Take Me for a Ride

by Karen Kendall

  The archbishop spoke in Russian. Nonnie bowed her head, and Natalie did the same out of courtesy.

  Then Nonnie murmured words to him, tears welling in her old eyes.

  He nodded and asked a question.

  “Give him St. George, my dear,” Nonnie told Natalie.

  So she did.

  The archbishop took the necklace into his hands and traced the outline of the little sculpted saint on his horse. He closed his eyes and said a prayer over the piece. Then he turned and gestured for them to follow him.

  They descended deep into the belly of the church, the air growing cooler as they went. The damp got increasingly pervasive, and the whole atmosphere supported a cloying melancholy.

  After the third set of stone steps, they turned down a dark passageway that was little more than a tunnel. Small chambers lined it on either side, and in the chambers were tombs much smaller than the ones that lined the nave of the church on the ground level.

  The archbishop counted as they went along, stopping at the ninth chamber. He gestured them inside, and while Nonnie could stand at her full height, he and Natalie had to bend and bow their heads.

  The tomb inside looked small to Nat, but then, the date on it was 1798, only two years after Catherine the Great herself had died. People had grown much larger in the two centuries since then.

  Natalie was half afraid that the archbishop would unseal the actual tomb, but instead he went to the head of it, where there was a stone structure that looked a lot like the headboard of a bed. He tugged hard at the double-headed eagle that adorned the apex, and to her surprise the top section of it moved, groaning with the scrape of stone on stone. It slid off like the lid of a box.

  The archbishop reached inside the body of the box and lifted out a bundle wrapped carefully in layers of hide. This he presented to Nonnie before moving the heavy stone lid back into place.

  Nonnie clutched it to herself and murmured a prayer. Then she turned to Natalie. “Open it, Natalya. Please.”

  The archbishop had brought with him an old-fashioned oil lamp, and she used the light from it to see.

  There were three layers of soft suede leather. As she unwrapped them, Natalie could barely breathe.

  Under the final layer were several items. “A Bible, the Old Testament,” Natalie said aloud for her grandmother’s benefit. “A handwritten journal.”

  “Both my mother’s,” Nonnie said. “Go on.”

  “There’s a book of recipes.”

  Nonnie smiled. “My grandmother’s. Glory be.”

  “A manuscript? Something like that . . .” Natalie leafed through it carefully. The signature on the last page made her heart stop. “Signed Natalya Goncharova, 1832,” she said faintly.

  “Ah. I wondered if that still existed. You know who she was?”

  “Alexander Pushkin’s wife. He’s Russia’s most famous poet!”

  “Yes. Unfortunately, he died in a duel over her. She was a cousin of ours. Of course no one suspected she was a writer herself.”

  “Is this manuscript any good?”

  “I don’t have the foggiest notion,” Nonnie said. “I was five when we left, remember? But even if it isn’t, I should think it has great historical value. Now, what else is there?”

  “Three packets of letters. An embroidered cloth with military medals pinned to it. A lace collar . . . no jewels, though, Nonnie. Not the treasure you were expecting.” Natalie looked up at her grandmother’s face, afraid she’d be upset.

  Instead, she wore an expression of utter nostalgia and content. She smiled gently. “No treasure? Why, what do you call this? These things are the keys to our family history, and what could possibly be more valuable than that?”

  Nonnie reached out, took Natalie’s hands, and stood on tiptoe to kiss her cheek. “Gold, emeralds, diamonds—they’re like peacock feathers. They merely show us who we want to be: perhaps more important, more glamorous than we deserve.

  “The tokens of our ancestry: letters, journals, portraits, recipes—these show us where we came from and who we really are. Now, I ask you, which is more precious?”

  Thirty-seven

  “Hi,” said McDougal as he walked right up to the scowling man posted outside the Savoy. In disbelief, the Russian actually dropped his crackberry onto the sidewalk.

  But not all his reactions were slow. Within half a second, something ominous tented his coat pocket, and it was aimed way too close to McDougal’s heart.

  “Well, golly jeepers,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Is that a gun, or are you just happy to see me?”

  When the man just stared at him, nonplussed, McD switched to Russian. “Take me to your boss, Suzdal. I have a business proposition to discuss with him.”

  “I have business proposition, American pig. I shoot you and throw you in the Moskva.”

  “That’s not business,” McDougal explained kindly. “That’s just a mundane, garden-variety assassination. You get no ROI in that maneuver. Understand?”

  The man just squinted his pouchy little eyes.

  “ROI. Return on investment. I can offer your boss some great terms, I’m telling you.”

  “Necklace?”

  “This does concern the necklace, yes.”

  “You have?”

  “I have,” McDougal assured him. “But not with me.”

  “You get.”

  “All in good time.”

  “You get now, or I shoot.”

  McDougal sighed and shook his head. “I can see that the art of the deal is lost on you. Now, let me explain something: You kill me now, you will never get the necklace. You take me to your boss and you just might. So where are you parked, you ugly waste of oxygen?” He said the last words in English with an I’m-your-best-buddy grin.

  The man had picked up his crackberry, and he now hit a button and spoke into it, explaining what McDougal wanted to the man on the other end. Evidently Suzdal was curious enough to see him, because his lackey ended the call and said, “You have gun? Knife? Bomb?”

  “Fresh out,” McD said in sorrowful tones as he shook his head. “Left ’em in the rented dacha along with your naked, willing wife.”

  Oblivious to the insult in the English words, the man said, “Walk.” They went several blocks before they came to—no kidding—a late-model Saab that looked all too familiar. While Eric bit his lip hard to keep from laughing, he submitted to a full pat-down so the guy could be sure he had no weapons.

  “You want to look in my shorts, too?” he asked.

  Again, no reaction. The man unlocked the doors of the Saab, they both climbed in, and they headed northeast, out of the city. In about half an hour, they pulled up to a grand country house in the classical style with a circular porch delineated with Ionic columns.

  As the car doors slammed, a well-dressed, dark-haired man with a cigar came walking forward and studied McDougal casually. Judging by his driver’s deference, this was Suzdal.

  Adrenaline skated down Eric’s spine, but he remained cool outwardly—even knowing that the man probably didn’t intend to let him live. He didn’t look like a vicious mob boss—he had large, liquid brown eyes that gave the illusion of warmth and humor. And that was just plain creepy.

  “Mr. McDougal?”

  He nodded.

  “I have bad habit of smoking,” Suzdal said, waving his cigar in a self-deprecating manner.

  You have a lot of bad habits, buddy. Murder, theft, smuggling, money laundering . . .

  “My son, he is allergic. So. You object to walking outside on the grounds?”

  “Not at all.” Easier to scrape my body off the snow than off an expensive rug, is it?

  “How are you enjoying your stay in Moscow, Mr. McDougal?” Unbelievably, there was not a trace of irony in his voice. He could have been a cultural attaché making small talk at an embassy party, which was even creepier than his luminous, kindly eyes.

  McDougal raised an eyebrow. “Aside from the surveillance, the kidnappers, and the bruta
l assault on my girlfriend in our hotel room, we’ve had a grand old time.”

  Suzdal said nothing. He slanted a quick, dark glance at his guest and produced a creditable imitation of a welcoming smile, a cobra offering a bunny an aperitif.

  “Other than that, Moscow is a beautiful city with a great sense of history.”

  “Yes,” Suzdal said. “You have been to the Kremlin? The Pushkin Museum of Fine Arts? The Tolstoy house?”

  “Oddly enough, we’ve had very little time for sightseeing,” Eric said. “You know, because of fearing for our lives. That can suck a lot of the joy out of a vacation.”

  Suzdal ashed his cigar into an urn and evaluated him. His fleshy lips clamped around the cigar again and he drew in on it until the tip glowed red. “You do not seem to fear for your life at this moment, Mr. McDougal. Perhaps you should.”

  “Oh, please call me Eric. And no, I’m not afraid for my life right now.” A lie, but it rolled easily off his tongue even as unease spiraled through his gut.

  He was alone here. No backup. Nothing to protect himself but his mouth and his powers of persuasion.

  “I’m not afraid, because once you’ve heard me out I think you’ll be happy to chauffeur me back to the Savoy and perhaps even pick up my dinner tab.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Indeed.”

  “I must say that I am intrigued. What is this business proposal you have for me, Eric?” Suzdal’s tone was avuncular, almost fatherly.

  This was it. This was the moment where McDougal took his life into his hands and waved it, like a tasty little mammal, inches away from the mouth of the unpredictable cobra. Had the reptile eaten his fill just this morning? Or did he have a raging and vindictive appetite?

  McD swallowed. “The proposal, as you call it, is all about information. There are certain documents filed at the ARTemis offices and with my lawyer, documents which attest to the fact that in 2005, you may not have had your friend and mentor Vasily Somov’s best interests at heart.”

  Suzdal stopped in his tracks and took a deep drag on his cigar. “Go on,” he said, his voice suddenly frostbitten.

  “Now, I’m as sure as you are that these documents contain only the most vicious and unfounded lies . . .”

  Suzdal exhaled the smoke slowly, as if it were poisoned gas, into Eric’s face. “Of course.”

  “But we all know that rumor and innuendo can easily ruin a man, especially if his friends are given to paranoia and violence. I would hate to see such a long and . . . er . . . productive friendship ruined. I’m sure that Somov’s companionship and trust mean everything to you.”

  Suzdal tossed his cigar into a snowy bush. “What do you want?” he asked flatly, his gaze flicking up toward the roof.

  McDougal saw the telltale glint of a long black scope and had no doubts at all that the bridge of his nose was in the crosshairs of a sniper’s rifle. His mouth went dry and his guts slid greasily.

  “I want you to leave us alone,” he said. “I want you to forget that the St. George necklace ever existed. And I want safe passage out of this country for myself and every one of my associates. That’s all.”

  He stood for a long agonizing moment, wondering whether his face would blow apart; whether the cartilage of his nose would burst through the back of his skull; whether his head would just split like a melon. Whether he’d ever see Natalie’s face again.

  Would he feel pain, or would it be over too fast?

  Would they put his body through a wood chipper?

  Dissolve it in acid?

  Suzdal’s voice broke into these pleasant musings. “I want the documents in return.”

  McDougal threw back his head and laughed, even though he felt a lot more like pissing himself. “No way. No way in hell.” Good. His voice wasn’t shaking.

  “I will not leave myself open to future blackmail.”

  “I’m not a blackmailer, Mr. Suzdal. I’m just a simple thief. And I’ll keep the papers safe as long as you keep us safe.”

  A muscle jumped in Suzdal’s jaw. He said nothing. He glanced upward again. Several long, very long, moments ticked by.

  Ask for the close. Ask for the goddamned close, McD, before your head gets perforated. McDougal unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “Do we have a deal?”

  Suzdal turned his back on him and walked toward his house. “Yes, damn you. We have a deal.”

  Relief shot through McDougal like vodka on an empty stomach. Giddy. He felt giddy. He pushed his luck just to celebrate the fact that he was still alive. “How ’bout that dinner tab?”

  “Go and fuck yourself,” Suzdal said crisply. “Now, get off my property before I call dogs on you.”

  McDougal didn’t need to be told twice, but he wasn’t about to hike back to the city center. Too bad the man who’d driven him here was nowhere to be found.

  With a shrug, Eric did his best to saunter on his rubbery legs over to the trusty Saab. He opened the driver’s-side door and collapsed into the seat. Then, with shaking fingers, he ’jacked the car again. This time he didn’t bother to leave gas money inside.

  The Do Not Disturb sign was on his and Natalie’s room at the Savoy, but McDougal figured that was for Housekeeping’s benefit, not his own.

  Adrenaline still pulsed through his veins, mixing with relief that he’d secured Natalie’s safety . . . and the tumultuous anticipation he felt. He would finally present her with the St. George necklace as proof of his loyalty to her. Proof of his apology. Proof of his love.

  He couldn’t decide how to stage it, or whether it was a gesture that should be staged. Perhaps he should just be casual—go to the nightstand, pull out the box, and toss it into her lap.

  Or maybe he should get down on his knees.

  Should he order a bottle of champagne for the occasion?

  As usual, he hated indecision. But his feelings for Natalie made him feel like a teenager again, trying to pick out a corsage for the prom. He had no experience with anything like this. His confidence had always come from knowing he wanted to leave a woman, not knowing that he wanted to stay around.

  And even though she’d told him that she loved him, he sensed that she was holding something back. He sensed something dark, even tragic behind the words . . . something threatening.

  McDougal took a deep breath and slid his key card into the door. The room was dark, with the curtains drawn. “Natalie?”

  No response.

  He flipped on the light switch closest to the door, which softly illuminated the place. She wasn’t in the bed. Nor was she in the bathroom.

  “Natalie?” His heart fisted in his chest and tried to punch its way through his rib cage, again and again.

  She was gone.

  Holy Mother of God, she was gone.

  A million horrifying scenarios poured into his mind like sewer water from a broken main.

  Natalie beaten.

  Natalie strangled.

  Natalie raped.

  Was she suffocating in the trunk of a car? Buried in the frozen ground? Floating facedown in the Moskva River?

  Had Suzdal lied through his teeth, sending someone here for her even as McDougal walked with him and his damned cigar? A hefty bribe could have gotten a man past security.

  Hands shaking again, Eric went to the drawer of the nightstand and slid it open. The lacquered box, in its wrapping, was still there. He pulled it out, shoved it into his jacket pocket, and, knees trembling, sat down hard on the bed.

  If Suzdal had sent men for her, they would have turned the place upside down in search of the necklace. It wouldn’t still be here. The only reason Eric had left it in such an obvious place was that he’d known—or thought he’d known—that Natalie wouldn’t be leaving the room.

  He forced himself to take deep breaths and focus as he looked around. There was no sign of a struggle at all. Her purse was gone, as were her coat and boots. Her suitcase was still on the floor; her toiletries still sat on the bathroom counter.

  Nata
lie had most likely left of her own accord, against his explicit instructions, and in defiance of her promise not to do so. While fear still clawed at his throat, blood, red and angry, began to beat a tattoo at his temples. He got up and paced back and forth, a tiger in a cage.

  By all that’s holy, I’ll kill her myself if someone else hasn’t. I’ll wring her slim white neck.

  He turned and kicked her suitcase, but it didn’t make him feel any better. Where was she? Would the concierge know? Should he go out and search for her? Or should he wait right here until she returned so that he could . . . could . . . What? Shake her till her teeth rattled?

  I’ll teach her a lesson, by God, I will.

  Then it occurred to him, like a slap in the face, that he already had. He’d taught her how to break promises. He’d taught her how to lie. He’d taught her to deceive.

  Was that the dark thing he’d sensed behind her words? It was. Natalie no longer possessed that bright, unspoiled quality, that droll naïveté that had pulled him up short when he’d first met her. There’d been something sad in her eyes when he’d left her in bed this morning, but he’d been so preoccupied with the coming face-off with Suzdal that he’d dismissed it.

  You stupid bastard. You’ve ruined things for her. The girl who believed in fairy tales, in happy endings, is gone.

  Thirty-eight

  McDougal had his hands together and his fingers stee pled when the hotel room door opened to reveal Natalie. He was praying for the first time since his release from his Jesuit tormentors at St. Joseph’s more than a decade before.

  Even more humiliating, he had actual tears in his eyes, eyes that had always been dry and wicked and reflected unholy glee—a source of great pride.

  McDougal had also always been fairly articulate, but at this moment so many words threatened to blurt from his mouth that he sounded strangled, like a cat choking on a fish.

  Sweet Jesus, you’re safe!

  I’ll kill you myself for scaring me . . .

  I love you more than life itself!

  You crazy bitch, how could you risk your neck by leaving?