Rik peered over her shoulder. “You sort of look like an Yvette.”
“Maybe, if this birth date didn’t make me fifty years old.”
Mikhail gave Artur a cell phone. “So. You have everything you need, but I would say we are still not even. You may have ruined my life today.”
“Fine,” Artur said. “I owe you.”
“If my family suffers too much from this, you will owe me quite a lot.”
At the other end of the room was a narrow crevice; Mikhail led them through until they reached a door. Beyond lay darkness.
“There is another door inside that room,” Mikhail said. “It opens up into a restaurant I own, down by the waterfront. Stay there. I will call you a car to take you to the train station. I recommend the Trans-Siberian for your return to Moscow.”
“A train doesn’t seem safe,” Elena said.
“Safer than the planes. The police there will check your passports. And let us be honest: that is the first place someone will look for you, because it offers the fastest way out of here. A train is slow. A pleasure ride. No one would be that stupid, yes?”
“Charles Darling found us easily enough,” she commented. “I don’t think he tried the airport first.”
Mikhail ignored her and clapped his hand on Artur’s shoulder. “Take care. Maybe we will see each other again.”
“You do not really believe that.”
“You are right,” Mikhail said. “I am such a fake.”
* * *
The restaurant was a crab shack specializing in just that—fresh crabs, only minutes from the sea. Steamed, boiled, fried—as many as a person could eat for pennies on the pound. No one looked askance at Elena or the others when they exited the door into the main body of the one-room restaurant. It was as though they did not exist—or just that everyone there was familiar with Mikhail Petrovich, and did not want to cause trouble. Out of sight, out of mind. If you pretend not to see something, then it does not exist. Simple enough.
The restaurant was half-full, with the windows thrown open and the door propped with a rock. Sunlight bathed everything in a white-hot glow. It was beautiful, cheerful, homey—and all Elena could think about was Charles Darling. She was afraid of him, but not for the same reasons as before. She knew she could kill him.
And that was the problem. While she was quite certain he deserved to die, that was a choice she did not want to make. She was weak, maybe. Cowardly. But it was a hard thing, looking into the dark mirror, seeing that everything you held yourself to be was no longer true. Healer? Sure. Killer? Quite possibly. All in the same breath, no less.
Artur stood in the doorway of the restaurant. Elena joined him, but he pushed her gently back.
“You must be careful,” he said.
“I think the same could be said about you.” Elena felt Rik and Amiri gather close; outside, people walked and talked, enjoying the sun. Beyond lay the waterfront, the jutting piers surrounded by boats. Rik stared; he made a sound, low in his throat. The diners behind them cracking crab almost drowned it out, but Elena was close enough to hear his misery.
“We need to find a place for you to enter the ocean,” Elena said. “If you’re not coming with us, we have to make sure you’re safe before we leave.”
Artur looked at Amiri. “Will you be separating as well? If so, there are ships to Japan that leave every hour. I cannot guarantee their safety, but it would get you away from here.”
“And what would I do in Japan?” Amiri shook his head. “I think I will stay with you and Elena. I will trust just a little longer.”
“Even if it means your life?” Rik asked him, tearing his gaze from the ocean just long enough to look him in the eyes.
“Even so,” Amiri said. “And besides, I am already dead. It is written, the time and place. Until that moment comes, I am invulnerable.”
“Borges,” Artur said.
“You are educated.”
“No,” Artur said, “but I have tried to make up for that.” He glanced up and down the street. “I do not see the car, but there is a pier just across from us. Underneath, there might be a place where you can shift.”
They left the crab shack. Unspoken was the decision that they all go together. Perhaps not wise—as a group, they were highly visible from a distance—but no one wanted to be left alone. Pack mentality, maybe. Or just the fear of being left behind. The embankment off the road was easy to slide down; it was littered with crab legs, fish parts, old lines and hooks. The sun felt good on her face, though Elena worried about her foundation melting off.
It was cool and dark beneath the pier, a long, narrow space of sand and rock. No people. If someone looked their way from one of the boats anchored out on the water, they might be in trouble, but Elena suspected it was the best they could do in this city.
Rick did not take off his shoes or clothes. He crouched on the border between land and water. Dipped his hand into the sea. Licked his fingers, one by one.
“Now is the time,” Artur said. “Get away from here as fast as you can.”
“Return home,” Amiri said. “If you are able to without endangering yourself. Find your family.”
“Family,” Rik murmured.
He almost did it. He almost jumped in, fully clothed, fresh from the land. Elena saw the way his muscles bunched beneath his shirt, the subtle glow of his exposed skin. And then he stopped. Shook his head.
“I can wait,” he said, though the crack in his voice revealed the lie. “You need all the help you can get. I still owe you.”
“No,” Artur said, but Rik gave him a hard look.
“I owe you,” he said, in a voice brooking no argument. He glanced at Amiri, who stood quietly beside Elena. Slender and dark, like an elegant shadow. Rik’s lips tightened. “And there is my brother to think of. I never imagined meeting another of my kind. I can’t leave him now. Not when there’s danger.”
Amiri bowed his head. Softly, he said, “My decision to stay was not meant to force your hand. You are not obligated to me.”
Rik snorted. “Every man chooses his own obligations, Amiri. Leave it alone.”
He did. The four of them walked up from beneath the pier. Rik turned to gaze one last time upon the Pacific; his hair was tinged the same blue-gray of the horizon. Again that glow.
And then the light died. He did not look back again.
The car was there when they ascended to the street: a long black sedan with tinted windows, parked in front of the crab shack as if it were waiting on some visiting dignitary. The driver got out as soon as he saw Artur and the others. He was big, a well-dressed thug. He opened the back door and did not bat an eye at all of the strange foreigners filing past him. Artur said several quiet words to him in Russian. The only response was a solemn nod.
Elena studied the surrounding area. She did not see the Quiet Man. She did not even see the Hotel Ekvator. Mikhail’s secret passage emptied out in an area completely apart from where they had entered. God love a crook.
It took them less than five minutes to reach the Vladivostok terminal train station, which perched on the edge of a cobblestone road congested with coughing buses and small cars. Through a choking haze of exhaust, Elena studied the ornate cream-colored building with its carved triple archway and small turrets, the fine round dormers, and the huge red sign plastered to the front of the building. More tacky than lovely, the train station nonetheless carried a certain resigned charm.
“We’re still close to the water,” Rik said, almost to himself.
“Zolotoy Rog Bay is just behind the terminal,” Artur said. “It is not too late to turn back.”
But Rik said nothing more. Their driver steered the car right up onto the sidewalk, narrowly missing several old women who hopped out of the way, flapping their arms like chickens. The driver pulled the parking brake, gave the angry women a bored look, and made a shooing motion with his hands. Insulting, patronizing—Elena thought that if any other man had done such a thing to them, th
ere would be nothing left but a puddle of blood. Instead, the old women took one sharp look at the driver, as well as the license plates on the car, and moved on. Quickly.
No one harangued them about the flagrantly illegal placement of the car; Elena even spotted a police officer at the end of the street, who very deliberately turned around and began walking in the opposite direction. Elena was suddenly very happy that Mikhail was on their side.
Mikhail’s help continued; the driver followed them into the train station, and it was clear what his purpose was. Muscle. A hired gun meant to keep them safe. Something that Artur should be familiar with. She wondered if it was strange for him, this reversal of roles. Then again, Elena suspected Artur was a man who never thought much about things like that. It would be too petty. Before, he had a job to do, so he did it. Just as the man who currently walked behind them was doing a job—nothing more, nothing less. After he got them safely aboard the train, he would no doubt return home to a girlfriend or family. One more day, working hard for the money.
Rik, eyeing the bodyguard, said, “What is it you do for a living, Artur? You seem to know a lot of … interesting people.”
Interesting. Elena wanted to laugh.
Artur said, “I work for a private detective agency in the United States. Before that, however …” He hesitated, and Elena nudged him with her elbow. There did not seem much point in holding anything back from these men.
“The Mafia,” he said shortly, giving her a look.
“The Mafia,” Rik said. “You’re kidding me.”
Amiri made a humming sound, low in his throat. “I do not think he is.”
“Oh.” Rik glanced again at their bodyguard, who was doing an admirable job of pretending to ignore them. “Okay.”
Artur waited, but Rik said nothing more. After a moment, Amiri said, “Shall we continue inside?”
So much for being hated and feared. Elena wanted to smile. Instead, she brushed her hand against Artur’s and felt him take a deep breath. They walked into the train station.
The interior was more modern than Elena expected, though still messy with people. The crowds made her nervous. Everywhere, she expected an attack, some strange hand to emerge and snap her back into captivity. She wished Rictor were there; a mind reader would be a good friend to have right about now. She hoped he was well. She also hoped he would come back one day to explain some things to her—like why he had helped her, made that first step of resistance with her arrival.
You’re better off not knowing. Yes, maybe. But unsatisfied curiosity could be a horrible thing.
The lines in front of the ticket counters were monstrous and, in fact, were not lines at all but just a giant mass of flesh, rippling in one direction. Hours, Elena thought. It would take hours to get through that mess, and by that time the Quiet Man would probably have her roasting on a stake.
Artur, however, did not seem concerned. He made them wait by the wall, tucked behind the first pillar of a colonnade. The driver stayed with them. Elena had no doubt he was armed to the teeth, and that was fine. Wonderful. She might not like holding the gun, but she was honest enough with herself to appreciate letting someone else do it.
From her spot next to a drooping plastic tree, Elena watched Artur struggle through the scrambled mishmash of bodies—chaos, a crowd: bent old women lugging plastic bags, swaddled in thick sweaters with brightly colored scarves covering their hair; lean men with quick eyes talking loudly on cell phones; a tour group from Asia, a tiny army of red caps and a Russian woman at the head of them, holding a flag with Chinese characters written on it. More and more—the cavernous train station felt like it housed several different nations. Artur pushed and shoved until he reached the front of the ticket line. If Elena had not watched with her own eyes, she would never have believed it possible.
“He’s going to start a fight,” Rik pointed out. Elena agreed.
Amiri merely smiled and said, “Look at their faces.”
Elena did, and it was true: those who began to protest Artur’s actions took one glance at his face and got out of his way. In fact, the longer she watched, the more it seemed to her that there was a method to the madness—a pecking order, of sorts. So much for being subtle. Elena said as much, and again Amiri smiled.
“It is the same at home. Lines are a convenience of societies that have so much to give; that its people have the patience—and confidence—to wait and go without. But when you have nothing, every little push and shove, every step above your neighbor, is a chance for you to survive, to get what you want before it runs out. It is survival.”
And Artur Loginov is a master of staying alive.
Which, when Elena thought about it, was pretty damn sexy.
He certainly looked sexy when he walked away from the ticket counter, a small smile tugging on his mouth. He held four sets of paper in his hand, which he handed out to everyone.
“We are lucky,” he said. “Today is an even-numbered day, so we will be on the Rossiya to Moscow. It is the best train to travel on when you journey by rail. I bought us first-class tickets.”
“How long will it take us to get there?”
“Almost a week.”
“A week? Artur, a lot of bad stuff can happen in a week. And trains aren’t exactly easy to hide on.”
“Easy targets, yes? I know, Elena, but we cannot fly. Our passports would never hold up to the scrutiny. We cannot drive, because it would take too long. Paperwork is not checked so thoroughly on the rails, and when it is, the officials are easier to bribe. No, the train—no matter how risky—is our best bet.”
“It’s also cutting it close,” Rik said. “What if she changes the schedule? She might, after everything that has happened.”
“Unlikely,” Artur said. “This meeting is too important to change at a moment’s notice. Nor would the bosses like the implications of a sudden shift in timing. Altering things at the last minute means trouble—usually the kind that involves death. No. I think she will pretend everything is fine, and she will go to that meeting and begin manipulating the leaders into an alliance—with worms in their heads as insurance.”
Amiri shook his head. “Her power cannot be limitless.”
“How do you know?” Elena frowned. “All these things we can do … none of it makes sense anyway. The doctor tried to understand, but for all the people he poked and prodded, I don’t think he ever came up with a satisfactory explanation.” At least, not one he had been able to give her. Not that she had been given all that many opportunities to ask. Elena was still frustrated by that. Realizing she was not alone made her want more: more information, more whys and whynots. Why could she heal while others changed shape? How could a man read the memories of others with nothing more than a touch, while another became trapped by something so seemingly harmless as a circle in the sand? Why did she share space with the soul of a person she barely knew?
“It doesn’t have to make sense,” Rik said. “You just have to ride the wave. Accept and ride, right up until you come to shore.”
“You must be the dolphin philosopher of the deep,” Elena retorted, not missing the dark circles under his eyes. “Riding that Big Kahuna to illumination.”
“Totally,” he said. Elena smiled, and it suddenly occurred to her that she was enjoying herself. Not the danger, not the risk … but the company. These three men, though she barely knew them, made the suffering easier to bear. She could be herself around them. She had never been able just to be herself around anyone—not even her grandfather, who worried constantly, who worked so hard to turn her into a good person that she had stifled herself, limited her interests and opinions so as to not offend him.
But here, now, none of that was necessary. She was free and accepted, and what a gift—what a lovely blessing, even in the midst of such jeopardy. Elena’s secret was no longer hers alone to keep.
Dogged by their bodyguard, they walked through the train station, past the wide-open doors into sunlight. Elena smelled engine gr
ease and iron, the salt of the sea; she felt the roar of a train beneath her feet, the thunder of movement coming and going, the swift approach of the future in another piece of this foreign land.
They did not go far before Artur pointed out the Rossiya. The train was long and surprisingly cheerful in appearance: a clean red-and-blue exterior with many large square windows. Most of the passengers—young men in military uniform and older women toting heavy packages—gathered around the back of the train, waiting for their turn to board. Artur walked past the locals to another carriage section that was less crowded. The people on this end dressed slightly better, and some of them spoke perfect American English. In fact, the same couple who had narrowly missed the showdown inside the Hotel Ekvator stood waiting to board the train. They smiled at Elena and the others, clearly recognizing them. Elena felt rather less enthusiastic about their presence.
She pressed close to Artur. “Are you sure this is wise? Wouldn’t it make more sense for us to mix with the locals?”
Artur shrugged. “Normally I would say yes, but Rik and Amiri both have memorable faces. I would rather have them stand out in a cabin accustomed to foreigners than spend the next week in the midst of crowds who are more likely to remember an exotic face.”
“I’m not sure that matters,” Elena said. “Seems to me that if the Quiet Man is already here, Beatrix Weave will have her people combing this place soon enough. Someone is bound to remember us. She’ll figure out where we’re going. She might already know.”
“Perhaps, but we must get out of this city. If we had time, luxury, I would suggest going underground. Fully changing our appearances, disappearing south into China, and from there back to the United States. Taking our time. Charles found us because we rushed, because we went to the very places that anyone who knows me well might suspect. This is my fault, Elena. It will be my fault if she recaptures us.”
“Don’t get all happy with the blame game yet,” she told him. “I’m just saying, this feels like the worst escape plan ever.”
Artur snorted. “You are always easy with your insults, yes?”
Shadow Touch Page 21
