So was the inside of the room. The door swing shut and locked with a heavy drop of the bolts.
“How did my case get here?” Fabian repeated.
“Here.” Mischa carried it to one of the bed and placed it on the cover. “Open it.”
She moved over to the case and unzipped it and threw the lid back.
A sheet of paper laid on top of her possessions, with two lines of Cyrillian script. She handed it to Mischa, who read it and smiled.
“What does it say?”
“It says, ‘you owe me your left testicle’.” He put the note on the bed.
“Bohdan Ivanov sent this here?” she breathed.
“For you, because you charmed him. He was roped into the investigation at the wharf, with the women. He must have found your suitcase somewhere—probably with the possessions of all the other women. He sent this here, as a message.”
“About owing him?”
“That he’s letting us go,” Mischa replied. “For now, at least. He has to make it look good, though.” He stepped aside and waved toward the bathroom. “And see? Plumbing!”
Fabian would have run to the bathroom. Hobbling was all she could manage.
It was the best damn shower of her life. She didn’t care that her hair would kink and curl from the cheap shampoo on the bathroom counter. It didn’t smell dank or crinkle when she touched it and that was all she cared about.
The TV was on when she emerged nearly forty minutes later. Mischa stood at the window, looking down at the street below.
Fabian got dressed in her own clothes. Fresh underwear had never felt so good. She folded the sweater and sweatpants Mischa had bought and packed them into the case, which required moving a few things around, for it was a small case.
Mischa came over to the side of the bed as if he had been pulled there. “My scarf…” he said, looking into the case.
Fabian glanced into the case. “Do you want it back?” She reached for the folded wool.
“You weren’t wearing it. I thought you’d…thrown it away.” His frown was heavy, his brows nearly coming together. It was almost as though he was in pain.
“I’m glad I packed it away,” she admitted. “Or I would have lost it with my coat in the river last night.”
His gaze shifted to her face. His hard jaw worked. “Straightened and folded. Why did you pack it?”
Fabian’s cheeks grew hot. Her whole face did. “I…” She cleared her throat. “If I kept wearing it, then it would start smelling of me and not…you.” Her throat grew warm, too.
Mischa slid his hands around her face. The warmth in his eyes jolted her back to three days ago, in his apartment, when there had been just the two of them, with no politics or international borders between them.
Fabian knew he was about to kiss her.
Then he straightened, his hands falling to his sides. “Pack your case,” he said softly, his gaze moving past her shoulder. “We’re leaving.”
She whirled.
On the TV screen was a news anchor speaking quickly. Everyone seemed to speak fast in Ukraine. Fabian didn’t need to understand the anchor because her photo and Mischa’s were hanging in the air on either side of the anchor’s head.
Her image had been taken from the police station CCTVs, for the background was the run-down, dirty white walls and counter grills. Mischa’s image was clearer, and he wasn’t smiling—an official ID photo.
A red banner streamed along the top of the screen, with lots of exclamation marks.
“Bohdan can’t delay this anymore,” Mischa said. “We’re on our own.”
[15]
Kalinsky Hotel, Downtown Kiev, Ukraine
Mischa seemed to have an instinct for escape hatches. He found the staff elevator and took them down to the second floor and halted it there. “One flight of stairs only,” he promised. He’d remembered her knee.
He hefted her case in his left hand. His right hand hung free.
Fabian nodded grimly. Her knee was rested. She could cope with a flight of stairs, if they were moving downward.
Mischa pushed the fire escape door open and they moved slowly down the linoleum-covered steps, then out the next escape door. From here, she could hear the clash of pans and raised voices. Sizzling.
The kitchens.
Mischa, though, moved in the opposite direction. He turned a corner, into a wide corridor lined with lockers on one side and pegs with coats and hats on the other, with boots and outdoor shoes beneath.
He plucked a dark coat from the hooks and handed it to her. “Empty the pockets.” He took another dark—and larger—coat from the hooks, slid it on and quickly emptied the pockets. He put the possessions on the floor, up against the wall between pairs of boots.
Fabian found tissues and lipstick and a small notebook, which she put on the ground, too.
Mischa pushed down on the bar of the external door and moved outside. Cold air brushed Fabian’s face and her wet hair. Now she realized why Mischa had made her take the coat.
Mischa stood just beyond the door, staring dreamily ahead.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s a Flying Spur,” he said, his voice matching the far-away look in his eyes.
Fabian scanned the rear of the hotel, which was really a yard enclosed by three other buildings. Cars—staff cars, Fabian presumed—were lined up against the wall on the far side, which wasn’t very far at all. A delivery truck was to Fabian’s left. Double doors were open, leading directly into the kitchen. Staff carried boxes in from the truck.
“What’s a flying spur?” Fabian demanded in a whisper.
Mischa took in a deep breath and let it out. He moved forward, picking up speed as he passed through the first line of cars, heading for the back of the yard.
The parking bays here were wider and longer. As Mischa angled toward them, Fabian put it together. “The spur is a car?”
Mischa stopped beside a black sedan with smoked windows and glinting silver details.
“It’s a tank!” she whispered.
“It’s a Bentley Flying Spur,” he said over the top of the roof, as he dug in his pocket for the screwdriver tool thing he’d used for the Toyota. “Eight cylinders, five hundred and twenty-one horsepower, from zero to sixty in four point three seconds, and it’s this year’s model, too.”
“Omigod, you’re such a guy,” she breathed.
He pushed the tool down the window slot and yanked. “All the better to run away with.” He opened the door and unlocked her side.
She sank into the cream leather seat and drew in a startled breath. It felt as soft as a pillow. “Well, it’s not an Aston Martin, is it?” she said, studying the wood veneer and plush appointments.
“Have you ever been in an Aston Martin?” Mischa asked, as he fitted the tool into the ignition.
“Have you?”
“Many times. The pedals are too close together for my feet.” He started the engine, which didn’t growl or rev. It just rumbled.
He glanced at her. “Do up your seat belt.”
“Are you hungry?” Mischa asked, after several minutes of maneuvering around the city streets and sliding in and out of traffic snarls. The Bentley, Fabian admitted, handled very well. She wasn’t a car fanatic in the slightest, although she could tell by the way it seemed to cling to the road and whip around other cars with ease, despite the size, that it was a good car for a driver.
“Hungry?” she repeated.
“There’s one of your McDonalds, a few blocks ahead. Might be your last chance for calories for a while.”
“You’re going to drive this car through a takeout lane?”
“Why not?”
“I’d cry if I got ketchup on these seats. I’ll pass, thanks.”
“Have you seen St. Sophia’s Cathedral?”
“I’ve seen the inside of your apartment for two straight days and little else,” she reminded him.
“Mm… It’s Sunday. The church will have everything lit up.�
�
“It’s the middle of the afternoon,” she pointed out.
“And overcast. They’ll have the lights on. Then, I know a place where we can get tea.”
“What is this? We’re sightseeing?”
“Something like that,” Mischa said. “Seeing and being seen.” He turned a corner and pointed. “There. See the green and gold domes? That’s St. Sophia.”
He drove steadily toward the church, which was surrounded by worshippers and tourists. Big tour buses were parked down a side street, belching more tourists onto the street.
Mischa slowed down to a crawl, matching the rest of the traffic, as they passed slowly by the colorful cathedral.
“It is pretty,” Fabian murmured.
“And busy,” Mischa said, sounding happy about that. “Now. Tea. I’m parched.”
The little tea shop was on the end of a row of other little shops. Mischa wheeled the big sedan around the corner and slid into an open parking bay. “Say dva chayi z molokom,” he told her, and pulled his wallet out.
“You’re not going to send me in for tea, are you?”
“You’ll stand out. You’re memorable. Dva chayi z molokom.”
She repeated it, fumbling over the consonants. “What am I even saying?”
“Two teas with milk.”
“You take sugar,” she pointed out.
“There will be packets on the counter. Dva chayi z molokom.”
She took the colorful currency from him and repeated the phrase as she moved back around the corner and entered the little tea shop. The scent was wonderful, warm and rich. She sniffed and moved over to the counter and waited for her turn, while the one girl at the counter served the elderly man in front of Fabian.
The man took his teacup and left.
The girl said something to Fabian, her brow raising.
Fabian held up two fingers and stumbled over the phrase.
The girl frowned. “Dva chayi?” she repeated, only she said it properly.
“Tak,” Fabian said, with deep relief.
The girl moved to the bench behind the counter to put the two cups of tea together.
Fabian grimaced when she saw the little box of sugar packets at the front of the counter, behind the cash register.
The display case next to the counter held all sorts of glistening and sticky-looking treats. Fabian’s belly cramped and rumbled as she looked at them. When the girl brought the cups back to the counter, with lids already in place, Fabian pointed to the one which had caught her eye. “Two—dva—please.”
The girl slid two pastries into bags and put them beside the insulated cups and tapped the prices into her cash register.
Fabian handed over the bills Mischa had given her. The girl smiled and pushed one of them back at Fabian and took the other.
“Thanks,” Fabian told her. “You could have pocketed it and not told me. It’s nice you didn’t.”
The girl shrugged. She had no clue what Fabian was saying. She reached out to Fabian with the change and pointed at Fabian’s hair and spoke quickly.
Fabian took the money. “Sorry, no clue.” She shrugged back.
The girl pointed to her hair once more, then smiled and waved her hands in a way which made Fabian think she was admiring.
Fabian squeezed her still damp curls self-consciously. “Thanks. Spasybi.”
She took the tea and the pastries back to the car, which Mischa had left running.
“You got food,” he said, sounding impressed and pleased.
“I pointed and said dva.”
He settled the cups in the roomy cup holders, the pastries on the wide console between them.
Fabian reached for her seat belt.
“And put on—” he began, then shut up.
He drove aimlessly. Fabian knew it was aimless, because he boxed the compass at least once. They drank and ate as he drove. Mischa asked her to tear off pieces of the pastry for him. Occasionally, he pointed out landmarks. None of them had a crowd like the cathedral’s.
They were driving down a long straight road which gave Fabian a glimpse of the river to the left, when Mischa glanced in the mirror. Casually, he dropped his teacup into the cupholder. “Put the lid on it,” he said quietly. “No, don’t look back yet,” he added, as Fabian bent to peer through the seats.
She jammed the lids on both cups and shoved the remains of sweet pastry away. As she worked, Mischa reached over his shoulder and pulled the seat belt over his chest and fastened it.
He glanced in the mirror once more. “Ready?” he breathed.
“Can I get out if I say no?”
He looked at her from the corner of his eye. “Only if I can come with you.”
“Better drive on. It’s cold out there.”
Behind the car, an odd-noted yip of a siren sounded. Then the flash of red and blue lights.
“Hold on,” Mischa said, threw the gearstick down two gears and dropped the clutch, eliciting a deep snarl from the monstrous engine.
The Bentley leapt forward.
[16]
Aloft Kiev Marriott Hotel, Kiev.
Dima sipped the lukewarm coffee. They’d long ago resorted to sending for the biggest thermos carafes of the stuff the hotel could supply. The little one-point-three cup coffee machine next to the microwave couldn’t keep up.
“Report in, please. Around the room.” Dima rubbed her eyes to bring them back into focus.
“Nothing on airlines, trains, buses and coaches or cruises down the Dnieper,” Ren said. “She’s still in town, as far as I can tell.”
“Lochan?”
“Wait,” Noah said. He leaned over Quinn, winked at her as he pressed against her and reached for the remote on the arm of Dima’s chair. He straightened and clicked the TV on.
“CNN?” Scott asked.
“I don’t think it matters,” Noah said, scrolling through the hotel’s front menu for a station.
“Oh my fucking god,” Agata breathed, staring at her laptop screen.
“What she said,” Leander added, looking at his own.
Noah clicked again. The TV blared excited, frantic Ukrainian. He cranked the sound down.
It was a car chase, viewed from a helicopter, far overhead. A black car was at the tip of an arrowhead of pursuit vehicles, moving along one of the freeways. Hundreds of civilian cars were pulled over to either side of the elevated lanes.
“The Cyrillic says what?” Dima demanded. She could speak Russian because she’d learned to speak it like a native, through full immersion. But she’d gone to school and learned her letters in America.
“Live from Kiev,” Noah said. He thumbed up the volume a little more.
Dima absorbed the anchor’s monologue. He was speaking in calm, measured tones about fugitives and armed robbery and theft. Then he paused and began again. “To round up the facts as we know them right now, two fugitives are on the run from the police and military pursuit vehicles. An American woman, Fabiana Gracia Santiago, and a member of the Republic of Russia, Mikhail Sokolov, allegedly hijacked a car at gunpoint earlier today. They have since stolen a second car and are also wanted for questioning regarding a series of events during the weekend. Despite police hails, the pair have refused to halt. What you see now is a live feed from the station’s aircam. Vassily?”
A new voice began to speak, sounding strained and tinny beneath the thwop of rotors. “As you can see, the fugitives are refusing to halt, despite a massive pursuit—”
Dima lurched to her feet. “Another channel. What else have they said?”
Agata turned her laptop around so everyone could see the screen. “I just found this.” She stabbed the spacebar and video began to run soundlessly. It showed Fabian in a café or coffeeshop, standing at the counter and talking to the clerk.
“And this,” Leander added. He turned his laptop around. It showed more CCTV footage of a parking lot. Sokolov and Fabian stood on either side of the vehicle they were now using on the freeway. Sokolov was very clearly
breaking into the Bentley.
“That’s a Flying Spur,” Agata said, her tone admiring.
“Sokolov can’t be that stupid, can he?” Scott said, bemused. “He’s a spook. He’s gotta know that there were cameras in that yard. Fabian might have missed them in the store, but…” He frowned. “Now this massive high-speed chase?”
“He’s not stupid,” Leander said, sounding absolutely certain.
“He’s waving at us,” Dima said.
“Isn’t that what car chases are about?” Quinn said. “Na-nah, you can’t catch me?”
“No, I mean, he’s waving at us. Me.” Dima got to her feet.
“How would they know we’re even here?” Quinn asked, sounding puzzled.
“He’s Russian intelligence,” Scott said. “Dima is known to them. As soon as she set foot in Ukraine, the alarms would have gone up.”
“But they still let you in?” Quinn asked.
“Scott is known to them, too,” Dima replied. “Only, we’re on clean passports, and we’ve done nothing but sleep in the hotel room and drive around a bit. They’re wondering why we’re here—although by now, they’ll know why we’re here. Which means they’ll be part of that pursuit pack behind the Bentley.” She pointed at the TV screen, which showed the Bentley careening off the freeway and swinging east. “Sokolov wants us to know where he is. Neither of them knows how to reach us, but they can bellow to get our attention. This is them bellowing.”
Scott scrubbed at his hair. “A while ago, you thought Fabian was defecting.”
“I was right about that,” Dima said. “I just had the wrong person.”
Scott let his hand drop. “Sokolov is coming over?”
“No. He’s not the type,” Leander said. “I’ve read the company file on him. He’s a military hero. The GRU recruited him after he rescued a dozen fellow submariners when he was nineteen. Then he moved over to the FSB. Everything in his record says he’s a complete and utter patriot.”
“You haven’t calculated for Fabian’s impact,” Dima said.
“I did, actually,” Leander replied calmly. “Even if their meeting was purely coincidental and they like each other, he’d still put her aside because his country wouldn’t like it. With all due respect to Fabian and her ability to charm apples from trees with those high cheekbones of hers, it would take something massive to jar a man like Sokolov into trading countries.”
Heart Strike Page 13
