Wiser Than Serpents

by Susan May Warren

  And, surprise, surprise, it worked. Anya rang up the housekeeping office. Gracie felt every eye on her, from the man reading the Moscow Times in the seating area to the woman holding a bouquet of carnations waiting by the door.

  “Can I help you?”

  Gracie turned at the voice of the man. Dressed in a suit, dark European shoes and a high and tight haircut, he looked like an older version of the boy she’d seen with Ina.

  This was the head of housekeeping? “Kosta Sokolov,” he said, crossing his arms. His thumb played with the gold ring on his finger. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Ina Gromenko. She works for you?”

  Recognition flickered across the man’s face, and he smiled. “I’m sorry, she’s not here today. Called in sick.”

  Gracie blinked back her surprise. “Then how about her boyfriend? He works here, too? Jorge?”

  The man’s smile dimmed slightly. “I’m sorry, he’s not here, either.” He glanced at Anya, who turned away and began working on her computer. “Can I help you in any other way?”

  Gracie suppressed the urge to exit the building at a full run. But every instinct inside her screamed Liar! and she wasn’t going to spook that easily. “Can I at least ask when they worked last?”

  The man pursed his lips. “That is confidential information. I’m sorry.”

  Of course it was. “Thank you,” she said. He raised an eyebrow, waiting until she turned away.

  Gracie stepped outside and stood on the sidewalk, watching the wind scatter decaying leaves at her feet. Now what? What would Vicktor do?

  He’d find Ina, that’s what. Regardless of what it took. He’d sneak in the back, maybe interview her coworkers. Or he’d stake out the front, follow Anya home, drag her into FSB HQ. He’d figure out a way to pry the information from them.

  He’d spent years learning how to lean on people.

  Gracie, well, she had spent years trying to minister to the hurts inside. And she’d seen hurt—or at least secrets—written all over Anya. Gracie walked across the street, fished her cell phone from her pocket and, glancing back at the hotel, dialed the number.

  “Hotel Ryss,” Anya answered.

  “It’s me, the lady that was just in the lobby. Listen, I thought…Ina is missing and I’m just trying to find her. If you know anything…”

  Silence at the end of the line made her stop walking, turn back toward the hotel. Please.

  Anya’s voice lowered. “She came in with Jorge two days ago. I haven’t seen her since.”

  “You mean she worked her shift?”

  “No…I mean, she came in with Jorge, and…I haven’t seen her since.”

  Gracie stilled. There was something about her tone. “Could she still be in the hotel?”

  She could hear Anya breathing. Then, softly, “Yes.”

  Gracie stared up at the hotel, all six stories. Built in the late fifties, it came complete with fire escapes on each floor, and a dark alley filled with Dumpsters. “Held against her will?”

  Silence, then a quick, “Yes.”

  “Any idea what floor, what room?”

  “Jorge rents a room on the sixth floor. Number sixty-three—”

  The line broke off. Gracie stared at the phone. Call lost, it read.

  Lost, indeed. Gracie stared back at the hotel, everything inside her screaming to run back to the lobby and sprint up to floor six.

  And then what? What if she snuck into the hotel, found Jorge’s room, burst in…. only to find that Ina had run away? She wouldn’t be the first Russian girl—even a Christian Russian girl—to leave home, hoping for a new life.

  Gracie stopped outside her car and tabbed the unlock button. Then, sliding into the driver’s seat, she cued up Vicktor’s number. It wouldn’t hurt to ask him to check up on Jorge, but she didn’t even have his last name. Maybe she should focus on creepy Kosta, the hotel manager. Vicktor still had friends in America from his internship years ago. Maybe one of them could poke around and see what he could dig up.

  She opened her text box. Vicktor would be asleep, and for a second the urge to call him, to wake him up just to hear his voice, pulsed inside her.

  Yeah, and it would ignite all his chest-thumping, protect-thy-woman instincts. He’d probably stow away on the first plane to America and get them both into trouble.

  She could take care of herself. Hadn’t she gotten Anya to tell her the truth? By using her manners?

  She thumbed in a message. V—Srry. Pls ck name—Kosta Sokolov. Luv U. G.

  She pushed Send and had just dropped her cell into her pocket when her door opened. A hand snaked in and yanked her from her car.

  Yanna had seen many beautiful sunrises in her life, one off the Kamchatka Peninsula, one from the Caucasus Mountains in Georgia, and one in Vladivostok, the night after she’d won last year’s volleyball tournament. But the sunrise creeping over this section of south Taiwan, exploding over the tops of houses and rice paddies to rise glorious, hot and triumphant made her nearly burst into idiotic tears.

  And when David maneuvered the raft past a shoal, and only clear calm water rippled between them and the beach, she wanted to break out into song.

  If she never saw the ocean again, she’d die a happy woman. She’d emptied her stomach not an hour ago over the side of the raft—not that there’d been anything in it, but after holding out for nearly twelve hours, she couldn’t stand the nausea one second longer. She no longer cared what David thought of her.

  Okay, she still cared but she didn’t want to. Because she had no doubts their friendship would come to a crashing and ugly end in about thirty minutes when they got ashore. Because he’d have to keep her in these cuffs and maybe toss her over his shoulder to get her to leave Taiwan without her sister.

  And she didn’t plan on being handcuffed one second longer. She might have been shell-shocked after their Mission Impossible–style escape, but all her facilities had awoken with a vengeance when she spotted shore.

  Or maybe that had happened when David revealed just how little finding her sister meant to him. He’d look around for her sister? Like she might be a basset hound hiding behind a Dumpster?

  First thing on her agenda would be to get free. Then she’d simply disappear into some crowd.

  Probably that would be the easiest for both of them. If she didn’t, she could imagine the fireworks. David was like a dog with a bone; when he dug in, he refused to surrender.

  Some might say the same about her. Which added up to two bulldogs in a jugular hold. Pretty.

  No, she had to cut David loose, for both their sakes.

  “What are you doing?” David asked as she scooted to the back and unlatched the motor, pulling it up out of the water.

  “One of my mother’s boyfriends used to take me fishing. His motor broke every time he was out.” She reached down, clunking her chin on the top of the motor as she did, and groped for the prop shaft. Then she worked her way up to the nut that secured it. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of this sooner.”

  She felt around the nut, and finally found it—the cotter pin that secured the nut from unscrewing. She fought with it, turning it, wiggling it. Twice she shook out her hand as it cramped. Finally the pin came free.

  She let the motor fall into place and leaned back into the dinghy, holding the pin high in triumph.

  David stared at her, a strange expression on his face.

  She went to work on her cuffs. Inserting the pin into the place where the arm locked, she pulled it slowly out, pressing against the arm lock.

  The cuff clicked open. She shook it off and repeated the process for the other arm.

  She held up the cuffs, letting them dangle.

  “I would have opened them for you, once we were ashore,” David said quietly, turning back to his paddling. The floor of the ocean seemed close enough to touch, clear nearly twenty feet or more down. David set his paddle down, letting the sea take them into shore. Although early, she could make out traffic
, scooters and compact cars on the road beyond the beach.

  “Where are we?” She dropped the cuffs over the edge of the boat.

  David gave her a sharp look. “I could have used those.”

  “Sorry.” She rubbed her wrists where the cuffs had chafed.

  “I believe we’re just south of Kaohsiung harbor, in one of the suburban villages. I figure we can rent a scooter, or maybe catch a bus and head north to Taipei. I’ll call Roman along the way.”

  Yanna said nothing, staring out toward the beach. On the south side, a small row of kiosks advertised coconut and fruits. And she could smell something cooking, probably fish, from one of the morning markets just beyond the roadway.

  “I want you to stay with me. Like glue, you hear me?” David rose to his knees. “I don’t know where Kwan’s men might be or if they will be able to find us, and I need you to be on your toes.”

  Oh, she’d be on her toes, all right. But she had no intention of being his shadow, thank you. Still, she nodded. “Konyeshna.”

  Of course? David shot her a look. “I’m not kidding, Yanna. Kwan has men every—”

  “Don’t worry about me, David.” She didn’t intend the edge in her voice. Not entirely.

  David looked away, obviously scanning the shore for unfriendlies. He dropped his paddle into the boat. “Stay put, I’ll bring us in.” Then he slid overboard and into the water.

  I’m really sorry, David. But she couldn’t say it. Not when her voice might break and destroy the veneer of anger she so desperately needed.

  David grabbed the edge of the raft and waded to shore, his colorful silk shirt whipping in the wind, the water soaking his jeans.

  She couldn’t walk into town wearing her wet spiky heels, so she unzipped her boots, pulling them off. She flexed her wrinkled toes.

  When the water reached knee-deep, she, too, jumped over. Not as cold as it had been way out in the Chinese Sea; still, the water made her gasp. Thankfully, the blazing sun would dry her in minutes. The waves, not anything like they’d been last night, hit against the back of her knees as she waded in.

  David let the raft go and followed her to shore. The sand mortared between her toes and she stood there, just inside the rim of water, watching David. Although he’d been up all night, paddling to keep them afloat, he looked energized, even fierce, as his long hair tangled in the wind. An ethereal force buzzed around him that both fascinated and frightened her.

  He scanned the beach briefly before he reached out and took her hand.

  “C’mon. We’ll have a better chance at the market.”

  Da, she would. She followed him, letting him hold her hand, strong and confident in hers. Sand kicked up behind them as they walked the twenty or so feet to the grassy edge, and finally hit the pavement. Two lanes of traffic piled tight and they waited at the light like two vacationers who’d been strolling the beach. Tourists…with ocean-crusted clothes and sporting a couple nasty bruises.

  “I thought you said this was a village.” She had expected rolling countryside, perhaps an occasional house, dogs running, a central pump and a train station like her village of Georgivka. But no, this so-called village seemed a sort of extension of the city, with three-story buildings side by side along a main street that ran as far she could see on either side. The smell of exhaust mixed with the ocean and the faintest scent of meat cooking somewhere. Oh, lead her to it, her stomach begged, now feeling like a cavern.

  Scooters jammed the road, some with one passenger, many with two, along with the occasional car. Riders wore face masks in bright colors over their mouths, one set of dark eyes after another. Beside her, at the light on the sidewalk, a short, elderly Taiwanese man in black polyester pants and a short-sleeved shirt glanced at her. She smiled. He smiled back, his teeth bathed bloodred.

  “Betel nut juice,” David said softly. “It’s like chewing tobacco. Don’t panic.”

  She kept her smile but beneath it muttered, “Phew.”

  “It’s really not that bad,” David said, and winked at her. “But you’ll really like the fried frog burritos.” He nodded at the building across the street. “Tastes just like chicken.”

  Yum. So maybe she wasn’t quite as hungry as she thought.

  Although her ability to read Mandarin—or rather pinyin, the Latin-alphabet translation—was rough, she guessed that she correctly read the word market above the long, low warehouse-style building. Despite David’s descriptions, the smells were enough to make her stomach do cartwheels. Worse, her mouth felt on fire. She needed a drink, and soon. But nothing bloodred, or made from amphibians. “Do you think we can find a Coke somewhere?”

  David glanced down at her as they waited for the light to change. “Can your stomach handle that?”

  She made a face at him. “Sorry you had to see that.”

  He lifted his shoulder in an easy shrug. “Feeling better?”

  “Are we on land?”

  His hand tightened over hers. “We’re going to make it through this,” he said quietly.

  She looked up at him, swallowed, forced a smile. No, in fact, they weren’t.

  Chapter Seven

  “I ’ve never understood this airport. I always get turned around and end up in the Korean section, ordering kimchi.” Vicktor stood in the center of Incheon Airport, or at least what he thought might be the center. The place seemed as large as his home-town with a concourse that stretched from one end of Korea to the other. And to make matters worse, not only was it divided into two sections—the inner and outer court, but also by culture—Asian and Western. And Russia fit, where?

  “Do you have any clue where we are?” He walked over to Roman, who stood staring at a giant multicolored map of the airport. Written in Korean.

  “Yanna said her sister was registered to stay at the hotel in the airport, Incheon Gardens. I say we pay them a visit.” Roman tapped a point on the map.

  “Lead on.”

  Aside from the bright lights that never dimmed, regardless of the hour—which was around five in the morning—the Asian music, the funky styles of dress, the orange and red neon from the stores seemed so foreign from his world in Russia it jolted Vicktor right out of foggy and into annoyed. Or maybe his nerves had just switched to overdrive after being rattled and shaken on the cargo flight Roman had secured for them. He made a mental note to never let Roman make his travel arrangements.

  Vicktor dodged a tiny woman wheeling a three-wheel cart loaded with luggage. Incheon Airport always seemed packed. A hub of Korean and Asian airlines, from here, flights arrowed inland across Asia, west to India and Thailand, and south to the Philippines and the Micronesian islands. Vicktor wished he might be on his way to Bali. With Gracie.

  In fact, more than once, she’d said her dream vacation would be somewhere warm, with year-round sun and a sandy beach. And if she couldn’t have that, she’d take the mountains, some tiny cabin tucked away. She’d even sent him an online site for a retreat in the shadow of Mount Rainier. It had a crazy name, Paradise or Wonderland or something completely fairy-tale romance. What he did remember was the fishing…something about fresh salmon. It had made him hungry for smoked salmon, which he’d purchased that night at the market and shared with Roman.

  See, he could remember the things important to her.

  In fact, Gracie hardly left his mind, and not because he worried about her. Or not only because he worried about her. He missed her candor, and the way she didn’t pull her punches with him. She wasn’t afraid to stand up to him, from the first moment she’d met him and kicked him in the shins, thinking he might be a murderer. She was honest. And refreshingly hopeful. And faithful.

  And beautiful.

  Most of all, she loved him.

  Or he desperately hoped so.

  He fished his cell phone out of his pocket, calculating the time change. According to his math, it would be around dinnertime, the day before. He lifted the phone out, searching for a signal. He got the smallest of blips, and his phone bee
ped.

  He jogged to catch up with Roman. “I have a text message.”

  “Maybe it’s from Yanna.” Roman dug into his own pocket for his cell and held it up to catch a signal. “Hmm. Nothing.”

  “I’ll bet the message is from Gracie,” Vicktor said, dialing. He waited, holding it to his ear, frowned and looked at the screen. “I lost it.”

  “It’s probably because of the airport. It’s hard to get a signal. Taiwan is up on all the latest technology. You can probably find an Internet café and chat with her from there.”

  Vicktor pocketed the cell, frustration knotting his chest. He just wanted to hear Gracie’s voice, tell her that whatever he did, he was desperately sorry and that he’d never even think those thoughts—whatever they’d been—again.

  “Maybe she just wants to tell me she loves me.”

  Roman jumped on a moving walkway. “Yeah. I’m sure that’s it.” He checked his watch. “I should call Sarai. I didn’t tell her I was leaving last night when I said goodbye.”

  “Did you two have a date?”

  “Took her to see Sleeping Beauty at the theater. She cried.”

  “I saw it, years ago.”

  “I think I’m going to ask her to marry me.” Roman curled his hand onto the railing, not looking at Vicktor.

  Vicktor couldn’t suppress a smile. “Every time you go to a theater or a circus you have this urge to propose. You should have done it thirteen years ago in Moscow, when you first wanted to.”

  Roman said nothing, probably reliving the moment he’d let the woman he loved walk out of his life. Thankfully, she’d also walked back into it about eight months ago. And it had only cost him a couple of broken ribs and a stint in gulag. But they were making up for lost time in a way that made Vicktor long for Gracie. He held up his phone again.

  “Leave it, man. Gracie can take care of herself. She managed to live in Russia for two years and, I might add, also escape a serial killer. I think she can stay safe on the streets of Seattle. Calling her every night is not about letting her know you care. It’s about you wanting to do her thinking for her. About you not letting go and letting God be in charge of your relationship. “