“You think she could be Grazovich’s contact?” This from Denis, who had popped into their huddle.
Vadeem watched the trio below as the guard pulled the American to a table and, throwing the backpack aside, she began to frisk her detainee with the gentleness of a female wrestler. The lady from New York hardly looked like an arms dealer, but then again, innocents made the best mules.
“I want to talk to her.”
“Vadick, don’t scare off Grazovich.” Ryslan grabbed his leather coat sleeve.
Vadeem shrugged out of his grip. “The general doesn’t have a clue who I am. I could be a local taxi driver for all he knows.”
Vadeem, however, knew Ivan Grazovich inside and out. He knew what he liked for breakfast, that he preferred Absolut Vodka over the Russian Smirnoff, that his last girlfriend had been found in a dumpster in Amsterdam. Oh, yes. Although Vadeem had joined the COBRAs, an elite, international crime-stomping task force of the Federal Security Bureau, or FSB, only a month ago, he knew Ivan Grazovich better than he’d known his own parents.
The thought made him wince. Even the little he could remember about his parents was fading after twenty years. He’d spent most of his life memorizing the daily habits of the current ward nurse in his orphanage rather than gleaning the finer points of manhood from a father. The difference meant he learned more about how to read people in a flash than how to build a relationship—a lesson he’d taken to heart and practiced well as his stint as a Red Beret in the new Russian Army. He could count his close friends on his closed fist, and he liked it that way.
He’d learned at the sturdy age of eight the high cost of friendship and had veered an unwavering course around it ever since. Ryslan, his partner of three weeks, was the closest thing he had to a buddy, and even that thought wasn’t appetizing when he had to choose between an unscheduled Saturday afternoon hike through Moscow’s Gregarin Park or stacking shots of vodka at the local FSB night dive with Ryslan and his COBRA pals.
Not that belonging to the elite group of COBRAs didn’t have its merits. With the right moves, he could have any number of women lining up to melt his cold exterior. But they only saw a man whose physique reflected familiarity with the rigors of a regular PT schedule. And their brand of friendship left his gut pinging with emptiness. He’d pass on the ladies, the buddies, and, as for the COBRAs, well maybe a high-profile arrest would do what the vodka shots and false camaraderie couldn’t—earn their respect.
“Just keep your eyes on him.” Vadeem shrugged out of his leather jacket, reached over, and pulled a militia uniform jacket off a coat tree. Grabbing the hat off the corporal, he snuggled it down over his head. “If she is involved, I’ll know.”
Ryslan harrumphed as he left the militia booth.
Vadeem buttoned the jacket over his black pullover as he thumped down the stairs, hoping Grazovich didn’t notice his black jeans and loafers instead of the standard issue military grays and black boots.
The American’s confused voice lifted over the cluster of officers as she gestured to something in her hand. He approached the tallest officer, who stood a few feet back. “What’s up?”
“An American. She set off the alarm with some sort of souvenir she had in her coat pocket.”
“What is it?”
“Looks like a key.” The official moved away, and Vadeem got a full view of the hapless arms dealer. She looked about as sinister as his grandmother, if he had one. Her tousled hair, the color of caramel, fell over her face in thick strands, and a button on her white blouse had come undone. Her jacket, a glaring red affair that screamed “tourist!” hung off her shoulders, weighted down on one side by a bulging backpack that skimmed the carry-on limit. Fear filled those big amber eyes, and for a moment they looked up, and caught him staring at her.
Her expression was so desperate it rattled his resolve to hike her back to one of the dusty offices and put her thumbs to the screws.
“Please, gentlemen, return this woman’s key and let her be.” Ivan Grazovich, smuggler and terrorist to the rescue.
Vadeem’s eyes narrowed, seeing the way the gangster moved close and tucked an arm around the lady’s waist. “She’s with me,” Grazovich said.
A tall soldier with gray eyes gave Grazovich a hard look. “And who are you?” Vadeem stepped closer, gaze pinned to the woman, and watched the way her blue eyes widened in shock? Or relief?
Oh, she was about as innocent as Comrade Stalin.
“Leave the woman alone, gentlemen. Haven’t you terrified her enough for one day?” Grazovich smiled. Mr. Good Will.
Vadeem repulsed the urge to grab the smuggler by the cuff of his starched white dress shirt, or his black trench coat, and wrestle the truth out of him with the blunt end of his Makarov.
Instead Vadeem strode forward and hooked a hand around the woman’s arm. “You can wait for her past customs,” he clipped at Grazovich. Then, ignoring the man’s glower, he towed Miss Arms Dealer through the crowd and into the inner sanctum of Militia Border Control.
-
Ilyitch stood in the shadows and watched the FSB agent tow the American into his custody. A sick feeling welled in his gut. She’d taken the bait, and now all their hard work, the waiting, the plotting would disintegrate under the scrutiny of Russia’s finest. They would confiscate her belongings, ship her stateside on the next available transport and, with her, his hope of wiggling out from under the general’s thumb. Every time Grazovich set foot on Russian soil, Ilyitch took a quick and painful survey of his rubles, no, dollars, and cursed the balance. He needed Grazovich to be right. Ilyitch didn’t have time, patience, or luck to waste chasing after a fable.
Especially with the FSB on their trail. Ilyitch noticed Grazovich watching the FSB spectacle. An ugly smear masqueraded as a smile on the smuggler’s face. Again, Ilyitch would have to yank Grazovich out of the hole he’d dug. And then he’d have to baby-sit, hoping the general avoided trouble. . .like seducing, or worse, an American on her first day in town, at least until she helped them unlock the secrets of the monk.
Ilyitch turned and shoved his fists into his jacket pockets, ruing the day he’d met the general, and every day he’d known him since.
Chapter 2
Ten paces into custody, Kat’s voice caught up to her. The first thing it addressed was the six-foot-two-inch military henchman’s grasp on her arm. “Let me go!”
Her cry emerged in English—her Russian having deserted her—but to her utter shock, the bully bit out a terse, “No.”
In English. She stumbled along with him down the cold cement corridor, not sure what emotion won the battle—fear, anger or shock. Her heart drummed a beat of terror against her ribs, her breath snagged somewhere in the land of freedom behind her.
“In here, please.”
Again, English. . .and manners? She glowered at the creep, despite the fact her legs had turned numb, and let him muscle her into a room. Barren except for a warped wooden table and two decrepit chairs, the gray tomb reeked of KGB menace. Mr. Militia released her and she stood there, one hand nursing the tenderness in her arm, trying to dredge up a coherent thought.
“I’m an American. I have rights.” Her voice sounded like it wanted no part of her words, the tone feeble and ready to race for the border.
He smiled, just enough to annoy her, or perhaps frighten, and motioned to a chair. “Please, sit down.”
She looked behind her. He’d closed the door. A slit of a window high above her illuminated the dust clinging to the walls and ceiling, but did little to penetrate the cement room’s murky shroud. She steeled herself against an involuntary shudder and wrestled in a deep breath. “Why am I here?”
“I just want to talk to you. Please sit down.” The officer sat down, folded his large hands on the table, and again smiled.
She narrowed her eyes. If he was trying the Good Cop/Bad Cop routine, she wasn’t buying. The man might have incredible blue eyes and a bevy of solid power and strength poorly hidden under that ill
-fitting gray jacket of his but, under the circumstances, those qualities weren’t at all appealing.
In fact, right now those blue eyes felt as cold as a Siberian winter as they pinned her down. She rubbed her hands on her arms, and took a calming breath, feeling anger knot her chest. “I’ll stand, thanks.”
The jerk pursed his lips, so arrogantly calm she wanted to slap him. Except, she wasn’t sure that, in reprisal, he wouldn’t just slap her into handcuffs and ship her off to the nearest gulag.
Did they still do that?
Her knees suddenly surrendered, and she reached for the chair. The officer smiled, as if in victory. “You don’t have anything to fear from me, Americanka.”
Yeah, right. She’d feel safer with a scorpion.
“You know English,” she said, finally latching onto her Russian. Somehow, speaking in another language felt like a barrier between her and reality.
One edge of his mouth tweaked, and his eyes held a hint of amusement. “Da.”
He took off his cap and ran his hand through a swatch of short black hair, cut short on the sides, unruly and curly locked on top. It made the planes of his high cheekbones and angular face seem that much sharper, dangerous. “Would you feel more comfortable speaking in your native tongue?”
“I’d feel more comfortable on my way to my hotel, thank you,” she snapped in Russian. “What is this about?”
He shrugged out of his jacket, which looked about two sizes too small, and crossed his arms over his black turtleneck. His bulging muscles made him appear every inch like a Russian mobster, ready to slice out her tongue.
“Let’s start with your friend, Ivan Grazovich. How do you know him?”
She frowned, scraped her mind for any remnant of understanding. “Who?”
His brow pinched, his eyes darkening. “Do you think I’m stupid?”
Oh, how the latent rebel in her wanted to jump all over that comment. She bit back a reply and shook her head. “I have no idea who you are talking about.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Why did you come to Russia?”
Kat exhaled a breath that felt like it started in New York. For the better part of two months, she’d been answering that question from various factions in her life—from her grandfather and her ex-boyfriend to her coworkers at the Heart-to-Heart adoption agency.
Even now, her answers felt unwieldy, slippery. To track down her identity? To unlock secrets that might account for a lifetime of deception? To unravel the riddle of her foggy ancestry?
To figure out who she was?
The answer to that question didn’t seem so difficult at the moment—she could clearly identify herself as an in-over-her-head thirty-year old teetering on the edge of tears, if not hysteria.
Under different circumstances, she might welcome the opportunity to spill her guts. She wasn’t opposed to the truth, but the bully just might find sadistic pleasure in sending her home if he knew how desperation drove her. “I’m a tourist.”
“Hmm. . .” he said, his eyes narrowing. She did him the pleasure of raising her chin and meeting his glower. She might possess the courage of a field mouse, but he didn’t have to know it. Her recent escape from Matthew’s hovering had taught her the value of masking her fear.
“Stay put.” The man rose, stalked toward the door. “I’ll be right back.”
Oh, joy. Kat folded her hands between her knees as the door clicked shut.
Now what? She heard nothing but her heart, beating a pathway to her mouth. The smell of her own sweat and the taste of fear repulsed her. Hadn’t she scoffed at her grandfather’s warnings of danger? Told him she could take care of herself? After all, she was the granddaughter of a World War II hero, the recipient of his gusty genes and her mother’s passion for truth.
C’mon, heritage of courage, kick in. Kat stood, crept toward the door, and tried the handle. Locked.
She slapped her palm against the metal door, furious, her bravado dropping to her knees. She had the sick feeling that whatever Mr. Military had left to do, it wasn’t going to work nicely into her plans.
The door opened and Kat jumped, leaving her heart behind.
Wide, Dark, and Menacing entered the room. Kat shrank back, suddenly giving merit to the Bad Cop routine. This version of Russian militia held her backpack in his meaty grip. Easily six-foot-four, with a black stocking cap, dark glasses, and enough body-builder bulk to match every KGB nightmare, he grabbed her upper arm in his bullish grip and yanked her into the hall.
Okay, now she was ready to spill her guts. Why had she played games? Where was Good Cop when she needed him? “Where are you taking me?” she asked on a wisp of voice.
He glowered at her, and she clamped her mouth shut. Her heart in a pile of ash, she followed her arm down the hall, stumbling. Tears blinded her at his burning grip. Cop Number One had been downright gentle in comparison.
“Where are you taking me?” The words came out again in English, but this time her abductor ignored her. They cruised down the hall, toward a door, and Kat’s feet dragged. A cell? Oh, why hadn’t she listened to Matthew? She’d drop to his feet in apology the next time she saw him.
The thug stopped. Opened the door.
The gray tones of the overcast morning dove into the dank hall. “Ooidti.”
Leave?
She stared at Large and Mean, blinking. He shoved the backpack into her arms, then pushed her out the door. “Beg-ee!”
Run!
Okay, yes, she could do that. Her legs moved before her brain could engage. She streaked along the shadow of the building, to the chain-link fence rimming the parking lot. Without a thought, she threw the backpack over and nearly vaulted the fence. She heard her pant leg rip as she straddled the top but didn’t care. Freedom burned her lungs, pumped her heartbeat into her ears.
She landed with a thump, then took off for the parking lot, feeling like she’d just escaped from Attica, wondering how soon it would take the hounds to track her down.
And what they’d do to her when they did.
-
Vadeem stood in the empty interrogation room, his suspicions multiplying like fruit flies on overripe apples.
She’d escaped. He flung the can of Sprite across the room—the one he’d purchased hoping to woo her into unloading her secrets—and sprinted down the hall toward customs control. He skidded up to one of the militia. “Did she come by here?”
The man’s blank look drove Vadeem to want to hit something, hard.
How had she escaped? He sprinted back to the room, glanced up at the window, then down the hall. The door at the end of the corridor hinted at her escape strategy. Palming his cell phone, he dialed. Ryslan picked up on the first ring.
“She’s gone. Alert airport security.”
“Who?”
“The American.” He deliberately kept his voice low. “She snuck out while I was getting her a. . .” he grimaced. “Nothing. Just call security.” He snapped the telephone closed and clenched his fist around it.
Sneaky, stubborn woman. Even if she wasn’t a suspect before, she was now. And to think he’d been nursing feelings of pity. Something about the way she held in her fraying composure with a chin-up glower sparked his respect. And her eyes, the color of dark honey, had him second-guessing his gut feeling that she was hiding something.
Until now.
His telephone shrilled. “Slyshaio,” he snapped.
“Security hasn’t seen her, but they’re on alert,” Ryslan reported, then added without pause, “We’ll find her.”
“Anyone watching Grazovich?”
“Denis has him. He just picked up his bag.”
“I’m there.” Vadeem slammed shut his phone and stalked toward the exit, following the sick feeling that, once he’d found his smuggler, the renegade Americanka wouldn’t be far behind.
-
Ilyitch stood on the upper concourse overlooking the parking lot, his legs wide, arms behind him as if in soldier stance, wishing all his ops play
ed out with such precision. Miss America stood out like neon in the crowd, her red jacket screaming, “Bull’s eye!” as she stalked through foot traffic, trying to flag down a taxi. If it weren’t for the fact that the general already had her in his sights, Ilyitch might entertain a spur of worry about the FSB agent hot on her tail. But the general knew his trade.
Ilyitch watched as the general’s taxi cruised up, and the passenger door opened. Ilyitch imagined her surprise, perhaps even her smile as she greeted him, and yes, accepted his ride.
She slid into the cab without hesitation. Ilyitch shook his head, his chest only slightly tight, knowing she had just, with a sigh of relief, embraced the devil.
A feeling he understood.
Chapter 3
Kat sat on the day train, the hard wooden bench scraping away the last vestiges of her composure with every rhythmic jerk. She felt as if she’d been beaten like one of those floor rugs she’d seen some old babushka attack as they’d rolled through the last village. Still, her hard knot of terror in her chest eased with each passing kilometer. Who knew that angels dressed in black trench coats and spoke with an accent? God had sure been working overtime this morning. The Almighty must have activated a small battalion of unseen holy soldiers to yank her out of the grip of the customs officials.
Don’t smile, and don’t carry brass keys in your pocket. Any travel book worth its salt would have included that, along with a list of pointers as to how to escape the clutches of the local militia.
Then again, who knew that angels came dressed not only in six-foot-four black, but in the garb of a friendly professor.
“Stopped shaking yet?” Professor Taynov turned around from the seat in front of her and smiled, the spidering lines around his eyes adding years to his youthful aura. Indeed, the history professor from Prague University, as he introduced himself moments after scooping her into his taxi, mocked the definition of middle aged, despite his graying hair. He had wide, strong hands, and his shoulders and arms filled out his trench coat. Even his energy, as they fast-walked through the Moscow train terminal, hinted at youthfulness. It wasn’t just the hair tint and wrinkles, however, that stretched his age. . .it was his eyes, as if they’d been plucked out of a battle weary soldier and transplanted into his wide, chiseled face and youthful body. Eyes that looked right through her and made her shiver.
Ekaterina (Heirs of Anton) Page 2
