, barely concealed impatience.
“Yes, but these people will be frantically trying to find me,” Kate responded. Never mind that the “people” she referred to came down to one lanky gemologist from Indiana with impossibly brown eyes. “Let me at least call them.”
He patted her hand, leading her to the door. “Certainly,” he said. His lips lifted in a soft smile. “I know that you want to contact Mr. Blake. There will be time for that later in the day.”
“But—”
“No buts.” He continued holding the fixed smile. “Right now Dr. Imre prescribes a little more rest.” His palm slid upwards and closed lightly around Kate’s wrist. He led her back into her room, then stepped back out into the hall.
The door clicked as it was locked from outside. Kate’s neck muscles jumped at the sound.
She paced the room in a wide circle, stopping beside the double window she’d noticed earlier. It was really two windows, one on each side of a typically massive Russian wall—she guessed the width at eighteen inches. Flush with the wall in the room, and framed by an iron sash, the inner casement window opened and closed by a single hook. The fixed outer window offered a glimpse of the building’s cobbled brick exterior and the sidewalk two stories below.
The curtains were still drawn. Below, on the sidewalk near the house’s entrance, she could see two men talking. The room’s warm air had frosted the panes of the outer window with condensation, obscuring their images. Pulling aside the curtain and opening the latch on the inner window, she leaned across the wide sill. Like a child peering out from a school bus, Kate rubbed a clear circle in the glass.
She gasped and jumped back. Her stomach bunched.
The man facing the house was the same captor who’d tormented her at the hotel. He was chatting and laughing with the Armani-clad butler who’d greeted her earlier at Imre’s door. These people weren’t servants, any more than the man outside her door was a valet. They were thugs, some of Novyck’s “associates” from Lefortovo, no doubt.
In an instant, her plight had become all too clear.
Kate Gavrill, great granddaughter of the tsar of all Russia, was not a guest of her family’s protector. She was his prisoner.
Chapter 49
The knob turned before she touched it. Kate drew back, and Novyck entered.
He carried a small black leather case.
“I brought something to help you sleep.”
“I don’t need anything. And I don’t need to sleep.”
“Well, you may think not. But I’m worried about you. Why don’t you just sit down here on the side of the bed? Your face is flushed, and your eyes seem cloudy. Please sit so I can look at them.”
Kate reluctantly complied. She now knew Imre was a fraud. Even so, the only sensible course was to play dumb and search for a way out.
Novyck sat close to her and opened the case. Inside, she could see an optical instrument with a flashlight-like base and reverse teardrop lens—the kind used for eye examinations. Beside it lay a syringe.
He lifted out the eye magnifier and switched it on.
“Are you a doctor?” She asked the question directly, but in a tone that hid her hostility.
“Of course not, Katya. But I have studied the human eye extensively. You might call me something of an amateur optometrist. A person’s eyes can tell us much about his overall health. The retina, for example, can reveal early warning signs of heart disease.”
“I don’t have heart disease.”
“Please, stare straight ahead.”
She did so.
He brought the instrument to his eye and switched on the light. A white circle crawled across her cornea.
“Now, turn toward me if you will, so I can check the other eye.”
Imre sat so close she could hear him breathing. The light’s glaring beam seemed to bounce along the edges of her consciousness, lulling her. As Novyck moved the light over her face, his elbow brushed her breasts. Somehow, the intimacy of his touch calmed her.
Kate again felt herself being drawn to him. How could he have such sway over her?
“Your eyes look very, very tired, Kate.” His voice was low and the words were uttered in a slow, deliberate cadence. “Remember, you spent hours in that miserable hotel room with no rest.”
“But I’ve just slept.” Despite her protestations, Kate’s muscles relaxed; the tension seemed to flow from her body.
“Yes, but you were restless.” His voice was smooth, insistent. “You kept tossing about and talking to someone the entire time. Andre heard you through the door.”
Kate’s pulse quickened. Whom had she been talking to? Simon? Herself? Had she been dreaming? What did Imre know? She shivered, imagining the henchman with v-shaped hair pressing his ear to the door.
Novyck placed the device back in the case, his hands returning with the
syringe.
His deep gaze pulled her in. She became aware of the lack of separation between his eyes’ pupils and irises. Each concentric orb appeared black and borderless, a seamless void, like outer space.
Around them, the room’s walls faded to a soft gray and seemed to lose their edges at the ceiling and floor.
A white piece of paper was being pushed toward her. None of it made sense to her. Novyck lifted her hand and closed her fingers around a pen.
“Sign this, Katya dear. That’s it. No bother.”
She saw the words “POWERS OF ATTORNEY,” but they appeared as meaningless individual letters, strung together in bold script at the top of the page.
She signed the document.
Then, in a single, sure motion, he took her right wrist in his left hand, rolling her arm so that the underside lay open and exposed against his knee. The hypodermic painlessly pierced her skin. Her eyes grew slippery in their sockets. The room and Novyck swam together in a slow-turning whirlpool.
“Sleep well, Katya.”
Like a leaf swept into a vortex, Novyck made a wide circle as he backed out of the room. The door opened, sucking him away.
Kate pulled herself up on one elbow, trying to focus. In Novyck’s absence, her vision lacked a benchmark. She swung her gaze around the room. Her surroundings seemed wavy and fluid. When she blinked, the walls shuddered.
* * *
Awakening groggily hours later, Kate confronted the question that would trouble her for years: HOW COULD she have been so wrong about Imre Novyck?
With her head beginning to clear, the pieces were starting to fall into place. Perhaps she would never know exactly how or when, but Imre must have switched the stones when she’d seen him in prison the second time. Locked away, he’d known he couldn’t control her visit to the Bank of England. But he’d also known his release was approaching, and that sooner or later she’d discover the gem was synthetic and return. The kidnapping and rescue were faked, too, designed to get her away from Simon Blake and under his, Imre’s, control.
The Romanov Stone Page 21
