Like a priest arranging a sacramental table, Novyck turned away and lifted his bed covering, then carefully withdrew a long strip of electrical cord from an opening in the mattress. The cord had a male plug at one end, and a primitive heating element at the other. From beneath the bed, he pulled out a large coffee can, and a smaller mate, with a crude soldered-on coat-hanger handle.
“Kate Gavrill,” Novyck said with a wink, “I’ve been preparing for your visit. I’m going to show you how we prisoners can make anything from a gourmet meal to boiled borscht. This time, of course, I’ll be cooking up a special broth for your gem.”
In rapid steps, he crossed the room to a metal sink and filled the larger can with water. After pulling on a pair of skin-tight rubber gloves, he stood on one of the room’s two chairs and inserted the plug end of the wire into an outlet on the side of the light bulb socket. Novyck placed the can on the table and plunged the heating element into the water.
Kate heard a pop, then a sizzling sound as the water heated up. Next, Novyck produced a block of yellow tallow. Glancing around furtively, he slipped a knife from beneath his mattress and cut off a chunk about the size of a cube of butter.
“Now,” he said, clicking his tongue with satisfaction, “We will transform the spectacular into the ordinary.”
Novyck dropped the tallow shavings in the smaller can and dipped it into the now bubbling water. A heavy odor of melting wax filled the room, as if a bank of candles had been lit.
From a cardboard box beneath his bed, Novyck took a small bottle filled with black liquid. “India ink,” he announced, as if speaking to himself. He poured a few drops over the tallow.
“Please, the stone.” His voice sounded like a physician instructing a nurse during an operation. Heart pounding, Kate hesitated. For the first time since she’d found it—actually for the first time in nearly a century—someone other than she was about to touch the alexandrite.
He looked closely at her again. “Relax, Kate. Try this: without moving your head, look up at the icon on the ceiling, slowly shut your eyes, and draw a deep breath.”
“What icon? Why?” Instantly bristling at his direction, Kate nonetheless momentarily glanced up. She gasped.
To her astonishment, framed in heavy dark wood, was an icon identical to the one that stood next to Anya’s portrait on her mother’s mantle in Marion. In gold leaf and heavy lacquer, it portrayed Mary, the Mother of God, reclining before a cave in a hill.
“Where did you get this?”
“It was a favorite of both our families. This, however, is a very special rendition. Take a deep breath, Kate. Observe the fine gold leaf and lacquer work in the manger.”
On the ceiling, the newborn Christ radiated back at her upturned face. The infant lay with Mary outside the cave, watched by an ox and an ass. Angels, their gilt wings gleaming, hovered at the upper corners. At the lower left, a rosy-cheeked Joseph listened to an old shepherd.
“Look up, Kate, look at the child’s pink fingers,” Novyck said.
As her eyes rolled toward the ceiling, Kate felt her lids grow leaden.
“Good, very good.” Novyck said. “Take the icon’s spirit inside you,”
Suddenly obedient, Kate drew in her breath.
“May I?” Novyck asked. Through half-closed eyes, Kate saw his hand stretch toward her.
She removed the gem from her portfolio and placed it on the table. Even in the bulb’s low wattage light, it glowed a muted red.
Kate tried to follow Novyck’s movements, but she seemed oddly out of her own skin. She felt alert, but her eyes trailed his motions by a beat, like a camera falling behind the action at a sports event. His gloved hand picked up the stone and floated toward the can.
She shook her head, hard, and her vision seemed to sync up. Dipping the gem into the now bubbling wax, Imre Novyck turned it delicately, lifting it out and gingerly shifting it in his fingers. He did this for several minutes and then held it out to her. The once-glittering stone now looked lifeless, its brilliance obscurred by the coating.
“Paraffin, ink and a touch of bunker oil,” he said. “Works every time.”
Turning, he again lifted the mattress and pulled out a gaudy breastplate necklace. “I had this made out of plated tin by one of the inmates,” he said. “I thought we might need it.”
He clicked the stone into the centerpiece. One at a time, he bent eight crudely made prongs around the gem to hold it in place. He looked at her closely. “Would you mind slowly counting those off to make sure I’ve got them all? From highest to lowest.”
Kate acquiesced, methodically verbalizing the numbers, “Eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.”
“Good,” he said, smiling. He tested the large piece of jewelry with his fingers, but his gaze was on Kate. “You should be fine, now. You’re ready for the world to see.”
He leaned toward her. “You do look better. How do you feel?”
Kate squirmed. Her head seemed suddenly clear, but the question was too personal. His eyes roved over her. She shrugged and avoided his gaze, hoping to shift his focus away from her, to take back control.
“Why are you doing all this?” She blurted the question. “Why have you gone to all this trouble?”
He paused before replying, and smiled. His teeth were beautifully white against his dark beard. His penetrating eyes were fully upon her, bright with passion. His face looked innocent and open. “I knew your mother, Kate, if only by correspondence. I share her dreams. It is my Mother Russia too.”
She swayed slightly, realizing that in the time she’d been in his cell she’d never sat down.
“Display this prominently,” Novyck said, his tone becoming matter-of-fact. He gently lowered the big necklace, wrapped in wax paper, into a dirty paper bag. “And dress to match. Wear something flamboyant, revealing. We seek to simultaneously distract and conceal. So make the jewelry seem like a flashy accessory worn by someone who always dresses that way. Look like a gangster’s girlfriend, hmmm?” His eyes traced her body again.
“And remember,” he said. “The coating on the stone is still soft. Try not to touch it for a day or so. When you reach America, use hot water followed by fingernail polish remover. It will peel off like an eggshell.
“For now, go to GUM—the department store—and buy a cheap Faberge knockoff for the egg. Throw it away in a public waste bin, but save the empty box and receipt. Use this one for the stone.” He handed her a forged GUM invoice for jewelry showing 6,000 rubles, or about $200.
Novyck rose abruptly. “You must leave now. My people will go off shift soon and their replacements would find it highly irregular for you to be in my cell.” He stood close to her and placed his hand high on her waist, almost touching her breast. Kate did not pull away.
“Go home and follow your heart, and your mother’s wishes,” he urged in soft, rhythmic tones. “I will be free soon, and when you return to Russia I will help you more.”
Again donning the paper mask, he opened the door. As he turned away, he touched the device at his ear, apparently to take a call.
Walking down the corridor, Kate felt strangely uneasy. What just happened in there? Did I miss something? Why would I return to Russia?
* * *
Nervous Sweat slickened the telephone receiver against Vulcan Krasky’s ear.
“What do you mean you lost her?” screamed Boris Lada “I don’t care if you have to permanently live, eat and sleep at Sheremetyevo. She can’t be allowed to leave the country with the stone, and if she does, you better be on the next plane.”
Chapter 23
The woman in the mirror at Moscow’s Sheremetyevo Airport was not Kate Gavrill, college professor, of Marion, PA.
Gone were her signature loafers, tweed jacket, Oxford cloth shirt and wide-wale cord trousers. In their place were stiletto-heeled black boots, tight lambski
n pants and a matching top—with a mandarin collar and plunging, zippered front. Kate drew the zipper down to expose her braless cleavage. Soft hills of ivory danced under shiny leather. Turning for an over-the-shoulder assessment, she almost blushed. Poured into the black leather trousers, her rear glistened like a pair of ebony moons.
Although used to donning brief swimsuits as an athlete, Kate had never worn such an outfit in public. Sensing her discomfort, the saleswoman in GUM had tried to reassure her. “With your figure, madame, he will love it, trust me. Nothing brings out the primitive, sensual side of a woman like the hide of an animal next to her skin. It is as if she is back in the cave, no?”
They both laughed. What would the salesgirl say if she knew the man Kate was dressing for literally lived in a cave, as an inmate at Lefortovo Prison?
On impulse, Kate redid her hair too, trimming it to a length somewhere north of Sinead O’Connor and south of Winona Ryder. Still in the GUM salon, she smooched up her mouth and applied a thick coat of Testa Rossa—the lipstick of Ferrari wives, according to the text on the box.
Only now, waiting for her plane, did she open her bag and remove Novyck’s oversize necklace. Securing the heavy clasp, she draped the gaudy jewelry around her neck and marveled at how clever he’d been. Overwhelmed by its gold-painted, ornamental-tin surroundings, the Romanov stone sat as lifeless as paste at the piece’s center, seeming almost to disappear—precisely the effect Imre Novyck intended.
Though not without risk, his plan seemed solid.
Kate was almost swaggering by the time she boarded a nonstop flight to New York. Not a single security official had even noticed her existence, let alone asked to examine her belongings. She was starting to enjoy the charade. By contrast, the passenger ahead of her, a burly Italian from New Jersey, had been forced to open three pieces of luggage when an agent became suspicious.
Kate settled into her seat and dozed.
The intensity of her seatmate’s stare awakened her.
“How unusual,” the female voice beside her said as Kate’s eyes fluttered open. “It’s almost as if there’s a ruby under the surface.”
Kate felt a flash of panic. Glancing up, she realized she’d fallen asleep with the reading light on. When she slumped over in her seat, the small but brilliant beam effectively pierced Novyck’s disguise. In a small spot on its otherwise dull surface, the stone was behaving exactly like an alexandrite—and glowing a deep purplish red!
The woman extended her index finger to touch the spot. Kate reached up and flicked off the light, capturing the woman’s hand with her own. “Really, it’s just a fake,” she said, her lips turning down in a sign of disdain. Her fellow passenger smiled, and feeling the strength in Kate’s hand, quickly gave up her quest. Nonetheless, the incident unnerved Kate. She remained awake for the rest of the trip.
In New York, a U.S. customs inspector, a small red-faced man with baggy blue eyes, took a close interest in the Faberge egg. The GUM receipt satisfied his initial curiosity, until his eyes fell upon her necklace.
Boldly reaching toward her, the inspector tapped the heavy jewelry on her chest.
“Remove this please,” he said. She handed him the heavy adornment, hoping he did not see her fingers tremble.
As Kate’s heart pounded, he looked the piece over.
Act as natural as you can. We’re almost home free.
Finally, the man handed Kate’s treasure back to her, sympathy softening his words. “I hope you didn’t pay too much for this,” he said.
#
Chapter 24
Getting off the airport bus at the New York Port Authority, Kate at last felt safe; she was home. She’d take a cab to Penn Station, then head for Marion and regroup before returning to gloat over her success with Simon Blake.
Rolling her bag through the terminal corridors, Kate suddenly felt slightly ridiculous and very, very tired. The long flight was finally taking its toll. Glimpsing her own reflection in a polished metal door, Kate thought how foolish she must look: a wiggly-butted bimbo in a slinky black leather package—a mobster’s moll, just as Novyck ordered. On the other hand, the simple ruse had worked, and she now stood on American soil, the key to her family fortune intact and in her possession. It seemed impossible that only two days before she’d been sitting in one of the world’s rankest prisons in Moscow.
But the bodice jiggle had to go; she tugged the form-fitting top’s zipper up under her chin. Even so, Kate heard a low whistle as she lengthened her stride, exiting the Port Authority.
Parking her heavy suitcase on the sidewalk, she queued up for a cab. She stood with her back to the head of the line, watching the taxis drive in. As each cab picked up its fares and the line moved ahead, Kate inched along with it, dragging her suitcase, still facing backward. She turned suddenly when she reached the front and inadvertently struck a wall.
Or a slab of human flesh she thought was a wall. Tall and stolid, the man she’d bumped into instinctively backed away and mumbled an apology in a thick foreign accent.
Kate gasped.
Shrugging off his confusion, Vulcan Krasky moved toward her, reaching for her shoulders.
But his hands closed on empty air.
Reflexively, Kate executed a half side step, a diving board maneuver she’d done a hundred times. Off-balance, Krasky stumbled over her suitcase and fell heavily, scraping his head against the pavement.
Kate shot down the sidewalk, clutching her portfolio tight to her body. She twisted her head once to see Krasky, head bloodied, slowly getting to his feet.
A cab pulled to the curb. Pushing past the departing fare, Kate flung herself across the back seat, thrusting two twenty dollar bills at the surprised cabby.
“Go!” she shouted. Her original plan had been to take a cab to Penn Station and then the bus to Marion. But that would lead Krasky straight to her door! There was only one place she could turn.
“I’m staying on Fifth Avenue,” Kate said, hastily giving him Simon Blake’s address.
She was swept by a sudden wave of depression. Just when she’d been giddy with success, she’d almost lost everything. She couldn’t let that happen again.
* * *
On his knees, Vulcan Krasky rifled through the suitcase, flinging clothes on the sidewalk. He found nothing of value except a torn business card showing an American name but no street or telephone number.
A Port Authority policeman approached. Slipping the card into his pocket, Krasky rose and quickly walked away, dabbing his forehead with an embroidered handkerchief. The disguise had fooled him momentarily, but the good news was that he’d followed his instincts and boarded a plane to New York. The American woman had gotten out of Russia. She would not get away again.
Chapter 25
Green eyes swept Kate from her toes to her scalp. “Is Simon Blake here?” she asked.
“You’ve got a girlfriend here in panther skin,” Adrienne Lane announced over an arched shoulder. She flipped back an auburn bang, and swung open the door to Blake’s home-office. “But if we’re going to make the curtain, sweet, she’ll have to settle for a peck on the cheek.”
There hadn’t been time to call. Kate hadn’t even been sure that he’d still be in his office-apartment. Now she stood in the doorway, feeling desperate and embarrassed.
With its dark brown leather furniture, flat gray carpets and steel-framed windows, the room exuded a masculine presence that somehow seemed an unnatural habitat for two females.
Blake appeared, black tie dangling.
“I’m really sorry,” Kate said, her heart pounding in her throat, “I had nowhere else to go. I’ve got the stone. And you were right. Someone’s following me.”
“Please come in,” Blake said. He took her hand. Ignoring his companion’s remark, he introduced their visitor: “Adrienne: “Miss Kate Gavrill. A client with a very interesting story.”
Kate detected a hint of rebuke in his last sentence.
“Miss Gavrille, this is my friend Adrienne Lane.”
Blake gestured toward the small living room and the women settled in two pleated chairs; he centered himself between them on a tufted leather sofa.
“By all means, do tell,” urged Adrienne from her corner of the triangle. Though Kate judged her to be well into her forties, the woman had a model’s lean body and, clearly, an editor’s dagger wit. Adrienne darted a glance at Simon and ignored Kate. “But try to make it quick. I really don’t want to miss the curtain, dear boy. It’s opening night. And by the way, please do shave.”
Kate sensed Simon bridle at Adrienne’s possessiveness, but it was also clear the pair had a long-term relationship. She felt as if she’d stumbled into their bedroom.
“Really, I shouldn’t have barged in—” she began.
Blake touched her hand again. “Nonsense. Don’t apologize. We want to hear what happened, don’t we Adrienne?”
“I’m sure it’s a wonderful story,” Adrienne replied, “but I’m going to the theater.” She addressed Simon directly. “It’s now or never, dearest. And if you don’t get a razor on that face I’m going to disown you.” She rose, resting her palm on a slender, satined hip.
Blake stood and turned to face his date. He cleared his throat.
“I’m going to stay, Adrienne. Miss Gavrill is here to show me a very special stone, and I want to conduct some tests tonight.”
“Suit yourself. Just make sure you don’t conduct any tests on Miss Gavrill. She looks like she could win a hard body contest.” Adrienne walked toward him. Under her sheath, her lean frame moved like liquid. She circled a slender arm around Simon’s neck and pulled his face down to hers for a long sensuous kiss. “Remember the song,” she said softly, patting his butt: “‘Don’t Go to Strangers.’”
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