Maybe this hadn’t been about filling his father’s shoes after all. In fact maybe it had more to do with Sarai. What if he flung himself head first into danger—with the hope that he went down in glory, instead of dying a cold, quiet death—so she’d see just how wrong she’d been about him? That her accusations were false and that he wanted to follow God’s call, just as much as she did…only differently? That he’d die for what he believed in, just like she would?
But, whatever the case, it all boiled down to him following his own pride. And, especially of late, said pride had led him into humiliation.
Apparently Sarai wasn’t the only one who wanted to be a martyr. At least she had her focus right. He thought of the verse he and Sarai had debated over, the one that seemed to define so much of his life. Matthew 16:24 “If any man will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow me. For whosoever will save his life shall lose it: and whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it. For what is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? Or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?”
Roman’s father had given his soul to the Communists, and found it hollow. Roman glanced at Vicktor. Vicktor had given his to revenge and had only recently found salvation—after seeing the woman he loved nearly killed by a disillusioned KGB agent.
Roman had to wonder, perhaps, in this case, if he didn’t fit the description of disillusioned agent.
No. He had gifts and talents, the ability to think on his feet that made him the top of his Cobra unit. God had given him those gifts, and until recently, favor with the powers that be. He hadn’t given his soul away. It belonged to God. So then why did he always feel like he just couldn’t quite get it right?
Maybe the verse about picking up his cross and following Christ wasn’t so much about accepting the mission God called him to, that seemed suited to him…as it was…following Christ. Wherever he led. Regardless of the cost.
Costs, like…his pride.
Costs like not apprehending the man who’d destroyed his father’s life. He had made a promise to David…and Sarai. To keep her safe.
What do I do here, Lord?
He heard sniffling in the room behind him. Roman looked at Vicktor, who gave him a sorry look.
So much for him being a hero. Sadly, a hero was all he’d ever wanted to be. A hero to the motherland, a hero to his father. A hero to Sarai.
I don’t want a hero. I just want a man who loves God.
He loved God, didn’t he? Not everyone was supposed to be a missionary.
But maybe you were.
Roman closed his eyes. Sighed. And for the first time, he let that thought settle into the crannies of his heart.
Sarai had been right about one thing—he’d never seriously considered being a missionary. Just gone with his gut. And God had blessed him anyway. But what would happen if he let God lead?
Pick up your cross and follow…
He did want to follow Christ. Because, unlike his father, he knew that the cause he believed in wouldn’t crumble. On the contrary, it was the one sure thing in his life.
Roman smelled his own sweat as the truth sank deep. He hadn’t been following Christ when he’d come after Sarai—he’d been following his heart.
He sunk his hands into his hair. Lord, help me to follow you, whatever the cost. Because I do want to be the man you want me to be. Please, help me know what you want me to do here. I surrender my future into your hands.
He sighed again, and in the wake of his thoughts, inside his knotted chest, he heard a familiar verse. For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end. Then shall ye call upon me, and ye shall go and pray unto me, and I will hearken unto you. And ye shall seek me, and find me, when ye shall search for me with all your heart.
He didn’t know if it might be memory, or the breath of the Holy Spirit weaving truth into his heart, but for the first time since hopping a plane for Irkutsk, he felt real peace take root.
Like the peace he’d felt with Sarai, as he’d held her in his arms, only warmer, more solid.
Peace that pierced the ever-increasing static around him.
Maybe if he’d stop hanging on so tightly to what he thought he wanted—being a hero—he might find God knew more about his deepest longings than he—
The wind banged the door in. Roman jumped to his feet, peeked around the corner, feeling Vicktor’s breath on his neck.
Nope, not the wind.
“Oy.” Roman pushed Vicktor back, against the wall. “We’re in trouble.”
Vicktor arched one brow, drew back and palmed his pistol. “You know these guys?”
Roman braced himself to spring.
Why had she trusted him? Or believed that he’d changed? Sarai felt sick as she thrust the last of her open case files into an accordion folder. Angrily, she wiped the tears from her eyes, furious that she’d let Roman inside her heart, again.
What did she expect from a full-time, sold-out FSB agent? He probably had his heart surgically removed years ago.
Why had she kissed him? Three times, if her memory served her correctly.
She shouldn’t read honor into his holy “Man of God” act last night. That had been part of his game.
He probably had plenty of ladies back home to take his mind off the frontier doctor with too many freckles.
She felt a tinge of guilt over that last thought. David kept her abreast of Roman’s love life—nil—but then again, Roman might only be feeding David a line.
He seemed to be especially good at that.
Sarah scribbled out a note to Anya and Genye, not quite sure if she’d made up her mind to leave, after all. Vicktor wasn’t as easily swayed as Roman. Although Roman willingly made personal sacrifices to get the job done, Vicktor had a quiet resolve to him that made him dangerous. Frankly, she was slightly afraid of him.
Roman knew that. Yet, he wanted to dump her off into Vicktor’s arms. While he stayed behind and took on the bad guys like some kind of Clint Eastwood.
She clenched her jaw against fresh tears. Jerk.
And who knew when she’d be back again? Just like that, he would uproot two years of her life. Couldn’t Roman just leave her alone to fight her own battles?
A crack sounded, sharp and parting. Sarai jumped, heart in her throat.
A gunshot?
She held her breath and listened. More shots, and crashing. Cursing, in Russian, and a shout.
She ran to her door, opened it.
Her blood turned cold in her veins. Roman and Vicktor. Rolling around on the floor with the men who looked painfully like the thugs they’d left behind at Bednov’s place. How had they found her?
Or, were they after Roman? Of course. His crimes were finally going to destroy her dreams. Once the authorities linked her with the break-in, they’d revoke her visa in a New York minute.
So much for coming back to Irkutsk to finish her work. Putin would have her name on an embassy automatic denial list before lunch. She’d never set foot in Russia again.
She slammed the door and locked it, leaning against it and breathing hard. Okay, think. This couldn’t be that hard. She hadn’t lived and moved and finagled supplies into Russia to surrender at the first sign of trouble.
First sign? No, that had been when Roman showed up on her doorstep. Sarai rubbed her temples. Think!
Governor Bednov. He knew her. Owed her. No, she hadn’t saved his son, but she’d come to their aid. Helped his wife through her grief.
He’d at least listen to her. She’d explain that she’d had nothing to do with Roman’s illegal activities, remind him of the good she was doing. He’d sway to her thinking… Especially if she—she grimaced at the thought—offered him a piece of her organization. Medical supplies siphoned off, sold…
But, for the good of the ministry, of spreading the gospel, surely…?
Sarai closed her eyes, sh
utting out indictments. Tracking across the room, she picked up the telephone and dialed Irkutsk.
Julia Bednov answered the telephone. And, by the sound of her slurred voice, she’d drunken a vodka breakfast. Sarai imagined her diet would change little in the near future.
“Julia? It’s Sarai Curtiss, the American doctor.”
Julia’s tone improved, and Sarai heard interest. “Sarai. Dobrayi Vecher.”
Good evening? So maybe Julia hadn’t stopped after dinner, kept right on until morning. Sarai wound the telephone cord around her finger, trying to shut out the sounds of scuffling in the hallway.
“Julia, I need to talk to your husband. I’m in trouble.”
“Ah. Da, da. I know. No one is safe.” Julia sighed. Long. Loud. Then giggled, in a strange voice.
No one is safe?
“They took him, you know. My Sasha. They took him away and buried him.”
“Julia, I’m sorry about Sasha. I think I know what made him sick. I found another boy who was ill from a village near your dacha. Maxim, the son of your cook.”
“Max?” Julia’s voice dropped, slurred more. “I know him. Such a nice boy.”
Sarai closed her eyes, willing Julia’s attention. “Julia. I think there are more like them. Sick children. I need your husband’s help to stay in Russia. Please. I need to talk to him.”
“No,” Julia’s voice softened. “You must leave.”
Sarai’s stomach dropped. “What? Why? Julia, I can’t leave, not—”
“Leave, Sarai. You’re in danger.” The line went dead.
Sarai stared at the telephone. Okay. So…
Pounding on her door made her jump. “Sarai! Let me in.”
Sarai folded her arms across her chest. “Go away!”
A rumble outside made her freeze. She went to her window, pulled back the curtain and stared through the bars.
A tank.
In the courtyard of the clinic.
A tank?
“Sarai! Let me in! Bednov’s found you.”
Bednov? Wait…Sarai rubbed her temples, confused. She’d only just called Julia, how…? She sank into a chair. “What?” How could Bednov be after her? He had to be after Roman.
Horror felt icy cold in her veins. What had Roman done?
More importantly, what were those soldiers going to do to him?
Why had she let him back into her life? He was exactly the terrorist he claimed he was hunting.
A terrorist in her ravaged heart.
She should have locked the door three days ago and refused to come out. Well, she wasn’t leaving now. They’d have to pry her out like an oyster.
On all fours, she crawled to her desk, climbed under it, and pulled the chair to cover her. She curled her arms around her up drawn knees. She was just a doctor. A simple frontier doctor.
Why was it she always managed to land in the middle of a war?
“Go away, Roman, go!”
And take your tanks with you.
Chapter Eighteen
“You gotta do something fast, Roma, or I will.” Vicktor’s knee crushed the spine of Mr. Fight Club—Roman tried not to find satisfaction in that—and held his hand back in a submission hold as they crouched behind the admissions counter.
How had a quiet morning with the sun just beginning to dent the morning gray pallor turn into heavy drama? Armed soldiers hunkered down outside the doors, and his old friend Mafia One lurked behind cover of a darkened exam room, having escaped Roman’s clutches. Roman smelled diesel exhaust—evidence of military vehicles outside—and sweat slicked the back of his neck.
“Certainly this much manpower can’t be to get one American out of Russia,” Vicktor said.
“That’s what I’m afraid of. Look at these guys. They’re not military. They’re too old, too experienced. Either Special Forces or mercenaries. And, I’m betting the latter. I have a sick feeling they’re after me. Especially after the break-in at Khandaski. They found me through Sarai.”
“Or, they found her through you.”
Roman clenched his jaw. “Thanks for pointing that out.” He crouched beside her office door, gave it another pound. “Sarai!”
“Go away!”
Roman met Vicktor’s gaze, tasting failure.
“Comrade Novik!” The voice boomed thought a megaphone into the building. “You and your hostage come out, and no one will get hurt.”
His hostage? Vicktor made a face, mirroring Roman’s dread.
“Am I the hostage? Or is she?” Vicktor nodded toward the closed door.
“I don’t know. But Bednov—or someone—is serious about getting their hands on both of us. And that can’t happen. We need to get Sarai out of here. I have a sick feeling, Vita, that if we surrender her to that rabble out there, she’ll become a face on Amnesty International’s Web site.”
Vicktor glanced at his hostage, applied pressure and received a satisfactory grunt. “What do you want with the American?”
Fight Club gritted his teeth, refusing an answer.
Roman turned away while Vicktor encouraged his response.
“I don’t know!” Fight Club ground out. “Governor Bednov asked us to find her. She’s an enemy of the state.”
“You’re an enemy of the state,” Vicktor retorted, but his face wore a pensive expression.
Roman checked the clip on Vicktor’s service pistol. “We can’t hold them off. They’ll toss tear gas next, or worse, and none of us will walk out of here alive. You know that.”
Roman saw Vicktor wrestle with the truth. They’d both witnessed Russia’s version of hostage negotiations—or lack thereof, up close and deadly in Moscow. They’d sort out the bodies—emphasis on bodies—after they charged.
“I have an idea.”
Vicktor said nothing, just met Roman’s gaze.
“We’re going to arrest her, and you’re going to walk her out of here, under FSB protection,” Roman said.
“Bednov’s men will arrest me.”
“No—you’re here legally—with a legit paper trail. Killing you would only raise too much suspicion. They want me.” Roman glanced at Fight Club. “You wait until she walks out of here, safely. Understood? She’ll still be in FSB custody. Then, I’ll surrender. Think of it as a trade off.”
“Roma, you can’t do this. You put yourself in their hands, and I don’t know how long it’ll take for us to free you.” Roman read Vicktor’s expression, and saw the lingering unspoken words: if ever.
“There’s no other way. I should have done this three days ago, when I first got here. But I let my pride and my emotions get in the way. Now we’re all in danger.” He sighed. “Give me your handcuffs, Vicktor.”
Vicktor wordlessly reached onto his belt and unsnapped his cuffs. “She’ll never forgive you. Especially if Malenkov makes us put this on her permanent record. She’ll have to leave Russia forever.”
Roman stood, glanced again at Vicktor. “After the dust clears and you’re safe in Khabarovsk, tell her that I really was on her side.”
Vicktor nodded, his expression stony.
Roman kicked in Sarai’s door.
He heard Sarai scream, but couldn’t see her in the semi-darkened room. “Sarai?”
Muffled hiccups, coming from under the desk. He crouched. She had her chair pulled in against her and peeked out at him with wide, scared eyes.
Those eyes zeroed in on his heart and he felt nauseous. As if someone had sucker punched him. “Sar,” he said softly. “You have to come with me. For your own good.”
“Get away from me,” she said, her tone sharp. No crying now.
He reached for the chair, hating himself. “No. Come out, or I’m coming in to get you.”
She gripped the chair with whitened hands.
C’mon, Sarai.
He gritted his teeth against his own disgust and yanked out the chair. She cried out, and he didn’t want to know if he’d hurt her. But she leaned back, kicking hard, aiming for his jaw.
“Sarai!” He grabbed her leg, dodged a kick, then another and pulled her toward him.
“No!” She swung at him, connected with his check and he shook away a flash of heat.
“Stop it!”
“Get away from me!”
“Don’t do this. You’re going to get hurt!”
She hit him again before he grabbed her hands and clamped them together. She was crying now, and he felt like it, too. Vise-gripping her wrists, he reached for the cuffs and snapped them on. When he let go, she made to hit him again. He dodged it, but wished he’d let her. It probably would have made them both feel better.
Or not. At this point, nothing would make him feel better. Ever.
She scooted back then, breathing heavily, staring at her cuffed hands. Silence pulsed between them, and he heard only their breathing, and his breaking heart.
“I hate you,” she said softly. Then, she lifted her eyes and looked at him. Tears ran down her face, her hair askew from their struggle. “I really hate you.”
He wondered if he could breathe, his chest felt so tight. But, he forced out words, and they sounded weak and ragged. “I know.”
He hated himself, too.
Then he reached out, grabbed her by the arms and pulled her to her feet. She jerked away from him.
“Vicktor will take you out of here,” he said.
She looked at him a long moment, frowning, silent. He couldn’t read her expression. He pushed her gently out into the hallway. Vicktor stood up, a foot still on his captive’s neck. Sarai had her head down, refusing to look at either of them.
Roman handed Vicktor the gun. “Take care of her.”
Vicktor nodded, then touched her elbow. “Poshli, Sarai.”
Roman traded places with Vicktor, subduing Fight Club. At least until they got outside. And then, well, hopefully the mercenaries would move in quickly, before Fight Club could revive their old relationship.
“I’m an FSB agent here on assignment and I’m coming out with the American!” Vicktor’s voice sounded confident. Firm. He held Sarai like she might be a criminal, shot one last look at Roman and marched out the front door.
Sands of Time Page 19