Ekaterina (14 page)

-

Kat had just taken a giant leap back to reality. A reality, at least, that didn’t knock her to her knees. The smell of brewed coffee, a plate of doughnuts in the middle of an oak coffee table, CNN on the television in the corner, and a fresh copy of
People
magazine on the end table all told her she was back in the land of the living. Someone with taste had decorated the reception area in the normal colors of navy blue and cranberry. Not a hint of orange or lime green in the entire building. Kat sat back in the navy corduroy armchair, tucked her feet up, and blew on the cup of instant hot cocoa she’d been grateful to find in the well-stocked embassy cafeteria. Across from her, on the plaid sofa, a young couple sat clasping hands, looking infinitely distressed. She knew how they felt.

She didn’t even want to ponder her grandfather’s powerful connections, but the events of this morning crushed any doubts she entertained about his previous profession. Ten minutes on the phone last night with Grandfather Neumann, a man who spent his days beating old Bart Gunderson at chess, and the next morning the CIA—working on the other side of the world—show up at her hotel.

She never thought she’d be so happy to see the US Embassy. Forty-eight hours outside America seemed like a century here in the former Soviet Union.

Kat, what have you discovered?
Kat watched the television screen, saw the female reporter’s lips move, but she heard last night’s conversation in her head.

“Oh, Grandfather!” Kat had fought the tremor in her voice. “The key was stolen.”

“Stolen. How?” The connection crackled. Kat kept it short, not wanting to frighten the man. Regardless of what he’d seen in the past, she was his granddaughter, the granddaughter he’d given it all up for, and she knew he’d race to conclusions that might strain his grandfatherly heart.

“I’m okay. It was. . .stolen. I went to the Pechory monastery.” She opted not to tell him about the shooting in Pskov, or her near miss at the airport. More important wasn’t what had happened to her since arrival in Russia, but what would happen twelve hours from now if Mr. Russian Cop still sat outside her door.

“I met the monk who took care of Timofea. He said the old monk had a picture of me.”

Silence.

“And of mom.”

She’d heard him breathe in and out, heavily.

“Please, Grandfather. There is a Russian FSB agent here who wants to kick me out of Russia. He thinks some sort of international smuggler is after me.”

“Are you okay?” He’d sounded more calm, more cold than she’d ever remembered.

“Yes, I’m fine. There’s been some sort of mistaken identity here. I’ll be fine, but. . .” Her voice turned plaintive. If anything, her stoic Grandfather, raised from tough farm stock, would respond to her need for the truth. “. . .I need to know who Magda was. I want more. I feel as if half of me lays buried in Russia, and I don’t know why. Can’t you do this for me?” She paused, and threw in her last card. “For Magda?”

He groaned, and she imagined him scrubbing a hand down his face, his green eyes filled with sadness as he conjured up the image of his deceased wife. Her heart twisted. Maybe it was too much for him. Guilt stabbed at her. Maybe she should just return home and savor her memories with the only family she had left.

“I met Timofea during the war.”

She’d waited, her heart in her throat.

“He was my contact. We worked together for a while.”

“You were in Russia helping the Partisans.”

“Yes.”

It teetered on the edge of her tongue to ask him. Were you with the CIA? Were you a spy?

No, some secrets were too deep. Instead—“Do you know anything about a promise someone made Timofea?”

“No, my lapichka. I have no idea why Timofea sent you that key.”

She believed him. It was the same voice that read her the Bible, told her the truth about boys, and whispered promises to care for her as she stood out in the rain sobbing over her mother’s newly dug grave. Her heart sank.

“Do you want to stay in Russia?” The sorrow in his voice felt like a leaden weight on her heart. “I suppose it is time you discovered your ancestry. I don’t know, truly, if you will find what you are looking for. It was such a long time ago.” He voice fell, became old. “I tried. . .once. . .”

She tensed. Grandfather returned to Russia? When?

“Where are you?”

“I’m staying at the Hotel Rossia, Room 312.”

“The one off Red Square?”

She was struck dumb.

“You promise to come home to me?” She could almost see him pacing, see the worry lurking in his wrinkled face.

She made a squeaky sound that she hoped sounded affirmative. Her throat closed.

“Sit tight. And I’d say a prayer if I were you.”

Say a prayer. Unfortunately, it felt like her prayers didn’t travel past the cracked white plaster ceiling.
Please Lord, help me find the answers. Help me find my past.
Despite her pleading, she couldn’t escape the feeling that the doors of heaven had slammed shut over the past two days.

Yet, she refused to forsake the joy that could be hers. The words of David reverberated through her head. “You, O Lord, have never forsaken those who seek you.” There were plenty of times David felt abandoned by God. The prophets, Elijah, Jeremiah, even Jonah grieved the loss of God.

Why couldn’t she?

He was out there, and a drowning person has only one choice—grab the lifeline or go under.

She dug through her backpack and found her Bible, opened it to Psalms 9, and continued reading David’s song. “Sing praises to the Lord. . .he does not ignore the cry of the afflicted.”

Faith wasn’t only about clinging to the unseen God. It was about praising Him while she did it, while she waited for rescue.

She spent the night praising Him for the salvation yet to come.

“Miss Moore?” The door to the reception room opened, and a small woman with black hair down to her waist, dressed in navy pants and a sleeveless sweater, motioned her out into the hall. Kat set the cocoa down next to the doughnuts and stood to meet her.

“I’m Alicia Renquist,” the woman said, as she motioned her into the hall. “I’ve been requested to help you in any way we can.”

“Thank you.” Kat followed her down the carpeted, paneled hallway to a conference room. A large oak table filled the room. A spray of freesia with lilies in the center sent out a rich fragrance. Miss Renquist pulled out a padded leather rolling chair for Kat, then settled herself in the next one, turning it to face her.

“I came to Russia to find my past,” Kat said, not sure what this woman knew. “I’m part Russian, and I think I have family here. My grandmother was from here. I was thinking we could start there?”

“What was her name?”

“Magda Neumann. I think her maiden name was Klassen.” She dug into her backpack, pulled out the Bible, and produced the picture. “I was given this picture. It’s the only clue I have.” She handed it over to Miss Renquist.

The woman stared at it, turned it over, and read the back. “It says Klassen on the tombstone. Do you think it was a relative?”

Kat nodded. “Perhaps one of these two women was Magda Klassen.”

Miss Renquist handed her back the picture. “I’ll request a search from the FSB database, and see if they’d be willing to help.”

Kat forced a smile, but her hope tripped. Sure, the FSB would be begging to help after she’d snubbed Captain Spasonov this morning.

He’d looked rough, standing there in the hall next to the two crisply attired American CIA agents, his brown curly hair mussed and sticking straight up on one side, gray bags hanging under his eyes. The guy needed a decent night’s sleep and most likely medical attention. Instead, he’d spent the night crouched outside her door.

Obviously, he knew her better than she wanted to admit. She’d had every intention of bolting the second he settled her in the hotel room, and he must have read it in her eyes, or the way she too easily acquiesced to his plans to drive her to the airport the next morning.

He’d abandoned a good night’s sleep to keep her safe. He might be stomping on her dreams, but he did it with good intentions.

There’d been hurt in his eyes when he said good-bye at the hotel. Hurt, a touch of anger, and plenty of worry. She pushed away the feel of his hand, warm in hers, sending tingles racing up her arm. She’d never forget the fear etched in his tired eyes when he took her hand. He‘d meant his words, “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Then she had to smart off to him.

She winced. Two days with the guy, and she felt as though she’d betrayed her best friend. Ragged emotions and adrenaline had her clinging to Vadeem Spasonov like a buoy.

She’d certainly cut the ties of friendship with her in-your-face exit this morning. She swallowed the bitter taste of regret.

“Thank you,” she said to Alice Renquist. “I appreciate all the help the embassy could give me in locating my family.”

Miss Renquist patted her hand. “It may take a few days. We were wondering, actually, if you might be able to help us.”

“Help whom?”

“Your country.”

After the save by the black suits this morning, she was Uncle Sam’s best friend. “How?”

Miss Renquist had long, red, manicured nails, and she tapped them on the table. “We have a situation.”

Kat knew all about “situations.” She’d had a few herself over the past forty-eight hours. “I’m not sure I follow you. How can I help?”

“You’re an international adoption specialist?”

Kat sat back, and frowned. “Yes.”

Miss Renquist stood and pushed in her chair. Kat watched her walk over to the window and stare out, rubbing her hands on thin arms. She wondered how long this American had lived in Moscow.

“The couple you saw in the other room. He’s the son of Senator Watson from Ohio. He and his wife are here to adopt a baby.” She turned, and rubbed her forehead. “They’ve run into a snag.”

“Do they have their paperwork from the States?”

“Yes, translated and in triplicate.”

“Well, what is the problem then?”

“The agency representative they were working with in Russia just landed in the hospital with appendicitis.”

Kat made face. “Here, in Moscow? Ouch.” No wonder Miss Renquist looked wrung out. “It can’t be that hard to find another agent.”

“You’d be surprised. Russia isn’t entirely pro-adoption, and very few regions are even consenting to international adoptions. Thankfully, the orphanage in which the Watson’s child lives has been a forerunner and, because of your agency’s reputation, I believe they would agree to work with you. It takes a special touch to work with these orphanage directors. It wasn’t so long ago that Russia believed we abducted their children and did medical experiments on them.”

Kat flinched. But she, too, had heard the tales of propaganda designed to keep Russia’s orphans safely inside the Motherland.

“I’m afraid we need your expertise,” Renquist continued. “This is their second trip in-country. If it doesn’t happen this time. . .”

The woman didn’t have to finish for Kat to grasp her meaning. The distressed woman in the lobby was one unfortunate step shy of losing the child she’d longed for.

“But I’ve never worked in the field before. I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

“You speak Russian. They have their paperwork, and your agency has the legal standing. Just travel with the Watsons to the orphanage, meet with the director, go with them to court for the adoption finalization, and bring the baby back to Moscow. We‘ll process the baby’s immigrant visa here. We’ve already cleared the paperwork, so it’ll a three-day job at most, and I think, from looking at your file, you can handle it.”

She had a file at the embassy? Kat chewed her bottom lip.

“In the meantime, we’ll hunt up your Magda for you.”

Kat fingered the picture, drawn to the faces, wondering if one of them could be Grandfather’s lost love. “Where am I going?”

-

Vadeem slammed his fist into the punching bag, feeling his frustration scream through his tense muscles. Bam! For Mr. Rough. Bam! For Mr. Tough. Bam! For Ekaterina Moore and the way she could chew up a man and spit him out without a second glance. Bam! Bam! And two for Grazovich, the man he should be chasing instead of figuring out how he was going to storm into the American embassy, escape the Marine posted at the front desk, dodge the staff in the foyer, and wrestle a kicking and screaming Kat Moore under the steel gate before it crashed down on his head—and his career.

Bam!

“You planning on coming in to work today?” Ryslan leaned against the doorframe, nursing a bottle of lemonade.

Bam! “What are you doing here?” He didn’t ask his partner how he got in.

“Where’s the girl?” Ryslan looked crisp this morning, dressed in black suit pants and a matching leather jacket. He was all angled planes and ferocity. Rough and Tough would have thought twice about whisking Kat away under Ryslan’s nose.