Her voice was thin when she asked, “Who found us?”
“I’ll get the car. You stay here and wait for me.”
She nodded, but her heart froze in her chest when he left her there, crouched between a crushed soda bottle and a pile of decaying paper.
Chapter Twelve
Vicktor stared at the death mask of Leonid the Chauffeur, turned a waxy yellow by the overhead lights, and winced. Did his father always have to be right? Frustration frayed his emotions as he walked a circle around the last known link between the Youngs, their killer, and Miss Grace Benson.
“You’re sure it’s him?” Vicktor’s gaze strayed from the gray lips to the shock of bright red hair. The corpse lay on the long metal table, a red line down the center of his chest, coarsely stitched by Utuzh sometime in the wee hours. The indignity of it turned Vicktor’s stomach. It coupled with the pungent odor of formaldehyde and, for a moment, the room pitched.
Vicktor slammed his hand on the metal table to steady himself, then yanked it back when it touched cold flesh. He’d had more than one nightmare about turning up on this table, naked and gray, with a seam parting his rib cage. Vicktor fisted his hands in his pockets and glanced up at Arkady.
Arkady nodded without meeting his gaze. “He had identification.” Fatigue etched craters into the Bulldog’s face and even the rumpled raincoat couldn’t hide the caving of his shoulders.
Vicktor frowned at the obvious exhaustion. “Did you go home last night?”
“What, and miss all the fun here?”
A smile tugged at Vicktor’s mouth.
“Your father called me.”
Vicktor narrowed his eyes. “Why?”
“Seemed to think we’re after the Wolf.” Arkady rolled the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. “Don’t get him worked up, Vicktor.”
“Hope is all he’s got. I haven’t told him yet we were wrong.” Vicktor studied the corpse, the blackened wound across the man’s neck. “Maybe I should. What do you think, Utuzh?”
“Still trying to figure that out.” Utuzh shuffled out of his office, a shadowed cave in the corner of the room.
Okay, someone needed to tell these guys to take a day off and bathe. Utuzh smelled like day-old roadkill and looked worse. Chubby bags hung under his eyes and his beard looked combed by a mammoth bone. His stained lab coat nearly sent Vicktor into the hallway. Someone would have to remove his stomach—and his olfactory glands—before they made Vicktor work in the M.E.’s office.
“No signs of struggle,” Utuzh said, obviously unfazed by his appearance. “I doubt the chauffeur realized what was happening until his voice box was severed. Wolf handiwork, without a doubt.”
Vicktor’s pulse rocketed. “The Wolf. Are you sure?”
Utuzh bushy brows pinched together. “Do I look like an amateur to you?” He shot an annoyed glance at Arkady, who shrugged as if he’d toted in a kindergartner.
“Where’d you find him?” Vicktor asked, ignoring the obvious scorn of his elders.
Arkady fished around in his coat pockets. “Down by the river. Last night. A couple of unlucky kids kicked their soccer ball under his car.”
Vicktor scuffed his toe into the mottled cement. “Pop said, where you find the chauffeur, you’ll find the Wolf.”
Arkady harrumphed and pulled out a crumpled pack of Bonds.
Utuzh tugged a sheet over Leonid the Red’s remains. “We have some sort of nasty mokraya delo here, boys. This is the mark of someone trained to kill. And this is the fourth victim I’ve seen with the same signature.”
“The fourth?” Vicktor frowned.
“Leonid had a wad of paper shoved up his left nostril.”
Vicktor rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. Evgeny, the Youngs, and Grace Benson’s chauffeur. A veterinarian, two American missionaries, and a driver. Were they all in league with the mafia? What had they done to trigger a Wolf attack?
Vicktor checked his watch. Seven-thirty a.m. “Do you think they were related? I mean, maybe Leonid just picked the wrong guy to give a ride to.” He realized the stupidity of his own question even before it left his mouth. The same style of murder, the paper in the left nostril, the only remaining unaccounted connection between Gracie and the Youngs. Arkady shot him a disgusted look and Vicktor felt like a rookie. He shrugged as if trying to deflect the rebuke. “I gotta get going. Thanks for calling, Chief.”
Utuzh crossed an arm over his barrel chest and combed his beard with his paw. “One more thing you should know, Vicktor. This guy’s missing a few organs.”
“Organs?”
“Spleen, half his stomach and a rib.”
Vicktor scrutinized the now sheet-draped corpse. Tall, over six feet, and nearly eighty kilos, by rough guess. He remembered a hairy stomach and padding around the midsection. “He looked healthy enough.”
“He’s got a nine-inch surgical scar from his stomach to his back. I’m going to petition his medical records and see what that’s about.”
Vicktor turned to Arkady. “Identification?”
Arkady indicated with his cigarette a metal table along the wall. Vicktor crossed to the table and fingered a leather wallet, car keys and pocket change. Flipping open the wallet, he took out the license and examined an unforgiving shot of the stiff on the table, his height and weight. He copied Leonid’s home address in his notebook.
“That makes four in a week for the Wolf,” Arkady murmured. Smoke puffed out of his mouth with each word.
Vicktor turned and met his gaze. “New record.”
Utuzh arched his brows. “I wonder who’s next?”
Gracie peered out the dirt-streaked passenger window at the greening spikes of field grass, feeling numb.
Someone had tried to kill her.
She thought she just might be ill. Instead, she clutched the shoulder band of her seat belt and held on as Andrei swerved around potholes on his way to Khabarovsk.
He’d said nothing. Which screamed just exactly how he felt about her dragging danger to his parents’ front door.
In fact, here he was, trying to save her life while his parents might be bleeding to death.
Yes, definitely, she was going to be sick.
“Andrei, pull over.”
He glanced at her. “Nyet.”
Okay. She turned toward the window, swallowed hard and tried not to cry.
They rode in constricted silence for the better part of an hour. As they neared the city, cement housing projects hurled ominous shadows across neighborhoods of dilapidated domicks. Gracie watched an elderly woman pump water from a street pump into a dented metal container on a cart. A small child slammed the door to a peeling outhouse and ran up a dirt alleyway. A sudden gust of river wind bullied the tarpaper off roofs, and snared the slightest wisp of coal smoke spiraling skyward. Gracie wrinkled her nose against the odor of burning coal and diesel, and closed the car vents. Sometimes she had a hard time believing Russia had put a man in space.
She glanced again at Andrei. His stark expression chilled her to the bone. He still wore the faded leather work coat, threads dangling from the cuffs, a distinct contrast from his usual suit pants and crisp black leather jacket.
She touched his arm and he spooked. “Are you all right?” She still hadn’t figured out how he’d retrieved the car without getting shot. Perhaps that’s what had turned his face ghostly white. He looked at her, his brown eyes hard, wary.
“I’m fine.”
Gracie’s eyes burned at his clipped response. “Oh, Andrei,” she rasped. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”
A frown creased Andrei’s face. Gracie bit her lip and turned away from him. She couldn’t bear to see the accusing expression.
Andrei turned onto Karl Marx Street.
“Where are we going?” Gracie asked. She didn’t know the town well, but she felt pretty sure that her apartment was in the opposite direction.
Andrei didn’t answer.
She swallowed, hard. “We’re go
ing to see that cop, aren’t we.”
He barely nodded.
Gracie rubbed her forehead with her hand, despair cresting over her. Andrei was washing his hands of her, dropping her into the grip of the FSB.
She could hardly blame him.
FSB Headquarters lived up to its ominous reputation. The mustard-yellow building encompassed a full city block and a freshly painted iron fence surrounded it like a prison barricade. Oh, God, give me strength.
Andrei gave his name and destination to the gate guard and received a pass to Inspector Shubnikov’s office. He drove into a parking space, cut the ignition and stared at the building, mute, face blank.
Gracie fought tears. How quickly their sweet relationship had crumbled. She took hold of the door latch. “Thank you,” she choked, then scrambled out of the car.
She headed for the front entrance door on legs of rubber, her heart pounding through her chest. Please let her gut feeling about Mr. FSB be right.
Two workmen were sweeping the sidewalk with bundled twigs. As she leaped up the wide marble steps, she scattered a flock of blue-gray pigeons.
In forty-eight hours, she’d lost nearly every friend she’d made in Russia. Thank the Lord, she still had Larissa. She shivered, feeling hollow.
A hand closed around her elbow and she nearly shot through her skin.
“Are you going without me?”
Stumbling, she caught her balance and whirled to meet Andrei’s tight expression. She mumbled a negative reply.
His brown eyes softened and, for a moment, with some relief, she saw the old Andrei, the one who had once proposed. “We have an appointment to keep.” He pulled her by the elbow up the stairs.
Except, he didn’t let her go. Not even when they entered the front doors and stopped at the administration desk. She felt like Joan of Arc being led to the pyre.
Andrei presented identification to a chubby, uniformed woman who looked wider than she was tall. She nodded and pointed across the marble floor to a shiny new elevator. Clean. Efficient. Honest.
Yeah, right.
It would behoove her to remember she was entering the belly of the KGB, no matter what the golden plaque on the door now called the place.
Her mother would have a coronary on the spot. Gracie’s chest tightened with each step.
The lift opened to a yawning, red-carpeted corridor. Above the chair rail, oils of distinguished officers with stoic faces and beady eyes followed her down the hall. Andrei stopped in the doorway of a noisy inner office. Suited FSB agents bent over piles of paperwork or scurried between desks. Phones buzzed and pockets of quiet conversation made the room hum. Gracie swallowed a lump of terror. Yanking her elbow from Andrei’s grip, she wiped her sweaty palms on her jean dress.
Andrei conversed with the sentry at the door. The uniformed man pointed to an inner office.
The room screeched to silence as she threaded her way to Shubnikov’s office. Heads turned, and her face flamed, a ghastly addition to her unpainted face, her greasy hair, her hiking boots and her rumpled jean dress. She looked like a hobo. Just the impression she wanted to make…
Shubnikov sat at his desk, a phone glued to his ear. He thumbed a coffee mug in one hand as he talked. His eyes flickered recognition when she appeared in the door, and he raised his mug to her, beckoning her inside. Another man, over-weight and slouching at a messy desk, glanced up and gawked at her, as if she were a dancing poodle. No, wait, at least then she’d be pretty and groomed.
She tried to ignore him and marched up to Shubnikov’s desk. Andrei shuffled in behind her.
Shubnikov’s Russian was crisp and neat. The language rolled off his tongue, and the commanding tenor of his voice sent shivers up her spine. She put a hand on his desk and fought to hold herself together.
F.S.B. Federal Scare Bureau. She couldn’t keep the nickname from searing her brain as she watched Shubnikov, his dark blue eyes, his close-cropped black hair, his matching black turtleneck and jeans.
No wonder Russians had a hard time distinguishing the good guys from the bad.
He set the receiver down on the cradle and met her gaze with brittle, red-rimmed eyes. Then he smiled kindly, like he had in the car when she’d crumpled in tears.
“Dobra Ootra.” He stood and indicated a chair.
Gracie returned the greeting. So he looked like an overworked thug this morning. He smelled good. Very good.
She tried not to think about her own delicious odor.
First thing she would do when she got home, before cleaning her flat, was take a shower. Maybe two.
“Good morning, Captain,” she returned as she sat in a straight-back chair.
“I have some…disturbing news,” Vicktor began before she could open her mouth.
She couldn’t help notice that he looked suddenly bone weary, despite his freshly shaved, angular face. Like he’d spent the night at the office. Hopefully he’d been working on the case of the murdered missionaries. Still, Gracie wondered what news could be more distressing than her own.
“We found Leonid.” Vicktor paused, sighed and set down his coffee cup.
Gracie braced herself. His gaze caught hers, as if trying to comfort.
“He’s dead. Killed just like the Youngs.”
“What?” Gracie clutched her chair seat with a white hand. Closing her eyes, she forced herself to hear his words.
“We found him last night. In his car, by the river. He hasn’t been dead long.”
Gracie felt Andrei touch her shoulder.
“Wh-what now?” she stammered. She glanced at Andrei. He was a ghost beside her, fear in his expression.
“We need to get you undercover, somewhere safe—”
Gracie read worry in Shubnikov’s face.
“I don’t know what they are after, or why, but I do believe you’re in danger.”
Gracie nodded, her heart a stone. Her plane left in two days. She prayed desperately that she’d be on it.
Chapter Thirteen
The Wolf paid the hot-dog vendor seven rubles and took the paper-wrapped lunch.
“Ketchup?” the uniformed lady asked.
“Nyet.”
He turned, and found himself, as always, staring in momentary surprise at the beautiful woman waiting for him. She sat on the steps of the central fountain in Lenin Square, the wind brushing her short hair. Hair he loved to touch. She had her eyes closed. He could trace the outline of her face in his sleep.
He felt suddenly young, his heart beating wildly in his withering, flabby body. He’d never expected the rush of emotions their partnership had created. To think he planned his day, his weeks around these moments.
A fine mist hung in the air as he approached her. The sun turned it a kaleidoscope of hues. Pigeons picked around the square, eating seeds and other edible garbage left by tourists. A monkey on a leash beckoned visitors to take their picture with him.
She opened her eyes and smiled at him.
He felt a knife slice through his chest.
He already hated her at times, for what she’d done to him. For making him feel, for making him want. For that very reason, he couldn’t take her with him. She didn’t know it yet, but he saw liability in those beautiful brown eyes. Liability and heartache.
He wasn’t a fool. He knew he’d lost his appeal years ago. She’d find another man, old or young didn’t matter. She cooed sweet promises, but that would only make the pain unbearable.
He smiled and sat next to her. Her leg touched his, and he felt warmth ripple through his body. “It wasn’t in her apartment,” he managed to say.
“No, Tovarish?”
She used the old Russian term for comrade on purpose, because he liked it.
“And it’s not in her bag.” He’d searched it twice, then ripped it apart after Sergei delivered it from the village.
She chewed her lip, looking pensive. He narrowed his eyes. She knew the stakes as well as he. Had been with him when he’d made promises he couldn’t break to
men who knew how to make a liar suffer.
He turned his face into the wind. The breeze cooled the sweat dappled along his balding scalp. “It’s up to our friend, then.”
“Yes,” she said, and there was worry in her voice.
He threw away the rest of his hot dog. It was already beginning to rot in his stomach.
“Gracie isn’t going anywhere with you,” Andrei growled from his perch behind Grace Benson. The chauffeur clamped one hand on her shoulder. The other he made into a fist.
Vicktor dragged his gaze off Grace’s terrified face. He was in trouble. It wasn’t just that she looked wrung out and tired, but the way she gazed at him, with the slightest edging of hope, had ignited all his protective instincts. For the first time he cared, momentarily, more about getting Grace safely out of Russia than nabbing the man who haunted him.
Vicktor narrowed his eyes at the dark expression on the chauffeur’s face. “Miss Benson is in danger,” he said in Russian. “Sorry, but at this point neither you, nor she, has a choice. She stays in my custody.”
The glimmer of hate in Andrei’s eyes struck Vicktor’s weary nerves. “Listen, we have four dead bodies in the morgue, three of whom knew Miss Benson.” He glanced at her, took in the way she stared at him trying to understand their conversation, and his voice turned hard. “I don’t want her to be next.”
“I don’t, either,” Andrei retorted, but indecision lurked on his face. The guy appeared ragged this morning, not the same chauffeur who had bared his teeth at Vicktor yesterday. Dressed in a faded, fraying leather coat and grimy work pants, he reeked like a farm animal. Fatigue etched furrows around his eyes, and a scowl creased his brow.
Vicktor held up a hand as if to offer peace. “How about some tea?” he suggested in English.
Suspicion tinged Andrei’s expression, but he released his grip on Grace’s shoulder. Grace’s gaze roamed between the two men as she nodded.
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