“Miss Moore just wants answers to her questions. I know Brother Timofea is dead, but can you lead us to anyone who might know why he’d want to send a key to Miss Moore, in America?”
Kat sat forward, and he felt freshly punched at the raw anticipation on her face. She had poured so much hope into this trip, into these two hours. He was going to make dead sure she got any information they had.
“I suppose you could talk to Brother Papov. He attended Brother Timofea until his last breath.”
“Yes!” Kat was out of her seat, and Vadeem put a hand on her arm.
She looked at him, delight lighting her expression. Oh my, if he could get that kind of smile to appear. . .
“Sounds good. How do we find him?”
“Our cloister is what they called a “working” monastery,” the old monk explained as he led them out of the compound, into the fields beyond. “We keep cows, horses, sheep, pigs, chicken, and raise our own crops.” The sun gleamed through an azure, cirrus- scattered sky, and turned the potato sprouts emerald green. Monks moved like ants over the field, working under the sun, their heads covered with straw hats. “We try to have as little contact with the outside as possible.”
He turned to his assistant, a tall monk, who walked beside Father Lashov like a bodyguard. The father whispered something to him, and the man strode over to another brother, lean and small and in his mid twenties. The younger man came up to them without a smile, but curiosity ringed his brown eyes. Then his gaze settled on Kat.
He flinched.
The saintly kid knew something. Vadeem watched him hide it, but fear streaked into the young monk’s eyes, now shifted away and down. The young monk rocked from heel to toe, listening to Father Lashov’s explanation of their presence, nodding as if agreeing to help. He even shook Vadeem’s hand, his grip loose and weak.
But the young brother never let his gaze travel to back Kat.
“Where can we talk?” Vadeem asked, hoping to get out of the sun, away from the sight of so many monks wielding rudimentary farm implements. He wasn’t sure how loyal they were. . .didn’t monks have some sort of non-aggression code?
“Perhaps the chapel.” Father Lashov led the way beyond the white fence, further, past the field toward the limestone cliffs. “The monastery is quite old,” he said like a tour guide to his little ensemble. “Dating back to the first century, the first cells were in these limestone cliffs. We had our cells, a kitchen, a threshing room, and barns. The cliffs even hosted our first chapel. Perhaps you will find it a soothing place to ask your questions.” He flicked a gaze at Vadeem, no menace in his eyes. “Brother Timofea often spent his later years in this place of worship. Perhaps it will hold peace for you, as well.” He stopped before a small grotto, the walls carved out of the limestone, gleaming whitewash over gray stone. The tiny cave spoke of orderliness. Two wooden candleholders guarded the inside entrance, homemade judging from their rough-hewn form, but perfect accessories in the irregular chapel. At the far end of the room, the cross of Christ loomed center stage, a carved figure of the Savior hanging in gnarled agony. Vadeem tried to ignore it. Behind the crucifix, pockets dug from the surface held over a dozen tiny, lit candles, flickering golden light along the shadows of the cave. The walls smelled damp and dust rose from the floor. An icon of St. Nicholas hung on the wall, his mournful golden face and oval eyes gliding over Vadeem, as if scrutinizing his soul when Vadeem stepped into the grotto. He looked away, tensing.
The priest moved forward and lit a candle in a stand near the cross. The brothers gazed in silence as the smoke spiraled heavenward. Vadeem fought the urge, but found his gaze forced to the cross, gleaming in the candlelight. The thorn-ringed head of Jesus, gleaming from polish, seemed to liven as flame flickered across his face.
Vadeem froze. Memory assaulted him like a tidal wave. Behind his eyes, he watched as the reflection turned to fire, then engulfed the cross, its tongue licking at the wooden Savior. He heard screaming, then his name. His breath clogged in his chest as his throat tightened. He braced a hand on the grotto wall, the world cutting into angles.
The Father started to lecture in his garbled voice about the history of the chapel, how it was used as a hideout for the partisans in World War II, something about artifacts left behind, hidden in the walls, but the voice spiraled out, as if in a tunnel. Vadeem’s heartbeat filled his ears. He could smell the smoke, feel the heat as it beaded on his skin. Save the Bible! Then a hand gripped his arm—
“Captain, are you okay?” Kat looked at him, her eyes probing.
He backpedaled out, bumping into one of the candleholders, sending it thumping to the ground. His shoulder skimmed the doorway as he stumbled through the entrance.
The fresh air hit him like a slap. He filled his lungs with the freedom of outdoors, hands on his knees, gulping for breath like a man drowning.
What was he thinking, walking back inside a chapel—a church? Twenty plus years and he still couldn’t face it.
“Are you okay?” Kat’s worried voice made him bristle. He straightened and fought for composure. The sweet concern in her eyes made something twist inside his chest. He nodded, his voice trapped in the past.
Some things would never be okay.
-
“Brother Timofea was like a father to me. I had the privilege of serving him the last five years of his life.” The young monk Papov sat in the grass, legs crossed, his spine board-straight and hands tucked into the sleeves of his robe. If Kat hadn’t known better, she would have felt like she was sitting in her office, listening to a potential young father outline his qualifications, nerves pinching his voice thin. The young monk never looked up, never met her eyes.
It sent a chill through her bones.
“What about the key?” she urged.
Beside her, Captain Vadeem proved little help. Despite the sun adding color to his angular face, he still seemed spooked. Sitting in the grass, he appeared a sullen contrast to the bright chirp of sparrows, the wind combing the willows to the south, the late morning sun winking and turning the ground into a lush emerald carpet.
The sweet spring air hinted at a glorious day, especially if she could wheedle some answers out of the skinny monk, and all the captain could do was pick at the grass, as if searching for the ends to his fraying composure, oblivious to the fact she was trying to have the most important conversation in her life.
“I only saw the key once. When I helped him package it.”
“How did he get my address? How did he know me?”
“He had a picture of you.”
Kat wrestled with her racing heartbeat. “Of me? How?”
“It was in his Bible.”
“Do you still have it?” This news had stirred Captain Vadeem out of his stupor.
The monk shot a look at Spasonov. “I’m not sure. Perhaps. I gathered his things and gave them to the father. I don’t know.”
“Did he have any other pictures? Anything else that might tie me to him?”
“One other picture. A black and white of a woman. I think she was American. Her name was Russian, however. I remember it, because he said it sometimes, in prayer. Nadezhda.”
“Hope,” Kat whispered. She fingered the shoelace that held the key around her neck. “That was my mother’s name.”
She felt the captain’s eyes on her, burning into her. “How would he know your mother?”
“She was Russian, or at least her mother was Russian. I think my grandfather met her here, during the war.”
“Perhaps Timofea was related to your grandmother.”
The young monk shook his head. “Brother Timofea had no family. He had a few horror stories. Some relatives died in the Red Army massacre in 1918, others at the hands of the Nazis. But I’m pretty sure he was the sole survivor. He once told me about it.”
Kat leaned back on her hands, her palms digging into the dirt. She lifted her face to the bloom of the sun. “I never met my grandmother. She died when my mother was a baby.”
“I’m sorry.” This from Captain Vadeem. She met his blue eyes, and saw genuine sympathy, the kind that knows pain. It found a soft place in her heart, right next to the memory of him saving her life.
“It’s okay,” she said, fighting free of the thought. “My mother was raised by a loving father. He never remarried, but we know he loved grandmother. Her name was Magda.”
“So Brother Timofea somehow knew Miss Moore’s mother.” Captain Vadeem seemed to be recovering, his voice gaining strength, energy outlining his blue eyes. He looked worlds apart from the shell-shocked soldier who looked like he’d seen death materialize from the chapel walls.
Or like a child who’d just watched his world crumble.
It ripped a hole in her heart. She knew too many children whose world had shattered. It hurt to see it relived on an adult. What secrets did Captain Vadeem Spasonov have hidden behind those bone-piercing blue eyes?
He turned them on her, and for a second, they rattled her right off her footing.
She’d better get a grip on her goals. She’d come to Russia to unearth her past, not to drown in the rugged magnetism of a Russian cop, even if he did have dark, curly hair that begged to be smoothed, and arms that still made her tremble when she thought of them locked around her. . .
She forced her voice out of heart-struck paralysis and stared pointedly at the monk. “Brother Timofea never mentioned the key, or me? Just one day decided to send me a letter?” Her voice was harsh, but her time ticked down.
“He was a strong man, his quiet presence always gave me strength to face my own fears. But he was aged, and after awhile, his old bones wouldn’t even allow him to kneel to pray. He told me that God asked him to fulfill the promise.”
“Fulfill the promise? What promise?”
“An old promise. Something from his youth. He began to see people who were long gone, perhaps memories dredged up by a mind sorting out time and place. One day we had a conversation, only he spoke not to me, but someone else. ‘Oksana’, he said, ‘He has promised, and He is faithful. He will repay the years the locusts have eaten’.”
The monk paused, his voice low and choppy. “Even in senility, he had more faith than I have in my youth.”
Kat’s blinked at him. “But you’re a monk. Your life is devoted to God.”
He sighed. “But I have few moments to truly test my faith. It is not faith honed from the scrapes and blows of life in this world, but rather something I cling to, in the hope it will shelter me from that which might destroy me.” His wretchedness scraped across Kat’s heart. She winced and shot a look at the monastery, the white walls that sheltered the brothers from the brutal world. But surely this monk wasn’t recanting his vows to a pair of strangers?
“Isn’t that what faith is, though? A shelter in the storm of life?” Kat resisted the urge to reach out and pat the monk’s hand, like she might reassure a young parent that the child he’d waited for so long would join their family soon.
“I believe faith must be more. Perhaps it is not something to hide behind, but to give us vision. Help us see clearly. The faith of Brother Timofea was true faith. He saw the Master’s hand in everything. He had discovered something. . .more about God.” His voice pinched into the tight tenor of grief. “I still miss him.”
Kat glanced at Captain Vadeem and saw the planes of his face harden, his gaze turn dark and hone in on the monk. “Faith does not give vision, Brother. It betrays and destroys and crushes.”
His words punched the breath out of Kat. She stared, shocked dumb, at the captain as he pounced to his feet. “Come, Kat. It’s time to go. Your visit in Russia is over.”
Chapter 6
“No!” Kat’s plaintive voice stabbed at him. “I’m not ready!”
, Vadeem forced himself to ignore her protests and stalked through the cemetery toward the road. She’d better be on his tail. He wasn’t above turning around, slapping her in handcuffs, and hauling her bodily to the train station.
Faith, indeed. Oh, yes, he knew all about faith. How it deceived and hurt. How it killed. He balled his fists and made a deliberate effort to slow his rocketing heartbeat.
“Please, Captain. I need to know more. How did Brother Timofea know my family? How did he know me?”
He heard the unspoken plea in the echo of her words. Who am I? Where do I fit into this puzzle of life? To whom do I belong? He kept walking, furious at the burning in his eyes, at the tempest of emotions this little two-hour excursion had whipped up. He was dangerously close to reliving every nightmare he’d been dodging for twenty years, and he had no one to thank but a feisty runaway with a knack for choosing the wrong friend. “Let’s go,” he growled, not caring that he sounded like some remnant from the Cold War. “Train’s leaving.”
“No!”
He winced. Don’t make me cart you out of here like a two year old. He turned and wrung out a polite tone. “Yes. I’m sorry, Miss Moore, but you’re leaving Russia, today. And if I have to throw you over my shoulder and haul you to the train kicking and screaming, I’m prepared to do that.”
“Over my dead body.” She stood in the middle of the cemetery, hands on her hips. The wind teased her hair around her face. Her eyes shimmered with fire.
Vadeem sucked in a breath, feeling like he’d been punched in the chest. American to the bone, she actually glared at him, like he was her hired farm hand who’d just ditched her with a ripe-for-harvest crop in the field.
“I don’t think we’ll have to go that far.” He strode over, picked up her backpack, and shoved it into her arms. “But, rules are rules.”
He bent down, grabbed her around the knees, and threw her over his shoulder.
-
Ilyitch stepped off the train and turned up his collar against the crisp Moscow wind. The train belched and smoke clogged the already polluted sky. Ilyitch lit a cigarette, then crossed the street where a shiny Moscovitz waited. He threw the bag in first, then climbed into the back seat.
The driver didn’t even turn around. Ilyitch let a smile tweak his cheek as he watched Moscow hustle by. Twelve hours in Pskov had turned his stomach raw. Wooden huts, sunken by time and the shifting earth, ringed the town like a barricade of slums. Only six hours by car from Moscow, the city—the grand Pskov where Czar Nikolai had abdicated the throne—made Ilyitch burn with shame. With her outhouses, central water pumps, and coal smoke spiraling from hovels built in the Lenin era, Pskov embodied the sudden halt of progress. Thankfully, Moscow had marched on. As had Ilyitch. Capitalism wasn’t just for the West. Wasn’t it Gorbachev who said, “Sell anything, sell it all!”?
He’d taken the old boss at his word.
The car ground to a halt, snared in traffic. Ilyitch considered hoofing it, but he didn’t need to ignite any suspicions. He sat back in the seat, cracked the window, and flicked out the cigarette. Spasonov would be boarding the train by now. By tonight, Ekaterina Moore would be back in the city. His city.
A city he’d just as gladly kiss good-bye as decrepit Pskov. No more drizzly Moscow days where the cold dug into his bones. No more traffic, no more press of crowds. No more apartments the size of an American bathroom.
He’d get the key. Get Grazovich’s hidden treasure. And get out of Russia.
-
Kat folded her hands across her chest and tried to figure out where her life had begun to unravel. Twenty-four hours earlier, she teetered on the edge of her past. Today she was drowning in confusion and fury. No thanks to her not-in-this-lifetime, former hero, who had her under virtual arrest on the commuter train. She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him.
He had tilted his head back, his eyes all but closed, as if he were exhausted. Served him right. She was no lightweight and he didn’t have to carry her halfway back to the hotel or hold her hand like a flighty preschooler all the way to the train. She comprehended his meaning about two-point-three seconds after he picked her up like a sack of grain.
She was going home. Quest over. Door
to the past slammed shut.
Tears burned her eyes and she gnawed her lower lip to keep it from trembling. She could claw his eyes out for stealing from her the only dream she ever had. A thousand descriptive words rose unbidden and she forced them back, deep inside, fighting instead to accept her future. God, she moaned, don’t send me home without answers.
Fulfill the promise. What did Timofea mean? The question made her cry aloud.
She clamped her hand over her mouth, horrified.
Captain Spasonov roused and looked at her.
She blinked back her tears and stared down at her new hiking boots, now scuffed and dirty, feeling mortified.
“I’m sorry, Kat. But you have to trust me.” He spoke quietly, an unwelcome balm on her razed emotions. “I’m only trying to keep you safe.”
“You can’t possibly know what you’re destroying.” Her own tone made the tears spill in a hot flow down her face.
To make it worse, he scooted over to face her, his knees bumping hers. He handed her a handkerchief, and when she refused it, he dabbed the tears from her cheeks himself. She flinched and pulled away.
Hurt flickered across his face, as if her feelings actually meant something to him. She wanted to slap him.
He sighed. “Tell me what is so important that you’d risk your life.”
“Is that what I’m doing?” She forced her chin to remain steady, and met his eyes.
They seemed genuinely concerned for her. “I believe Grazovich wants something from you. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have spoken to you, or pressed his luck at customs, much less try to pass off as coincidence your reunion on the train.”
“I still can’t believe you think that nice professor is a terrorist.” She swallowed hard, seeing Spasonov’s face harden. Anger streaked through his expression. She winced. Then she remembered Taynov’s eyes. Old, battle-weary eyes. Maybe.
Ekaterina (Heirs of Anton) Page 6
