Never Say Goodbye

by Susan May Warren

  The camera panned back to the entrance, and he experienced slim satisfaction that the next shot portrayed a cuffed—and bleeding—Roman Novik.

  Bednov rubbed his hand across his forehead, and it came back slick. Julia stumbled across the floor, on her way to the bathroom. She looked sickly in her pink satin bathrobe, her hair knotted, her mascara in trails down her once-pretty face. He barely recognized her.

  Which would make it easier to dispose of her. Eventually. But soon enough so that she couldn’t destroy his long-term plans. I’ll make sure you pay.

  She closed the door to the bathroom without looking at him.

  “What do I do with him?” Fyodor’s voice sounded drawn. “Take him back to Irkutsk?”

  Bednov wrestled through the cotton of his brain for a game plan, something to discredit…no, make Novik suffer. It wasn’t enough that he be killed. Novik needed to be an example for anyone who thought they might cross Bednov. Especially now. He stared again at the screen, at the rabble of men that he’d picked to protect him and his interests—Russia’s interests—in the new era.

  They had to take him seriously. Fear was power…Stalin had taught him that.

  “Take him to Chuya,” Bednov said.

  Silence on the other end of the phone made him smile.

  Sarai felt like a refugee. No, an international criminal. Or maybe both. She wrapped her arms around herself and shuddered, just like the AN-2 Russian air trap that flew her out of Irkutsk, into the sunrise. Across the aisle, Vicktor, her captor’s accomplice, stared out the window.

  She remembered the cold fear that had nearly crumpled her as she walked through an assembly of ragtag soldiers into the frigid air and blinding sunshine. Some wore uniforms, others simply submachine guns and etched war faces. They’d watched Vicktor holding his FSB badge pass by, silent in their suspicion. She felt her skin prickle at the memory of the fear that one would jump out and yank her from Vicktor’s grip.

  At the time, she didn’t know which she preferred.

  Especially when she saw a television crew documenting her darkest moment. Just what she always wanted, her face on national television as a criminal. Maybe the international wires would pick it up and her parents could participate in her misery.

  When they arrived at Vicktor’s car, he’d opened the door and gestured her to climb in, saying nothing in the way of condolences or apology. He’d pulled away with a dark look on his face, and she’d glanced away from him to watch as the horde poured into the clinic.

  Toward Roman.

  For a second, something inside her felt weak and floppy, and she thought she might faint. What had Roman done? And what was going to happen to him? The very fact that she let those thoughts slice through her anger told her what a fool she’d become to fall for him again.

  They’d driven in silence to an airstrip outside Smolsk, where Vicktor removed the cuffs and escorted her onto a small airplane.

  Silently. Pensively.

  It made her very, very afraid. “What’s going to happen to Roma?” she asked aloud now in the airplane, rubbing the places where the cuffs had chafed.

  Vicktor seemed not to hear her.

  Maybe she didn’t want to know. Maybe Roman even deserved it, the way he’d wrestled her into handcuffs, yanked her out of her life without even a nod toward her feelings. She didn’t even have her duffel bag, her passport, her Bible, her picture…

  No, she certainly didn’t need the picture.

  Tears rimmed her eyes and she blinked them away. She was sick of crying.

  “Where are we going?”

  Vicktor glanced at her. “Khabarovsk. You’ll be safe there. You can get a new passport and visa in Vladivostok.”

  “Then what?” She felt suddenly small, even naked.

  Vicktor had incredibly dark scary eyes, yet when he smiled, she saw a hint of deep compassion. “Then we’ll see. I’m sure God has something for you to do there.”

  She frowned at him. Something for her to do there? But her life, her mission was in Smolsk. She wouldn’t be happy doing anything else.

  She felt something heavy lay on her chest. Was she happy in Smolsk? Really happy?

  Lonely. Afraid. Overwhelmed. Occupied. But happy?

  Frankly, she hadn’t been happy since she left Roman in Moscow. Yes, she’d always wanted to be a missionary. But more than that, she wanted to be used by God. For her life to matter.

  None of that included happiness.

  Like she told Roman, she didn’t exactly understand what it meant to deny herself, pick up her cross, and follow Christ, nor the part that said, For whosoever will save his life shall lose it.

  She had denying down to a science, however. She’d followed Christ to the four corners of the earth for the sake of the gospel and nearly lost her life on more occasions than she wanted to count.

  Maybe losing her life wasn’t about actually losing her life, but the things she thought she needed to make her life complete.

  The clinic. Her legacy.

  She’d prayed for God to use her to minister to the people of Smolsk. Roman’s angry tones swept into her mind. Anya and Genye are more than capable of opening this clinic… Could it be that God had been at work this entire time to get her out of the way?

  Regret filled her throat. How could she have been so arrogant?

  Worse, how could she not have seen that God had not only been trying to get her to surrender but had given her the one thing for which surrender might have been sweet?

  Roman.

  Roman, silent as she accused him of selfishness. Roman holding her when she was cold, terrified, and exhausted.

  Roman, his eyes glistening as he looked in her eyes and snapped on handcuffs. To save her life.

  What if in losing her dreams, she found that God satisfied the needs inside her she didn’t want to admit she had?

  Needs like protection. Like safety. Like…being cherished.

  Maybe Roman had been right. Picking up her cross meant not only sacrificing what she loved, but also following God.

  Out of Smolsk.

  Into the world, wherever He led even if He led her into Roman’s dangerous, exhilarating, very scary life. Into new worlds, new opportunities to save lives.

  Trust in the Lord with all your heart. The thought filled her mind, lifted her gaze out the window, above the clouds, toward the heavens.

  I want to, Lord. Help me to trust You. To follow You, whatever I have to surrender. She closed her eyes at the last and her chest tightened. “What are they going to do to him, Vicktor?” she opened her eyes and asked again.

  Vicktor still said nothing and looked out the window.

  Sarai unbuckled, got up and sat next to him. “Vicktor,” she said softly, her voice tremulous. “What are they going to do to Roman?”

  Vicktor sighed, closed his eyes. “I don’t know.”

  Fear speared through Sarai, separating her feelings, crystallizing them into one clear truth. She loved Roman. Always had. Always would.

  “Please, Vicktor, don’t let them hurt him.”

  Vicktor opened his eyes, didn’t answer and continuing staring out the window.

  19

  So much for staying out of the gulag.

  Roman had been inside a few government correctional facilities over the years. He felt pretty sure this one was off the map. Way, way off the map, maybe even into Mongolia. Or it could be in northern Siberia for all he knew because he’d worn a blindfold since they’d tackled him—what, a day ago? Or two days?

  Sensory deprivation had loosened his hold on time and space. When they untied the blindfold, he’d found himself standing in the middle of a concrete-block room, thin milky light shafting from a square window near the top of the wall. A forlorn chill emanated from the walls and found Roman’s soul.

  Two men faced him, and he didn’t recognize either, which was probably good, because hopefully they didn’t have any ancient grievances against him.

  One held a billy club. Roman tri
ed not to focus on that as he stood and took a personal assessment, a sort of starting point. His eye still felt bloated and his lip fat from Fight Club and his friends’ less-than-compassionate takedown. He’d surrendered easily, trying not to anger them, but Russian mafiosi weren’t terror artists for their tendency toward mercy.

  Probably, he had a cracked rib, too, because it hurt every time he breathed deeply.

  Like when he signed over his nonexistent future.

  Billy Club man stood silent as the other, a man the size and menace of a professional wrestler, took a step toward him. “Strip,” he said. It sounded more like a grunt and had the same effect as a punch.

  Roman swallowed. “Hard to do when I’m still cuffed.”

  From behind, he heard movement, and in a moment his hands came free. Oh joy.

  He could do this. Not think of the moment or the shattered pieces of his life. He could go back to that place where he’d last felt peace, praying that God would use him, surrendering his future into God’s hands.

  He’d focus on God’s voice, the one that reminded him that the Almighty had hope and a future for him.

  Roman submitted silently to the customary search, gritting his teeth against humiliation, even as they marched him down the hall in his bare feet and scanty prison clothes. Somehow, he felt like they’d skipped something…like a trial?

  However, he’d surrendered to Bednov’s hands. And he, better than anyone, knew the legal loopholes in Russia.

  It was quite possible that even Yanna, a genius hacker who knew how to find the blueprints of Putin’s private bomb shelter, would never find him.

  The prison reeked with the smell of urine and sweat. Fractured shadows from dingy bulbs lit the long concrete corridors. Solid black doors drilled into the walls evidenced habitation, but Roman didn’t want to imagine who might be encased inside.

  Billy Club walked him past the doors, and Roman felt slight relief in that. They stopped as the other guard unlocked a set of barred doors, and when they opened them, relief turned to a cold sweat.

  General population. Inside the room, he saw row after row of thin mattresses, some with bedding, others bare. Sitting on them, in various degrees of repose, were prisoners.

  Eyes riveted on him and he tried to take a deep breath. Winced.

  “Take good care of him, boys. He’s FSB.” Billy Club turned and winked.

  Roman flashed him a smile. What would David call this? A witnessing opportunity? Roman walked into the room.

  The lock turned behind him, and he steeled himself.

  No wonder they hadn’t bothered to torture him. An FSB agent in general population hadn’t a prayer of survival. And probably, that was Bednov’s plan. By the time Vicktor got home and activated his release, or at least a transfer, Roman would be a bloody—and dead—pulp.

  Roman didn’t move, but did a quick and silent count. Thirty men, at the least. And it looked like they didn’t do housecleaning very often, because he saw at least one man in the corner unmoving. Hopefully he wasn’t dead.

  Roman backed up, eliminating a surprise attack from behind.

  The men were bored. He was entertainment as well as fresh meat.

  It happened fast. Two came at him in a tackle, and Roman kneed one, met the other with an uppercut. They grunted and went down, but another two jumped him.

  He knew he’d go down, he just hadn’t expected the intensity of their attack. Nor the fact that he had it in him to fight back. He fought like he had as a kid, ferociously, with the edge of desperation. He swung, rarely missed, and endured punishment as he struggled to stay alert.

  I hate you. I really hate you.

  Sarai’s cold voice zeroed in and centered him. He fought with the grief of knowing what he’d done to Sarai, to his future. He fought because he hadn’t anything else left in him.

  He fell to the floor, tasting his own tinny blood in his mouth. Faces blurred as he covered his head. Pain wrapped itself around his brain. Then sweet darkness closed in on him.

  He awoke sprawled facedown on what he supposed might be a mattress. The redolence of unwashed bodies and sweat filled his nose and he coughed.

  Everything hurt. He forced his eyes open and wasn’t sure if they worked because he saw only darkness, as thick as pitch. He moved his hand, found his face, and it felt slick.

  He groaned, then reached out and found a wall. Sitting up, he scooted back until his back hit the cool concrete. It went to the hot and painful places and balmed his aches.

  At least he was out of interrogation.

  “Who are you?”

  The voice came out of the darkness, a gravelly voice, although strident, with the lacing of suspicion.

  “Roman. Novik. I’m a…” Last time, his profession had gotten the tar beaten out of him. “Patriot.”

  The voice on the other side of the room harrumphed. “Konyeshna. Me too.”

  A political prisoner? Roman touched his nose, flinched. Could be broken. “Who are you?”

  “Dmitri Vasilovyech Kazlov. Governor of Irkutia.”

  Roman blinked, scraping up an image from his memories. Gray hair, wide face, deep-set eyes. “Governor?”

  “The rightful governor. And Alexander Bednov knows it.”

  Roman heard anger, despite the weariness, in his tone. He searched it for deceit, aware that they could plant anyone here in the darkness. On the other hand, he could be alone, completely, for the rest of his days. Roman wasn’t sure what emotion he should hang on to—suspicion or gratitude.

  “I’ve been in here for nearly a week,” Kazlov said. “Tell me, what’s happening out there.”

  “We thought you were dead.”

  “I probably will be soon. Bednov needed me for strategic information.” He sighed. “What’s happened?”

  Roman tested a rib and cringed. “There was an ‘attempted’ coup—probably planned by Bednov to divert suspicion—but he stopped it and took control. He’s ousted all foreigners and has declared martial law. He says you were kidnapped, presumed dead.”

  Kazlov turned quiet.

  Roman debated his words, not sure if he might be digging his own grave. Especially if the man in the darkness was a plant and not the former governor at all. Then again, he’d never see sunlight again. Maybe by handing out information, he’d shake Bednov’s confidence, force him to make a mistake, even pack up shop. And hopefully, Vicktor would be watching. “Did you know about his smuggling operation? The HEU from the inactive nuclear plant in Khandaski near his Alexander Oil property? I have my suspicions he was smuggling it out.”

  Kazlov was silent. Then, “Yes. How did you know?”

  “One of his couriers turned up dead in Khabarovsk with a container of HEU.”

  Kazlov said nothing for a long time. “We’ve been watching him for a while. But because of the campaign, we couldn’t arrest him unless we had proof—”

  “Otherwise it would look like you were setting him up to lose.”

  “Moscow, and the world, has us on a tight leash, watching. Too bad they were looking in the wrong direction.”

  Roman didn’t comment.

  “Bednov discovered that we knew and decided to take us all out. From the enormity of his ploy, he must have had a small army working for him,” Kazlov continued.

  “Mercenaries, sir, for sure. He has the money to pay for help.” Roman pressed the soft tissue under his swollen eye. “I met a couple of his men when I broke into Khandaski. Found the HEU that was supposedly shipped to a commissioned reactor.”

  “Which I’m sure is why you ended up here.”

  “Bednov knew I’d catch up to him. His son died of radiation poisoning, something he got from their dacha near the plant.”

  Roman heard Kazlov shift.

  “How did you find that out?”

  “A friend. A doctor who treated him.”

  “Where’s your friend now?” Kazlov asked, his voice low.

  Roman closed his eyes, seeing Sarai’s tortured expression. I re
ally hate you. “I arrested her, put her into FSB custody, and sent her out of Irkutsk with a fellow agent. The FSB in Khabarovsk will protect her. And I’m hoping they’ll figure out Bednov’s plan.”

  “You arrested her?” Kazlov’s shock sounded authentic.

  Roman grimaced, feeling freshly shamed. “She had the same reaction. Told me she hated me.”

  “Who are you?”

  Oh, yeah. “I’m FSB.”

  “Oh. That explains the visit to general population. They worked you over pretty good. You were groaning.”

  Roman leaned his head back against the wall. “I’m surprised I’m still alive. And, I think I have all my teeth.”

  He heard a snort from out of the darkness. “Welcome to cell block 16.”

  “What do you mean you can’t find him?” Sarai paced Vicktor’s tiny apartment, amazed that a person could share such a tiny space with an animal the size of an Asian elephant, namely Alfred, Vicktor’s father’s Great Dane. She gave Alfred’s rump a whack, hoping to rouse him from the sofa where he sprawled. He only opened an eye. She sat on the arm and refused to give into frustration. “Please, Yanna, keep looking.”

  Two weeks she’d been in Khabarovsk while Yanna and Vicktor searched for Roman in the gulag archipelago. Two weeks of hearing her voice echo. I hate you. Seven days of waking sick to her stomach with worry, wishing she could rewind time, go back to that moment in her apartment and tell him she loved him.

  He was the hero she didn’t think she needed. But, oh, did she need him. She needed his smile, his friendship, even his irritating protection. Somehow, with him believing in her, she felt like the person she’d been trying to be for over a decade. Brave. Strong. Someone who saved lives.

  Please, Lord, show us how to save his life.

  “He’s dropped off the grid, Sarai.” Yanna stood at the window, her long brown hair silky in the evening glow. She wore workout clothes, but Sarai knew she hadn’t been to volleyball practice other than to check in for nearly a week. The clothes were a decoy for anyone tailing her.