Pain centered in Sarai’s chest and she fought the grip of despair. God, please…intervene.
She opened the door, stepped out into the tiny hall. Even for a palatial Russian politician’s flat, the penthouse apartment felt cramped. Sterile. Fake plants hung from the gold wallpapered walls, framing a beveled mirror. Under it, a mahogany-veneered side table held a Kazakhstani vase. On the black velvet settee in the next room, Julia sat hunched over, her head in her soft, manicured hands, looking every inch the trophy wife in her size four turquoise suit, her alligator stilettos. But her broken expression and the trails of mascara down her sculpted face as she looked up told Sarai the truth.
Grief would wedge through the hairline cracks in her composure and furrow scars that would mark Julia for eternity.
She understood scars. Sarai had never recovered from her own broken heart. Not really. In her darkest, most private moments, the day she walked away from Roman Novik still felt as raw, as searingly painful as it had thirteen years ago.
And she had a Savior who gave her life purpose beyond that moment. Julia had—what? A powerful husband, a bodyguard, a chauffeur, a glamorous apartment and enough fur coats to clothe every child in orphanage twenty-one back in Sarai’s adopted village of Smolsk.
“Nu, how…is he?” Julia rose, extended her hand and Sarai caught it. Julia’s long fingernails pressed into Sarai’s palm and Sarai opted to pull the woman into a hug. She felt Julia’s bones dig into her as the woman trembled. Sarai hung on a bit longer than Julia might have expected for a medical doctor.
Over Julia’s shoulder, Sarai glanced at Genye. Beside him, his wife and fellow M.D., Anya, held the telephone receiver, calling for an ambulance. Sarai shook her head. It wouldn’t do any good. Russians brought their sick to the hospital to die. They would find no hope in the barren, roach-infested, concrete-chipped halls of Balnitza eighty-three.
Sarai helped Julia to the settee and gave Anya a help-me glance, not wanting to make matters worse by delivering the news badly, in distorted Russian.
Anya crouched next to Julia and slowly, deliberately, gently told the woman that her son would die.
An hour later, Julia’s wail still echoed off the sides of Sarai’s heart. A wail that sounded painfully familiar, painfully close.
Painfully prophetic.
She’d heard that wail one too many times in her secreted, most frail places. The sound of being alone in her darkest hour.
Sarai prescribed a sedative, and one of Julia’s bodyguards administered it along with a shot of vodka. Sarai tried to step in, to ease the shot glass from Julia’s grip.
The woman glared at her.
They took the stairs down as they left, Sarai still elevator-shy after being stuck in a box the size of a telephone booth for two-plus hours the previous January. Genye seemed more subdued than usual. Anya reached for Sarai’s hand.
Sarai had piled way too much hope into this meeting, and her Russian assistants knew it. She recalled the way her heart raced, her mind plowing ahead to opportunities and permissions this divine appointment might yield. Yes, she could admit she’d started to think like a Russian over the past two years. Friendships. Contacts. A favor here, another returned.
Helping the son of the governor-elect just might have given her desperately needed permissions for medicines and equipment for The Savior’s Hands Medical Clinic. Maybe even funding.
Shame roiled through her. Since when had her help come with strings?
Never. Not now. Not in the future. Still, after a decade serving as a medical missionary around the world, it might put some significance to her 24/7, 365-days-per-year sacrifice to see lives changed.
Maybe God had simply forgotten the petite blonde trying to save lives in the middle of nowhere. It sure felt like it.
They emerged into the foyer of the apartment building, signed out with the storge, then exited to the street. The security door locked behind them.
A popping sound and an explosion made Sarai jump. “What was that?”
“Neznaiou! Get down!” Genye put his arm around Anya, and they crouched behind a shiny new Lada. Sarai ducked behind a black Mercedes and peeked over the hood. Overhead, cirrus clouds fractured an otherwise blue sky. In the distance, a plume of black rose beyond the skyline of nine-story buildings that ringed downtown Irkutsk. Smoke tinged the air and Sarai heard sirens wailing, as if in mournful response to the sudden chaos.
Crackling, like the sound of fireworks, raised the fine hairs on Sarai’s arms.
“That’s gunfire,” Genye said.
Sarai glanced over at him, saw history streak across his aged face. Before becoming a man of God, Genye had done serious time as a Spetsnaz commando—special forces—soldier in Afghanistan. If he said gunfire, she’d believe him. “What do we do?”
“Stay here.” He rose, ran to the door of the apartment building. Pounded. “Let us in!”
Sarai watched as the storge shook his head. Oh, swell. Let the nice doctor and her friends perish on the street.
As if in response to her thoughts, a rumble, and the sound of metal grinding against itself rattled the air. She watched, paralyzed, as a T-90S tank rolled down the street. Thank you, Genye, for that military armament lesson last May Day parade.
Because, really she didn’t need to know about the firepower, the thermal imagers and the Explosive Reactive Armor painted in camouflage to know that something was very, very wrong.
A tank.
Right here, in the relatively quiet capital city of Irkutia Province, central Russia, population six hundred thousand. A nice city. A city where one might find Pepsi, or even Mountain Dew. A city that had working telephones, the Internet and even a decent pizza joint. And, on a good day, hot water and electricity.
This did not seem to be a good day. This day contained a tank. She stared at it, and the soldiers dressed in jungle green camouflage following behind it, armed with Kalashnikovs.
What?
She rose, and a shot whizzed over her head, chipping concrete off the building behind her.
“Get down, Sarai!” Anya ran over, and Sarai’s knees burned as Anya pushed her into the sidewalk.
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know.” Genye pulled out his keys. “But we must get out of here, back to the village. Come on.”
He crouched, running over to their Nissan Largo van across the street. Keeping low, he unlocked the door, pulled open the sliding passenger door. “Poshli!”
Anya took off to his command to “move it,” obviously completely trusting her soldier-turned-pastor husband. Sarai froze.
“Sarai—run!” Genye yelled. He pushed his wife in, turned and made to dash toward Sarai.
An explosion at the end of the street knocked Genye to the ground, smashing his face in the gravel. Sarai ducked. “Genye!”
Dirt rained down on the cars, a puff of residue blanketed the road. Gunfire erupted, sounding closer. Screams reverberated as background noise against the grumble of tanks and marching feet.
Sarai buried her head under her arms as her blood coursed hot through her. It was the Moscow coup all over again, complete with tanks and Molotov cocktails and Roman Novik lying in the street, bloodied.
Roman!
Not again. She wasn’t going to lose him again.
She found her knees, gathered her feet beneath her. “Roman!”
A hand fisted her hair, yanked her onto her backside. The flash of a knife, then dark eyes found hers. “American, go home,” a man growled in English.
No, it wasn’t the Moscow coup. Because, this time, Roman wasn’t there to save her.
Roman Novik stood in the casino bathroom in downtown Khabarovsk, Russia, staring at the prone and soused form of what might be an American—judging from his slightly worn Morrell hikers. One thought flashed, like gunfire, through his mind.
Only by the grace of God had he not ended up just like this rummy. A pile of disgrace lying in his own filth.
Like father, l
ike son.
Roman flinched out of the thought, stepped over the form and headed toward the window. Thankfully, someone had cracked it, like fresh air from the street outside might dent, even slightly, the smell of urine embedding the casino bathroom.
What a way to die. A knife to the carotid artery for a mere hundred or so dollars, according to the dealers who’d been counting the victim’s take at the tables.
Obviously, they hadn’t been the only ones counting. Stupid American, flashing his cash around. Probably thought that he might be immune to danger.
Or, maybe too drunk to realize that he wasn’t invisible in a room owned by the Russian mafia. Especially at the Klondike hotel in Khabarovsk.
Vicktor Shubnikov, the FSB investigator assigned to foreign crimes, squatted beside the victim. “This isn’t pretty.”
Roman turned, cracked a one-sided smile at his best friend. “I’m glad I don’t have your job.”
Vicktor glanced up at him. He wore a black leather jacket turned up at the collar, over a pair of wool suit pants and dress shoes—Mr. Fashion at a crime scene. With dark hair, dark blue eyes, a rare smile and enough menace on the hockey rink to make Roman’s blood freeze when the man zeroed in for a check, Vicktor took his job pretty seriously. Something that nearly got him killed more times than Roman wanted to count.
They’d been playing a cutthroat one-on-one game of slapstick down at Dynamo stadium when the call came in to Vicktor, courtesy of his old boss at Militia HQ, Investigator Arkady Sternin. Roman had lost three-one, but scoping out the scene with Vicktor seemed unfair penance. Especially with Arkady standing at the door, smoking and giving Roman a look that would make a lesser man cringe.
Just because Roman had broken a few laws six months ago saving Vicktor. Or maybe it was because Roman had pulled the strings that switched Vicktor’s allegiance from local cop to federal investigator.
Whatever. That move had granted the FSB the coup of landing one of Russia’s rogue KGB spies, had freed Vicktor of a thousand personal demons and introduced him to a woman who was slowly changing his life. Roman would accept the venomous glare from Arkady as collateral damage.
Roman crouched opposite Vicktor, beside the body. “Americans just don’t know when to keep their mouths shut.”
Vicktor shot him a look, raising an eyebrow. “And this from the man who emptied Epcot on a hunch?”
Roman crossed his arms over his chest. “It was more than a hunch. Try instinct and history. I thought there was a bomb. What if I’d been right?”
“But you weren’t.” Arkady leaned his bulk against the door frame. “You made us look like a bunch of idiots.” He shoved a bond cigarette between his lips and lit it. The smoke bobbed as he spoke. “Trying to be hero, as usual.”
Roman took a deep breath. “Yeah, well, after the attack on America, I’ll take my chances on being wrong.” He knew his eyes had grown shiny, and he forced himself to take a breath. “Or would you rather I just sat on my hands? Hey, I know, I’ll trade jobs with you. Track down purse snatchers and hardened jaywalkers.”
Arkady pursed his lips, his eyes scraping over Roman. “You wouldn’t take my job if they gave you an office in the Kremlin.” He turned from the doorway, back into the hall. “Not enough glory.”
Roman felt his body move before his brain engaged. Vicktor sprang to his feet and stopped him with a hand to his chest. “Don’t. Arkady’s just tense because his daughter announced her engagement to the competition. She’s been recruited by the FSB and he’s not pleased.”
Roman barely let that information register. Instead, Arkady’s words burned into his brain. Glory.
He’d settle for respect.
Even self-respect. Yes, Roman had had reason to believe Smirnov had terror in his touring agenda. But sometimes he just wanted to bang his head against the wall. One more stupid decision and he just might be relegated to opening doors for Arkady and bagging dead bodies at crime scenes.
What are you trying to prove? Roman flinched as the voice swept into his brain.
“You okay?” Vicktor gave him a one-eyed frown.
“Da.” Roman stepped away from Vicktor with an uncharacteristic sigh. After a decade, he thought he’d be free of Sarai’s indictment. Or the effect of her memory on his pulse.
“No witnesses, although I’ll bet if we apply pressure to the hotel staff and the casino guests, we might find a few locals who aren’t on the payroll.” Vicktor stood and glanced at Roman. “I’m going upstairs to check out his hotel room.”
Vicktor snapped on a pair of rubber gloves when they reached the third floor. “I called the forensic team. Utuzh should be here soon.” He used the maid’s key to enter the room.
Roman didn’t comment. Vladimir Utuzh, the city medical examiner, had a way of making a man check his pulse and be grateful he still had one. The size of a small grizzly, Utuzh also looked and smelled like one, and Roman secretly thanked God for putting him on the side of tracking down the living instead of examining the dead.
The latest turn of events, however, namely, the arrest and so-called suicide of super-smuggler Gregori Smirnov, had Roman rethinking his career—a career that, until three months ago, seemed fast-tracked to glory. Instead, he’d made a laughingstock of his country in front of the world by clearing out Disney World’s Epcot Center for a soggy sandwich and a warm soda.
He’d be lucky if his pal David ever talked to him again, especially since Roman had been shipped out of the country faster than they could say “false alarm.” Moscow didn’t think it was funny, either, despite Roman’s reminder that they had nabbed Smirnov.
It only made things worse that, while locked up in Lubyanka prison in Moscow, the smuggler had conveniently hanged himself.
Like Roman believed that… He still wanted to hit something, like a deadweight, or maybe a puck, really, really hard every time he thought of it.
They’d gotten nothing out of Smirnov and deep in his gut Roman knew Smirnov’s supplier was still in business, still smuggling nuclear fuel out of the country. And, until Roman tracked him down, he saw behind every suspect the bleeding eyes and decaying flesh of radiation poisoning, courtesy of the International Atomic Energy Agency—IAEA—training video he and the other mafia-fighting COBRAs had been forced to watch last spring.
Those were visuals Roman didn’t need, especially late at night as he lay alone in his flat, perspiration beading on his temples.
Thankfully, he hadn’t been exposed to the uranium last spring. He heard those words, clung to them, watching for nausea, or open sores. Highly enriched uranium wasn’t toxic unless it was ingested.
Or, spent, as in used in a nuclear reactor. Which would classify it as nuclear waste, and make it much less marketable. Unfortunately, the HEU Smirnov had been transporting, which Roman confiscated after Smirnov conveniently left it like a gift, or a bomb, in the boat, hadn’t yet been used. Which meant that it had come from a weapon.
Or a decommissioned nuclear reactor.
Tracking down trace amounts of HEU from the hundred or so reactors scattered about Russia felt a little like looking for someone during the reign of Stalin who wasn’t afraid of the KGB.
Yeah, right.
“He smelled like he downed a couple pints of vodka,” Vicktor said as he searched the dead man’s suitcase for identification.
“Nyet. Too sweet.” Roman didn’t meet Vicktor’s gaze as he surveyed the hotel room, taking in the three empty pints of vodka in the garbage can, a down parka tossed on the single bed and a metal briefcase tucked under a straight-back chair. He knew, painfully well, just how three pints of vodka might smell on a man. Exactly what the term, “deadweight” meant. Roman shoved the memory back into his past. “He hadn’t been here long enough to drink that much, or even get comfortable. Probably went right down to the tables.” Roman nodded to a pair of slippers tucked under the vanity by the door. While Russian hotels didn’t have the plush carpets, cable televisions and king-size beds indicative of Western cult
ure, hotels often provided a pair of complimentary slippers. This guy hadn’t even taken them out of the wrapper.
“What do you suppose he was doing here?” Roman asked as he reached for a fanny pack laying on the night table. Vicktor grabbed his wrist.
“Gloves, Roma.”
Roman took one, snapped it on his right hand, using the other to hold the pack while he zipped it open: passport, a used train ticket, a boarding pass, an airplane ticket, breath mints and a taster of vodka, the kind they handed out in Aeroflot’s first class on the Trans-Siberian line, or from hotel room bars. Roman read the label and didn’t recognize the brand. He put it back, fished through the pack and found a Nokia cell phone, iPod and a pocket PC. He picked up the passport and read the name.
“Barry Riddle. Born in Chicago, Illinois.”
“Now residing in Fargo, North Dakota.” Vicktor held up his driver’s license. “What’s he doing in Far East Russia?”
Roman pulled out the visa. “Tourist class. With a stamp to Buryatia, Chelyabinsk, Irkutsk and Moscow. Not in that order.” He pulled out the boarding pass. “Irkutsk, dated six days ago, and it looks like, from his plane ticket, he’s on his way to Sakhalin Island via Vladivostok.”
Vicktor opened his cell phone and dialed. “So, is he here on business, or is he a formerly happy tourist, taking the Trans-Siberian train to Vladivostok?”
Roman picked up the victim’s cell phone. No signal, power off. He tried to click it on, but it died. “This thing’s drained.”
“Hand me his passport.” Vicktor reached out for the identification as he spoke into the phone. “Yanna, it’s me. I need information for Barry Riddle, Fargo, North Dakota.” He read off the social security number and outlined the victim’s travel information. “Thanks. Yeah, I got back Thursday.” He paused. “Sure, see you tonight.” He snapped the phone shut. “I think she’s still mad at me for not going to her volleyball finals. Wants me to meet her for dinner.”
Roman looked up from playing with the iPod. The man had an interesting selection of music—hip-hop to Styx. Roman still had a Styx album tucked away in a box somewhere, postmarked from Irkutsk after his father passed. The fact Barry Riddle knew the same songs felt creepy. “Yanna and her team worked hard to get into the finals, and we’re her only family. She saw you missing it for a trip to the States as a personal snub. You owe her dinner, and probably first shot at your new American videos.”
Sands of Time Page 2