“They’re beautiful. Just precious,” said Avy.
“Thank you. And I thank you for meeting with me,” Litsky said formally. He raised his glass to them with slightly unsteady fingers and drank deeply.
“It’s our pleasure,” Avy said, with a professionally warm smile. “What can we do for you, sir?”
“As you no doubt have been informed, I am trying to locate some property which was stolen from me recently, taken from my safe in this very room.”
They nodded, adopting expressions of sympathy.
“Some of the items will be untraceable, I fear—cash and some diamond jewelry of no particularly unique design. But there are two items that I must find. One is a Cézanne painting that I purchased in the 1950s and which, frankly, represents my most valuable asset.”
“You have the bill of sale, the provenance, and a certificate of authenticity?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Forgive me, but may I see them?” Avy asked. He would expect no less.
Litsky nodded and got out of the wing chair. He went to his desk and produced a manila file folder from a drawer, which he handed to her.
Inside was a bill of sale from a reputable Parisian dealer, still in business, and a detailed history of who had owned the piece before Litsky bought it. Avy closed the file as if satisfied and carefully did not look at Liam. She was sure that he had recognized, as she had, that there was no watermark on any of the papers. The dealer in question never released anything with her signature on it unless it was printed on her special, marked paper.
“All right. I believe we can help you with this. What about the other item?”
Litsky looked at the picture of his granddaughters again and raised his glass to his lips, all but draining it. “Yes. The other item is a very unusual necklace. Unfortunately, I do not have a bill of sale or a detailed provenance for the piece, since it was given to me years ago as thanks for a service I rendered during World War Two.”
“Oh?” Avy asked.
“Yes.” Litsky cleared his throat. “I, ah, helped a family across the border from Russia to Romania. They were Jewish, and fleeing Hitler’s forces.”
“That was very brave of you, sir. You put yourself at risk by giving them aid.”
The old man’s face took on a peculiar expression. He waved a dismissive hand and got to his feet again, heading straight for the bar. He poured himself another Scotch and stood gazing down into the amber liquid. Then he remembered his manners and looked at Liam. “Would you like another cognac?”
“Oh, well. I shouldn’t, but I will. Here, let me bring you the glass.” Gracefully, Liam rose and made his way to the bar, where he set down his snifter. Then in one fluid motion, his hand went into his pocket, came out with the syringe, and plunged it into Litsky’s unsuspecting neck. The man opened his mouth to yell, but the drug immediately immobilized him. He made a single croak before his eyes rolled back into his head.
Liam neatly caught the cognac decanter just as it slipped from the old man’s grasp. He set it down and then lowered the Nazi’s limp form to the oriental rug. Litsky’s eyes, before closing, had held shock, belated realization, and impotent fury.
“Oh, dear, oh, dear, the poor fellow’s had a stroke,” proclaimed Liam. “How shocking. How unfortunate. Nick that file folder and then run out of the building looking distraught, will you, love, while I ring for an ambulance?”
Avy stuffed the file into her soft-sided briefcase.
Liam hit a button on his phone. “It’s a go,” he murmured. Then he banked the fire in anticipation of their departure.
Within minutes, an official-looking white van with red stripes and a blue light on top screeched up to the main door of the apartment building, and two uniformed men emerged from the back with medical supplies and a stretcher.
Avy played the shocked, concerned visitor to the hilt, babbling and dabbing away tears with a tissue.
The men came inside, exchanged glances with Liam, and then examined Litsky for the benefit of a nosy neighbor who’d followed them in.
“We must get him to the emergency room right away,” one of the “medical team” said while another translated the Russian. “Come on—let’s load him up.”
They promptly transferred Litsky from the floor to the stretcher, swaddled him in white sheets and blankets, and dropped an oxygen mask over his face.
“You should call his son,” the neighbor suggested.
“I’ll take care of that,” Avy reassured him, once she understood. Then she shepherded him out in the wake of the medics and closed the door of the apartment.
The men loaded Litsky, and she and Liam climbed in after them. They started for the airport, relieved that everything had gone so smoothly.
Avy let the air out of her lungs and relaxed. Then one of the medics aimed an unpleasant smile at them. “You want to go airport, you pay double. If no, we drive you to police, eh?”
Twenty-nine
Natalie went weak with relief at the sound of her grandmother’s voice, even if at present she was scolding her.
“Natalya, what are you doing, coming after me to Moscow? Who is this man you are with?”
And they both said simultaneously, “You are in danger!”
“Who is the man you are with?” Natalie countered. “How could you have just taken off like that, without a word to anyone? Do you know how worried I’ve been?” Then she added, “How do you know that I’m here? And how do you know about Eric?”
“Pictures!” Nonnie said. “Kissing a red-haired man in the street!”
“How did you get pictures?”
“You have much explaining to do, young lady.”
“I have much explaining to do? Listen, Nonnie, because of that necklace you took, I’ve been fired, I’m in trouble with the law, my boss is dead, and the Russian Mafiya has trashed my apartment, almost kidnapped me, and tried to kill me just this morning.”
“I am sorry for your trouble, but St. George will protect you,” Nonnie said placidly.
Natalie choked. “That offers me so much comfort. You have no idea.”
“Do not disrespect me with your sarcasm or St. George with your lack of faith. Eh?”
“Nonnie, please understand, a man almost choked Eric to death this morning!”
“This Eric, he is alive, yes?”
“Yes, but—”
“He was sent to you by St. George,” her grandmother said decisively.
“No, Nonnie. I’m sorry, but that’s just not true,” Natalie said, exasperated. “The ugly reality is that I picked up Eric in a bar.”
“You what?”
“And I don’t think saints usually frequent bars—”
“No? Natalya, I tell you, I am constantly in amazement that you, at twenty-nine years old, understand all of the mystical workings of God, the saints, the universe. Your brilliance outshines the very stars in the sky . . .”
“Now who’s being sarcastic?”
“My dear, do you think this is the first time God has used human weakness and temptation to get his message across? I don’t care if you met this Eric in a sewer. He has been sent by St. George. You will see.”
Natalie rolled her eyes but said nothing.
“Careful, they’ll get stuck that way.” Nonnie couldn’t possibly have seen her expression! She was just plain eerie sometimes.
“Do you have the necklace?” Nat asked her.
“Of course.”
“Why did you bring it here? What are you going to do with it?”
“That’s why I called you, but instead of letting me explain, you tell me about dead men and drunk men in bars! This is not how you were raised, Natalya—”
Natalie covered her eyes with her hand.
“—but regardless, you are my granddaughter and you are here, so you should be a part of this exchange. It is your right and your heritage. So. We will meet at the Cathedral of the Assumption, in the Kremlin, at dusk, in front of the iconostasis. You will see the St
. George icon there, painted in the twelfth century. I was baptized under it.”
“Dusk? But that’s in less than an hour—”
“Yes. Hurry, Natalya.” And Nonnie hung up.
Eric said, “Where do we need to be?”
“Kremlin. Cathedral of the Assumption.”
The Cathedral of the Assumption, with its five gold domes, stood in the east-central section of the Kremlin, dwarfing the Church of the Deposition of the Robe. Whose robe, McDougal didn’t know, nor did he particularly care as he and Natalie walked toward the cathedral square.
At last he would meet the little old lady who’d started all the trouble and led him on this merry chase to Moscow. He didn’t say much to Natalie, since he was still smarting from her perceptive summation of his dating habits, and now was not the time to confess all and beg forgiveness.
The interior of the cathedral was nothing short of magnificent. Their footsteps echoed loudly in the sacred space, in contrast to the silence of the saints and martyrs who gazed down at them from every imaginable surface.
Just under all five domes were vertical expanses of windows, which welcomed the dwindling light into the cathedral. Giant, colorfully painted pillars stood in the center of the place, framing the visitor’s first glance at the awe-inspiring iconostasis, rows upon rows of gilt-framed icons to inspire prayer.
Chandeliers poured fountains of crystal at intervals, creating an atmosphere rather like a holy ballroom. McDougal half expected all of the saints and martyrs to come down and socialize, dance, or perhaps proselytize over cocktails.
The twelfth-century icon of St. George stared sternly out among the others, clutching his spear.
“Our buddy George needs to find a new hairstylist,” McDougal said. “And his eyebrows look waxed, like a woman’s. You sure he was straight?”
Natalie smacked him lightly in the arm. “Don’t be sacrilegious.”
“But I do it so well. It’s one of my specialties.”
The doors opened behind them, and a tall, regal man with a white mustache entered, a small older lady on his arm. She moved slowly and clearly didn’t see well, but her face was animated. She drank in the air of the cathedral as if she couldn’t get enough, cocked her head as though she were recording every sound.
“Nonnie!” Natalie ran to her and embraced her with obvious affection, despite her frustration with her grandmother’s shenanigans.
“Natalya!” The old lady eventually pulled back, found her cheek, and patted it. She looked secretly delighted. “You’re as crazy as I am, aren’t you?”
“Probably.” Natalie turned to extend her hand to the tall man with the mustache. “It’s nice to see you again, Colonel. We’ve met a couple of times.”
“Yes, yes. Good to see you again, young Natalie.”
Eric walked up behind her. “Eric McDougal, sir. Mrs. Ciccoli. Pleased to meet you both.”
The colonel nodded civilly.
“Is this the boy you’ve been kissing in the street, Natalya?”
“Um—”
“Yes,” McDougal said. “She couldn’t resist.”
“Aren’t you the impudent one?” Nonnie commented. “Give me your hand.”
He did, and she took it, tracing her old fingers along his, running them over his palm and even the back of it. She nodded. “Yes. St. George sent you. It’s fitting that you should be here today.”
McDougal felt an odd energy flow through him at her touch, which discomfited him even more than her words. “It is?”
“Yes.”
Natalie seemed to sense his unease. “Nonnie, where is the archbishop you spoke of?”
“He will be here.”
Slowly, Tatyana unwrapped her scarf to reveal the magnificent necklace, the miniature saint on his horse nestling against her skin. As if on cue, the chandeliers came on, catching the twenty-two-karat gold and electrifying the scene playing out over her bosom.
The dragon writhed in agony, the horse reared to crush the beast under its tiny hooves, and the saint kept perfect balance as he ended the conflict. Good conquered evil; all was right with the world.
“St. George,” Nonnie said. “Patron saint of England, the Knights of the Garter, the Knights of the Round Table. Hero of Spenser’s Faerie Queene. Patron saint of the cavalry. Patron saint of the Scouts, both English and Russian. Patron saint of Moscow.”
“Old George does wear a few hats, doesn’t he?” McDougal commented.
Natalie’s grandmother ignored him. “Catherine the Great founded the Order of St. George in 1769 as the highest military honor. She herself was the very first recipient as the grand master of the order, and she commissioned the necklace for the occasion.”
“How did it end up in our family?” Natalie asked. “You’ve never told me.”
“Before her death, Catherine gave the necklace to a lady-in-waiting who had been particularly loyal and was said to be as good with a sword as her husband. The lady had foiled an assassination plot against Catherine.That lady was my great-great-great-great-great-grandmother, and she began a tradition of passing the St. George piece down to the eldest surviving daughter of each generation.”
Nonnie placed her hand over the little knight. “One day it will pass to you, my dear. But in the meantime, we need it to prove who we are. We need it in order to reclaim the family treasures that my mother and father were forced to leave behind.”
“How can it prove who we are? We could have stolen it.” Natalie’s face fell. “In fact, we did steal it, Nonnie. And it’s still not right.”
Her grandmother looked faintly amused. “It proves who we are, my girl, because nobody else knows that our possessions are here. No one—unless my sister, Svetlana, was ill-advised enough to tell someone before she died.
“And as for having ‘stolen’ the necklace from your employer? We did no such thing. We took it, which is quite different.”
“How?” Natalie challenged her. “The man who shot your father—he took the necklace as well.”
Nonnie wagged her finger back and forth. “Von Bruegel? No. He stole it.”
“Semantics.”
“This has nothing to do with semantics, young lady, and everything to do with precision of language! To cut is not the same thing as to slice, though they both involve wielding a knife. To amble is not the same thing as to scramble, though both involve moving forward with one’s feet . . .”
“Okay, okay, okay, Nonnie.” Natalie buried her face in her hands. “Now I know why my mother became a linguistics professor,” she muttered. “You are the actual source of my childhood dictionary torment.”
Colonel Blakely had stuffed his hands into his pockets and wandered toward the south portal to examine Ivan the Terrible’s Monomakh throne. The doors hadn’t quite closed; one was cracked open about an inch.
Quickly, the colonel strode back to the group. “I hate to interrupt this fascinating discussion,” he said, “but there is a group of men approaching, and I don’t think they’ve come here to worship.”
“But this is the Kremlin,” Natalie exclaimed. “There are guards—”
“Yeah?” McDougal shot a glance at the one wizened old woman in black sitting on a chair near the south portal.
“Not her, maybe, but outside—”
An explosion ripped through the air, seeming to come from outside the northeast corner of the cathedral.
“A distraction,” said Colonel Blakely. “Classic ploy—gets the guards’ attention.”
The old woman in black ran for the doors and disappeared.
“Move, everyone,” McDougal ordered. “Move now, or we’re dead.” He hustled the group to the left, around the corner, into an alcove that held two tombs. “Down. Get flat on the floor and don’t make a sound.” He pulled the Glock from his waistband and slid along the wall, back toward the nave of the church.
“Eric, no!” Natalie protested.
He held a finger over his lips and gestured for her to do as he’d said. Then he crept
silently away. He heard the creak of the old doors, footsteps, whispers.
“There’s no one here,” a man said in Russian.
“They’re inside, I tell you. The four of them.”
“All exits are blocked?”
“Yes.”
Not good news. McDougal inched forward until he got at last to the passageway, from where he had a limited vantage point. Three men, not street thugs. Professionals. Armed—and the weapons had silencers. That was both good and bad: good because a silencer played hell with accuracy. Bad for obvious reasons—nobody would come running at the noise when they were fired.
If all the exits were blocked, then he was dealing with at least six, maybe seven men. McDougal had a healthy ego, but he was under no illusion that he was Batman, Spider-Man, Superman, or any combination thereof. So he backtracked toward the rest of the group.
Yeah, so he couldn’t fly, stick to vertical surfaces, or put his fist through cinder blocks . . . but he could draw attention away from Natalie, her grandmother, and the colonel—and run.
After all, McDougal had experience running from furious fathers and bent-out-of-shape boyfriends, not to mention husbands with hatchets. He’d be in his element.
As he slipped back into the alcove, the colonel said quietly, “I can still hold my own in a fight. But there are six of them.”
Eric shook his head. “Too risky. And one of us needs to stay with the ladies.”
“If they harm anyone in this cathedral,” kooky Nonnie said in a stage whisper, “they will be cursed by all the saints and the order of St. George and by the spirit of Catherine the Great herself.”
“Um. I’m sure you’re right, Mrs. Ciccoli. Meaning no offense, but I don’t think they care at this point in time.” He paused. “There’s only one way to handle this. I can draw them out and away from you, but I’ll need to have what they want.”
“The necklace,” Natalie said.
He nodded. “Exactly.”
Nonnie clutched it and shook her head.
“Mrs. Ciccoli,” Eric said gently, “this would only be temporary, I promise you. I’m good at . . . getting away from people. Okay? It’s”—he looked at Natalie—“part of what I do. We will meet later and I will return the necklace to you, so that you can reclaim your family heirlooms.”
Take Me for a Ride Page 19
