Chapter 15
Through the open sliding glass door to the upper balcony, she awoke to the muffled sounds of the guards talking in the back yard, but the morning was chilly enough to convince her to curl back under the blankets, dozing with a lazy commitment to doing nothing. During the last two weeks of restrictions, she’d tried hard not to act like an overprotected and neglected child, following his instructions and staying inside the house, day after boring day.
The alarm system chirped to indicate that somebody had come in the front door, but with her personal army surrounding the pots of brightly colored geraniums on the porches, she wasn’t concerned. Pavel’s men came and went for any one of a dozen reasons, but generally to root through her refrigerator or have a cup of coffee at her kitchen table.
Almost immediately, Galena shouted up the stairs, “Zoya, where the hell are you?” Zoya groaned, but within a quick minute Galena stormed into her bedroom without so much as knocking. “My God. It’s like eleven o’clock in the morning. Why are you still asleep?”
“What the hell are you doing?” groaned Zoya. “I could have been up here with Pavel, or I could have shot you.”
“I went to high school with Thomas Sorokin who’s guarding your front porch,” said Galena, opening the curtains to let the stark sunshine flood the room and causing Zoya to pull the pillow over her head. “He said that Pavel left hours ago and let me in. Pavel stopped at the store yesterday and asked me check on you. He’s worried about you, sitting around all by yourself.” She nervously looked around the room. “Do you really have a gun up here?”
The pity visit did nothing to help her mood until a tiny sliver of hope brought her head out from under the pillow. “Wait, did he say that I could, you know, go someplace?”
“No,” she scoffed. “He warned me that if I tried to convince you to leave the house, he’d, and I quote, ‘get Liam to beat my naked ass in the middle of the boardwalk,’ so I’d probably tackle you if you tried anything stupid. At least get up and take a shower. Maybe put on something besides sweatpants.”
Galena caught her off guard when she pulled off the rest of her covers, exposing a shrieking, nude Zoya who desperately grabbed at the sheets to protect what was left of her privacy. “Yeah…” mumbled Galena. “Well, I guess even sweatpants would be better than sitting around naked all day. Come on, get up, and get in the shower and a little makeup wouldn’t kill you, you know. I’ll wait.”
Within the half hour, a still grumpy Zoya was showered and dressed in a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt, but she balked at adding any makeup to sit in her own house. At the kitchen table, the girls had steaming hot bowls of yesterday’s kharcho, a beef soup that her mother used to make to feed their large family, but the expensive smoked paprika and thick cuts of sirloin gave it a rich, full flavor to perfect an already excellent recipe.
“This is really good,” said Galena, helping herself to the loaf of crusty white bread nestled under a cloth napkin on the kitchen table. “I hate to cook, but I’m glad to see that you’ve done something besides sit on your ass for two weeks.”
“Eighteen days,” corrected Zoya sarcastically. “I’ve been feeding Pavel’s men, which is about the only thing I’ve done besides cleaning up after them and eating and getting fat. The most strenuous exercise I get is walking up the stairs to go to bed.”
“I brought you some American magazines,” said Galena, pointing to a large brown grocery bag on the kitchen floor. “My mother gets three or four subscriptions a month and never throws them away. I know that you can’t read them, but there are a lot of decorating and gardening ideas in there, and if you see a picture of something you like, I can translate it for you.”
Zoya reluctantly picked up the top magazine that was covered with orange and brown pictures of pumpkins and donuts. “That’s got a lot of classic American recipes,” said Galena. “Meatloaf and macaroni and cheese and some cookies and fruit pies too. My mother makes her macaroni and cheese by putting it under the broiler and the top gets all brown and crusty.” Galena gently patted her hand. “And this will all be over soon, Zoya. Pavel isn’t going to keep you here forever.”
She couldn’t meet her friend’s eye, but her self-pity ran deep enough to sniffle back a few tears. “I know I shouldn’t be complaining, and I know that this is nothing like being trapped in Damir’s townhouse, but sometimes the comparison is just too much. I don’t think I’ll ever be content to stay locked in a house again.”
“You aren’t really locked up,” said Galena sympathetically. “You’re just… choosing to listen to him rather than piss him off. You could walk out of here anytime you wanted to.”
“Sure,” she drawled. “Can you imagine what he’d do to me if he found out I left the house? Not to mention that I don’t know what threats are real and what I’m making up just because I hear a strange noise. He sure as hell isn’t volunteering any information.”
“Have you asked him for any details?” Galena raised an eyebrow. “Or are you just assuming that he’ll tell you something on his own because, you know, he’s a man and I’m sure a great communicator. I think you know how far that’s going to get you.”
“I…” Zoya started to defend herself, before she shrugged. “No, I don’t discuss any of it with him. You have no idea how angry he looks half the time, and when he’s not looking pissed, he’s exhausted and it’s after midnight.”
“Sorry, but if you aren’t even going to ask him what’s going on, then that lack of communication falls on you. Do you want to try to call the therapist to see if she can talk to you on the phone? Maybe she has a few ideas on how to handle this.”
“I’m not so sure that a non-Russian therapist was a good idea,” she said slowly. “How could some American woman understand this culture? Maybe I should just look for somebody in Brighton Beach and learn to live with the rumors.”
“Honey, if you only knew how many rumors were out there right now, you wouldn’t waste any time worrying about that. Between the arranged marriage that came out of nowhere, the Petruskenkov name, and some random shooting that started a mini power struggle that has everybody nervous, you’ve been the talk of the town since you arrived.” Galena looked uncomfortable, adding, “You never answered my question about whether or not you have a gun. Cindy Wyszynski… well, she’s telling everybody that you shot the man who was trying to break into your house.”
“I didn’t shoot anybody,” she dismissed with a wave of her hand. She started to tell her what really happened when the thought occurred to her that Pavel might have his reasons for not clarifying rumors. “What else have you heard?”
“Everybody is talking about this,” she said a little excitedly. “Old man Turgenev was diagnosed with late stage liver cancer months ago and isn’t expected to live more than a few weeks, and he only has the one son. There were a few daughters, but they’re married to Americans and moved out of New York last year when everything started to fall apart on him.”
She sounded like she was describing a television soap opera plot instead of life and death decisions among real families, but before Zoya could formulate a response that didn’t sound catty, the alarm chirped again and Pavel came into the house. “Hello, little girl,” he said.
His exhausted expression overwhelmed his weak smile, and he held out his arms to encourage her to come to him. “You’re home early,” she said anxiously, curling into his side. “Is everything okay? Are you okay?”
“You worry too much. I just came home for lunch. What do you have to feed me that my men haven’t already consumed? Galena, it’s good to see you, but I’m cringing at the thought of you two plotting against me.”
Galena laughed. “I should get moving. I have to cover the shop this afternoon until it closes. Check out those magazines, Zoya. I’ll come back tomorrow and stay longer if you need me to translate anything. I’ll bring lunch from my mother’s restaurant.” With a quick hug, Galena started toward the door, but when Pavel’s back was turn
ed to get a cold soda from the refrigerator, she mouthed, “Talk to him!”
Zoya made him a ham and cheese sandwich on a hard roll and added a cup of the hot soup, setting it on the table as his phone rang. He answered it in Russian, but quickly moved over to English, again leaving her out of the loop. When he ended the call, he finished his meal before leaning back in his chair. “Do you have any of those cookies left? The ones with the raisins and the spices?”
She pointed to the plastic box on the table. “They’re right in front of you. If you just opened your eyes you’d see them, or do you need me to take them out of the box for you?”
Pavel raised an eyebrow. “Watch your tone. I understand that all of this is hard, but be patient, and it will all be over soon.”
“How do you expect me to do that?” she asked, “When you speak in English, I have no idea what’s going on. It’s been eighteen days, Pavel. That’s a long time for anybody to stay in one place, but it’s been especially hard for me. I… I’m just not good at not knowing what’s going on.”
“Why didn’t you just ask if you needed more information? There are some things that you don’t need to know, but I’m working closely with a few Americans who don’t speak Russian. Other than that, there isn’t much to tell.”
“I’m neither stupid nor a child. You’re on the phone constantly, even in the middle of the night. You leave here every day and meet with your men for hours. Even if there is no new information that changes the outcome of all of this, there are clearly facts coming in. I understand that I’m nothing more to you than a housekeeper, but this impacts me, too.”
“You’re more than just a housekeeper,” he dismissed, pointing his finger at her nose. “You know that, so don’t start using clichés. All of this was hard for Marie, too.” He paused before continuing. “It doesn’t appear that any of the Turgenev family was involved. The only one who was likely to try to take control was the son, and he’s vowing that he has no interest. He even asked me for a job.”
“That’s pretty much what Galena said,” she admitted, “but if it wasn’t the Turgenevs, then who shot at the house?”
“You got a good glimpse of the car, and we have a suspicion that it was some of the former Turgenev soldiers making a rogue bid for power. With no organization and no money, they aren’t true threats. I promise that you can return to your normal routine soon, but you need to work on both your patience and your tone. Do you understand me?”
“I’m fine,” she said quickly. “I’m sorry, Pavel. I just get frustrated, and if things aren’t that bad, why do you need all of these men to guard the house? Wouldn’t the security cameras and all these alarms work just as well? You’ve put them up everywhere.”
“The men are here to guard you, Zoya, not the house. I came too close to losing you, and it’s not going to happen again. I have another crew in Staten Island to watch over the boys.”
“Me?” she asked incredulously. “I don’t need all of this.”
“This house means nothing to me,” he dismissed with a wave of his hand, “but I can’t worry about you all day and still do my job.” Taking his dishes from the table, she started to load the dishwasher, but Pavel leaned back in his chair and spoke calmly. “I spoke with Sacha Belsky this morning.”
“What the hell does he want?” she muttered, slamming one of her new plates against the kitchen counter hard enough to chip the ceramic dish. “If there was ever a snake who should crawl back under a rock, he’s the one.”
“He calls me every few weeks. Don’t forget that I work for Damir. I can keep you safe, but I am still responsible to those authority figures.”
“Great,” she said sarcastically. “Did you ask him if he’s found another young girl to rape, or is he slithering home to his own unhappy wife every night?”
“We did not discuss that,” said Pavel simply. “But we did talk about you. He assures me that you came to St. Petersburg willingly and in exchange for a great deal of money and that you are lying to gain my sympathy.”
“That’s a fucking lie,” she spat. “I—”
“Relax, little girl,” he interrupted, holding up his index finger. “I have never trusted the man. I believe you, but sometimes, it’s better to let your more powerful enemies think that you’re passive because they will underestimate you. We also discussed Katya and Gavrie. He’ll send me the official investigation report, but he says that their deaths were the result of a tragic accident.”
“Damir controlled the police!” she said, her temper rising a second time. “I’m sure that there was more to it.”
“In this world, one needs to pick and choose which battles to fight, and for everyone’s safety, we need to let this go, at least for the foreseeable future. Nothing will bring them back, and Anton is safe. For now, that’s just going to have to be enough.”
“But Anton deserves the truth, Pavel,” she insisted. “They were his parents.”
“You’re right,” he said. “But if Damir ever discovers that Anton was an eyewitness to their deaths, he’d insist that I send him back to Russia, and it would be hard for me to fight that dictate and keep the other boys safe. I don’t want to be in the position where I have to choose between them.”
“You wouldn’t send him back, would you?” she asked in horror. “Why would you even consider that?”
“If we drop the whole situation, it will never come to that. Don’t ever underestimate Damir or forget that we’re surrounded by his spies. You must remain diligent at all times, and trust nobody with this information, not even Galena. I’m beholden to him in ways that you’ll never understand.”
“Because of Katya?” she asked hesitantly. “Did you… did you have anything to do with their deaths?” She spoke quickly to fill the stony silence. “Because if you did, I know that you aren’t a murderer, but there’s still so much that I don’t understand, and… and I don’t think you’re telling me everything.”
Pavel rubbed his forehead, closing his eyes as though he were working on controlling his temper.
“I’m sorry,” she said miserably. “You don’t need to answer that. I was wrong to ask.”
“In many ways,” he said slowly, “Katya’s death brought you here, and you have as much right to ask about it as anybody. No, I didn’t kill them, but I did tell Damir that they were thinking about moving to Gavrie’s family in Sochi and breaking all ties with him. The loss of the Andreyev connections would have been difficult to absorb.”
“Anton’s ‘house by the sea,’” she acknowledged quietly. “She was escaping with him.”
He nodded. “I talked to her on the phone every month after I moved to America, and I probably caused the argument in the parking lot. The timing was certainly appropriate. From what Anton said, either the accident was a coincidence or Damir drove them off the road in anger. He never would have murdered Katya in cold blood if he’d been thinking clearly, but we both understand that a drunken Damir is a different person than the brother I used to respect.”
“Sacha and I drove for over an hour to pick Anton up,” she said, putting together the pieces as she spoke. “And the policeman’s name was… Novik, something Novik.”
“I don’t know anybody by that name,” he admitted. “But an hour away from my brother’s townhouse is consistent with where Katya and Gavrie made their home. According to Belsky, it’s also near where their bodies were found, so they hadn’t gotten far, but I guarantee that there is no way he knew Anton was with them when they died.”
Pavel looked at his watch, and his expression grew even more serious. “I need to leave. Be good, Zoya,” he said, pulling her in for a long hug. “I came home for lunch because I won’t be back until late tonight, so don’t wait up for me. Get some sleep, and I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
He left the house through the front door but she went to the dining room window to watch him walk to the car with two of his men close behind. She was pleased to see that he wasn’t alone, but when he looked back
at the house, he caught her eye, giving her a quick nod without a hint of a smile before climbing into the back seat.
Unsure if it was the new information, the nagging quarantine, or even the way he’d held her for a long time before he walked out the door without saying goodbye, Zoya couldn’t relax for the rest of the day. To fill the long hours, she prepared a large pan of lasagna to feed her small group of protectors and by the time she’d gotten the kitchen cleaned up, the sun had set, surrounding the house with a dark shroud.
To counter the newest layer of anxiety, she turned on every light on the first floor. Wearing a pair of his old sweatpants and one of his navy blue baseball shirts, she curled up in front of the television, watching a program about four old women who lived in the same house. She was committed to staying up late to wait for him, but by midnight her concerns over his safety consumed her even though he’d warned her that he’d be late.
She moved upstairs to curl into his bed, pulling a spare pillow to her stomach, but sleep was evasive. Dozing off and on, she stirred at every creaking groan the house made. When the wind picked up, a branch from the big maple tree beat against the siding, waking her from her restless sleep until she rolled over to the sound of rain hitting the roof. When the thunder started to roll, she made sure that the metal bar was secured in the sliding glass door leading to the balcony and outside staircase to the lower deck.
She was half asleep when the new security system chirped to announce that the downstairs door had been opened, and she rolled over, anxious to curl into his side. “What time is it?” she asked quietly, as he came into the bedroom without turning on any lights.
“It’s a little after three,” he said. His tone was dull and listless, and he dropped his smaller weapon on the nightstand next to her bed. “Go back to sleep.”
Sold To The Russian Page 15
