by Jenni Wiltz
The first target, a dark-haired girl, had gotten away. Two squad members died trying to prevent her escape, which made Sergei grumpy and the rest of the group nervous. When a search of the girl’s apartment revealed her sister’s address and phone number, Sergei assigned stakeout duty to Ivan. They’d all hoped the dark-haired sister would come here to hide, or at the very least, call to tell her sister where she’d gone. Neither had happened so far.
In the meantime, the rest of the squad had gone to pick up the second target. Ivan hoped they were having better luck. Personally, he thought it would be a good idea to grab the sister who lived here and hold her for ransom. The house was obviously expensive. Surely the family had money tucked away somewhere for just such an occasion.
Ivan began to plan the attack in his head. He could enter the house through the side gate, hide inside, and snatch the woman after the policeman brought her back. She had just taken her child and the dog to a neighbor’s house, so she would be all alone when she returned. Even if Sergei told him to let her go, he could still have a little fun with her before turning her loose. He imagined her warm body pressed against his, struggling frantically. Every move she made to try and escape would bring him closer to pleasure.
Ivan smiled. Yes, that would definitely make up for a stakeout with no results.
Chapter Twenty
July 2012
San Francisco, California
Natalie fell backwards into Yuri as the front door swung open. A tall man holding a briefcase stepped through. His black eyes canvassed the room, flickering from Constantine’s gun to Yuri’s. “Well, aren’t you a cheerful lot,” he said with a faint British accent.
“Who the hell are you?” Yuri asked. He made sure to keep the barrel of his gun pressed against her temple.
“That’s an interesting question,” the stranger replied. “Who the hell am I? Who the hell are any of us, really? It’s so difficult to put a label on a consciousness that’s constantly evolving.” He paused and inhaled deeply. “There, did you see that? I just evolved.” He looked down at Yuri. “I suppose you did, too, although it’s a bit harder to notice.”
“Viktor,” Constantine interrupted. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m the cavalry, darling. Vadim thought you might need help, so I’ve been re-routed from Columbia.” He tilted his head at Natalie. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your pretty friend?”
Constantine shifted his grip on the Walther. “Maybe later.”
Viktor raised an eyebrow at Yuri. “You are Mr. Voloshin, I presume?”
Yuri nodded.
“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Viktor Igorovich Zhilin. I am authorized by the Director of the Public Security Intelligence Bureau of the Russian Federation to issue you a single payment of ten million dollars in exchange for your Romanov artifacts.” He paused, giving Yuri a conspiratorial wink. “I’m told you asked for asylum, but really, with ten million dollars, the world is your asylum, isn’t it?”
Yuri pointed at Viktor’s briefcase. “You got ten million dollars in there?”
“Strictly speaking, no. But if you remove the gun from the pretty girl’s head, I’ll show you what I can do to get it.” Viktor set the briefcase on a side table and flipped it open to reveal a laptop. “I have a secure satellite connection and a shadow installation of our bureau’s wire transfer software. You’re familiar with wire transfers?”
“Yes.”
“Splendid! Then allow me.” With one delicate finger, Viktor pushed the barrel of Yuri’s gun from her head. “That’s a good lamb,” he soothed. Then he pointed at Constantine. “You too, love. Weapons down.”
Constantine held his position. “Not until you get his gun further away from her.”
“It’s called good faith, dove. He trusts us and we trust him.”
“I don’t trust him. Get it away from her.”
“Oh, have it your way.” In one swift movement, he wrenched the gun from Yuri’s hand and clicked on the safety. “Are you happy now?”
Constantine lowered his gun. “No.”
“I suppose you hate puppies and moonbeams, too.”
Natalie took a deep breath. She grasped the banister for support with one hand; with the other, she clasped Yuri’s box to her chest. Belial, she thought. Where are you?
Yuri, robbed of his weapon, glared at the newcomer. “If you’re here to give me money, hurry up and do it.”
“Of course! The customer is always right.” Then he stopped and glanced around the room, taking in the brown corduroy couch and gondola-print wallpaper behind it. “Well, perhaps not always. But here’s how it’s going to work: I’ll initiate the wire transfer to a bank account of your choosing. When it’s complete, I will ask you to sign a receipt.”
“Do it,” Yuri said.
Natalie stumbled away, still clutching the box. Her head hurt and she was drenched in sweat, but most of all, she wondered why Belial had remained silent while Yuri held the gun on her. It frightened her—Belial only disappeared when he was planning something. Suddenly, she remembered the plastic jug of vodka in the kitchen.
“I’ll be in the other room,” she said to Constantine. “With the vodka.”
The jug was where she’d left it on the counter. As she unscrewed the cap, Belial flicked her with one of his wings. You’re going to need me soon. You don’t want to do that.
“That fucker could have shot me. Where the hell were you?”
I have my reasons.
“Don’t we all,” she mumbled. She slid to the floor, pressing the box to her chest with one hand and holding the vodka with the other. In the living room, she heard Viktor talk Yuri through the wire transfer.
“Now,” Viktor said, “as soon as I’ve verified your possession of the letters, I’ll type in all those lovely little zeroes.”
“They’re in a box,” Yuri said. “That crazy bitch took it with her into the kitchen.”
“Then I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me for a moment. Quid pro quo, you know.” A moment later, Viktor walked into the kitchen and smiled at her, revealing slightly crooked teeth. A shock of thick black hair dipped into his eyes and he brushed it away like a self-conscious schoolboy. Natalie ignored him and took another swig of vodka. “Darling, you really should slow down,” he said. “Only bricklayers and circus freaks drink like that.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you?” He knelt down next to her and she turned to meet his gaze. For the first time, he saw her unusual eyes up close. The easy smile fell from his face and he crossed himself in the Eastern Orthodox fashion. “Durnoj sglaz.”
Natalie recognized the protection against evil eye. “Nice to meet you, too, asshole.”
“I’m sorry, it’s just…your eyes. They make you look like a rusalka.”
“Rusalki have green eyes. I thought Russians knew these things.”
“Who on earth are you?”
“I’m the professor.”
“You’re Professor Brandon?”
She nodded. “I’m a tenured professor, employed since 2001 by Rosemont College. My specialties are early modern European history, World War I, and dating computer science nerds who eat sushi with their hands. Sometimes I have blond hair and wear expensive makeup.”
“You’re not what I expected.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“On the contrary,” he said softly, slipping to the floor beside her. “I’ve never met a professor who could win a drinking contest. May I offer a friendly word of advice?”
She shook her head. “I was raised to take candy from strangers, not advice.”
“That’s too bad.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“Ducky, when I walked through the door, you had a gun held to your head. Does that sound like a description of someone who doesn’t need help?”
“Constantine wouldn’t have let him shoot me.”
“I thought the rusalki were the ones who did
the seducing, not the other way around.”
Natalie narrowed her eyes. “Do you have anything useful to say, or do you just walk around talking like Elton John all day?”
Viktor grinned and picked an invisible piece of lint from his pants. “Constantine and I have worked together for years. I know him. That’s why I worry.”
“He kidnapped me just fine.”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, lamb chop, but all the great tragedies start out ‘just fine.’ You know…Oedipus has eyes, Romeo’s alive, Charles imagines he’s in love with Di.”
“Do you have a point?”
“I do,” Viktor sighed. “You looked straight at him the minute I pried that gun away from your head. I know that look, love, and I don’t want this to get any more complicated than it already is. Don’t believe everything he tells you.”
“Why not?”
“He’s hiding something. I suspect it’s a woman.”
“That’s all you’ve got?” Natalie shook her head and took another swig from the bottle. “That’s as weak as your accent.”
Viktor lifted his shoulders. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. There’s someone he calls and writes to every time we’re in the field. He sends her money, too. He tries to hide it, but it’s someone he cares deeply for. He is trouble, darling, with a capital T.”
She leaned her head back against the under-sink cabinet. Why is he telling me all this? she wondered. Is he trying to hurt me? “Constantine is a grown man. He can take care of himself.”
“I know that,” Viktor said, resting a hand on her shoulder. “But I don’t know if he can take care of you.”
He moved his hand from her shoulder to her chin, tilting it up gently. “I’m here to keep you safe, if you’ll let me.” He leaned towards her and she felt the heat of her breath mingle with his. Viktor’s lips were dark, naturally suffused with color. That’s what vampires look like, she thought, bending forward for a closer look. Interpreting her move as desire, he opened his mouth and placed it over hers. As soon as she felt the soft pressure of his lips, he flew backwards, jerked away by a hand twisted in his collar.
“Get away from her,” Constantine growled.
Shit, Natalie thought. Would Constantine really think she’d wanted to kiss Viktor? The last thing she wanted to do was hurt him. She didn’t want to kiss Viktor, not at all. It was the strangeness of it all, the vodka, the relief of having Yuri’s gun barrel removed from her forehead. It was stupid and she instantly regretted it.
Viktor appeared unbothered. He shrugged and straightened his collar. “Always a bridesmaid, never a bride. I suppose I’ll go back and keep the customer satisfied.”
Constantine extended a hand to Natalie. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
“Of course not,” she said, placing her hand in his. It disappeared entirely when he wrapped his around it and pulled her to her feet. “I don’t know why it happened. It wasn’t what it looked like.”
“You don’t owe me an explanation, Natalie.”
“I do,” she mumbled. “Because last night, I wanted…I mean, we almost…I mean…that’s not who I am. With Belial, it’s just too hard.”
“Shh,” he said, grasping her arms and placing his lips on her forehead. “I know.”
She collapsed against him, imagining he would put his arms around her. But he didn’t. He let her rest against him for a moment and then he released her, holding out his hands for the box. She looked up at him, confused. Why won’t you behave like you did last night? she thought. But she was afraid to ask, was afraid of the answer.
She surrendered the box and followed him back to the living room, where Yuri was tethered to a banister with a white plastic zip tie. “Those are my letters,” he grumbled, struggling against the plastic. “I want my money.”
Constantine ignored him. “Who wants to do the honors?” he asked, looking from Viktor to Natalie as he set the box on the coffee table.
“You do it,” Natalie said. Suddenly, she felt tired and overwhelmed. She didn’t know what was happening or why, but she knew she couldn’t let anything get in the way of finding the truth about these letters. To her, the Romanovs were fairy tale creatures, as shrouded in myth as the denizens of Troy or Illyria. She had never believed she would come this close to them, to touch something they had touched. Her stomach tingled with nervous anticipation as Constantine lifted the lid.
Inside the box lay several sheets of paper, a purple velvet bag, and a small stack of yellowed photos and postcards. She let out her breath slowly. Belial, she thought, even if these turn out to be fakes, let me always remember what it was like to believe.
“Christ’s toenails!” Viktor said. “Half the Russian army could be on our tail by now!” He reached past Natalie and jerked the pile of papers out from under the velvet pouch. He sifted through them and handed her two sheets with the same date scrawled across the top: July 13, 1918. “Here they are. Are they real?”
She took the letters and held them side by side. She couldn’t read Russian—Beth had a translator from the university’s Russian department for that—but she’d studied the children’s schoolroom primers and correspondence in three languages and knew the quirks and the signature of each. She looked for the characteristics she knew, the swoops and swirls that differentiated one girl’s handwriting from the others’. She waited for Belial to chime in, but he remained strangely silent. “This is Marie’s,” she said, holding up the letter in her left hand. “And this is Olga’s.”
“I told you,” Yuri snapped. “I told you I had them.”
“Right. Viktor, let’s get this over with.”
“I live to serve,” Viktor said, typing in the transfer amount of $10,000,000. “Now, Mr. Voloshin, I’ll just need the bank name and account number you wish to use. Our system will locate the routing number automatically.”
Constantine used a knife to free Yuri, who typed in his account number and bank name as requested. “How do I know this is going to go through?” he asked. “I want proof.”
“Of course you do, sweet pea. We can hardly ask you to take ten million dollars on faith, can we? Once my system shows the transfer as complete, I’ll receive confirmation on my phone. Of course, with a transfer this large, your bank won’t be able to process the entire sum right away. Give them a few days to recover from the shock.”
Viktor’s computer scrolled through hundreds of lines of visible code. Upon completion, the system sent his phone an automated text confirming the transfer. He pulled the phone from his jacket pocket and held it out for Yuri to see. Yuri nodded. “Now what?”
“It’s up to you, pet. I can hack into their system to show you they’ve received the money, or you can use my phone to call them.”
Yuri narrowed his eyes. “I don’t trust your computer.”
“Quelle surprise,” Viktor said, handing over his phone.
While Yuri dialed, Constantine packed the letters back into the strongbox and handed it to Natalie. She took it from him eagerly, clasping it to her chest.
“Are you sure you don’t want to hang onto that?” Viktor asked.
“She won’t let anyone else have it,” Constantine said. “Besides, she’s not the one you need to worry about. It’s the voice inside her head.”
“She hears voices?”
“Just the one, really.”
Natalie frowned. “I’m right here,” she said.
Suddenly Yuri let out a whoop. “It worked! They said they see it and they’ll start processing it this afternoon.”
“You see?” Viktor beamed. “You’ll never get anywhere in life unless you learn whom to trust.” He took one last piece of paper from his briefcase—a receipt—and acquired Yuri’s signature. “That completes our business,” he said, turning to clap Constantine on the shoulder. “What do you say, old chap? Shall we leave this good man in peace and take our treasure trove on home?”
“The sooner, the better.” Constantine put a hand on Natalie’s shoulder and ste
ered her into position between the two men.
Yuri stepped forward to open the door for them. “Nice doing business with you,” he said. Then he scowled at Natalie. “Not you. You’re still a crazy bitch.”
“See you in hell,” she said. “They have better knives there.”
No one saw it coming. The bullet whizzed straight past her and struck Yuri in the chest. Natalie screamed as Viktor and Constantine pulled her to the ground, covering her with their bodies as the tinny clap of assault rifle rounds shattered the morning’s silence.
Chapter Twenty-One
October 1920
Shenyang, China
The soles of his shoes had come off weeks ago, sometime after leaving Changchun. Filipp continued barefoot along the dusty trail used by White Russians fleeing Siberia into China, a trail that led all the way down to the port city of Dalian. He had no intention of following it all the way—he suspected the Okhrana had agents posted at every Chinese harbor.
Just ahead lay the city of Shenyang, situated on a dry, ugly plain. He paused and looked longingly to his left. Fog hung low over the rolling emerald mountains and he wished he could abandon the dusty trail for their protection and isolation. If he tracked eastward, he could cross the Hamgyeong Mountains and slip down into the Korean peninsula undetected. Surely, he thought, the Bolsheviks couldn’t patrol the entire continent.
Then his stomach rumbled and made the decision for him. If he were to have any chance of eating or acquiring shoes, he had to risk a trip through the city. His last meal, two days ago, had been a paste made of rotten rice and another traveler’s discarded tea leaves. He licked his lips and rested one hand over his coat pocket, seeking the outline of what lay hidden in the lining.
He’d fled Ekaterinburg on foot like many of the cowardly Bolsheviks who feared reprisals from Admiral Kolchak, the man leading the monarchist counter-revolution in Siberia. Once, he met a group of Kolchak’s soldiers and came within a single breath of asking them to take him to the Admiral. But his heart warned him against it just in time. The White soldiers were no better off than the Bolsheviks; what was to stop one of them from killing him, stealing the Grand Duchesses’ letters, and selling them? He closed his mouth, took a meal around the soldiers’ campfire, and continued alone.