Take Me for a Ride

by Karen Kendall

  Then again, did it spell security consultant?

  Natalie, you saw his business card. He’s exactly what he claims to be. He works for a company that sells alarms and safes. So let the man use his contacts to help you locate Nonnie before she and the colonel get into real trouble, okay?

  She was looking her gift knight in the mouth again, and she was a girl who was going to have serious dragons after her. Big, ugly Russian ones. Very soon.

  Luc was a nice guy, if a dishonest one. But she had no illusions that he’d keep quiet the next time those thugs paid him a visit. Considering what they’d done to him, she couldn’t blame him.

  “Okay, then,” she said to Eric. “If your friend in law enforcement really doesn’t mind checking the flights, then that would be great.” She shivered. “Nonnie’s evidently turned the heat way down. Would you like some tea?”

  He looked for a moment as though he’d refuse. Then he said, “Sure. Thanks.” He pulled out his phone and headed into the living room while she stayed behind to put the kettle on.

  “It’s McDougal,” she heard him say. “Put me through to Miguel, will you?” Then he sighed. “Sheila, don’t chap my ass right now, okay?”

  Who is Sheila?

  “How can I just treat you like the hired help? Here’s a lightbulb for you, Sweet Cheeks: You are the hired help.” He laughed. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. You’ve got me running scared. Now, give me Miguel, will you? Thanks.”

  Whoever this Sheila person was, they had a very comfortable, mock-abusive relationship. Natalie supposed that Miguel was the friend who would check the manifests.

  “Buenos, Miguel. It’s Eric. I’m in Connecticut, freezing my nuts off. How’s Maribel? You gonna give her that ring she’s angling for?”

  McDougal’s deeply amused laughter followed the unknown Miguel’s response.

  “Just be warned, my friend,” Eric said in low tones. “Everything changes, or so I hear. I wouldn’t know personally.”

  So he’d never been engaged or married himself. Natalie got two mugs out of Nonnie’s cupboard and set them on the old tile-and-grout countertop. Then she went to the pantry for teabags and sugar.

  “Yeah. I have a big favor to ask. Can you check outbound flights in the tristate area for a Tatyana Ciccoli and a male companion, name of Blakely?”

  “Ted,” she called from the kitchen.

  “Theodore?” he queried back.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, Miguel. The destination is going to be somewhere in Russia—”

  “Moscow,” she called.

  “Moscow is the likeliest city. Yes. Would have left yesterday, or maybe the day before.” Eric fell silent, obviously holding the line while his buddy did a search.

  The kettle began to boil. Nat turned off the burner and poured water into both mugs.

  “Yeah, Miguel, I’m here. You got a hit? Today? Great. Both of them? British Airways? Brilliant. Appreciate it.”

  McDougal, grinning widely, strode into the kitchen. “Bingo. Granny and the colonel took off for Moscow a few hours ago.”

  “How would they have gotten visas so fast?”

  Eric shrugged. “Pay a hefty rush fee, and they can turn a visa around within a day or two.”

  Natalie handed him a mug and gestured to the sugar bowl, indicating that he should help himself. Then she took a deep breath. “Okay. I guess this means I need a visa myself. Also a guidebook, a dictionary, and a very expensive plane ticket.”

  He went very still. “Why?”

  “Well, I’m going to Russia, of course.”

  “What good do you think that will do?”

  “Eric, I have to get that necklace back from her! As long as it’s in her possession, she’s in danger.”

  “And you have a black belt in what, exactly? Fashion design?”

  She raised her chin. “Wow. That was patronizing.”

  “Look, I didn’t mean it that way . . .”

  “I have to go, Eric. What else can I do? Get the KGB—or whatever they call it now—involved? I don’t think so!”

  “Hell, no, but—”

  “I made the mistake of starting this,” she said quietly. “And now I have to see it to the finish.”

  He seemed agitated, avoiding her gaze and staring down into his tea.

  “You want milk in that?”

  He snorted and met her gaze with his unholy, heart-breaking blue one. “Got any whiskey instead?”

  Eric splashed a healthy two shots of whiskey into the mug of tea Natalie had handed him. Well, McD, now you are well and truly screwed, aren’t you? You have to chase Granny into the great white frozen hinterlands of Russia, but you can’t do that if Natalie’s chasing her, too.

  Or could he?

  He was pretty good at sneaking around—it went with the job territory.

  As he saw it, he had two choices: One, declare himself hopelessly in love with Natalie and force his company upon her for the journey. That seemed distastefully manipulative.

  Two, he could kiss her good-bye right now and become the shadow-man, tailing her to Moscow and staying in the background until the time was right for a surgical strike. Even if Granny wore the damned necklace for the entire trip, she had to take it off to sleep and shower.

  Since McDougal had cut his teeth repossessing cars, often from bad neighborhoods on the other side of midnight, he should be able to grab something as small as a necklace from someone as unwitting and feeble as an old lady.

  Natalie chose that moment to bend down and put the whiskey back into the liquor cabinet. The movement stretched her corduroys tightly across her backside, showcasing a perfect upside-down heart of an ass. Mmmmmmm.

  No.

  It was time to forget completely about any part of Natalie Rosen’s anatomy and figure out an exit strategy.

  The little red devil on his shoulder suggested that his exit could be a tender one, a naked one.

  His newborn conscience squalled at the idea and threatened to pollute its diaper.

  He told the devil to get lost and soothed his conscience before things got soiled.

  “Listen,” he said to Natalie. “Now that we know where your grandmother is, do you need a ride back to the city?”

  Natalie hesitated. “I can take the train.”

  “Why, when I’m driving in myself? It’s no trouble.”

  “You really are the nicest guy.”

  Oh, this again. If you only knew. “So, can I drive you?” He glanced at his watch.

  “You have to be back by a certain time?”

  “By six, if possible. I have a dinner meeting with a client.” A lie, but it got them moving and away from all the lace doilies and lemon wax.

  “Okay, then, drink up. I’ll rinse out the mugs, and then we’ll go. Thanks again for coming all the way out here. I feel like an absolute fool.”

  “You shouldn’t. Trust your instincts—they’re there for a reason.”

  “Not in this case,” she said wryly.

  “You’re wrong. Instincts aren’t tea leaves, but they are sound. You knew something was off-kilter. And it was—your grandmother’s gone.”

  She nodded.

  He handed her his mug, having drained the contents.

  “You okay to drive after the whiskey?”

  “Please. I’m Scots-Irish. They don’t make harder heads than ours, sweetheart.”

  “Sorry to insult you. I guess it’s clear that I come from a softer-headed people.”

  He grinned at her arid tone. As she turned out the lights and locked the door behind them, he tried not to notice the softness of the pure, unblemished pale skin peeking through the black scarf at him. He ignored the curve of her full, nude lips and the gloss of her dark hair under the winter sun. Time to say good-bye, McD.

  The ride back to the city passed in companionable silence. Natalie had brought along a canvas bag that contained a tornado of colorful fabric scraps and sewing supplies.

  “What’s all that?” he asked.

&
nbsp; “I make wall hangings and art quilts,” she said, pulling a half-finished piece from the bag. She spread it out on her lap, sideways, so that he could see.

  It was a charming fabric rendition of a Monet water-lily painting, complete with ornately stitched gold frame. But in Natalie’s version of it, there were friendly frogs sitting on a couple of the lily pads—frogs with googly eyes.

  McDougal laughed. “That’s great. Do you hand-stitch everything?”

  “No. If it’s smaller and more commercial, then I usually sew by machine. If it’s a big, elaborate fine-art piece, then I do the work by hand.”

  “So you sell them?”

  She nodded. “Yes, to some small boutiques and galleries. It supplements my less-than-stellar income at Luc’s.” A look of resignation crossed her face. “I guess I’d better get busy on these, since I doubt that I’ll have a job with him after today. He told me in no uncertain terms to bring the necklace back to him, which I clearly can’t do.”

  “Natalie, your grandmother mentioned that the St. George necklace is the key to something—but what?”

  “I don’t know. Something to do with a legacy or inheritance, which has supposedly remained in a cathedral in Moscow since the days my great-grandparents lived there.”

  “In a cathedral? But I thought you said the necklace was taken by Nazis, that your heritage is Jewish.”

  She made a wry face. “My heritage, like most people’s, is mixed. Nonnie’s mother was Jewish, though her father was not. Their marriage caused quite the scandal, even though my great-grandmother converted.”

  “Got it.”

  “Do you?” Natalie chuckled. “It was always a little odd in our household, Eric. Nonnie makes a great matzo-ball soup, hangs Russian Orthodox icons on the walls, and prays to St. George, okay? There’s really no explaining her.”

  He was starting to understand. “So this family legacy she speaks of . . . it’s been in the cathedral for how long, sixty-five years or so?”

  She nodded.

  His natural skepticism kicked in. “Nothing valuable would have remained undiscovered during World War II, and Stalin destroyed countless buildings and churches.”

  “I agree. But Nonnie clearly isn’t using common sense. She’s running on emotion and living in the past.”

  McDougal sighed. “Do you know which cathedral she’s headed for?”

  “No.”

  “So . . . what, you’re going to visit every cathedral in Moscow in search of her?”

  “I guess I’ll have to.” Natalie stitched away, serene and oblivious of his incredulous stare.

  “That’s crazy!”

  She shrugged. “That’s Nonnie.”

  Eleven

  Tatyana Malevich Ciccoli hadn’t been on a plane since 1968, and things had changed. Instead of walking outside on the tarmac, she and the colonel shuffled down a long, musty corridor that moved on wheels and featured a sort of hood, similar to one on a baby carriage, that pulled right up to the entrance hatch of the plane.

  Tatyana could just make out a blurry rectangle of light ahead. Then Ted took her arm and told her to watch her step as they crossed the metal threshold into the aircraft.

  The stewardess, evidently now called a flight attendant, welcomed her aboard. Thin carpet underneath their feet served to muffle the footsteps of the passengers and the bumps and creaks from the belly of the plane, where baggage handlers were at work.

  The plane vibrated and the low hiss and roar of the air system filled her ears. Her nose caught a whiff of something metallic mingled with stale air, air “freshener,” and the not-quite-clean upholstery of padded seats that had held too many derrieres in transit. Then there were different colognes and detergents and shampoos fracturing the scent of burned coffee, someone’s peppermint chewing gum, and the aroma of pizza? Yes, pizza. People now carried on food in cardboard and plastic boxes.

  Flying had once been a rather elegant affair. One wore a traveling suit, even gloves. One was served a complimentary cocktail and a nice dinner in transit, with a real napkin and silverware. But Ted Blakely had warned her that traveling by plane was different now.

  Indeed it was! She’d been asked to remove her shoes and relinquish her handbag and carry-on for screening. The security attendants were brusque and scrutinized her purse for far longer than necessary, which made her nervous because she’d stowed the St. George necklace inside it.

  But the colonel had taken care of everything, guided her through the metal detector and made sure she got her belongings back safely. “Here, Tatyana,” he’d said in his lovely, deep baritone. “Sit down on this bench so you can put your shoes back on.”

  She briefly wondered about the state of her toes, which must be visible through her nylon stockings. Then she chided herself for being silly. At her age, why bother being vain? And Natalie had given her a pedicure a few weeks ago.

  Tatyana bent forward and worked her feet back into the low-heeled loafers she’d chosen for the trip. Her knee-length boots were in her suitcase, along with a thick cashmere shawl that would help keep the Russian cold at bay when they got there.

  A thrum of excitement buzzed low in her belly. She was going back home . . . thousands of miles and cultural eons and more decades than she cared to count. Home, where she hadn’t been since the age of five. Home, to fulfill a promise that her parents before her had never been able to keep.

  The Soviet Union was no longer. It was now the Commonwealth of Independent States. And those bloody, beastly Nazis had never truly known what they had in the St. George necklace. Not that it would have been any use to them then. But with the newly declared independence of the states whose history and wealth had been swallowed by carnivorous Mother Russia . . .

  As Ted Blakely guided her down the narrow center aisle of the plane to their seats, Tatyana thought about how worried Natalie would be when she found that her grandmother had vanished without a trace. But it couldn’t be helped. The less Natalie knew about this business, the better—until Tatyana’s mission was complete.

  “Here, my dear,” said Ted, and guided her into a seat by the window. Was it her imagination, or was the space diabolically small? She remembered airline seats as being roomy. Then again, she’d put on one or two pounds since 1968, hadn’t she? She’d once had slim, supple hips and a graceful posture, an indefatigable energy and a boundless, infectious optimism.

  Now she felt ponderous and tortoiselike, her body inching along under a hardened shell toward an inexorable end. Morbid, perhaps, but there it was. No matter how light her spirit, it was trapped in this old, creaky hide of hers and would be until its release, when it would spin, giddy again, toward the angels.

  Ted fastened her seat belt, and she tamped down her irritation at being helpless. This getting old thing truly was for the birds. Her vision had once been sharp and clear, but now all she saw were fuzzy, vague shapes. “Thank you, Ted.”

  “Of course.”

  She couldn’t even discern his features. She knew he had a narrow oval of a face, not much hair left on top of his head, and a wonderful, articulate voice. He was well educated, with a gentle, wry sense of humor. He was taller and thinner than she, and had developed a passion for her coffee cake.

  She’d have liked to have read his face with her hands, but somehow the request always died on her lips. It seemed such an intimate act, to touch his features. She contented herself with the deep timbres of his voice; with the subtle, woodsy scent of his aftershave; with the comfort of his presence as he read the morning’s newspaper to her over his cup of coffee and her cup of hot tea.

  She made out the shape of the paper now and smelled the ink as he unfolded it and shook it out.

  “What political antics do we have today?” he murmured.

  She found his hand and squeezed it. “Ted, I cannot thank you enough for coming with me on this trip. For being my eyes.”

  He let the edge of the paper fall and squeezed her hand in return. “Stop thanking me. We’re simply l
eaving our arthritis and heart palpitations behind and having a grand adventure. Shocking at our age, isn’t it?”

  She smiled and nodded. “Terribly shocking. What will your son say?”

  Ted shrugged. “He can say whatever he likes. I may be out to pasture, but I can still kick up my heels.”

  “Yes, but globe-trotting with an older woman? Some hussy who unquestionably has designs on his inheritance?”

  “It isn’t his unless and until I leave it to him,” Ted said with asperity. “And besides, Mme. Hussy, you’re only six months older than I am.”

  She made out a blurred movement in the vicinity of his left eye. “Why, Colonel, did you just wink at me?”

  “I might’ve,” he hedged.

  “Flirt.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Read me the headlines, will you? And let a decrepit old hussy buy you a drink.”

  “Certainly not. I’ll buy. What would you like?”

  “So old-fashioned.”

  “And dreadfully chauvinist. Now, what would you like?”

  “Well, Colonel, since we’re headed to Russia at this ungodly hour of the morning . . . something with vodka seems appropriate, no?”

  “Two Bloody Marys, please,” Ted Blakely said to the flight attendant when she came by.

  A couple of hours into the flight, Tatyana pulled the St. George necklace out of her pocketbook and held it in her hands, on her lap. She stroked the old gold absently and tried not to think about the last time she’d actually seen it, in the sweaty grasp of the young Nazi officer. She tried not to think about her father, lying with a bullet through his brain on the icy country road near the Romanian border . . .

  It was 1941 and the cart had been bumping and jiggling over country roads all night when five-year-old Tatyana heard the warning shot and the guttural German order to halt.

  She had spent a total of sixty-four suffocating hours in the dark, hidden with her parents and her four-year-old sister under rough wooden planks, on top of which sat crates of potatoes, onions, and beets. Air and limited light came through the cracks in the cart where the slats didn’t quite meet.