“Lead on.”
Aside from the bright lights that never dimmed regardless of the hour—which was around five in the morning—the Asian music, the funky styles of dress, and the orange and red neon from the stores seemed so foreign from his world in Russia they jolted Vicktor right out of foggy and into annoyed. Or maybe his nerves had just switched to overdrive after being rattled and shaken on the cargo flight Roman had secured for them. He made a mental note to never let Roman make his travel arrangements.
Vicktor dodged a tiny woman pushing a three-wheel cart loaded with luggage. Incheon Airport, a hub of Korean and Asian airlines, always seemed packed. From here, flights arrowed inland across Asia, west to India and Thailand, and south to the Philippines and the Micronesian islands. Vicktor wished he might be on his way to Bali. With Gracie.
More than once she’d said her dream vacation would be somewhere warm, with year-round sun and a sandy beach. And if she couldn’t have that, she’d take the mountains, with some tiny cabin tucked away. She’d even sent him a website link for some retreat in the shadow of Mount Rainier. It had a crazy name—Paradise or Wonderland or something completely fairy-tale romance. What he did remember was the fishing…something about fresh salmon. Thinking about it last night had made him hungry for smoked salmon, which he’d purchased at a market and shared with Roman.
See, he could remember the things important to her.
In fact, Gracie hardly left his mind, and not because he worried about her. Or not only because he worried about her. He missed her candor and the way she didn’t pull any punches with him. She wasn’t afraid to stand up to him—not from the first moment she’d met him and kicked him in the shin, thinking he might be a murderer. She was honest. And refreshingly hopeful. And faithful.
And beautiful.
Most of all, she loved him.
Or he desperately hoped so.
He fished his cell phone out of his pocket, calculating the time change. According to his math, it would be around dinnertime in Seattle, the day before. He lifted the phone, searching for a signal. He got the smallest of blips, and his phone beeped.
He jogged to catch up with Roman. “I have a text message.”
“Maybe it’s from Yanna.” Roman dug into his own pocket for his cell and held it up to catch a signal. “Hmm. Nothing.”
“I’ll bet the message is from Gracie,” Vicktor said. He waited for it to load, but it never appeared. “It won’t load.”
“It’s probably because of the airport. It’s hard to get a signal. Taiwan is up on all the latest technology. You can probably find an internet café and chat with her from there.”
Vicktor pocketed the cell phone, frustration knotting his chest. He just wanted to hear Gracie’s voice, tell her that whatever he did, he was desperately sorry and that he’d never even think those thoughts—whatever they’d been—again.
“Maybe she just wants to tell me she loves me.”
Roman jumped on a moving walkway. “Yeah. I’m sure that’s it.” He checked his watch. “I should call Sarai. I didn’t tell her I was leaving last night when I said goodbye.”
“Did you two have a date?”
“Took her to see Sleeping Beauty at the theater. She cried.”
“I saw it years ago.”
“I think I’m going to ask her to marry me.” Roman curled his hand onto the railing, not looking at Vicktor.
Vicktor couldn’t suppress a smile. “Every time you go to a theater or a circus you have this urge to propose. You should have done it seven ago in Moscow, when you first wanted to.”
Roman said nothing, probably reliving the moment he’d let the woman he loved walk out of his life. Thankfully, she’d also walked back into it about eight months ago. And it only cost him a couple broken ribs and a stint in gulag. But they were making up for lost time in a way that made Vicktor long for Gracie. He held up his phone again.
“Leave it, man. Gracie can take care of herself. She managed to live in Russia for two years and, I might add, also escape a serial killer. I think she can stay safe on the streets of Seattle. Calling her every night is not about letting her know you care. It’s about you wanting to do her thinking for her. About you not letting go and letting God be in charge of your relationship.”
“Ouch. Listen, I worked those streets when I lived in Seattle. This isn’t about me losing her. Or even needing her to need me. It’s about me knowing that she is still dealing with post-traumatic-serial-killer disorder and wanting her to feel safe.” Vicktor got off the walkway and followed Roman toward the lobby of what looked like a restaurant. Inside, Roman stopped at a counter. Flashed his FSB credentials.
“I’d like to speak to your manager,” he said.
Vicktor leaned against the wall, arms folded. Maybe Roman was right. Maybe he did need to stop worrying about Gracie. He tapped the cell phone. I love you too, Gracie. Enough to back off and let her decide their future. His words to Roman were honest—he didn’t want her to need him—well, yes he did, but he mostly wanted her to love him as much as he loved her.
He touched his chest where it tightened, right above his heart.
“Can I help you?” The voice came from a slight Asian man about forty with a youthful tan, little facial hair, and well-groomed in a beige silk suit. Why hadn’t Vicktor grabbed his own suit instead of a pair of faded jeans and an old T-shirt? He stood up from the wall and tried to look professional.
“We’re looking for a friend of ours, an Olga Rustikoff. She was supposed to check in here two nights ago.” Roman dug “Olga’s” picture from his wallet. “She’s in her late twenties.”
The manager, who introduced himself as Mr. Choi, studied Roman’s and Vicktor’s credentials for a moment, the picture, and then opened his listing of guests.
“She checked in but never checked out.” Choi wrote down the time. “We book by six-hour blocks, and she used one block of time. When she didn’t check out, we charged her for another block. Housekeeping notes say they checked in her room during the third shift, but it was vacant. Did she make her flight to America?”
Roman glanced at Vicktor. “How did you know her destination?”
“We take all the flight and passport information, in case they haven’t checked out an hour before their flight. Sometimes patrons oversleep.”
“So, you never saw her leave?” Vicktor asked. He wasn’t sure why, but places like this that rented by the hour always made him feel as if he might be walking into a back-alley brothel. Despite the manager’s three-piece suit and the welcome-to-Korea smile.
“Not that I recall. Her account says that she had dinner in the restaurant shortly after she checked in. I’ll ask my staff if they remember seeing her.” He handed Roman a card. “If you will write your phone number, I can call you if I have any further information.”
Roman scribbled down his cell number. “Can we see the room she stayed in?”
“It’s been cleaned numerous times since her visit.”
Roman glanced at Vicktor. “We have a couple hours to kill.”
Vicktor turned to Choi. “I think we’d like to see the room.”
They followed Choi down a long orange-and-lime-green hall, passing through another long corridor until he stopped at a door. He opened it with an access card.
An Asian double-sized bed jutted from an alcove beyond the bathroom. Vicktor followed Choi and Roman inside. The room smelled of stale air and artificial room freshener.
“It’s a sleeping room. Most guests use it while waiting for international flights, like your friend Olga.”
“The only way in is with the card key?” Roman asked. He stood inside the door, holding it open with his foot.
Vicktor stared at the television, a queasy feeling in his gut. What would he do if it were Gracie who vanished?
She was fine. Hadn’t she texted him? He needed to listen to Roman and trust Gracie. He acted like she was going to get kidnapped or murdered. He’d clearly let their history with the Wol
f go straight to his head.
“I told you there was nothing here,” Choi said. He turned to go just as a housekeeper came pushing her cart down the hallway. Roman darted out to catch her.
Vicktor held the door, blocking Choi’s exit.
“Ma’am, do you clean this section of hall?” Roman asked in English.
The woman, a middle-aged Korean with a wide face and short dark hair, stared at him. She glanced at Choi. Vicktor followed her gaze and saw nothing written on Choi’s face.
“We’re looking for a friend who stayed in this room. A young woman, long dark hair, traveling alone. Did you see her?”
The woman glanced again at Vicktor, but he stepped in front of Choi. For a second, she looked surprised. Then she shook her head, frowning.
Probably she didn’t understand a word he’d said.
Then, in a voice barely above a murmur she said, “No see. Sorry.”
Roman frowned, stepped back to the room. “Thank you.”
The woman continued her way down the hall. Roman turned to Choi, still trapped behind Vicktor. But as the woman reached the hallway, she stopped and looked back at Vicktor. And pulled something from her pocket.
She let it drop onto the floor. Then she pushed her cart around the corner.
“Let’s go. There’s nothing here,” Roman said, but Vicktor cast him a look.
“Stay here. Be right back.”
Vicktor took off down the hall, but by the time he got to the corner, the woman had vanished. At his feet, however, was a small silver locket.
He picked it up, ran his finger over it. And everything inside him went very, very still.
David lost Yanna in between the fried squid on a stick, the fresh tilapia fish still gasping their last breaths, the hedgehog-looking, horrible-smelling durian fruit, a vat of sweet potatoes, and a woman making ba-wan that had him so distracted with the smell, it was no wonder Yanna so easily ditched him. And because she was smart as well as sneaky, the woman waited until right after he’d purchased her a fresh papaya and a bamboo sack filled with rice.
At least he didn’t have to worry about her starving as Kwan tortured her to death. Super. Could this day get any worse?
He turned, looking for the leggy Russian brunette, but of course every other person in Taiwan also had long dark hair, wore a size four, and moved as if they were late for work or, in her case, running from the man who’d saved her life. Thankfully, she also stood about half a foot taller than every woman at the market. However, not a woman of Yanna’s height was in sight.
He wove past a table of vendors selling fish heads and toward a booth of sushi. “Yanna!”
Of course, his voice carried about as far as the star fruit vendor in the din of the market, the street traffic, the bargaining. Morning market always reminded him of the Philippines, where he’d attended boarding school while his missionary parents worked in Japan—the noise of the crowd, the smells of fresh vegetables brought in from the villages, and people on bicycles and scooters weaving through foot traffic.
He stood, surveying the heights of the patrons. Yanna had a good six to eight inches on the average Asian woman. Only he’d also purchased for her a pair of flip-flops, which cut his advantage severely. He almost longed for her spike-heel boots.
Clothes. She needed a change of clothes. And it was then he realized she would have also lifted his wallet. He checked his front pocket, where he’d slipped it just as they were walking into the market. Nice, very nice. She probably nicked it when he was arguing with the ba-wan lady about which dumpling he wanted.
So Yanna had his wallet and his cash, leaving him high and dry while a murderer hunted them down. Apparently she had a short memory when it came to people saving her life.
Then again, when Yanna wanted something, especially something near and dear to her heart, she usually got it. Stubborn. Blunt. Capable. Qualities that had netted her respect in her FSB department but managed to scare off every man on her side of Siberia.
He had to wonder, perhaps, if she did it on purpose.
The only thing that scared him about Yanna was the fact that she so easily shrugged off her own safety for the good of the people she loved. Which meant that if she hung around David for any length of time, it meant pain and sacrifice. Because Kwan would find him. And when he did, people would get hurt.
The second he found Yanna he’d handcuff—no, hot glue—her to himself until he shoved her on an airplane to Russia. She might hate him when they were finished with this, but he couldn’t look himself in the mirror if Kwan hurt her.
Contrary to what Yanna might think, he didn’t intend to leave Elena high and dry either. But first stubborn Russian woman first.
David turned in the middle of the market, gathering his bearings. Like a maze intended to trap customers, the tables of food—from nuts in bags to dried seafood, raw meat suspended from hooks, and fresh vegetables—stretched as far as he could see under the low-hanging metal roof. Beyond the offerings of food, kiosks filled with kitchen utensils, plasticware, cheap aluminum pots, rice-cookers, and woks, and an electronics store ringed the outside entrance to the market.
Which reminded him that he should probably ditch his current cell phone, grab a new one.
Oops, one normally required money for that.
He headed out the back entrance, toward the clothes vendors. Styles in Taiwan ranged from skimpy to spandex, with most of the women wearing their size-two crop pants low on their hips, their blouses tight, their skirts avert-his-eyes too high. And the colors—bright and gaudy—seemed the fashion of the hour. He should be able to spot Yanna in her boring white blouse and leather skirt.
Beyond this alcove of kiosks, the street—littered with buildings lit with vertical neon characters in Mandarin, again in all colors—jagged down along the coast. Exhaust fumes, meat and rice frying in a giant wok, and the cloying smell of women soaked in perfume seasoned the too-warm air.
He dodged a man riding a bicycle and ran across the alley to a kiosk filled with women’s lingerie.
“Foreigner?” he asked in Mandarin. An oversized woman sitting on a bench looked at him, shook her head. In the next booth, overflowing with shoes, a woman pointed toward the center of town.
“Shei-shei,” he said, thanking her, then dodging marketers and more bicyclists. He clipped a stand of durian fruit, scattering them on the ground. The vendor came screaming out of his booth, but David didn’t slow. Why, Yanna, can’t you just trust me?
I’m here to find my sister. Kwan kidnapped her. Her quiet words, torn with emotion and spoken as they drifted to shore, replete with images that made him wince, laced his thoughts. What if it were his sister, Sarai, who’d been gulped into Kwan’s world of slavery? They’d probably have to sedate him, and even that would only slow him down. In fact, he’d shown up—or asked pals around the globe to show up on her behalf—for nearly a decade, most recently during a coup in the center of Siberia. It wasn’t easy keeping track of a woman who put the welfare of her patients miles ahead of her own.
No, he wouldn’t leave his sister in the lurch. And he could hardly blame Yanna for acting the same way.
So, once she got clothes, where would she go?
He stopped at the intersection, waiting on the light, or at least an opening in traffic. Beyond this street, he saw signs for lodging.
The bus station.
The first thing she’d do would get back to Kaohsiung and regroup, maybe fire up some of her electronic gizmos, see if she could get a bead on Kwan.
David, for one, planned on camping out at Kaohsiung Harbor until Kwan resurfaced.
The light changed and David followed the crowd across the street. She couldn’t be that far ahead of him, and he jogged past a clump of betel-nut-juice-spitting taxi drivers. “Bus station?” he asked, and they pointed him beyond the hotel and across the main thoroughfare. He didn’t wait for the next light, just darted out into traffic, dodging cars, ignoring the horns, the Mandarin that couldn’t be welcomin
g.
Across the street, up on both sides of the sidewalk, scooters lined up, one squashed next to the other, helmets perched on their seats. A two-foot-wide channel separated the rows, and David quick-walked down it, eyes on the end, where the bus kiosks began.
There. The woman in the brown-and-orange shirt, halfway down the row of scooters. She looked over her shoulder and he ducked his head. The moment she spotted him was the moment she’d vanish into some kiosk. The coast seemed clear as she continued walking quickly, her dark hair shimmery down her back.
He picked up his pace, breaking out into a trot.
Then his foot caught the exhaust manifold of a shiny red scooter. Like a waterfall the bikes began to tumble, one into the next into the next, dominoing down the row. He gave a half-hearted attempt to grab one, stop the wave, then surrendered to a full-out run.
He dodged the scooters—thwunk, thwunk, thwunk—and cringed as the entire block-long row tumbled over.
Yanna turned and for a second, their eyes met.
Hers widened, and then she began to run.
His pants leg caught on the fender of a scooter. No! Behind him, he heard shouting, and a glance over his shoulder told him that at least one irate owner had spotted him.
He yanked free and charged toward the buses. Way to tick off the entire country.
The woman in orange and brown had vanished into a bus terminal. The Taiwanese busing system ran out of individual storefronts, each destination and bus line operating inside a street-side lobby. David read the signs overhead, looking for the Kaohsiung sign, scanning each passenger who sat on the outside vinyl seats waiting for their bus.
A bus pulled up beside him and he sounded out the destinations on the side, thankful the Mandarin had been transliterated into Western characters.
Taipei, Taichung, all north of Kaohsiung. He broke into a jog—how could she simply vanish again?
Behind him, another bus pulled up. He turned around.
There, the woman just climbing aboard.
He sprinted back to the bus terminal, pushed through the line to the counter. “One, to Kaohsiung,” he said and reached for his wallet. His not-there-anymore-because-it-was-with-the-girl-on-the-bus wallet.
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