Roman mistook it for fear and held her.
But what she’d felt hadn’t been fear, but relief. Deep, soul-filling relief. God had sent her a man who looked past the façade of independence and spunk and saw that inside, she feared so much. Loneliness. Failure. Weakness. A man who let her fool the world, even herself, but knew the truth.
She needed him.
Roman’s voice was roughened with vestiges of anger when he finally spoke. “For every jerk out there, there are guys in Russia who are decent and honorable. Those punks won’t get away with this, Sar. I’ll make sure you’re never afraid again.”
Obviously, thirteen years later, he still operated on that principle—making sure that thugs like the ones who’d chased her down Trotsky Street ended up in prison. One by one.
Trying to prove that Russia wasn’t a land of thugs and criminals.
Thirteen years later, she hadn’t changed, either. She still wore the facade of tough girl. However, this time he wasn’t getting under it. “Lord, why is Roman back in my life? What are you trying to do to me?” Sarai ran her hands over her eyes. They came away wet. Downstairs, she heard creaking, the squeak of the gas stove. Someone loaded wood, and her heart felt thick and heavy in her chest.
I’ll always find you, Sar.
Maybe he’d kept that promise, also.
Chapter Eleven
“Where are you, Roman?” Yanna’s voice dropped almost immediately after she answered the telephone. “You are in so much trouble around here that I think your face might appear on a stack of FSB’s most-wanted playing cards. Malenkov knows you’re AWOL. He’s been on the telephone with Irkutsk all morning. They’re putting an APB out for you.”
Roman glanced at Genye, half-hidden by the open snowmobile cover. He couldn’t believe Genye had gotten the machine to start. An ancient Buran, it looked as if it hadn’t been running since the days of Brezhnev. Or Peter the Great.
However, if they got it moving, he’d already decided that he’d put Sarai on the back and just keep going. He’d seen an airbase on the road to Khanda, and with the right persuasion, he could get an AN-2 delivered, maybe even scrounge one up there. He didn’t need a pilot, just the wings.
They didn’t even need to get all the way back to Khabarovsk. Just over the border into Buryatia, or Tuva. He’d deal with the fallout—both Sarai’s and Malenkov’s—after that. At least she’d be alive.
And mad. He winced just thinking about it. “I’ll be back as soon as I can, Yanna,” he said into the sat phone. “What did you find out about Alexander Oil?”
“Two things. First, they own a number of drilling stations. The one near Smolsk is just one of them. Secondly, your dead American is an independently contracted site inspector. He’s traveled around the region regularly for the past six years or so, checking the fields for leakage and other issues.”
Had he gotten into a little nuclear fuel smuggling, too? It seemed that, regardless of the inspections and scrutiny they put on foreign tourists, someone always slipped through.
“There’s more,” Yanna said. “The two Americans Governor Bednov is holding for suspicion of kidnapping in Irkutsk are on the Alexander Oil board of directors. But most importantly, so is Bednov.”
“He’s on the board?” Wasn’t that interesting?
“One of five. Three Americans, two Russians—a man by the name of Gregori Khetrov. He’s a communications billionaire in Moscow, only right now he’s sitting in Lubyanka prison, courtesy the FSB, on tax charges.”
For sure the guy was crooked, but then again, so were half of Russia’s businessmen, a.k.a. former party leaders. “What about the reactors?”
“You’re sitting nearly on top of decommissioned reactor number 213 in the Khandaski region. According to the manifest, all the HEU was transported from Khandaski three years ago to a reactor in Yakutia. Only, I can’t confirm that it ever arrived. None of the lot numbers match up.”
“Keep looking, Yanna. Maybe it was diverted.”
“Maybe it’s still at Khandaski.”
Roman shot a look at Genye wondering how much the guy understood. “Great minds think alike.”
“Listen, Roma, get to Smolsk. Vicktor and I have a little plan. He’ll meet you at Sarai’s clinic.”
He felt a rush of gratitude for his friends. “Don’t get into trouble, Yanna.”
“Us? Get in trouble?”
He could hear her smiling on the other end. “By the way, David has sent me three e-mails looking for you. Maybe you should give him a call.”
Maybe not. Roman had a few choice words for David that he should probably keep tucked inside his chest. He clicked off and stood over Genye as the man fiddled with the spark plug wires.
“Everything looks okay.” He closed the lid. “Fire her up.”
Roman braced his foot against the machine, grabbed the cord and gave it a rip.
It sputtered, then nothing.
“Again.” Genye opened the hood, pumped the primer.
Roman pulled again. The machine coughed, he added some gas, then it roared to life. Smoke billowed out the back as it cleared the exhaust of age and rust.
Genye latched the hood and handed Roman an ancient helmet.
“Listen, you be careful, okay? I want Sarai safe.” He wore a smile, but Roman saw protection in those eyes. And, after yesterday, when the guy had clocked him but good, he knew Genye meant it.
“Konyeshna.”
Genye nodded at Roman’s agreement, then glanced at the house. Sarai was coming out of the door. “She might not admit it, but she needs you. Try to see that.”
Roman stared after him as Genye turned and walked to the house.
“Ready?” Sarai entered the garage. She wore a clean pair of jeans—probably Anya’s—wool valenki boots, her black parka, a scarf and a homemade green stocking cap that made her face seem tiny and sculpted. Her green eyes sparkled and for a moment he wanted to answer no.
Not quite ready at all.
If he had his way, in twenty-four hours she would be safe…and not talking to him again.
Which would be a thousand times worse than having her argue and tease and occasionally pout.
Being around her had made him realize why his life felt so eerily calm when she entered his atmosphere. Because despite her maddening determination, she had a smile that could stop his heart cold, and when she laughed, well, he’d just about die to hear her laugh. He’d barely won their chess games. In fact, he’d checkmated her by sheer chance the first time.
Not that she had to know.
Still, something about being with her cut through the buzz that permeated his life and focused it.
Gave it meaning.
“Get on,” he said. She climbed on the back of the snowmobile and wrapped her arms around his waist.
Uh-oh.
Snow melded to her eyelashes and pelted her cheeks, and her pantlegs were soaked clear through. But, as Roman drove the snowmobile through a drift and they went airborne, Sarai felt something rocket loose and take flight.
Maybe her brain cells. For sure the tight knot of stress that came from the all-work-and-no-play routine over the last two, no, ten years. Okay, probably most of her life.
They landed in a poof of snow and Roman whooped as he gunned the engine. Sarai screamed, but she heard adrenaline and laughter in her tone as she tightened her clasp around Roman’s waist.
Yes, she could get used to flying through the whitened, magical landscape, in and out of deer trails, thundering up and through snowdrifts, letting the machine drive her into the milky horizon with her arms around a man who looked both dangerous and delightful in his wool hat and whitened, snow-spiked hair. Crystals of snow gathered on his twenty-six-plus-hour beard, and his eyebrows looked iced over.
But his gaze seemed oh so very warm when he looked at her over his shoulder, slowing the snowmobile slightly. “You okay back there?”
“Fine!” She grinned. “Where did you learn to drive one of these?”
Roman Novik, soldier. He probably had a plethora of talents she didn’t want to know about. She sank her chin onto his shoulder, relishing the feel of his solid back, his strong arms muscling the snowmobile.
She had to admit, when Genye had uncovered the rusted heap in his garage, she’d nearly turned and fled. But with a little tinkering, he and Roma had coaxed it to life, and with it, her curiosity. Oddly enough, Roman agreed to let her come along on his field trip.
She had to wonder if he might be up to something.
He was definitely up to something. “It could be dangerous,” he’d said.
At the moment, she didn’t care.
They plowed through another drift and snow crashed into her scarf and down her back. “Ooh-rah!”
Roman glanced at her, smiling. “Having fun or something?”
She said nothing, just grinned.
They drove in silence, the engine cutting out conversation. Through the gray haze, Sarai saw oil wells to her south and west, some working, others frozen. The pungent smell of diesel cut through the crisp air, and even the exhaust of the snowmobile.
Roman angled north, as if he might know where he was going. She hung on, and for a moment, she even closed her eyes, trusting in his ability to guide them.
They went over a knoll and zipped down the other side. Roman slowed the machine. “There.”
She followed his point, and her pulse did a small rush when she saw his destination.
A nuclear reactor.
“It’s huge.” She counted two smokestacks, and on either side, like a ring of iron giants, electrical towers cut into the gray sky. The plant itself looked like a factory, a huge box with few windows, laden with pipes. On one end, lined up like shotgun shells stood maybe a dozen three story silos.
Roman gunned the snowmobile right toward the plant, oh, joy.
Hadn’t he ever heard of a little accident called Chernobyl? “I thought you just wanted to see where it was. Roman, I don’t want to go any closer.”
“Now you tell me,” he said, but didn’t slow. “I told you that it might be dangerous. You said you wanted to come along.”
No, what she said was that she wasn’t worried because she had a hero. But, as usual, she’d been in serious denial.
Now that she saw the reactor, a coldness started in her stomach, then spread out through her arms, and it had nothing to do with the snow still pelting her cheeks. “Roman, I’m serious.”
He slowed the snowmobile. She looked beyond him and could see a road leading to the plant. Flanked on either sides of the road, a guard stand and entry gate indicated security. Beside it, a tall white monument—or sign, perhaps—topped with a red-painted concrete flame betrayed its purpose.
“Calm down, it’s decommissioned,” Roman said over the rumble of the motor.
“Then why are there still people here?” She pointed toward a truck just beyond the gates.
“It’s decommissioned, but it’s still operational—in terms of cooling the spent fuel. They cool the nuclear waste in rods in a pool of water for about seven years and then store them in those huge silos. I’m sure there is a skeleton crew monitoring the cooling.” He pointed with his gloved hand. “Listen, no one will know we’re here. It’s scarcely manned, and all we’re going to do is do a little poking around.”
A little poking around? But before she could object, he revved the machine, and drove parallel to the road, cutting a wide angle around the plant, and stopped at the edge of a pine forest.
“If you want, you can stay here.” Roman got off the snowmobile. “I won’t be long.”
She angled a look at the plant, then back at Roman. Let’s see, stay here in the cold until he got hurt and left her stranded, or go with him and get arrested? Then again, once he returned he might just arrest her anyway.
She got off. “Lead the way, hero.”
He nodded, then opened his jacket and pulled out—
“A gun?”
“Calm down, it’s just a precaution.” He tucked it into his outer pocket. “We’ll have to hike from here, but I think the blizzard will hide our approach.”
Oh, great.
She wondered if she should be ducking as they trudged out from the cover of the pine forest and crossed the hundred or so meters to the fence.
“I’m going to hoist you over,” he said.
“I can do it.” She dug her hands into the fence, but her thick boots refused purchase.
“Let me give you a boost—”
“You touch my backside and I’ll kick you.”
He stepped back, hands up in surrender.
She fought her way up, over and let herself fall into the snow on the other side.
He jumped up and vaulted it before she even climbed back to her feet. Jerk. She slapped away his outstretched hand.
He laughed.
She made a face at him.
Now he bent over as he ran toward a service door, as if hunching over might conceal the two intruders wearing black coats against a snow-white backdrop? For crying out loud…
Still, ten minutes later, they were inside the building. Silence felt thick, or maybe she just couldn’t hear anything over the thunder of her heartbeat in her ears. The smell of gasoline and concrete permeated the walls, and she couldn’t stifle a shiver. They were inside a nuclear plant.
She probably needed to get her head examined. Then again, that should probably be standard practice whenever she found herself in Roman’s airspace.
“What are we looking for?” she asked.
“Tiha!” he said and put a finger to his lips.
Wait—wasn’t he a federal agent? Why all the sneaky, sneaky? Shouldn’t he be allowed to just stroll in, flashing his badge or something?
He moved out into the hall and scrambled to another door. She stayed glued to his tail and shut the door behind her.
They were in an office, and from what it looked like, an abandoned office. Like all Russian offices, pictures of the plant, including floor plans and egress routes hung on the wall. Roman shone his flashlight on the map, tracing his finger along a route.
“Here.” He tapped it twice, then looked at her. “I think you should stay here until I get—”
“Not on your life, bub. I’m Velcro on you.”
He raised one eyebrow, but didn’t smile. “Ladna. But keep up.”
Was he kidding? She’d probably run him over.
They exited to the hallway, and he did a James Bond, sneaking down the hallway, down stairs, through passageways until he came to a locked room. Yes, she read the radioactive sign on the door, even pointed it out to him, but he shrugged it away.
What, was he impervious to radiation poisoning? Hello, she didn’t want her teeth and hair falling out at the ripe old age of thirty-five.
He opened the door, shone his light inside. It reflected off a pane of glass. “Poshli,” he said as he beckoned her inside.
She smelled the odor of danger as she closed the door into total darkness. Or maybe the smell was the redolence of her own fear. As Roman stood and slowly panned his light through the glass, she felt cold and clammy. And bald.
“What does Vwesoka Obogashenie Oran stand for? It can’t be good. Especially with the symbol of radioactivity on it? And the word for “dangerous,” Opasnost? What is it, Roman?”
He turned to her, bracketed his hands on either side of her face. “Calm down. It’s uranium. Probably Highly Enriched Uranium, which was used to power this nuclear reactor. What I need to know is the lot number on those casks.”
“Wait, you lost me at uranium—as in radioactive uranium? The stuff used in nuclear bombs?”
“The very same. And someone has been selling it to terrorists outside of Russia.” He took off his hat, wiped his brow with it. Obviously, he wasn’t real thrilled to be ten meters away from the stuff, either.
“The thing is, this uranium isn’t
supposed to be here. If indeed it is uranium. It might just be the containers.”
He moved toward the door and she grabbed his arm. “Have you lost it completely? You can’t go in there! Not without protective gear and—”
“Relax, Doc—it’s only radioactive if ingested.”
“Oh, that makes me feel so very much better. Radioactive means radioactive in my book, Roman. Please, let’s get out of here. I—”
He clamped his hand over her mouth and pulled her tight against him. Very tight, and protective-like. She could hear his heart pounding as they stood in the darkness.
Footsteps. Outside in the hall.
Please, please, keep going.
But, no. They stopped.
And that’s when she felt Roman reach for his gun.
She just knew he was going to get killed one day and she’d be around to see it…or worse, get killed right along side him.
Why did she always have to be right?
Chapter Twelve
“Please, Sarai, just don’t move.” He placed his mouth very close to her ear, and his lips brushed her neck as he spoke. He felt her tremble, but she said nothing, just turned and dug her grip into the lapels of his jacket and pulled him closer.
He’d wanted her in his arms, but this wasn’t quite what he’d had in mind—especially with potentially radioactive material behind door number one, and a Bad Guy behind door number two.
He put his arm around her, positioning her behind him as he heard the handle click. She seemed to read his thoughts, for she put her head down, right into his spine.
He gripped his service pistol with both hands as the door swung open. Thankfully, he had all seventeen rounds in it. Milky hall light cut through the darkness, a second before a guard appeared.
No, a thug. An out-of-place thug with the demeanor of a mafioso in his leather coat, his high and tight crew, the look of suspicion on his face, and especially the .40-caliber Varjag pistol he aimed at Roman.
Sands of Time Page 13