“Which one? My Docs or Personal Journal?” Vicktor asked, reaching for the mouse.
“Click on the journal.”
Yanna’s perfume edged close as she leaned over Vicktor’s shoulder. “Leonid’s Cure,” she whispered as he opened it.
A list of dates. Randomly, Vicktor picked one. February 10, 2001. “Leonid took the first of the two Shtumm vaccines today.”
Vicktor scowled at the screen. “What is it?”
“I think it’s a history of treatment,” Artyom said.
Vicktor popped open the file for March 27, 2001. “Today began air purification treatment. Leonid submitted to two hours of air therapy with Aleon 132 Lystra machine.”
“I don’t get it. What did Dr. Young have to do with Leonid’s cure?” Yanna said. “He didn’t have hospital privileges, or a license to practice in Russia. He wasn’t allowed to give shots or dispense medicine.”
“Maybe because Russia’s health care doesn’t allow for individual treatment.” Vicktor remembered, too well, the wall-to-wall beds in the cancer ward, the expressionless doctors who offered hopelessness. The smells, the moans, the faces of death.
No, he had no trouble at all understanding why Leonid might turn to an American for help in the area of medicine. He scrolled down the screen.
“Read June 12, 2001.” Yanna tapped her finger on the screen.
“Began second cycle of vodka and oil diet. Schedule as follows: two parts vodka: two parts pure sesame seed oil, three times daily for ten days. No sugar.”
“Yum,” murmured Artyom. Vicktor threw him a dark look.
Vicktor took a step back and rubbed his neck. “Evidently this Leonid must have been desperate for a cure and thought Dr. Young could help him.”
“But how? For all practical purposes, the man couldn’t practice medicine here.” Yanna leaned a hip on the worktable.
“What about this vaccine thing?” Vicktor leaned over and scrolled down the screen. “Here’s another one. ‘Gave Leonid second dose of Shtumm vaccine after positive ultrasound and X-ray (see cr: April 10, 2002).’”
Vicktor clicked on the entry for April 10. “Second series X-rays today revealed a stall of the cancerous tumor growth in Leonid’s stomach. No noticeable growth since January 2002.”
“No noticeable growth,” Artyom echoed.
Vicktor stepped back, absorbing the information. Artyom grabbed the mouse.
“Go to the last entry, Artyom. Read it.” If Dr. Young had been practicing medicine, perhaps he was also smuggling in illegal drugs. He recalled the fake Korean documents. Drugs from Korea? He frowned. The North Koreans barely had enough money to eat, let alone research new medicines.
“Here it is.” The tech’s mouth hung open as he scanned the screen.
“Read it.”
“Leonid is in complete remission. Fourth series ultrasound and X-rays reveal a decrease in the mass of the cancerous tumor.”
Vicktor cupped his cheek, absorbing the information. Utuzh had said Leonid’s corpse was cancer free. Cancer free. Whatever Dr. Young had smuggled in and used on Leonid the Red had worked.
Vicktor reached for the back of Artyom’s chair. Yanna grabbed his arm.
“Vicktor?”
Words deserted him as he stared at Yanna’s ashen face. He fought for breath. Leonid had been cured—cured. Fury reached up and grabbed him by the throat. He opened his mouth, but nothing emerged.
“Come with me,” Yanna urged softly.
Numb, he let her lead him to her office. She settled him on a straight-back chair, then closed the door. The room hummed with technology—Yanna’s specialty. One of the first female communication specialists in the FSB, Yanna had made a name for herself by helping write software to intercept and read Internet files during transmission. It earned her captain’s bars and a director’s position over the hackers’ department.
“Can I get you a drink of water, Vita? You’re scaring me.”
Vicktor buried his face in his hands, shook his head and fought for a steady breath. Yanna crouched beside him, her hand on his back.
“Talk to me.”
Vicktor closed his eyes. “My mother died of cancer.”
“I know.”
“Two years ago.”
Yanna nodded.
He looked at her, blinking back the sting in his eyes. “A year after Leonid was cured, Yanna. An entire year. What worked for him could have worked for her.” His voice caught in his parched throat.
Yanna’s eyes glistened. “Maybe. But there are many types of cancer. You don’t know it would have worked.”
“I have to find out what Dr. Young was doing and why.” He scrubbed his hands over his face, feeling close to losing it completely.
He clenched his teeth, willing himself to pull together. “A cancer vaccine. That’s what the Wolf’s after, I know it.” He turned to Yanna. “Think of it. A vaccine against one of biggest killers across the globe. It would be worth a fortune. It would change the world.”
“If it worked, yeah.”
“According to Utuzh, it worked.” Vicktor kneaded his temples. “It’s so unfair.” Rising, he paced the room. “I don’t know who this Leonid person was, but I know my mother did not deserve to die the wretched, painful death she did.”
He pinned Yanna with a dark look. “God should have given the cure to my mother. She deserved it.”
“You know I’m not the one who can answer those questions. You need to talk to Preach…” Yanna raised her gaze and the tears in her eyes made him hear her words. “Or your friend Gracie. Maybe she can tell you why your mother died.”
“Yeah. Maybe. Or maybe Gracie Benson isn’t everything she appears, either, just like Dr. Young. Maybe she knows more than she’s saying.”
“Vicktor, I don’t think she’s keeping anything from you. She’s no doctor. How would she know anything about a cancer treatment?”
“Well she knows something. And someone’s trying to kill her for it.”
Yanna held her hands palm up and shrugged.
Vicktor turned, one hand on the door handle. His voice dropped to a whisper. “If Gracie Benson is hiding something, it’s gonna kill me.”
“I know,” Yanna said.
Gracie hobbled down the sidewalk. The cement chipped into her bare feet and she ached to her toes. She ducked her head at the gawks of two overdressed babushkas in wool coats and headscarves. Running her tongue over her throbbing lip, she tasted blood.
She needed to hide, and fast. For all she knew, the killers had finished off Nickolai and had turned their sights on her.
Glancing over her shoulder, she saw only blue sky and green parkway.
No, gun-wielding killers. No maniacs with hunting knives.
Think, Gracie!
Her right arm felt numb down to her fingertips, except for a white-hot burning in her elbow. Clutching her wrist, she tucked the injured arm close and speed-walked toward the Aeroflot office, her closest link to safety.
Beyond hiding inside Larissa’s office, she hadn’t a clue what she would do. Someone needed to get help.
Please, Lord, don’t let Nickolai be dead!
Her feet felt like chunks of ice as she climbed the cement steps. Head down, she scuttled through the lobby and nearly broke into a run on the way down the hall to Larissa’s office.
Larissa looked up. “Oy. What happened?” She rose to her feet.
“Do I look that bad?”
Larissa rushed around her desk and Gracie let herself sag into her friend’s embrace. “Oh, Larissa…”
“What happened?”
Gracie pulled away, took a deep breath. Two wide-eyed women goggled at her from across the hallway. “I’m in trouble,” she said in a low voice.
Larissa frowned, pinched her red lips into a line and hooked her arm around Gracie’s waist. Gracie fought a wince as she limped with Larissa down the hall to a tiny, windowless office. Larissa closed the door and turned on the overhead light, filling the room with fluoresce
nce.
“Where’s Andrei?” Larissa led her to a chair.
Gracie sunk into it as every muscle screamed. “I don’t know.”
Larissa wore a look of horror as she knelt before Gracie, examining her wounds. “Were you attacked?”
“I’m…in a bit of trouble.” Gracie sank her head into her hands. “Since I saw you last, my flat has been destroyed. I’ve been shot at. I’ve had my bag stolen. I’ve spent the night in two different beds. I’m in the custody of the FSB, and just now, I think a man was killed trying to protect me.”
Put that way, it sounded a billion times worse than Gracie had ever realized.
“I think someone is trying to kill me.” Gracie blinked back tears as the truth slammed into her.
Someone was trying to kill her. Why, oh why, hadn’t she listened to Vicktor? Believed him? Gladly taken the holding cell deep in FSB HQ?
Or maybe…only Vicktor knew where she’d been in the village, or at the restaurant, or even today. And had been conveniently absent each time. Could the FSB somehow be behind the murders?
Vicktor wouldn’t kill his own father, would he?
Lord, please, give me wisdom!
“Larissa, I need a place to hide. I can’t leave Russia because my passport and visa have been stolen. I need a place to stay, a place no one knows about.”
“How about my dacha? You can go there. You know where it is and no one would think to look there.”
Gracie kneaded her eyes. Yes, maybe Larissa’s summer cottage, a small two-room shack in the middle of a fenced garden plot, was just the forgotten hideout she needed. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure, Gracie.” Larissa scowled. “But first let’s get you into some decent clothes and a pair of shoes.”
Vicktor stood in front of his samovar, holding his empty cup, tapping it in one hand. Leonid’s million-dollar cure. Dr. Young. Gracie. Evgeny. How did they fit together? And who wanted them dead? He would have bet his life on the Wolf twenty-four hours earlier, but now? Was the Wolf a smuggler? Or were the Youngs smuggling in experimental cancer drugs?
The samovar steamed, hissing. Vicktor unplugged it with a yank and filled his mug. Two heaping spoonfuls of instant coffee turned his water to mud. So maybe his mind was on other topics. Or maybe he needed the double jolt to help his brain unravel Gracie’s mess.
Vicktor set the mug to cool by the computer and opened his mail program. Shooting a look toward Maxim, he turned his screen away from Max, put the keyboard on his lap and logged on to the Internet. Typing in the address of an e-group chat room, he entered a password and left a message. Then he accessed his private electronic mailbox and sent a letter. “Please, Preach, check your mail tonight,” he breathed, then quickly closed out his program and logged off.
His telephone buzzed not ten seconds later. “Slyushaiyu!”
Shots fired. And the address given to him nearly made him retch.
Chapter Twenty-One
Larissa rooted through her wooden locker, located in a small changing room down the hall from her office. “Aha!” she exclaimed and pulled out a pair of black polyester bell-bottoms and a velour leopard-skin patterned shirt.
“Oh…I don’t know…” Gracie stared at the outfit.
“Compared to the little number you’ve got on, this thing is tame.” Larissa draped the shirt over Gracie’s body.
“Where do you wear this thing after Halloween is over?”
Larissa gave her a look of mock offense.
Gracie wiggled out of her ripped black dress and let it fall in a heap to the floor. Larissa picked it up with two fingers, as if it were something the cat dragged in.
Gracie pulled on the shirt, gingerly working it over her injured elbow, hating how it molded to every curve. Just what she needed to make Vicktor notice all her attributes except her morals and ethics.
Not like she’d ever let him get that close again.
The memory of a dog whining and a voice calling her name echoed in her ears as she tugged on the bell-bottoms. “I think it might be against my religion to wear something like this.”
“You look fabulous! No one would ever guess you’re a missionary.”
“That’s what I am afraid of.”
“I’m just trying to help you out here. The idea is to blend, right?”
“I think my mother had an outfit like this when I was about three years old.”
“Sandals?” Larissa held out a pair of stiletto high-heeled sandals.
Gracie made a face. “Thanks, Larissa, but maybe it would be easier to go barefoot.”
Larissa held up the sandals like they were earrings. “They’re my favorite pair.”
Gracie slipped on the shoes. She rose three inches higher and wobbled. “I don’t want to know how I look.”
Larissa urged her toward a full-length mirror. “Oh yes, you do.”
Gracie groaned as she hazarded a look. Her hair fell around her gaunt face in an unkempt mess, shadows bagged under her eyes, and a muddy scratch ran along her cheekbone. She traced it, noticing tinges of purple. “I didn’t realize I’d hit my face when I fell.”
“Fell?” Larissa echoed.
Gracie didn’t elaborate. And she had to concede that, despite the war-torn additions, she looked little, if anything, like the woman who’d fled the Youngs’ flat only three days ago. Was that a good thing or a bad thing?
She unpinned her hair and attempted to gather it. Larissa scrutinized her injury for a moment, then retrieved a brush from her locker. Gracie swept back her hair, turned it into an inverted ponytail.
“Now some mascara.”
“Wow, clothes and makeup, too. What is this, Larissa’s Beauty Salon?”
“Close your eyes. Pretend you’re reading a good book late at night in bed and you’re fighting to keep your eyes open.”
“Right.” Gracie lowered her eyelids and felt Larissa layer her lashes with mascara. A moment later, Gracie smiled at her new, groomed reflection. The throb in her elbow seemed to lessen.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” Gracie said, pulling Larissa into an embrace.
“You just be careful.” Larissa’s voice thickened with emotion. “Here, take this.” She pressed a wad of rubles into Gracie’s palm. “I’ll come out tomorrow to check on you.”
Gracie nodded. “Oh, can you call Andrei and tell him where I am? He’ll be worried.”
“Of course. What about the FSB?”
The FSB. The Formerly Safe Bureau. The Federation of Spies and Bad Boys. Gracie’s jaw tightened. “I’m on my own now.”
She left the Aeroflot office and sauntered down the sidewalk feeling like she was on exhibit. Noting the curious glances from old women, a blush heated her face. No one would guess she was American missionary Gracie Benson. For the moment, her leopard-skin patterned shirt protected her.
Her injured ankle began to ache and the high-heel shoes pitched her at an unfamiliar angle. She longed for a pair of faded jeans and her hiking boots, but they felt as far away as America.
No passport, no visa. No clothes, little money. Gracie hobbled to a bench and sank onto it. “Lord, I really need Your help here.”
The wind picked at her hair and sent chills up her spine. She should have borrowed a jacket, too.
The smell of fresh bread called to her empty stomach, and it groaned. The boulevard traffic had picked up—women walking dogs, children scampering home from school for lunch. Gracie watched a group of boys jostling one another, playing, laughing. Carefree.
Her chest burned and she swallowed the acid creeping up her throat. Once she got to Larissa’s dacha, what would she do? Her list of friends shrank daily. Even Andrei had seemed standoffish, annoyed this morning. And if Vicktor found her…he’d probably throw her in the clink until he could send her packing.
If he didn’t have other plans for her…She let her fears settle into one painful truth—precious few people knew where she’d been this morning and the glaring majority had been FSB agents.
Someone had leaked her whereabouts.
First sign of Mr. FSB and she would kung fu him and run for the hills. The thought brought tears to her eyes. What had she been thinking, throwing herself into the arms of the FSB? She shuddered. Andrei had known better. Fear had uprooted her common sense and tossed it hither. The FezB had a reputation that made the average Russian shudder, not to mention what it would, no should, do to a foreigner. Vicktor was the last person she should trust. His blue eyes had obviously charmed away her brain cells.
She pushed to her feet, swayed on legs of rubber, then gritted her teeth and set out for the train station. In an hour she’d be tucked away at Larissa’s dacha.
Someplace where the FSB, or Vicktor’s so-called Wolf, would never find her.
Vicktor screeched up to the curb, nearly crunching Arkady’s black Moscovitz. He scrambled up the three flights to his father’s flat, his heart rocketing through his chest. If he were a praying man, he’d have been making serious promises.
He nearly collapsed when he saw Roman hanging out near the doorway. His friend braced two hands on Vicktor’s shoulders, barring his entry to the flat. Vicktor’s breath caught in his throat. “No, Roman, don’t tell me—”
Roman’s eyes locked his. “He’s fine.”
Relief washed over Vicktor. Wrenching out of Roman’s grasp, he doubled over and gripped his knees, his breath ragged, his chest tight. “The dispatcher said shots were fired.”
“Your pop got him.”
Vicktor stood up. “The Wolf?”
Roman again palmed his chest to stop him. “We don’t know. There were two of them. One of them got away.”
Vicktor pushed Roman’s hand away. “What don’t you want me to see?”
Roman grimaced. “He’s okay, Vita. The paramedics are patching him up.”
“What about Gracie?”
“She’s gone.”
Vicktor sprinted past him. He nearly fell over the bloody corpse sprawled in the hallway of the apartment, but didn’t stop.
In Sheep's Clothing Page 20
