His face dropped to hers. Saliva and sweat dripped from his chin. His eyes were wild with desire and rage.
She bit his lip with all her strength. Krasky flung her across the room. She crashed into the luncheon cart, scattering prime rib, potatoes, assorted plates, glasses, silverware, serviettes, salt and pepper shakers—and a four-inch steak knife.
Sprawled face down on the floor in front of him, Kate felt the knife—heavy, hard, ready—pressing into her hip. Krasky advanced. When he fell on her, Kate rolled with the knife. The big Ukrainian’s weight did the rest; the blade found its way through flesh and bone, severing his aortic arch.
She felt Krasky dying, his trembling hands still pawing at her breasts. His eyes glassed, his breath fouled, and his bladder flooded his trousers. His weight settled against her.
Kate closed her eyes against the stink and the blood.
She opened them again as the smaller man strolled past her, pausing to glance at Krasky and the Russians. Kate looked up at him, but it was as if she weren’t in the room. Looking neither right nor left, he crossed the hall and pushed the elevator button.
Hector Molina had the air of a man whose work was finished.
* * *
Kate pushed herself out from under Krasky, then crawled back to her room. Using the side of the bed, she pulled herself upright. What had the smaller man been looking for?
She had only a brief moment to ponder the answer.
In fact, she had no time at all.
Novyck stood at the door.
Chapter 63
His gaze swept from her disheveled hair to her toes, with a long pause in between. Still trembling from her encounter with Krasky, Kate pulled her coat closer. Abruptly, Novyvck returned to the foyer and stood over his two fallen henchmen. Through the open bedroom door, Kate saw him tear the duct tape from the mouth of the one named Andre.
“Aaaghhh!”
She heard a sharp cry as the tape peeled off, then their voices.
“Who’s this?” Novyck gestured toward the heaping mound that had been Vulcan Krasky.
“He-he came in with another, smaller g-guy, a Latin.” Vodka blurred the henchman’s words. “The woman k-killed him.”
“What Latin guy? Where’s this Latin?”
“Gone. He l-left.” Andre burped. A thin wave of froth broke over his lip and ran in a stream down his chin.
Novyck sneered. “You dumb fucks! Two guys jump you, tape you up like mummies. Then a hundred-pound woman kills the biggest one, and the little one gets away. And you’re still sitting here like mummies. You’re pathetic.”
He paused, his tone less sarcastic, but more menacing. “The one who left. Was he carrying anything?”
“I don’t think so, Excellency.”
“You don’t think? You don’t know? You fool.” He walked to the suite’s still open entry door, shut and locked it.
Kate heard a sound like a butcher cutting meat.
“Please,” Novyck’s henchman groaned in pain.
Novyck re-entered the bedroom, bolted the door behind him, crossed the short distance to the bed and slapped Kate full in the face.
The blow stung from her temple to her jawbone.
“You bitch! You’ll find me more of a challenge than that stupid Slav you killed. I’ll deal with you momentarily.”
With the door closed, the air seemed stale. Novyck strode to the closet and pulled back the carpet. Kate heard him tapping the buttons on the safe, saw his shoulder dip as he dropped his hand inside. Then he rose.
The alexandrite glowed in his palm like a late afternoon sun.
He turned back to her, suddenly calm, assured. “Now, my dear,” he said, “we are about to begin the last steps in our journey. The bank expects to see us this afternoon. I must prepare you for our appearance.”
Kate’s gaze followed him as he drew closer.
Despite his average size, the bed groaned with his weight as Novyck sat down beside her. He took her hand, looking deeply into her eyes.
“You really are a fine subject,” Novyck mused, as if talking to himself. “At least a Grade Four virtuoso, perhaps higher. We really won’t need our little medicines anymore. That is your gift, Katya, your gift to me. It means everything I have been working for is now within reach. I’ve been very patient with you, but now you must perform for me at your highest level, as I know you will.” He patted her hand.
Kate nodded. “I will,” she said aloud.
Even the most skilled hypnotherapist, Kate knew, could only tap a capacity in his or her subject that already existed. She also knew she must stop that from happening. She must create her own inner space, a self-trance so profound it barred penetration, even by a master mesmerist. Yet she must also convince Imre Novyck that she remained under his spell. At stake were her life and everything she hoped for. Indeed, if Novyck prevailed, within the next twenty-four hours, Kate knew, she could count on two things: First, the stone and money would be gone; and, second, so would she.
“Now, I am going to employ a special technique whereby you will rapidly enter a deep trance.” He moved closer to her. The smell of the city came off his clothes, mixed with the scent of his own body—an acrid odor that told her his nervous energy was high.
With the door closed, the room had fallen quiet.
In spite of herself, Kate began to relax. Like an X-ray, his power seemed to painlessly pierce her skull. She could almost feel him reaching inside, grasping for her brain’s frontal lobes—the circuits that control thoughts and behavior.
Dr. Borshel’s words came back to her. What was each dive but a trance, a frozen moment in which the athlete erects a barricade against every distraction, and strives to express physical perfection?
Kate reached deep into her own subconscious, turning her mind into itself. Shutting Novyck out, she imagined perfection.
For the first time in a long time, she knew exactly what to do.
“Katya,” Novyck commanded, “roll your eyes upward.”
Kate appeared to comply. In truth, as if she were “spotting” for a dive, she fixed her vision on the valance high above the room’s only window. She pictured a perfect forward dive with three and a half somersaults, and a single half twist—the one dive she’d never fully mastered.
“Marvelous roll,” Novyck commented approvingly.
She stands on the board, feeling every muscle and fiber in her body take on a separate life, preparing itself for what will follow.
“Breathe deeply,” Novyck continued. “Imagine cool, pure oxygen filling your lungs, streaming into your blood vessels and capillaries, reaching into every part of your being, relaxing you, gently sweeping over you. Your arms and legs are as light as down…”
He smiled, and continued. “Now, Katya, I am going to take you to Harrods so you can choose some fresh clothes—what you have on is a bit worse for wear. Then, my dear, we will make our visit to the Bank of England.”
A Time Traveler
Kate was standing in the spacious but dimly lit Harrods dressing room when she heard the persistent double-buzzing sound. It drilled through her lingering disorientation like a dentist’s tool. Who knew this room had its own phone? She followed the sound to its source in a cupboard below the clothes rack. Opening the door, she removed a vintage, cradle-style telephone.
She lifted the receiver and heard crackly static, like a long ago radio broadcast from the European front.
Turning back toward the room, Kate realized she was not alone. Taking care not to hang up, she put down the telephone, and peered more closely at her surroundings.
Rectangular, with a chair and dressing table at one end and a floor-to-ceiling mirror at the other, the room was illuminated by a single overhead light, which cast a weak yellow glow over the faded, cream-colored walls. A figure stood near the door. Was this one of Novyck’s
people? A sales clerk? The invader remained motionless and silent. Adjusting to the poor light, Kate’s eyes made out the form. It was a young girl wearing an old-fashioned white tunic that stopped at mid-thigh and buttoned up the front from neck to hem. Standing before the dressing table, the girl faced her. But her image was semi-transparent—Kate could see the furniture through her clothing.
Her lips moved, but she made no sound.
It was only after Kate again picked up the telephone receiver that she could hear the girl’s voice. At once Kate knew her identity.
“Katya,” said Anya Putyatin, “I wanted you to see what we wore when I first began dancing.” The crackling sound rose and fell behind her words like an electrical storm. Bowing gracefully, the young ballerina extended her arms toward her legs, as if to commence a movement or series of steps.
“We weren’t allowed to fully uncover our legs until the early Twentieth Century,” she continued. “That shouldn’t seem surprising. After all, women dancers were forbidden to perform ballet until the middle of the 17th Century.”
Anya tossed her head, stirring that signature auburn whirlpool. “I wanted you to see what I overcame,” she said. “Even as a child, and years before I met Nicky. Before I fled Russia with Lydia. Before your mother, and before all the rest too. Before the Romanov Stone.”
Anya’s voice seemed to grow weaker. Kate pressed the telephone receiver closer to her ear. “Granmama, why are you here?” she blurted.
“Because, child, you are my last surviving flesh and blood. Because I want you to know how much I love you. And because now that dear Irina is gone, you—and I—are the only ones to escape the Romanov assassins. Why do you suppose I watch over you, Katinka? Whose voice do you suppose you hear when you face danger, when you make an important decision, when you begin a dive?”
Kate shook her head. She must be dreaming. Was this an apparition, the result of the drugs Novyck had given her? She felt drowsy again, and the phone seemed heavy. Was the young Anya fading away? Before Kate’s eyes, her great-grandmother’s form seemed to grow decades older. Now she was the woman Kate had known as a child. This Anya wore a high-necked dress and wire-rimmed spectacles that glinted in the low light. She moved to the chair, sat, and stared fiercely at Kate.
“You chose not to listen to your inner voice in college, Katya. Listen to it now.” She paused, then spoke again.
“You must succeed. It is not just a matter of honoring my memory or Irina’s memory. It is not even a matter of righting past personal wrongs. You have a rare chance to balance the scales of justice and to help our world in an important way. Many people will be affected by whether you succeed, people you do not know and probably never will.”
“Grandmama, am I really seeing you? Are you really here?”
“Dreams are our destiny, child,” the old woman replied. “You must dance with your dreams, not with your doubts. Do you remember what I told you when you were little, about putting the things you care for at the center of your life? Where your attention goes, Katya, your energy will flow.
“Focus that attention, use your energy to defeat our enemy, Imre Novyck.”
The crackling sound intensified and Anya’s voice receded, though her image remained. Kate put down the receiver. Dance with your dreams, not your doubts. What did Anya mean? How had she come to her?
Nearly a quarter century had passed since she’d last seen her cherished childhood companion and ally. But never in her life had Kate Gavrill more desperately needed her relative than now. Crossing the room, she knelt and put her head in the old woman’s lap. Wordlessly, Anya Putyatin stroked her hair.
Chapter 64
Simon Blake paused at the Langley suite doorway. Four, five, six and finally eight Metropolitan Police followed, their uniforms swirling into a dark blue pool in the foyer. Inspector Hudson stood on the outer edge, staring at the hulk of Vulcan Krasky and, a few feet away, the freshly slaughtered corpse of one of Novyck’s guards. The man’s throat had been slit, and the wound gaped at Blake like a foolish smile.
Blake’s eyes went to Hudson, who peered into the bedroom that had been Kate’s brief prison.
When the inspector turned back, his face held only questions; Blake knew at once that Kate was gone and Novyck had escaped.
He pushed his way through the police, following Hudson into the bedroom.
Andre, Novyck’s other guard, sat at the foot of the bed in a small lake of his own blood.
“This one must have worked his way out of the tape, then died in here.” Hudson said. “Novyck probably killed them both with the knife used on Krasky.”
A few feet away, the floor safe stood open.
“He took the stone,” Blake said numbly. “He’s got Kate.”
Hudson stepped toward him, putting out his hand.
“Mr. Blake, I assure you we will make every attempt to prevent this man from leaving the country. He’ll be charged with murder, of course.”
A police officer wearing rubber gloves and carrying a large wooden case stepped between them. He knelt beside the dead man and peeled up his eyelids, then pulled them down.
“But we must be realistic,” Hudson continued. “He has resources. The stone is worth millions. And, as we know too well, Novyck is damnably clever.”
Blake rubbed his chin. “Yes,” he said. “But not so clever that he can avoid a return visit to the Bank of England.”
* * *
Peter Cushing stood at the top of the Bank of England’s steep main staircase.
“Hello Kate, Mr. Novyck,” Cushing greeted them. His eyes told Kate what he saw: Despite the trim black Harrods pantsuit and body-hugging navy top, the young woman Cushing first met in New York had become a sallow-cheeked zombie who stared blankly ahead, her gaze fixed on a point beyond him. Given his generation, Cushing probably thought, like so many people he met nowadays, that Kate Gavril was medicated. Or perhaps she’d been drugged by the aphrodisiac of all that Romanov money.
But Kate showed Cushing exactly what she wanted him to see. She was about to dive—not dance—with her dreams.
They adjourned to the same room where the bank’s officials had met with Novyck earlier in the day. This late afternoon, however, Cushing arrived unaccompanied, as did Frederick Carlyle, the bank’s attorney. Carlyle sat opposite them at the conference table in the same seat previously occupied by Sir Reginald, the bank’s director.
After a quick exchange of pleasantries and his introduction to Kate, Carlyle moved quickly to the point.
“Let’s proceed, shall we?” the solicitor asked briskly. Kate marveled at the speed with which the bank’s officials were moving, but she understood why. Settling this well-documented case as quickly and quietly as possible could only be in the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street’s supreme self-interest. The last thing the bank wanted was a flood of copycat czarist claimants hectoring them in the courts and the press.
Cushing bent to his briefcase and removed a white cardboard box. He opened the lid and withdrew the alexandrite’s gleaming, egg-shaped carriage.
As if on cue, Novyck placed the stone itself on the table. Under the conference room’s diffused light, the alexandrite glittered a dark green.
Kate had not uttered a word. She looked at the treasures on the table, set before Carlyle like offerings to a king. The green stone and its golden container spun in a Dali-like daydream. She again thought of Anya dangling the frog before her eyes as a child. Go girl! As she had so often before, Kate heard the words in her head. But she now knew their source.
She begins her hurdle, stepping forward, springing from one leg at the end of the board.
“Mmm, lovely,” mused Carlyle. He gave the fabulous display a passing glance, then pushed a sheaf of documents toward them. “These are non-disclosure agreements, drawn especially to cover this, er, matter,” he said. “Their terms are quite straightforwar
d: Not a word of this settlement must reach the public. Ever. You are not to speak to the press, or even to discuss this in private correspondence. You may not reveal this document’s existence to family members, immediate or otherwise, and they too are bound to silence by its provisions.
“We have no wish, nor intent, to engage in pettifoggery,” Carlyle continued in a monotone. “But for reasons that should be obvious, the bank is unwilling to create an electronic record of this transaction with an account-to-account transfer of funds. Upon Miss Gavrill’s signature, we will issue a hand-signed certified cheque in her name.” He cleared his throat and reached for a water pitcher on the credenza behind him. The tumbling ice cubes made a crashing sound in his glass. “The cheque”—he cleared his throat again—” is for 42 million pounds, the amount of Nicholas Romanov’s initial deposit plus accrued interest.
“By your signature,” he continued, “you will, of course, relinquish any and all future claims upon the bank, its subsidiaries and affiliates.” Carlyle surveyed the table. His mouth turned slightly down in what appeared to be disgust.
“We agree—happily,” gushed Novyck. His lips were wet. “And please allow me to thank the bank on behalf of myself and Miss Gavrill for your very enlightened response to our request.” An almost beatified expression appeared on his face, as if, for a fleeting moment, he’d entered the portals of heaven.
Kate brings her legs up into pike position for her first somersault. She searches the room for a spot and finds a gold-leaf rosebud near the ceiling.
SPOT.
LOCK ON.
NOW!
She whirled to face Novyck. Her eyes, clear now, focused their defiance like pinpoints on a map, straight into his.
A confused expression crossed Novyck’s features, as if, momentarily, he’d lost his way in a crowd.
Kate stood. In a room of powerful men, she was stronger, more powerful, an Amazon brandishing her spear. Heads moved to follow her.
Novyck’s expression changed from puzzlement to amazement.
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