Kat had few possessions to gather, and had already purchased a new shoulder bag. She stopped by the office of her only other friend in town, Alicia Renquist, and picked up the bulging bag, leaving her suitcase stowed behind the door. “Thank you, Alicia,” Kat said to the petite brunette, who had nearly cried at Kat’s condition yesterday when she met Kat in the embassy lobby.
Unfortunately, the US government hadn’t been able to find a drop of information on Magda Neumann inside Russia. “The only thing we could find was the marriage certificate in Schenectady.”
“Yes, I know,” Kat said, and ruled out any hope of embassy assistance.
Alicia had spent the better part of the morning trying to convince her to head home, as the FSB instructed. “You haven’t broken any laws, but it would be against my better judgment to allow you to continue your tour here,” Alice now, as if tempted to launch into her previous sermon. Instead, she handed Kat her passport and visa. Kat noticed the exit date hadn’t been changed. She still had three weeks left on her tourist visa. “Good luck, anyway, Kat.” Alicia smiled, warmth in her eyes.
“Thank you.” Kat slung the bag over her shoulder.
Alicia walked her to the door. “Call me if you need anything. And Kat, be careful.”
Kat gave her a quick hug and high-tailed it to the lobby. 10:00 A.M. wasn’t too soon for Vadeem to send his army to muscle her out of the country.
The locked door to the embassy offices whooshed closed behind her. Kat tucked the backpack over her shoulder and strode across the lobby. Coast clear. No leather-coated FSB agents hanging around like wolves at the entrance.
She strode past the security gates and burst through the doors, tasting freedom and her future in the damp Moscow air.
Kat scattered a group of pigeons as she fast-walked down the street. Train station, here I come, and then straight to Pskov. She didn’t know what she’d find there, but she’d start with a visit to the monastery, at least to pay her respects to the young monk who’d been murdered.
A shiver hissed up her spine at the grim thought. She clamped down on her fear. She had few choices—return to New York empty handed, or dive into the murky unknown, a prayer on her lips.
She’d take the leap of faith.
“Please God, help me,” she said, gathering speed. She wasn’t sure when the train left, but she hoped to be on it before Vadeem sent his bloodhounds to the embassy.
A hand clamped on her shoulder, hard and tight.
Kat whirled, nearly jumping out of her skin. She recognized Ryslan, Vadeem’s partner standing behind her.
“Good morning, Miss Moore.”
-
“You do this often?” Vadeem gripped his knees, hauling in searing breaths, sweat pouring down his face, his heart thumping through his chest. The clammy breath of mid-morning Moscow made him feel even stickier than he was after running five kilometers.
“What?” Pyotr asked, also hauling in breaths beside him.
“Follow people around.”
“Oh, you mean people that invite me to stay at their apartment, or challenge me to a foot race?” Pyotr smiled, looking not at all like a man who’d wrangled out the wretched story of a sinful man until three A.M. in a dimly lit apartment. Sweat ran in rivulets down his wide face, and his tawny blond hair stood up in spikes. “I’d say my army days paid off.”
Vadeem half-glared at him, not wanting to admit how well the man had kept up. . .and how much he enjoyed his company. He wasn’t ready to call the pastor friend yet, but the moniker skimmed close to actuality. What would he call a person who knew the demons that ravaged his soul and didn’t flinch at them?
A shepherd, perhaps.
It felt somehow freeing to be able to unload the story onto Pyotr, and see the man’s eyes fill with tears. To know that someone else grieved the loss of Vadeem’s family, and to hear the kind words, “It wasn’t your fault.”
It felt like his fault. Vadeem had brought it on by not listening to his father, by clinging so desperately to the need to be a part of something bigger than himself. He should have realized the importance of family.
Instead, he had betrayed them.
Just like he’d betrayed Kat.
He’d been running from that fact for the past five kilometers, and in his thoughts for most of the night. He’d betrayed the woman God had sent him. The gift meant to spark in him a little faith.
Pyotr’s words had found a soft place, burrowed deep, and grown like a sweet smelling fragrance over the past twelve hours. Kat, with her ever-present smile, her unconditional love, her buoyant faith, had been sent by God to remind Vadeem he was not alone. No, not by a long shot.
Perhaps he wasn’t the stone-hearted traitor he’d always labeled himself. Perhaps redemption waited for him, if he would find the courage to ask. Maybe he’d even find a woman to whom he could belong, and cherish as his own. The thought stole the breath right out of his chest. He leaned against his apartment building, cooling down, stretching his calf muscles, and listening to regret rush in its wake.
He had to send her home.
Or did he? Her words rang back at him. “You could help me.” He yanked open his apartment door, and started up the stairs, Pyotr breathing heavy on his heels.
Maybe Vadeem could help her. There had to be other clues out there, things they hadn’t yet considered. Anton Klassen had been clever enough to leave behind a journal. What if he left behind something else, something that could lead them to the Crest of St. Basil?
Find Grazovich’s prize and make Kat’s dreams come true in one turn. The idea sent new adrenaline coursing through his legs.
“Vadeem, pal, slow down.” Pyotr huffed a flight below, hanging on the stair rail.
“I have to stop Kat before she leaves.” Vadeem shoved his key into his apartment door lock.
Pyotr trudged up the stairs. “That’s what I’ve been hanging around all night to hear.”
Vadeem headed for his telephone while Pyotr dove into the shower. Pacing, Vadeem listened to the embassy phone ring. A sweet-voiced operator picked up and told him she had no listing for the American he was trying to find.
“Of course not, she’s a guest there.” He described her, thoroughly enough to make it obvious, even to himself, that he had her pegged down to her hiking boots. He guessed he didn’t have to add that she smelled so sweet it made a man cry, but he wanted to. The woman put him on hold while she searched, and he listened to a potpourri of wordless American tunes.
Finally, “I’m sorry sir, but she has already left.”
Vadeem slammed his hand into the counter. “Do you know who picked her up?”
“Just a moment please.”
Vadeem’s heart pounded out the seconds, dread pinching his chest. She probably ditched him. Again. Without a thought to her own safety, she’d most likely hightailed it to the nearest train station and was en route to Pskov, headed smack dab into the arms of one very bloodthirsty smuggler. Vadeem nearly pulled the cord out of the phone socket and tried to calm himself by bracing an arm against the wall.
“Sir? My name is Alicia Renquist. Can I help you?”
Ragged breath through his lungs, then, “Yes, I’m looking for Kat Moore?”
“She left, a while back. She, um, was going to go to the train, but. . .”
“What?” He knew it. He just knew it. She’d ditched him.
“Well, someone came in after she left, one of your FSB officers. I think he picked her up. She should be en route to the airport by now.” He thought he detected a tone of relief in her voice. “I can send a message for you with the Watsons. They are leaving soon. They’ll be taking the same flight home.”
He fought the sudden lump of regret in his throat. This was for the best. “No, that’s okay,” he said, and put down the receiver. Ryslan had picked her up. Odd, since he hadn’t asked the guy to do it. Especially odd since his partner hadn’t returned even one phone call.
But then again, he was Vadeem’s partner. And part
ners had a bond that went beyond words. Too bad he hadn’t noticed it until now.
Vadeem was leaning against his kitchen counter, drinking an orange juice and contemplating this new revelation when Pyotr emerged from the bathroom, looking like a bear, his hair spiked in all directions. “Did you find her?”
Vadeem shook his head. “She’s already headed to the airport. I guess my partner picked her up.” He held out the carton of juice to Pyotr who poured himself a glass.
“I thought you couldn’t get a hold of him.”
Vadeem shrugged, but didn’t ignore the strange expression on Pyotr’s face. Their confusion knotted into a tense silence.
“I’ve still got Kat’s book. . .” Vadeem said, nearly the same moment Pyotr suggested, “Maybe we should head out to the airport and say good-bye to the Watsons before they all take off.”
Vadeem didn’t even slow down to shower.
Chapter 18
“I’m not going anywhere with you.” Kat said it for the second time, but she failed to halt Ryslan’s pace nor wrench herself from his vice-grip on her arm. Obviously, Vadeem had been serious about having her hauled off like a sack of grain to the airport. She sent a couple of help-me looks to passersby, hoping someone might meet her eyes, and have mercy on a woman tripping down the street.
Muscovites were clearly used to the oddity on their city sidewalks. Besides, the struggle didn’t last long. Vadeem’s hulk of a partner threw her into the back seat of a white Toyota Camry and slammed the door.
All four locks clicked while he crossed over to the driver’s side. Kat clutched her bag on her lap and swallowed her heart back into place.
Ryslan unlocked his door and climbed into the car, parked conveniently outside the US Embassy, where he’d stopped in to complete the mission on which he’d been sent.
She’d suddenly much preferred to have had the chance to say good-bye to the one FSB agent she actually cared about. She really had wanted to say good-bye. She couldn’t believe this was it, her quest was over. Deep inside she’d been harboring hope that Vadeem would come charging after her, book in hand, furious, of course, but with delight in his eyes, glad to see she’d disobeyed him and would be sticking around.
She couldn’t believe that the man who she had prayed would be in the hallway when she opened the door wasn’t going to come to her rescue and be the hero she wanted him to be. Not the bossy, arrogant FSB cop, but the man who’d sat by her bedside and cried, the man who’d kissed her, gently, igniting a blaze of hope in her chest.
The man she was starting to love.
“Where’s Vadeem?”
Ryslan said nothing as he started the car and pulled away from the curb, his meaty hands gripping the wheel.
She fisted her hands in her lap and clenched her teeth. She didn’t know what made her angrier, that Vadeem hadn’t even valued their budding relationship to see beyond yesterday’s slammed door to the woman who needed him, or that her heart had run out ahead of her, betraying her to fall for the one man she could never have.
Tears stung her eyes. She blinked them back, watching the buildings ramble by as they made their way toward the Kremlin. . and away from the airport.
“Where are we going?”
Ryslan filled the front seat with bullish presence, and a profile that made her wince. Clearly freshly shaven, she noticed scratches along his neck as if he’d wrestled a broom and came out the loser.
She blinked at him, not believing the thought she’d conjured up, praying it couldn’t be true. She leaned forward in her seat, noticing for the first time a silver ring on his right hand. Then he exhaled and she got a good whiff of his morning beverage.
She didn’t have to close her eyes to know where she’d smelled that before. Nor did she have to invoke the memory of the low growl that still made cold fear rush down her spine. He confirmed her worst suspicions himself.
“Now, where were we when you so rudely took off?”
-
Vadeem stood at the gate, watching Pyotr hug the Watsons. The pastor mimed his feelings, severely handicapped by the language barrier. If it weren’t for Vadeem’s stakeout near the customs booths, Vadeem would be over there interpreting.
If he could force words out through his fury.
What he’d never told Kat is that he knew every nuance of her language, courtesy of the Red Berets. If only she hadn’t so easily adapted to his. . .that one talent could be ensnaring her in trouble this very second.
He turned away from the happy farewell scene and scrubbed a hand through his still-sweaty hair.
Either Ryslan had forgotten the way to the airport, or Kat had decided to ditch them all, again, just as John Watson suggested. “She told us she had more work to do,” he’d said, confused, when Vadeem nearly pounced on the couple at the departure gate. Vadeem couldn’t image what kind of work that could be when he had Anton Klassen’s diary weighting his jacket pocket. That Kat, she was a bomb, a messy explosion in his life. He found himself hoping Ryslan had found her, wrestled her into the car, and was just horribly late.
He’d already scanned the departure lobby, on the other side of customs. No feisty American with caramel-colored hair pouting in the airport chairs.
He continued to battle the cold feeling of dread that had started to sneak up his spine, and he dialed Ryslan’s cell phone again. No answer. Vadeem nearly threw the unit across the room. Instead, he calmly closed it, dumped it into his pocket, and resumed his pacing. The Watsons filed past him, John clamping him on the arm as he shook Vadeem’s hand, in typical American style.
Vadeem choked up a polite smile. “Did she say where she was going?” He hated the desperate sound to his voice.
John Watson shook his head. “I hope we see her on the plane.”
Vadeem couldn’t agree more. He didn’t know what he was going to do if he found her stalking the train platform to Pskov. “Thank you, John.”
The Watsons filed through customs, little Gleb on Sveta’s hip and clinging to her like a dazed puppy. He knew how the kid felt. Vadeem’s heart sank, watching them go.
“I’ll think I’ll stick around Moscow a few days, check into our denomination’s headquarters here.” Pyotr held out a slip of paper. “My cell phone number.”
Vadeem stared at the number, unable to dredge up words. A sick feeling piled in his chest.
“If you ever need a friend, call me.”
Friends were in precious short supply at the moment. “Thanks, Pyotr.”
An hour later, Vadeem stalked into HQ, in no mood to sit at his desk reading the decrypted Internet messages piled on his desk, or sift through mug shots, hoping he might find the thug who’d beaned him in Moscow four nights past. Vadeem’s head throbbed just thinking about it. And if Denis didn’t stop prattling on about the recent corpse down in forensics—
“Can’t believe somebody murdered a monk, especially this one.”
“What was that?” Vadeem swung around in his swivel chair, rubbed his eyes, and blinked at Denis. The rookie looked like he’d hadn’t slept in a week. Brown hair poked in all directions, his gangly body drooped in a rumpled brown uniform, and bag rimmed his eyes. “What did you say?”
“The monk. From Pskov. They sent us his autopsy report, thinking he might be connected to Grazovich. The guy was stabbed, military style, in the lungs, so he couldn’t make a sound. I thought it was a little strange, so. . .look at this.” The kid held out two sheets of paper, copied passport, and visas. He grinned through the fatigue. “The guy has two names.”
“Let me see that.” Vadeem grabbed the copies, “Misha Papov. . .and Akhmed Rakiff.”
“From Georgia.” Denis crossed his arms. “Why the alias?”
“No, I’ll bet he’s Abkhazian,” Vadeem said, his mind racing. “It’s a breakaway territory of Georgia. They splintered off about ten years ago, and pulled Russia into a nasty war. We had comrades fighting on both sides of the line, depending on their preference. Abkhazia technically won, but the skirmis
hes continue.” He scanned the copies again, squinted at the youthful face. “Abkhazians are pretty faithful to their tribal traditions. What’s was this kid doing serving in a Russian Orthodox monastery?”
“He’d only been there two years. I got to wondering about that, too, and found this.” He whipped out another sheet of paper, this time with a familiar face copied on the front.
Vadeem got a sick feeling. “Grazovich.”
“See the list of aliases?”
“I don’t need to read it. Ali Rakiff.” Vadeem’s heartbeat pumped up a notch.
“They’re related. Looks like they might be cousins.”
Vadeem winced. “Of course they are. All of Abkhazia is related. And blood runs thick there. Practically everyone in the new government is related.”
Denis pulled up a chair, obviously bursting with news. “I think I figured out what Grazovich is doing here. His brother’s execution date got bumped up—two weeks.”
“The Georgians are finally going to do it?” Hunan Rakiff, Grazovich’s older brother, had been decaying in a Georgian prison for the better part of a decade, living through three escape attempts and the subsequent Georgian punishments. “When did you get this news?”
“TASS news wire. I did an Internet search and found out the date was rescheduled about a month ago, after the hit attempt on Georgia’s former president here in Moscow.”
“So Grazovich is desperate.”
“I’d say he’s looking to spring big brother soon.” Denis looked like a ten-year old with the news of a loose tooth. “And did you know that the annual Omsk International Exhibition of Land Equipment and Armaments is next week?”
Vadeem wasn’t at all happy that the weaponry that had once protected the Rodina was now available for public auction by Internet catalogue. The FSB had their hands full sifting through the terrorists that infiltrated the country through Omsk. “What’s on their inventory list this year? Anything interesting?”
“How about a T-725 Rocket gun tank?” Denis rubbed his hands together. “Asking price, a cool four mil, American bucksov.”
Ekaterina (Heirs of Anton) Page 20