Red Heat

by Nina Bruhns

  Yeah, probably not that part. That’s when everything had started to go downhill between her and Nikolai.

  And what about that last fateful phone call to her boss? Would she still bring up the subject of Nikolai’s mother to James Thurman? And learn the shocking secret even Nikolai didn’t know? A secret that could easily crush him emotionally, calling into question the very foundation of everything he believed in?

  Yeah. Probably not that, either. She wished like hell she’d never found out that particular secret.

  After hours of internal debate, she finally fell asleep. But it was not a peaceful sleep. For the first time in many years, she had the drowning nightmare. But tonight the setting was not the usual one, the familiar lake back home in Maryland. This time she fell headlong into the vast, icy Bering Sea. She broke the surface freezing and screaming and floundering in the water among a flotilla of sea ice. In the murky depths below floated the lifeless figure of Misha, dressed in his Davy Jones outfit. Pale as death. As she looked on in horror, his cheesehead dislodged and slowly floated up toward her. She grabbed at it, missed, grabbed at it again, finally catching it on the third try, and grasped it to her chest to use as a terrifyingly inadequate life preserver.

  Propelling herself to the surface, shivering and coughing, she looked up to see the distinctive black silhouette of a submarine, huge and menacing, gliding away. Leaving her alone and stranded . . . doomed to join Davy Jones in a watery death.

  In desperation, she screamed for the submarine not to leave her there. And that was when she saw him.

  Far up atop the looming sail a lone figure stood, impassively watching her drown.

  Captain Nikolai Kirillovich Romanov.

  Just a nightmare.

  When Julie awoke, panting and sweating, the sheets in a tangle, she sat up and shivered for several awful minutes while she calmed herself down. Then, with a long exhale, she determinedly shook it off, rose, and gave herself a stern look in the mirror over his desk.

  “Get a grip, girl.”

  It didn’t take Freud to be able to interpret that dream. And it had nothing to do with hydrophobia.

  Good freaking grief.

  Well. At least she wouldn’t have to spend an awkward day running into Nikolai around every corner. Today, all of the passengers were to disembark and spend the day on Attu Island while Ostrov went through some kind of deep submersion drill. Onshore, the scientists had a full agenda of sample and measurement taking to conduct, and she and Clint Walker had planned to do some exploring and picture taking around the abandoned Coast Guard LORAN station. She knew Nikolai didn’t approve, but she had come to trust Walker—as much as she trusted anyone in this complicated mess—and felt safe enough accompanying him.

  Dressing in her dry jeans and a fresh T-shirt Misha had scrounged for her last night after her other one had been drenched, Julie grabbed her laptop and jacket and made her way to the mess hall. The compartment was nearly empty, but she ran into Dr. Josh, who was just putting his breakfast dishes in the galley’s dirty dish bin.

  “Hey, girl, ready for shore leave?” he asked cheerfully.

  “Am I ever,” she said with a smile.

  He waggled his eyebrows. “Won’t you miss your handsome captain?”

  “Oh, I think I’ll live,” she returned in a drawl.

  Josh’s eyes widened dramatically. “Uh-oh, do I detect trouble in paradise?”

  “Seriously?” She glanced around at their surroundings. “You call this paradise?”

  His lips twisted in amusement. “Point taken.” He glanced around, too. “I’m definitely glad I won’t be on board when they submerge this tub of rust under the surface.” He shuddered dramatically. “I have these horrible visions of Das Boot when all those rivets started popping and the seawater started shooting into the German sub like exploding fire hydrants. Did you hear what happened on board last year?”

  She held up her hand. “No. And I’d rather not, thankyouverymuch.”

  “Oh! Sorry. I forgot.” He tried unsuccessfully to look contrite. “Maybe when we’re back home on dry land.”

  She gave him a look.

  “Or not.” He checked his watch with a flair. “Oh, look what time it is. We’re supposed to be assembled at the stern hatch in half an hour to disembark. They’re bringing out kayaks to fetch us, or something bizarre like that.”

  Her jaw dropped. “Kayaks?”

  “Kayaks, canoes, motorboats, whatev.” He waved his hand as if the differences were inconsequential. “There’s no harbor on Attu, so that’s the only way for us to get onto the island. The institute has hired some Inuit villagers from a nearby island to ferry us.”

  Suddenly that drowning nightmare was looking a lot more realistic.

  “Anyway,” he said when she was too dumbstruck to respond, “guess I’d better go get my gear together. How about you?”

  She tapped the notebook computer under her arm. “This is all I’ve got.” Which reminded her of her lost suitcase. “Say, I don’t suppose there are any stores on this island?” She held out a leg to showcase her ill-fitting jeans. “I could use some new clothes. And shoes.” She turned her foot, modeling the clunky borrowed man’s sneaker. “Not that these aren’t very attractive.”

  Josh laughed. “Sorry. The island has been completely abandoned since the Coast Guard station closed down. But even if there was a village, I doubt you’d find any Jimmy Choos,” he said ruefully.

  She gave an exaggerated sigh. “Just as well. I’ve discovered that submarines and high heels don’t really mix.”

  He chuckled again. “That, sweetie, is definitely a matter of opinion.” He lifted his hand and waggled his fingers as he headed for the ladder down to the main berthing compartment, where he was quartered. “See you in a few.”

  “Yep.”

  She grabbed a coffee mug, filled it, and sat down at one of the tables, debating with herself whether or not to go look for Nikolai. He was probably busy steering the boat to their drop-off spot in Massacre Bay. Griff had told her the waters around these western Aleutian islands were notorious for shallow reefs and swiftly changeable currents.

  Right. That was the real reason she was arguing with herself.

  Coward, she chided herself.

  The truth was, she was too scared to see him. Too chickenshit to confront him with how she was feeling. Too afraid her new secret about his mother might slip out of her mouth before she could stop it.

  Too terrified, now she’d told him what her mission was all about, that he no longer had any interest in her personally. That he had played her like James Bond, and she’d fallen for him like a naïve schoolgirl.

  That he’d never really wanted her . . . for her.

  The thought of that made her literally sick to her stomach.

  Damn.

  She really should just go and ask him outright. Gauge his reaction. She may be naïve, but she wanted to believe he’d tell her the truth if confronted. After all, why continue to lie? He’d already gotten what he wanted. There was no reason to keep up the ruse, if that was what it was.

  Was that what her nightmare had been all about?

  A warning? About Nikolai? Her subconscious warning her that he was bound to cast her aside to sink or swim on her own . . . either metaphorically or literally.

  Except . . . in the dream she hadn’t been on her own. Misha’s cheesehead had saved her. Of all the bizarre things. What could that mean? To be saved by a crown of cheese, cut to look like an iceberg?

  Suddenly it hit her. Oh, my God.

  Crown!

  The one-word clue to completing her mission blazed through her mind like an avalanche.

  Crown.

  The part of the submarine no one had ever heard of. Because it wasn’t part of a submarine. But part of a costume.

  Could that be what the clue meant? Something as ridiculously simple as that?

  She leapt up, spilling her coffee. It just might be!

  Excitement surged through
her. There was only one way to find out.

  She had to find that cheesehead!

  22

  “Misha! Where’s Misha? Kvartirmyeister Kresney?” Julie asked a rating who was helping the scientists bring their equipment up the trunk ladder in order to be transported to Attu Island.

  The man answered a few words in Russian, gesturing up the ladder. Misha must be up on deck.

  No time to lose. If she hurried, she could grab the cheesehead and take it with her off the submarine and examine it on dry land. If she found the SD card hidden within it, which she was more and more certain she would, she could hide it somewhere on the island and call her boss to come pick it up. And her.

  Her mission would be over. And she could go home.

  But she wouldn’t think about that part.

  Tucking her small computer uncomfortably into the back of her jeans waistband, she climbed up in a rush. Misha was on the opposite side of the deck, lowering a portable pilot’s ladder over the side to reach the motorboats coming to fetch them. One was approaching the submarine, and another two could be seen just taking off from the island, tiny as ants from this distance. She managed to make her way across the deck to Misha without falling overboard. The ocean waves were bigger today, capped with white, making the sub pitch and heave. Big chunks of sea ice surrounded the hull, just like in her nightmare. But good grief. She’d gotten so used to the sound of the ice randomly banging against the metal hull that she hadn’t even noticed it this morning.

  Or maybe she’d had too many other things on her mind.

  “Julie! Ready to go to shore?” Misha called to her above the sound of the wind and waves and grinding ice.

  “Yes, almost. Just one thing. Misha, can I borrow your cheesehead?” she asked, coming up to him. Her hair was whipping across her face.

  He blinked uncomprehendingly. “Cheese?”

  “From last night.” She made a triangle shape with her hands around her head.

  A grin popped onto his wind-reddened face. “Oh! Cheese hat! To borrow? Why?” He looked charmingly puzzled.

  She scrambled for a logical reason, but luckily she was spared explaining when a small motorboat pulled up by the hull and the pilot hailed them.

  “Is boat to island. Forget hat. Come, ladies,” Misha said, beckoning to her and the two women scientists who were standing next to the fairwater, waiting with their boxes of equipment.

  “I’ll get the next boat,” Julie said quickly. “Where is your cheesehead kept?”

  He frowned but didn’t argue. “Is in compartment where many men have bunks. In cupboard behind first rack with all decorations. Just ask. Everyone on crew knows where is.”

  “Thanks, Misha. I’ll be back in a flash.”

  “When you come, you see Borovsky. I go on duty below in few minutes.”

  She nodded and started back to the hatch, but saw at once that going down this way would be like swimming upstream. She decided to try the forward loading hatch instead. She knew that one, along with the hatch leading down from the bridge, was always open during nice weather while they were on the surface. It led down into the torpedo room.

  Turning forward, for the first time she realized she’d been in such a hurry she’d forgotten to put on her safety harness before coming up on deck.

  Damn!

  But she had no choice. She had to risk traversing the length of the submarine without it. And quickly at that, if she wanted to get down and back before the last boat left for shore. Which she absolutely must.

  Inching along in a crouch against the brisk wind, plastering herself against the side of the sail, she managed to get herself forward to the far hatch without incident, fall to her knees, and grab the rim.

  Thank God.

  She slid down the ladder by the rails—mentally applauding herself for pulling off the tricky maneuver for the first time ever—and practically dove through the watertight doors to reach the ladder that went down into the general berthing compartment.

  When she got there, except for one sleeping man turned toward the bulkhead, the room was deserted.

  Good. She didn’t want to have to explain her actions to random crew members who happened by. She sprinted silently to the cupboard behind the first set of bunk beds as Misha had instructed, and quietly opened it up, careful not to wake the sleeping man. She peered inside the locker. It was tall and narrow like the one in Nikolai’s stateroom but larger, and packed floor to ceiling with a conglomeration of lidded plastic storage bins and equipment, strings of lights, bags of extra clothes, and even a blue wetsuit.

  She grabbed the top bin, hoping it was the box Misha meant since it would have been used last. She opened it up, wincing when it made a loud burp.

  Yes! There were the grass skirt and plastic fish of his costume. Under them the white-painted cheesehead had been squashed into a corner of the bin. She lifted it out. She should just take it and go, and not chance being discovered rooting through things that didn’t belong to her.

  But no, she had to make sure the SD card was hidden somewhere in the iceberg-shaped block of foam. Hiding such a thin, small object wouldn’t have been difficult. Just use a knife to cut a tiny slice into the foam and slip the microcard into it. Genius. It shouldn’t be hard to find, either.

  But it wasn’t there.

  Julie searched the entire cheesehead three times, top, bottom, and sides, each examination more frantic than the last. Still she found nothing. Not even an empty slot where it might have been.

  “Shit,” she muttered under her breath. “Shit, shit, shit. Where is it?”

  Desperation seeped through her. She’d been so certain it would be here!

  Okay. Maybe the crown thing was just a clue to finding the storage box itself. Maybe the SD card was hidden in something else. Another costume, maybe.

  Using as much caution as possible, she dumped the contents of the bin gingerly onto the nearest bunk.

  And that’s when she found it. Or rather, them.

  Two silver crowns.

  Well. Two long, flat, obviously handmade cardboard cutouts covered in tinfoil that could be joined at the ends to make a circlet, like those hamburger chain crowns for kids.

  “Oh, my God, finally!” She wanted to shout it out at the top of her lungs.

  But the sleeping man stirred just then.

  Adrenaline surged through her veins. But he didn’t awaken.

  She returned her attention to the silver cardboard. This must be what the CIA asset had meant by the crown clue. Please, let the SD card be hidden somewhere on one of these two crowns. She paused for a few seconds, battling the urge to just rip the things apart to find it. But that would not be wise. Better not leave any suspicious evidence for the enemy saboteur to find.

  So she laid the pieces flat on the bunk and pressed her fingers to the foil of one side, running them lightly down the length of it.

  Nothing.

  She flipped it over and searched the other side.

  Again, she felt nothing. Damn it!

  By now her pulse was going at a gallop. It had to be here! She laid the second crown onto the bunk. And carefully felt across the top.

  There!

  Her excitement leapt as a small, square lump resolved itself to her touch.

  Yes!

  With trembling fingers, she gently unfolded the tinfoil where it had been wrapped around the cardboard and eased a finger underneath. She extracted the lump.

  It was the micro storage card.

  She’d found it!

  A huge weight lifted from her shoulders. She’d actually done it! She’d fulfilled her mission and . . .

  Okay, not quite. She still had to get the SD card and its critical information safely back to Langley. Which meant she’d better hightail it back up on deck so she could catch the last boat to Attu, call her boss immediately, and arrange to be extracted.

  They were in American waters. Thurman would no doubt have a plan in place to have her picked up and flown home as soon as
she had the data card in her possession.

  Carefully she pushed the tiny card deep into the coin pocket of her jeans, as far as it would go. It should be okay there for now.

  After hurriedly repacking and replacing the storage box, she started back to the stern hatch where the scientists had gathered to be transported to the island. No need to go to the stateroom. All she had on board was her mini laptop, and she still had that with her, tucked into the waistband of her jeans. As big a pain as it was to carry around all the time, she wasn’t about to have it sabotaged, too.

  But then a clot of mixed emotions punched into her belly.

  What about Nikolai?

  What should she do about him? Even with her doubts about their relationship, could she really just leave him like this, after what they’d shared, without a word of good-bye?

  Would he be hurt? Angry? Would he even care that she’d left?

  She thought he would. She wished she knew for sure.

  She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then rose to her feet. Yes, he would care. She had to believe that. Had to believe that the feelings she had for him were returned at least in some small measure.

  That he’d truly miss her when she was gone. She couldn’t bear to think otherwise. Because she would miss him terribly.

  How different she was now from when she’d first seen him at that hotel bar in Petropavlovsk! She’d been a terrified, lonely, uncertain woman then. Now she was courageous, decisive, and filled with a need for love. His love.

  She realized now what it was about Nikolai that spoke to her so profoundly. That made him so different from the other men she’d met. The thing that made her yearn to be with him. The need deep within her that he alone filled, and no one else in her life had ever touched.

  He believed in her.

  When he looked at her, all their outward differences and conflicts melted away, and they connected on a soul-deep emotional level. Whether it was their similar upbringing or just an instinctual recognition of like hearts and minds, he got her. He really saw her. And he believed in what he saw.

  It killed her to let him go. But she had to accept that she and Nikolai had no future together.