Funny, David might have had the courtesy to mention that.
“You’re coming with me. Gimme the keys.” Roman reached out for her, but she backed away.
“You’ll have to wrestle them out of my rigor mortised grip.”
He raised his eyebrows. She smiled, not nicely.
“Don’t make me do something you’ll regret.”
Her smile vanished. “Get away from me.”
He winced. “Sarai, you are the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met.” He sighed and ran a hand over his hair, mussing it even more. “I know I’m the last person you want to see. Ever. And I know what you think of me. I promise you, if you give me five minutes to prove to you that I’m not lying…and then let me get you out of here, I’ll never bother you again.”
He looked away when he said it. As if annoyed with the fact that he had to bother with her now.
Inside, she heard the slightest cry of pain. What was it about him that being in his atmosphere felt like she was ripping the skin off her heart? But, finally, she knew the truth.
Roman didn’t love her. And she certainly shouldn’t be hanging on to the hope that he would. They lived in different worlds. And he seemed content to keep it that way.
“Fine.”
He stared at her. “Fine?”
“Fine.” She barely kept the choked sound from her voice. “I need to go home. We’ll go there and watch the news.” While she threw his picture off the balcony.
He nodded.
“And then, you’ll leave me alone. Forever. Right?”
He swallowed, looked over the top of her head. “Right.”
Right.
“I’m driving, so hop in.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You promise you won’t leave me in the parking lot?”
She pulled out the keys, not looking at him. “Get in.”
He crossed around to the passenger side, his hazel eyes on her as she opened her door. She reached across and let him in, arguing with herself for keeping her unspoken word.
They drove in clenched silence to her apartment. An early winter wind picked up litter and dirty snow and tossed it down the street. Her flat, located in a four-story Khrushchev-designed brick building, had four entrances. Outside, it looked like it had been recently bombed—bricks littered the foundation, doors hung on one hinge, the garbage dumpster overflowed with debris. Two stray dogs lifted their heads from their huddle under a broken merry-go-round in the snowy yard. Sarai parked, put a steering wheel club on the car, and locked the vehicle.
The western cities of Russia had adapted quickly to European standards—remodeled flats and standards of cleanliness and repair. But in the villages, she felt lucky to find a flat with running water and electricity, let alone indoor plumbing.
“I’m on the third floor,” she said as she pushed open her entrance door and in the darkness climbed from memory the chipped stairs. “Watch your step—the third step is out.”
Roman followed her in silence. She reached her apartment, opened the outer steel door, then the inner one.
“I’m glad to see you’ve taken security precautions,” Roman said quietly.
“I’m not stupid, Roma. I told you I was safe.”
He sighed. “That’s your opinion.”
She closed both doors, locked them. Roman stood in the narrow hallway of her apartment. “I like it.”
She shrugged out of her coat, hung it on a hook near the door. “Yeah, well, I don’t spend a lot of time here.” She slipped out of her boots and grabbed a pair of slippers.
“I was serious.” He, too, slipped off his coat, then toed off his shoes. “Reminds me of my place. Only neater.”
“Oh.” Somehow that only hurt. More evidence that he’d become the man she feared…one-dimensional. Hard. Barren.
Then again, what did that say about her life? Homey didn’t exactly define her life—or her flat. Not with her two hard-as-stone sofas, a tiny Formica-topped table shoved into the corner, and a black-and-white television with aluminum foil wrapped around the antennas for reception. Her kitchen had enough room for a sink and a stove. She kept her refrigerator in the family room.
“Help yourself to something to eat. You might find some bread in the fridge, or maybe some apples. Sorry. I haven’t cooked here lately.”
She strode over to her bedroom door and closed it before he could see inside.
Roman headed to the television. Crouching before it, he turned it on, playing with the reception. She couldn’t help but notice his wide back, the muscles in his arms that tightened the sleeves of his thermal shirt. He’d gone from a boy to a man since she’d seen him last…no, he’d gone from boy to soldier.
She stifled a small shudder. She felt like she might be staring at a stranger. A strange man, in her apartment.
“On second thought, I eat at a café in town. Let’s catch some breakfast.”
He turned, and for a second, she glimpsed a tiny smile. “Perfect. Let me find the news while you change.”
He turned back to the television, and she shut herself into her bedroom, cleaning up, then changing into a flannel shirt and clean jeans.
On the other side of the door, she could hear the television, the chatter of fast Russian. She hardly ever watched the news…or television for that matter. It wasn’t only that she didn’t have time, but after a day trying to decipher the language, she couldn’t bear to have it seep into her downtime.
The sun had risen and light now pooled on her green down comforter, a luxury from home. She sat on the bed to pull on her socks, and her gaze fell on the picture of Roman.
Let’s get our photo taken.
It had been one of their first dates—a real date, without David tagging along as chaperone. She’d been in the city less than two weeks, and somehow Roman found her free moments and filled them with his smile, his magnetic charm. He took her to Red Square, explained the monuments of the Fearless Leaders. He translated for her as they toured the Museum of Military History. He bought her ice cream and flowers and made her feel…respected. Even special.
She’d turned into a pile of besotted mush around him.
At Gorky Park, she rode the Ferris wheel, gazing upon the Kremlin and the Volga River from her perch. A slight sweat lined her palms from the height, and when Roman put his arm around her, she leaned into it. For safety.
He felt so strong next to her. Like he’d never let anything happen to her.
If only she’d seen through her romantic idealism to the truth—Roman might be charm and charisma, but he also embodied danger, recklessness, and heartache.
The more she let him into her heart, the more she knew she’d never be safe.
Denial became her friend until the day of the coup. When Roman appeared, bloodied and angry, ready to fight for his country and freedom. She knew he’d never change his mind.
He just wasn’t sold out for God like she’d hoped.
At least that was what she told herself as she fled back to the States, to medical school and her goals.
Lord, I don’t know what you’ve done in his life over the past decade. But You brought him back here for a reason, and I pray You make that clear to me. Help me be a vessel for good and growth in his life. Even if he does drive me crazy.
She wiped away a tear as she reached out and turned his picture down, then she left the room.
In the family room, Roman lay on a sofa, his hair wet, watching the news. “I took the liberty of using your sink. Hope that was okay.”
And he smelled good too—a little bit of soap, a little leftover perspiration, and way too much Eau de Roma. Drive her crazy was right.
She sat on one of her straight chairs. “So?”
“Evidently, Governor-elect Bednov has taken over in Governor Kazlov’s absence. They think he might have been kidnapped, but no one has made any demands.”
Sarai shook her head. “I can’t believe it. I thought Russia was past all this.”
Roman harrumphed. “Don’t beli
eve everything you read in the news. Despite the past couple decades, Russia still has old Communists at the helm. And they’d like nothing more than a reversal to the old ways.”
“Bednov’s a good man.”
Roman gave her a look that made her feel like a kindergartener. “Hardly. He’s a Party man. I know. He was a friend of my father.”
“Your father was in the Communist Party?”
“Yes. Until he realized he’d been a fool. And then they took everything from him.” Roman tightened his jaw. “Just trust me. When Bednov says he’s going to do something—it gets done.”
“But he campaigned for peace.”
Roman tucked his arms behind his head. “He campaigned for a strong Russia. You need to learn to read between the lines.”
The newscaster came on with an update of the violence in Irkutsk. Tanks patrolled the city and a building burned, black smoke darkening the morning sky. Sarai listened with bated breath at the casualty toll.
“Seven dead, including one of Kazlov’s assistants.” She shook her head in disbelief. “That’s horrible, Roman, but I still don’t believe in an all out foreigner evacuation. I know a plot by my brother when I see it.” The telephone rang.
Roman sat up.
Sarai reached for the receiver. “It’s my phone. I’ll get it.”
He pursed his lips and leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees.
“Sarai, it’s Anya.” The sound of Anya’s voice, so in control, yet so concerned radiated through Sarai. “We just got a call from Khanda. There’s a boy there showing the same symptoms as Sasha. They need you.”
Sarai nodded, glanced at Roman. “Okay. Can you and Genye pick me up? I’ll be downstairs waiting.”
“No.” Roman pounced to his feet and before Sarai could react, snatched the telephone from her grip.
“Hey!”
“This is Roman Novik. I’m with the FSB and Sarai’s leaving with me this morning.”
Sarai didn’t wait for Roman to get a response. She leaped at him, grabbing at the telephone. “You can’t do this!”
He held her away from him with one arm, almost laughingly as she fought for the phone. “No. I’m sorry, she can’t meet you.”
Fine then. Sarai turned and bolted for the door. Rage filled her steps as she grabbed her keys and her jacket and flung the door open. She opened the second metal door and slammed it behind her.
Locked it.
Roman burst from the apartment. “Have you totally lost it? What are you doing?”
“My job!” Sarai stepped back, away from his reach as he pushed his arm through the slats and made a grab for her. “I came here, Roma, to help save lives and I’m not letting you or David or my parents keep me from doing it. I don’t know why you seem so set against me or my work here, but you’d better be gone when I get back.”
Then she turned and raced down the stairs in her slippers.
6
“We have a problem, Governor.”
Light from the hallway seeped into his darkened office, only seconds in advance of the voice. Alexei Bednov opened his eyes and leaned up from his desk chair. His headache hadn’t eased, even with a couple shots of vodka, a few pain relievers, and an hour of shut-eye.
From the look on Fyodor’s face, his headache just might get worse.
“Shto?”
Fyodor came in, shut the door. His drawn expression could barely be seen in the dim light, despite the press of early morning against the curtains. Outside, Bednov could still hear the occasional siren. “Riddle is dead. He was supposed to check in yesterday from Khabarovsk.”
Bednov stifled a curse. “He had a shipment with him.”
Fyodor said nothing, and this time Bednov let the curse out, a long hiss in the darkness. “Where is he now?”
“In the ME’s office in Khabarovsk. The local FSB found him and called Alexander Oil.”
“Gennadi Smirnov sparked the curiosity of an agent in Khabarovsk, and I’ll lay odds that agent will pick up Riddle’s scent.” Bednov shook his head, leaned over, and turned on a desk lamp. “Have you sent anyone to pick him up?”
“Not yet.”
“Good. Don’t. Wait a few days, and then you go. See what they know and bring Riddle back. The last thing we need is Khabarovsk sending someone out here to sniff around. A dead agent on our soil would be hard to explain, even now.”
Fyodor nodded. A thin man, he looked sickly in the light. “Um, Comrade Bednov, I wanted to tell you how sorry I was about your son.”
Bednov nodded, but said nothing. Sasha served at least one purpose—he earned Bednov the sympathy of his province—probably the nation. It served as a sufficient alibi if anyone ever figured out he’d planned the so-called coup to divert Kazlov’s kidnapping and keep Kazlov from contesting the election results. Or worse, arresting Bednov if the unthinkable happened and Kazlov won. Not that he would, after the incentive Bednov had given the vote counters. But now, he could grab power without so much as a frown from Moscow. Public sentiment would sweep away accusations and only confirm his denials, and soon he’d have everything in place to broaden his scope of power. Sasha’s timing couldn’t have been more convenient if he’d planned it that way. Stupid, useful kid.
“How’s our guest?”
“He’s angry. And demanding his freedom.”
Bednov snorted. “Take him to Chuya. And make sure he’s in solitary confinement.”
“Why don’t we kill him?”
Bednov switched off the light. Yes, that was much better. Now, perhaps, his headache might ease enough for him to untangle his next step. “For the same reason they didn’t kill the czar and his family when they first took him. Because he still had information that they needed. If we want to pull this off, we must run our government as smoothly as possible. The last thing we need is to attract Moscow’s concern.”
Fyodor nodded, turned as if to leave.
“One last thing, Fyodor. Have you found the doctor yet?”
Fyodor stopped with his hand on the door handle. “I’m working with the embassy to put out pictures of all the foreigners. They are eager to help. Meanwhile, we’ve sent agents to Smolsk.”
“Fyodor, you told them that it must be an accident, correct?”
Fyodor nodded. “Yes, I did, Governor Bednov.”
“Your sister is the most infuriating—don’t laugh, David, it’s not funny. She locked me in her apartment.” Roman held his sat phone to his ear as he paced Sarai’s flat. He’d watched her drive away from his perch on her third-floor balcony just off her bedroom. Of course, she had to be the ultra-safe girl and install a balcony grate—effectively trapping him inside the flat. “I can’t believe you talked me into this!”
David sounded like Roman had ripped him from something—raucous music blared in the background, and although David wasn’t shouting, Roman had to in order for David to hear him. “Do you have any idea where she might hide an extra key?”
“Don’t give up, Roman. There’s news on my end that Bednov has already arrested two oil execs who were trying to depart on their private jets. Says he’s holding them under suspicion of kidnapping. But the chatter on this side of the ocean is that Bednov might be behind Kazlov’s disappearance. Keep your head down.”
“I’m not going anywhere unless I can find a key.” He paced through her bedroom, aware that it smelled like her—fresh soap, a hint of lilac. She might have some sort of body lotion or something… Yes, there it was on the nightstand. Along with—
He flipped up a picture frame and time stopped.
She still had this? Right here, where she could look at it every morning, every night? He felt just a little light-headed and sat down on the bed.
The day of their first kiss.
Why did she so easily find the cracks in his heart? He still remembered holding her face in his hands, the way her eyes widened as he searched for permission in her expression and then—
“Roman, try in the kitchen. In a decoy sugar bowl.
That’s where my mother always kept one.”
Roman turned the picture back down and stalked out of the bedroom. “She’s got quite the setup here, Preach. She’s worked hard at this clinic. I feel sick to make her leave it.”
“I know. I’ll do all I can from here to get her back as soon as possible. But my sources say that Bednov’s serious. I know Sarai can take care of herself, but she has tunnel vision when it comes to a project. She’d rather sacrifice her skin than quit.”
Or my skin. Roman walked out into the family room. Stopped.
On the television screen, framed neatly with the words “Foreigner at Large,” flashed a fairly awful picture of Sarai Curtiss. It held for a moment, then flipped to another equally horrendous picture of a Frenchman.
“I can’t believe this,” Roman said almost inaudibly.
“What?” David yelled. Roman held the phone away from his ear, wincing.
“I just saw Sarai’s picture on the television. Like…Russia’s most wanted or something. What’s going on?”
“I dunno. Maybe the embassies are trying to rope in their registered expats.”
“I have to find her.” Roman stalked to the kitchen and opened the kitchen cupboard. Inside, a number of containers hinted at success. He opened three before he hit the jackpot.
“I found the key. I’ll email you when I get back to Khabarovsk.”
“Redman, thanks. May God give you wisdom. And providence.”
Roman clicked off and pocketed his sat phone as he pulled on his jacket. He needed a truckload of divine wisdom if he hoped to find Sarai and get her out in—he checked his watch—sixty hours and counting. He opened the door, took the stairs two at a time, despite the shadows, vaulted the third step, and blasted out into the street.
Thankfully, the town wasn’t so large he couldn’t sprint back to the clinic parking lot and pick up his smashed jeep in ten minutes or less.
Yes, yes! The clinic lights were on. And Sarai’s Camry sat in the lot. Gotcha!
He burst through the doors, took a right, and slammed open her office door.
Never Say Goodbye Page 7