Red Midnight

by Heather Graham

  It was he who turned this time, his long-legged stride quickly taking him into the crowd. Erin watched as the silver-touched jet of his head became distant—its height above the throng of others remaining distinct.

  “You are a friend of Mr. Steele?” Ivan broke her mesmerization with the polite question.

  Erin chuckled a bit dryly. “Do you know, Ivan, I’m not really sure.”

  The young man frowned, apparently worried that his question might have been out of line. Erin quickly gave him a brilliant smile. “This is really marvelous, Ivan, being met like this. I can see where I might have been terribly lost.”

  Moments later she was ushered into a small economy car and they were moving into very hectic traffic despite the fact that it had been Erin’s understanding that automobiles were luxuries to the majority of the Soviet people. The car they were in, Ivan explained, belonged to the Intourist agency.

  “We really do not need automobiles, Miss McCabe,” Ivan continued cheerily. “Our metro is fabulous. You must see it while you are here!”

  “I’ve read about the metro,” Erin said enthusiastically, “and I wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

  Ivan glanced at her and then returned his eyes to the road, a smile curving into his lips. “You are a good tourist, Miss McCabe! You seem to know a great deal about us!”

  “Not a great deal, I’m afraid,” Erin muttered. “But I am fascinated by the history and the country. It’s all so vast!”

  Apparently she had touched him with her enthusiasm. His job, she knew, was simply to see her to her hotel. But Ivan detoured around the city, showing her the world-famous circus, several of the ancient cathedrals, and so many monuments that she lost count. As they approached her hotel, the Rossia, he pointed down the street.

  “You’re lucky,” he told her, smiling. “The Rossia sits right off Red Square. You can walk to the Kremlin and St. Basil’s and Lenin’s tomb. You must be sure to see the changing of the guard at the tomb. It is an awesome sight. Do so at midnight, Miss McCabe. It is especially exciting at that time with the lights creating magic on the square.”

  “Midnight!” Erin laughed. “I shall be there!”

  Uniformed bellboys appeared to take her luggage, and Ivan escorted her into the hotel lobby. He helped her cut through the red tape of registration and then smiled politely to her once more. “I leave you here, Miss McCabe.”

  “Will I see you again?”

  “It isn’t likely,” Ivan replied, then shrugged. “But then we never know. That is why we always say ‘Do sveedah nyah!’”

  Erin laughed and thanked Ivan, but the sound of the phrase had brought her mind back to Jarod Steele. Would she meet him again? Probably not. She hoped not.

  What a lie. She did want to see him again, just to figure out what his fascination was. No, no, no, no, Erin thought, clenching her fingers together as she followed the bellboy to her room. She couldn’t handle Jarod Steele. He was a furnace, and she would find herself consumed in flame.

  “Oh, how lovely!” She interrupted her own thoughts as the door to her “room” was pushed open. It was actually a suite, a ridiculously large one with a quaint and gracious bedroom, luxurious sitting room complete with piano, and a private office. The feeling of Old World charm was warm and endearing. Erin made a mental note to thank Mary profusely for the deluxe-class accommodations as she thanked the bellboy, who was grinning with pleasure at her obvious endorsement of the premises.

  With a few words of spattered English—and a very few words of spattered Russian—Erin and the bellboy managed enough of a conversation for her to ascertain that breakfast would still be served in the dining room for another hour. Erin unpacked a few things, ran a brush through her hair, and started off.

  The Rossia was an Intourist hotel and therefore specifically designed to cater to foreigners. Erin didn’t have much difficulty locating the dining room, nor did she have difficulty with the menu, as it was printed in seven languages—English among them. She chose the buffet, and happily dived into ham and eggs and rolls, as well as a number of less familiar dishes, several made with fish and potatoes. Russian coffee, she decided, left quite a lot to be desired, but it would certainly keep her wide awake for the tour of the Kremlin and Red Square which she had elected for the day. Besides, she was still thinking about Jarod Steele. Having known him, she thought dryly, his presence seemed to hover, and she was very determined to keep her mind and appreciation just as Russian as possible.

  Why the hell do I keep wondering about that man, she asked herself with irritation as she resolutely sipped a second cup of coffee in hopes that she would acquire a taste for the strong brew. She was reading things that simply weren’t there into his last words. Do sveedah nyah. The phrase was a polite exit line, nothing more. But it was hard not to think about a man when one had spent the night in his couchette … accidentally.

  Oh, yeah, of course, accidentally. And platonically. No, nothing about Jarod Steele was platonic. His eyes could caress and sear the flesh like a perceptible touch, strip it, bare it; his voice could do things that were far from decent to the blood. And damn him, the worst thing about him was that he was impossible to forget, even if she wasn’t even sure whether or not she liked the man.

  Erin left the open and airy dining room with its attractive display of windows and plants to explore the crimson carpeted and crystal chandeliered elegance of the Russia’s hallways. The hotel was marvelous, but she didn’t dare spend too much time discovering its amenities. She was due to meet her Intourist guide for the day in the lobby at eleven, and she had learned that the Soviets were punctual.

  This time she was met by a young woman whom she judged to be about her own age. Tanya, as she introduced herself, immediately aroused Erin’s admiration. She was very attractive, with sable hair and deep, expressive hazel eyes. Her manner was friendly yet assured. There didn’t seem to be such a thing as a cultural gap between the two women. Both seemed aware, as so often happens when people meet for the first time, that they would warm to one another immediately.

  As they stood in Red Square and Erin’s eyes wandered from Lenin’s tomb to the thick red walls of the Kremlin to the intricate architecture of St. Basil’s Cathedral, Tanya explained that much of the contemporary life-style of the Soviet peoples stemmed from the thirteenth century, when Russia was invaded by the bloodthirsty Mongol hordes of Genghis Khan. The Mongols left behind them mountains of skulls and miles and miles of smoked-out cities. For the following two centuries the Russian people fought to free themselves from the yoke of the Mongols, thereby missing much of the Renaissance and Reformation that were taking place in Europe. Not until the time of Ivan the Terrible—the first czar—were the Mongols subdued, and then Russia continued under the rule of the czars until 1917.

  “In this century we have also been plagued by war,” Tanya continued. “Our own revolution, World War One, and World War Two—to name our main conflicts. “She paused suddenly. “Why are you here, Miss McCabe?”

  Erin laughed, thinking she should tape-record her answer to the continually asked question. Yet from Tanya the query didn’t bother her. Erin hesitated, then answered with far more depth than she had given Jarod Steele.

  “When I was very young, Tanya, our president Kennedy was in office. I was in grammar school during the Cuban missile crisis, and I can still remember the drills in which we crawled under our desks. I was terrified of war, and as I grew up, I was determined to study Russian history and try to understand our power balance across the world. That, in a nutshell, is why I’m here. I discovered an American could see the U.S.S.R.—and here I am.”

  Tanya smiled slowly. “I think I shall truly enjoy taking you through our history, Miss McCabe. I, too, was always terrified of another war,” she murmured. “Many Soviet people are, and you will understand that when you travel to Leningrad. But for now—”

  Erin was next taken to St. Basil’s, where she studied the many priceless icons while Tanya colorfully related
the history of the cathedral built between 1555 and 1560 by Ivan the Terrible. She shuddered with a true understanding of the “Terrible” in Ivan’s name as she heard how he made certain each of his architects died so that their expertise could not be reproduced.

  When they left the cathedral, Tanya pointed out the common grave in the Kremlin wall of the revolutionaries killed in 1917. Then they were just in time to see a changing of the guard at Lenin’s tomb. The ramrod-stiff goose steps of the crisply uniformed military guard sent shivers racing along Erin’s spine.

  “You look a little horrified,” Tanya murmured.

  “No,” Erin protested. “I heard it was an awesome sight—in fact, I promised the agent who brought me to the hotel that I would be sure to come at midnight.”

  Tanya smiled. “You must try to understand, Erin, that we have bred backbone to survive. Many of our leaders have been ruthless men; they have taken the path of heartless purges and rigid isolationism. But we have been burned out and massacred many times. Twenty million Soviet citizens lost their lives in World War Two. I admit, we are a people who often put bullets before bread.” She shrugged eloquently. “We have far to go; perhaps that may soon change.”

  So awed had Erin been by the guards, then so touched by Tanya’s speech, that she screamed as a hand descended upon her shoulder.

  “I am so sorry, Miss McCabe, I have startled you. It is Miss McCabe, is it not?”

  The accented query came from a tall man of about fifty, handsome in a tall and austere way, clad in a heavy wool coat and a fur pillbox hat. At Erin’s stunned nod his lined faced creased further into a smile. “Forgive me. I knew you were in the country and I was most eager to make your acquaintance.”

  Tanya took that moment to intercede, her voice a bit awed. “Miss Erin McCabe, you will please meet Mr. Sergei Alexandrovich.”

  Still bewildered, Erin extended a hand. “Mr. Alexandrovich, how do you do?”

  If she had been bewildered, total confusion was to follow. The Russian had barely replied before Erin felt another hand descend upon her shoulder. The vital and masculine scent she had come to know so well told her “do sveedah nyah” had come sooner than she expected from the man who had the uncanny ability to appear in the most absurd places at the most absurd time.

  “Erin! How is the sightseeing going? And how on earth did you happen to run into Sergei already?”

  Erin turned and discovered Jarod staring at her with crystal eyes alight with good humor. He touched her as if she were a long lost and valued friend.

  “Hello, Tanya,” he murmured to her guide. Then he addressed himself to the Russian man. “I’ll be damned, Sergei, you do have a knack for routing out your more beautiful visitors.”

  Erin’s eyes darted to the Russian. He was affably grinning as he replied to Jarod. “Ah, but I didn’t seek out Miss McCabe simply because she is beautiful, my friend. I came to find her because I heard news from the border today that you were entering the country with a fiancée and I simply had to resolve the curiosity that was plaguing me!”

  “Oh, no!” Erin murmured, horrified by the turn of events. Surely Mr. Aloof and Contemptuous Steele was going to be furious that his ruse to help her out had put him in such an embarrassing position with a man who was obviously more than an acquaintance. “But Mr. Alexandrovich—” she began, determined to set the record, straight.

  The fingers curling into her shoulder tightened, almost causing her to gasp as Jarod interrupted her. “My Lord, Sergei, I have to hand it to you. You have one hell of a grapevine.”

  “Ah, yes,” Sergei replied, still smiling pleasantly and observing well all that he saw. “But then you did come in with a very rare beauty, and you, my friend, are most certainly one of our favorite Americans.”

  “Flattery, Sergei,” Jarod laughed. How could he appear so pleasant when he was practically breaking her collarbone? Erin wondered. She was thoroughly stunned when he continued with, “Well, Sergei, you wished to meet my fiancée. You have done so. What do you think?”

  The Russian’s deep brown gaze focused with warmth and apparent humor on Erin. “I think, my friend,” he said with soft appreciation, “that you will not have to try very hard to find happiness. And I think, too, Jarod Steele, that although you have been so very secretive, you must still bring this exquisitely lovely creature to the dinner at my apartment this evening.” Erin once more found her hand gallantly enveloped by the Russian’s. “You will come, Miss McCabe, won’t you?”

  “I …” Erin began to murmur, wondering desperately why Jarod didn’t come to her aid. Why didn’t he simply tell the truth? Surely this man, whoever he was, would forgive Jarod’s ruse to help her over the border. “I’d be delighted, Mr. Alexandrovich, but Jarod and Í haven’t had much time yet to discuss anything …” She allowed her voice to trail away with one of her best smiles. She didn’t wish to offend the Russian, but she did want Jarod to clear up the mess he had created.

  “No problem, darling,” Jarod said with disgusting calm. “It’s a small dinner, not an affair of state. I should have mentioned it to you earlier. Sergei, Erin certainly shall attend with me. You see, we had been intending to keep our engagement a secret awhile longer. I’m afraid when I mentioned it to Nicolai at the border that I forgot to mention that fact.”

  “Marvelous,” Sergei responded, true enthusiasm shining in his dark eyes. “Then I am the first to congratulate you!”

  “Oh, that you are,” Erin murmured, managing to maintain her smile through bitterly clenched teeth. A sharp strengthening of the fingers around her shoulder blade informed her Jarod didn’t appreciate her dry comment.

  Evidently finished with the business of dinner, Sergei turned to Tanya, who was a little overwhelmed to find her tourist such a subject of attention. “So,” he said, “how far has the tour gone?”

  “St. Basil’s, sir,” Tanya murmured, collecting herself quickly. “We have discussed some history—”

  “But not yet viewed Lenin or entered the Kremlin walls?”

  “No.”

  “Then we shall begin together.”

  Erin was at long last relieved of Jarod’s hold as Sergei Alexandrovich politely slipped his arm through hers and started toward the black marble mausoleum before the red brick wall which was the shrine and tomb of the revered Lenin. Lines of people waited to enter; the viewing of their great leader was a pilgrimage taken very often by many of the Soviet people as well as by the burgeoning tourist trade. But apparently Sergei was important. He was greeted with the utmost propriety, and he and Erin—with Jarod and Tanya close behind—were led immediately to the front.

  Moments later Erin was viewing the face of the great Soviet leader of the Revolution, specially preserved and shielded by the crystal of his sarcophagus. The experience was chilling—as awesome as that of watching the guards change before the tomb.

  “You shiver,” Sergei commented as they returned to the crisp and cold daylight. “You do not approve?”

  “Well …”

  “Speak honestly, Miss McCabe.”

  Erin laughed, strangely touched by the dark eyes of her escort. “Okay, honestly, Mr. Alexandrovich, I’m not much on open coffins to begin with!”

  “Ahhh … but he is magnificently preserved, don’t you think?”

  “That I will agree with.”

  “Our scientists spend three to four days each week assuring that he will last the century and more. But you are right, Miss McCabe—viewing the dead can be a morbid experience. Come, I shall take you into the Kremlin.”

  Within the triangular high brick walls of the Kremlin were ancient towers and palaces and the buildings that housed the Soviet government.

  Erin quickly discovered that she was being given much more than the average tour. She was treated to many palaces and the museums therein, a recital on the furs and jewels that had belonged to the czars, and a discourse on the many fine bells that were a pride of the Kremlin, and she was escorted into a number of the guarded contempor
ary buildings.

  Her mock engagement, she thought wryly, was proving to be beneficial to her in many areas. But why, she wondered, was Jarod taking it so far? The benefits were hers. What possible good could come his way?

  And yet, from a certain standpoint, Erin was also enjoying a new view of Jarod Steele. He was capable of being a very charming companion. As part of their foursome, he appeared to be as pleasantly involved in touring as Sergei; his knowledge was no less complete. It was he who explained to “Darling” that wood walls had stood upon the site as early as 1156—the present brick had been installed between 1462 and 1505. His smile and his touch were excruciatingly pleasant.

  He must be about to bust a gut! Erin thought with a certain amount of vindictive relish. Attempting to chastise herself for such thoughts of vengeance, she simply gave up. Mr. Jarod Steele had laughed at her discomfort one too many times for her not to appreciate his at this moment.

  But just how uncomfortable was he? She was discovering that Jarod could handle her with apparent intimate affection and yet not think a thing of it while she still felt the mercury chills from the slightest brush of his fingers.

  The group parted before St. Basil’s where Erin and Tanya had begun the day. Erin was more convinced than ever that Sergei Alexandrovich was definitely important when he informed Tanya that since Miss McCabe seemed to so enjoy her, he would arrange with her supervisor to have her guide Erin for the remainder of her stay in Moscow. Tanya seemed awed. Erin was aware that Tanya was dying to know just who she was to deserve such attention.

  No one, Tanya, Erin thought. This is as startling to me as it is to you.

  Sergei offered to drop Tanya off at the Intourist office, and Erin and Jarod were finally left alone.

  “You can let go now,” Erin said dryly. Jarod still had his arm around her waist.

  His response was none too complimentary; he dropped his arm as if he had touched a hot potato.

  “Come on,” he said briefly. “I’ll take you back to your hotel.”

  His stride was long and hurried. Erin was breathing so hard that she was unable to question him until they reached the long carpeted hall that led to her suite. Then, panting, she began in spurts.