Ekaterina (29 page)

At all.

Never.

Vadeem braced both hands on his desk. His breath scraped against his ribs.

Denis, the poor kid, had nearly gone white when Vadeem suggested they dig a little into the activities of Ivan Grazovich, cross-referencing them with Ryslan’s cases. Bingo.

It was a sweet, smooth operation, one that took someone with Ryslan’s brains and history. A growing slush fund, operations, and expenses for the recovery of Russia’s stolen treasures. A fund with significant withdrawals, which, when lumped together, equaled disturbingly large amounts. Amounts that could purchase a trainload of AK-47s. Or Bizon-2 submachine guns, or even a T-725 tank. Weapons that Ryslan, a former soldier with friends in every branch of the military, would know how to get his hands on, legally, or otherwise.

Vadeem went cold. Sell it back to the Russian church, indeed. That is exactly what Ryslan and Grazovich were up to. . .for the last five years at least.

He’d found his middleman.

And the man had Kat. Vadeem knew it in his gut. Except he knew where they were headed. He dialed his cell phone as he headed out the door for the airport.

If he ever needed faith in a Big God who could raise people from the dead, it was now.

-

Grazovich was late. Ryslan stared at the woman, waxed white from the pale fingers of moonlight that filtered into the cave. He didn’t dare leave her to go hunt for the smuggler. The woman had enough cunning in her petite frame to sneak out under his nose -- had already tried twice, and he’d been forced to bound and gag her. He wasn’t about to let her get a head start. He’d already lost a footrace to her in the wilds of Yfa.

Ryslan checked his watch then took another slug of his vodka, deciding about two hours ago that beer just wasn’t strong enough to kill the frustration churning in his gut.

Wind rustled the shadow of trees, and the fresh, crisp smell of the Velikaya River, not far away, snuck into the cave. The walls felt damp, the cave dark, and hiding too many secrets. Ryslan had taken two wrong turns before he found it. . .just where Grazovich had directed. He supposed it would be just as difficult for Vadeem and his cronies to find it as well. Yes, it was the perfect place to hole up while Grazovich and Miss Moore dug into the past, and he whittled a cool four million from the books in expenses. Ryslan’s only prayer was producing the crest. And then he’d get out of Russia and put a healthy distance between himself and Grazovich and his gang of bullies. He’d bury himself in some South American country, deep enough so that the tendrils of the Russian government would never track down a traitorous mercenary who fought against them in the Georgian/Abkhazian war, should Grazovich decide to spill his secrets.

He took another swig. The vodka burned as it went down. Ryslan breathed into the cuff of his shirt, deadening the bite of the alcohol.

Moore watched him with wide, doe-brown eyes that betrayed more than a hint of fear. He smiled. “Vadeem thinks you’re touching down, right about now, at JFK in New York. Are you going to miss him?” His voice lifted in sarcasm as he thought of Vadeem jumping a plane to Yfa as if it had been his own, brilliant idea. Thankfully, Vadeem’s daily check-in calls had been just what Ryslan needed to keep him in pocket. Only, half the time, Ryslan had been staring at him from across the room while they talked.

He laughed at that.

She turned away, and he saw a tear hanging on her eyelash.

A crack, like the snap of a twig, brought him to his feet. The room spun slightly, and he gulped a breath before throwing the bottle across the room. Cursed drink.

He stumbled out of the cave, but didn’t call out. Grazovich knew where the grotto was located. Still, every hair prickled on the back of Ryslan’s neck. He heard the rush of wind scrape the darkness. The ground crackled beside him.

He turned.

Not fast enough.

“Good-bye Ryslan Ilyitch,” Grazovich growled.

White-hot pain speared into Ryslan’s neck. He opened his mouth, but his voice box had been severed. Blood clogged in his throat. He fell to his knees, his meaty hands clawing at an arm clamped over his eyes. Wet soil seeped into the knees of his pants. Then, warm blood spilled down his shirt and he fell forward, flopping like a freshly hooked fish who knew he’d flirted with the bait far too long.

-

Grazovich’s FSB tails were both dead. Their windpipes severed, their eyes wide with horror. Vadeem watched as the FSB forensics team went to work, fingerprinting, photographing, taking blood samples. He stood in the hall outside the room above the grocery store, his hands in his leather coat, gasping for calm.

It wasn’t hard to guess how Grazovich found them. The man was a soldier, after all, the leader of a small but lethal group of religious fanatics that made killing an honorable way of life and dying a glorious sacrifice.

And now the smuggler was AWOL. Vadeem had spent the better part of the last hour tearing apart the man’s room. Literally.

Grazovich had left behind nearly everything he owned, which probably duped the two FSB guards into thinking he wasn’t creeping into their perch across the street to slit their throats. Dirty socks, grimy wool pants, sweat-stained shirts, and a garbage can of vodka bottles made the guy seem human. But Vadeem knew he was nothing of the sort. Not when Vadeem surveyed the grisly trail Grazovich had left behind.

Vadeem had spent the better part of two hours visiting the monks, again. The father had been overly accommodating, shaken by the recent death of Brother Papov. But either he was a consummate liar or he truly hadn’t seen a hulk of an FSB officer dragging a terrified woman thorough the monastery grounds.

It was worth a try. And Vadeem had a gut feeling that, whatever Ryslan and Grazovich were after, it could be found somewhere near that monastery. He’d have to start thinking like a cop—and fast—if he intended to save Kat’s life.

Get the Crest.
That one thought drilled through his mind like a jackhammer the entire high-speed drive to the airport, during the white-knuckle flight in the FSB-owned AN-2, and even now as he paced the hall like a jackal. The missing crest gave Kat’s life value, and the treasure in Vadeem’s very capable hands meant he has some barter power.

But how was he supposed to find something hidden, successfully, for nearly a century? Yes, he still had Anton’s diary, but that had only illuminated the path to his own lack of faith, dangling the concept of peace before him like a spicy bowl of borscht to a starving man. It didn’t point the way to any secret treasure, despite local lore.

Vadeem braced a hand against the wall, and clutched the back of his neck. His muscles were as tight as
balalaika
strings. He needed something he could hit, hard. Something more substantial than Grazovich’s duffle bag.

His cell phone trilled in his pocket. Digging it out, he knew he’d hit exhaustion by the sound of his voice.

“Spasonov.”

“You’ll find your friend at the grave of my dead cousin.”

Vadeem’s heart lurched in his chest. “Grazovich?”

“You have until dawn to find the crest—then the girl dies.”

“Wait, how am I—” Oh, no, his voice was shaking. The last thing Kat needed was for him to betray his fear to Grazovich.

“And don’t bring any of your FSB friends. I’ll be watching, and she’ll pay.”

The phone went dead.

Vadeem nearly threw it against the wall.
Grazovich had Kat
. Vadeem fought for breath, in and out, while the forensics team murmured in the background, and the smell of death hovered in the dusty hall. Why hadn’t she listened to him? He clenched his jaw and closed his eyes. His chest felt so tight he thought he might suffocate.

How was he supposed to find the crest in six hours? And even if he did, Grazovich wasn’t a man long on promises. He could very well find Kat with her own beautiful neck slit, if he found her at all. A wise agent would bring a squad of FSB sharpshooters to watch his backside. Grazovich’s warning echoed in his ears. Vadeem hit the wall hard with his open palm. The sound died in the cement, ineffectual in its catharsis.

Friends were exactly what he needed. Unfortunately, he had not a one.

Or did he…?

Chapter 19

Kat had always thought the term “
paralyzed with fear
” a cliché until Professor Taynov, her hero from the airport suddenly appeared, his hands freshly dipped in blood and morphed into Genghis Khan. Her muscles actually refused to engage as the barbarian dragged her out of the cave and threw her into Ryslan’s car, next to the pale, bloody corpse of the man who had been Vadeem’s partner. She started praying then, and never stopped, even after Taynov parked outside the monastery cemetery and, grunting under the weight of the bullish Ryslan, dragged the corpse to a mound of dark earth. The moon draped the body in a ghastly glow, and Kat berated herself for not listening to Vadeem when she’d had the chance.

A smart person would be on a plane to America right now, a piece of her past safely in her pocket along with, perhaps, the happy memory of a friendly good-bye from a handsome cop who’d been trying to save her life.

So Vadeem had been a little bossy. Wasn’t that his job? A job she desperately hoped he was good at. “Oh God,” she moaned under her breath. “Only you can save me. Give Vadeem wisdom.”

She’d listened to the telephone call the dark professor had placed, her heart frozen in her chest, and knew, without a doubt, she would die at dawn.

How would Vadeem find the Crest of St. Basil’s if Professor Taynov, supposed master of history couldn’t figure it out? Or was he lying about that, also? The accusations and stories Vadeem had dredged up about the sinister identity of the professor haunted her memory. Terrorist. Smuggler.
Murderer
. What had Vadeem said his name was? Not Professor Taynov. A General…Grazovich. An ice-cold shiver started at the top of her spine.

Vadeem needed help. Tears pricked her eyes as she thought of him, beside himself with anger, or panic. She remembered the pain she’d seen in his eyes after they’d been attacked in Moscow, and when she woke up in the Yfa hospital. Oh, why hadn’t she listened to him? Why had she been so stubborn?
“I just want you to be safe.”
His words rushed back to her, in a voice that cracked with unspoken emotion, and suddenly, she knew.
She knew
, and couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen it before. Snapshots of Vadeem filled her mind: Vadeem, laughing at her eating habits on the train, his low, sensuous voice calling her
maya doragaya
—
my dear one. Vadeem, pulling her close on the darkened streets of Moscow, his breath in her hair, relief betraying him in his racing heartbeat. Vadeem, tucking his jacket over her shoulders in his busy office, and running a gentle finger down the wound on her face, his eyes glistening with unshed feelings. Vadeem standing in her hotel lobby holding out a pack of M&M’s like a peace offering. Vadeem crouched outside her hotel room, eyes glued to her door like some sort of superhero. Finally, Vadeem, shoulders slumped and wretched regret written on his face as she’d slammed the door in his face at the US Embassy.

Vadeem, showing her without words that he cared.
“I just want you to be safe.”
Could he be really saying something else?

And she’d mocked him. Not only that, she’d sacrificed her future to dig up her past. A past that was about to get her killed.

She felt sick. Kat made a noise that matched her stomach, and terrorist-Grazovich turned in his seat, eyes narrowing. Quickly he reached over, and tugged on her gag, pulling it down. “Behave yourself,” he snarled.

She looked away, out the window to the dark forest. The wind moaned as it brushed the car. Dread swept though her, and she trembled. Somewhere out there, the man who had traipsed across Russia to help her uncover her past scrambled to keep her alive.

She stiffened when Grazovich turned and hung his elbow over the back of the seat. “So, Miss Moore, we have some time to kill. What do you say we get to know each other better?” He reached out and took a hold of her hair, rubbing it between two long fingers. His eyes darkened, those aged eyes that told her he’d seen a lifetime of pain and war, and she saw something lecherous. She bristled, doubting that murder alone played on his mind.

Vadeem, please hurry.

She swallowed a rush of panic and tried to think on her feet. “Why is this crest so important? What is it exactly?”

Grazovich smiled, his eyes dark as obsidian stone, glittering with amusement. “You Americans really don’t pay attention to world history, do you?”

Kat forced a casual shrug. “If you’re going to kill me for it, I’d like to know. . .”

Grazovich let go of her hair, and clasped his hands on the seatback, enacting the pose of professor he claimed himself to be. “The Crest of St. Basil’s is much more than even Russia realizes. That’s the beauty of this little adventure. Legend has it that the Crest was forged here, in Pskov, by a master monk, and presented to Czar Ivan IV—you call him Ivan the Terrible—when the architects from Pskov were asked to build the great church of St. Basil’s the Blessed. But the rest of the story makes it one of the most valuable religious artifacts in history.”