Ekaterina (6 page)

“By the time we found the shooter’s perch, he was long gone. We’re combing it for evidence.”

“I don’t understand. You think this man has been following me?” She shook her head. “Why?”

The captain took the picture and stared at it for a long moment. She saw something dark flicker through his eyes and it sent a cold streak down her spine. “I’m not sure. Do you know anything about Bazooka rocket launchers or SAMs?”

Her eyes widened.

He smiled, and suddenly her stomach curled in delight. Was it her imagination, or had the midnight hours turned the Beast into someone kind and friendly? The shadows gentled his hard angles and, in the soft down of the night, he seemed even. . .attractive?

So, maybe there was more to the rumored jet-lag induced dementia than she gave credence.

He tucked the picture into the folder. “We’re not even sure you were the intended target tonight. Perhaps he was after me—”

“But what about my hotel room?”

He held up a hand. “We just need to consider all the possibilities if we’re going to unravel this mess.” He closed the file and folded his hands atop it. “Please, would you tell me why you are in Russia, and what you were doing today at the monastery?”

Her heart stopped hard, right against her ribs, and for the first time since her arrival, she wanted to chuck this entire adventure and race back to New York and the ho-hum safety of Matthew’s arms.

“Have you been following me?” Her voice sounded as pinched as her courage.

He nodded, his face turning hard. “And you better be thankful I did, or you’d be on your way to the morgue right now.”

That thought turned her cold. He’d been following her because he thought a killer was on her trail. Sixteen hours in Russia and already someone wanted her dead.

What was she doing here? Maybe all Matthew’s angry prophecies were accurate. Silence became her betrayer as her eyes filled, and she hiccupped a sob that echoed off the walls.

Her dementia had latched on with a vengeance. Through blurry eyes, she saw Captain I-Am-Your-Nightmare Vadeem grimace, as if he’d been walloped hard. He looked away, rubbed his whiskered face with one of those powerful hands. Swallowed.

The big bad bodyguard actually looked. . .afraid?

“I’m. . .ah,
sorry
, Miss Moore. I shouldn’t have been so. . .blunt.” There was that tenderness again, the one she’d heard in his voice seconds before she’d been tackled, and the kindness in it threatened to unravel her on the spot. She wrapped her arms around her waist and held in a vicious tremor as tears dropped off her chin.

She heard his chair scuff back, then felt his hand on her shoulder. Slowly, he knelt in front of her, then pulled her into his arms. She leaned awkwardly against him, the soft leather of his jacket cold against her cheek, her tears puddling on the smooth fabric. He said nothing, but rubbed a hand along her back. His five o’clock shadow rubbed against her forehead and he smelled of soap and leather, and most of all, safety. She closed her eyes and lost herself in the tender comfort of a stranger.

“Please, Miss Moore. Tell me what happened today at the monastery. Then I can get you on a plane for home and the nightmare can be over.”

-

“I was aiming for Spasonov.” Ilyitch didn’t have to be in the room with Grazovich to feel his gunmetal gray eyes boring into him. His icy silence over the phone was enough to raze every open nerve.

“You nearly killed her.” Grazovich’s voice seemed strained, probably from choking up lies for the
Americanka
while he let him do his dirty work. Dirty Abkhazian. The former military general in the former Soviet republic of Georgia had turned thief and was bent on financing his country’s revolution by unearthing Mother Russia’s secrets. The Georgians probably lost the war on purpose, hoping to rid themselves of this wart to the north. Ilyitch had been out of his brain ten years ago to hook up with the Abkhazian terror forces. Brainless and desperate for cash.

Circumstances hadn’t changed much over the course of the past decade.

“Did you at least take the key?” Grazovich had the consonant slur of a man who’d spent the better part of the evening investigating the inside of his Absolut bottle. The drinking had gotten worse since the Georgians had nabbed the general’s brother. Torture must be knowing your flesh and blood sat in a rat-infested hole in Georgia, waiting for execution.

“I thought you wanted her to keep it,” Ilyitch ground out. “You said, ‘let her lead us to the map first’.” He added just enough lilt to betray his lightly veiled disgust.
It’s a fable
, he wanted to scream. But he kept that editorial to himself, remembering the icy clamp of leg irons against his flesh.

“Things have changed,” Grazovich growled, affected by Ilyitch’s mocking. “She didn’t get the book. We’ll have to find it ourselves. Get the key. She’s wearing it around her neck.”

Ilyitch let out a curse. “I could have snatched it this morn--”

“Get the key.” Grazovich bit out, “My boy will do the rest.”

Your boy’s done enough all ready
.

“What if ‘your boy’ is wrong?” Ilyitch kept his voice low, despite the fact no one would dare sneak up on him. He kept a safe distance from—and one eye—on a convention of FSB agents amassing in the hotel lobby. One turned and glanced in his direction. He turned away and leaned against the building, awash in shadow. “Let me grab her. She’ll tell us what we want to know.” The fact that Grazovich had her close enough to snatch—twice—and hadn’t, made Ilyitch want to put his fist through the cement wall. What games was the general playing? Miss Ekaterina Moore held the key to their plans—in more ways than one.

The thief on the other end remained silent. Frustration pushed into Ilyitch’s tone. “You could have ended this in her hotel room, instead of playing noble.” He couldn’t help but dig in the knife after seeing the way Grazovich let her waltz up to her room—alone. “Were you thinking you’d romance it out of her?”

“You nearly killed her.” the Abkhazian retorted. “We need her alive, and full of answers.”

“Ah, a romantic. Perhaps that’s why you love digging up Russia’s soul.”

“Russia has no soul. She sold it to the highest bidder years ago.”

“Now you’re a philosopher.”

Grazovich lowered his voice, added a growl. “Get the key. Call me when you have it.”

“It won’t do us any good without the map.”

“Just get the key, or you’ll be wishing we had left you to rot.”

-

Kat pulled the woolen hotel blanket over her shoulder and tried, again, to curve her body around three very pronounced peas in the mattress of her century-old hotel bed. The springs squealed when she moved, splicing her thoughts with the effectiveness of a blade. It had to be some further cruel jet lag trickery that kept her mind from collapsing into sleep when her body felt as if she’d run a marathon. Her brain kept circling around two thoughts: she wasn’t leaving, despite Captain Vadeem’s posted guard and assertions to the contrary, and God had somehow vanished over the past twenty-four hours. Where was the Almighty when she needed Him? Certainly, throughout her life, she’d never needed Him more than now.

She tugged on her blanket. It slid up over her toes where cool air nipped at them. She couldn’t continue to stare at the pale walls. Sitting up, she clicked on the bedside lamp. A dusty glow fanned out over the red blanket. Kat reached for her backpack, hauling up dust balls from the floor under her bed as she plopped it on her lap. She found her pocket Bible inside and flipped to the bookmark. It opened to Psalms, and the words made her cringe.

“The Lord is a refuge for the oppressed, a stronghold in times of trouble. Those who know your name will trust in you, for you LORD have never forsaken those who seek you.”

“Oh God, where are you now? Have I not sought you? Have I not trusted you?” Kat rubbed her face with her hands. Sleep tugged at her, but the ache inside would not subside. Just when she needed her faith the most, it seemed to crumble in her grip.

Would she be one of those spiritually poor who turned away from God when life smote them? Would her earthly pain eclipse her heavenly joy? God seemed much closer yesterday morning, when life was in her grip. She closed the Bible. She had few choices here. Either God would come through, or not. But in the end, she could only hang onto hope, or despair would run her over.

As if sparked by her determination to hold onto her unseen God, scripture filled her mind. “Therefore, put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand.”

When morning came, she wanted the entire Russian militia, and whoever had decided to stalk her with bullets to see her standing.

The darkness would not overcome. Not when her brain had the power to pray.

She bowed her head. “Show me you haven’t abandoned me, Oh God. Help my faith to grow, and give me strength to stand.”

She found herself curled with her Bible as she opened her eyes to sunshine streaming through filmy orange curtains and across the wooden floor. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes with her fingertips, she sat up. The cold floor on her bare feet jolted her to full consciousness. Outside, the city still slept. She peeked out the window. Dawn glinted on street signs, across car hoods, and turned the windows in the building across the street into fiery gold.

Footsteps in the hallway creaked the wooden planks as someone padded up to the door, Kat tiptoed close and strained to hear voices. She knew Captain Vadeem had posted at least one guard out there, a result of her adamant declaration, articulated in two languages, that she wasn’t leaving Russia.

After all his protection, and convincing hug, he’d turned out to be just like every other Russian male she’d met yesterday. . .cold and rude when he wanted his way. And to think she’d practically cut out her heart and flopped it on the table for him to walk over. Why did she have to tell him her story? “I wanted to find my past.” The sad look in his eyes now made her cringe. At the time, she’d read it as empathy.
Poor American girl, searching for her family in Russia.
Her throat felt raw, remembering the warm feelings she’d cultivated toward the man when she’d finally stopped sobbing. He’d let her spill her secrets right into the middle of the room, even pulling up a chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, and listening. She’d revealed everything, from the mysterious secrets of Grandfather Neumann and the hope that lit when she intercepted the key, to the wretched news about Brother Timofea.

And when she finished, he made a grim face, patted her hand and informed her that she was leaving Russia in the morning.

Her empty stomach twisted, remembering the tone in his voice.

“Will this bed need to be changed today?” The voice of the hall monitor filtered into her room. Kat pressed her ear gently against the paper-thin door.

“Yes,” came the terse reply of the guard, obviously on edge and fatigued by the midnight watch. She tried not to smile at that. “When does the café open, by the way?”

“It’s open now.”

Kat wondered what food would do to her flopping stomach. She knocked on the door, then opened it a crack.

The guard looked worse than he sounded. His eyes, draped in weariness, held no patience. She attacked with a smile. “Can someone get me a cup of cocoa?”

He shook his head. “I’m not allowed to leave you,
Zhenshina
.” His eyes narrowed, as if she’d committed a felony. She closed the door and leaned against it, a plan forming.

Ten minutes later, fully dressed in a pair of khaki pants and a white polo shirt, hair combed, teeth brushed, and looking as presentable as she could, she again cracked open the door. “I’m dressed. Let’s go.” She stepped out into the hall and ignored his glare. “I want breakfast, and it’s my understanding that I’m not a prisoner. So, protect me, or not, I’m going downstairs.”

She threw her backpack over her shoulder and headed down the hall, her pace a challenge for her stiff muscles. Ignoring the elevator, she took the stairs. She heard his heavy breaths behind her, but didn’t look back.

She found the café tucked into a small room off the lobby. Every plastic chair was empty. Thankful she’d remembered to change money when she returned to the hotel last night, she perched herself on a bar stool and ordered a hot chocolate. The hotel staff had seemed less than eager to accommodate her last night, and she couldn’t blame them after her presence had put one of their rooms out of commission.

By the cool demeanor of the skinny waitress, news traveled quickly. The woman plopped the cocoa down and turned away like Kat might have a contagious airborne disease.

Kat closed her eyes and sipped the cocoa slowly, the warmth seeping into her still-weary bones and the caffeine jump-starting her heart. She just might live through this day.

The cop sat at a table behind her, his angry gaze drilling through the back of her neck. She ordered him a coffee and sent it to his table. He didn’t touch it, perhaps zealous about his on-duty status.

Letting the coffee sit until it had cooled, Kat then rose and sauntered over to his seat. She had to enjoy his shocked look when she leaned one hand on the table. “Tell Captain Vadeem you did a good job last night.”