Sands of Time (19 page)

“Julia, I need to talk to your husband. I’m in trouble.”

“Ah.
Da, da.
I know. No one is safe.” Julia sighed. Long. Loud. Then giggled, in a strange voice.

No one is safe?

“They took him, you know. My Sasha. They took him away and buried him.”

“Julia, I’m sorry about Sasha. I think I know what made him sick. I found another boy who was ill from a village near your dacha. Maxim, the son of your cook.”

“Max?” Julia’s voice dropped, slurred more. “I know him. Such a nice boy.”

Sarai closed her eyes, willing Julia’s attention. “Julia. I think there are more like them. Sick children. I need your husband’s help to stay in Russia. Please. I need to talk to him.”

“No,” Julia’s voice softened. “You must leave.”

Sarai’s stomach dropped. “What? Why? Julia, I can’t leave, not—”

“Leave, Sarai. You’re in danger.” The line went dead.

Sarai stared at the telephone. Okay. So…

Pounding on her door made her jump. “Sarai! Let me in.”

Sarai folded her arms across her chest. “Go away!”

A rumble outside made her freeze. She went to her window, pulled back the curtain and stared through the bars.

A tank.

In the courtyard of the clinic.

A tank?

“Sarai! Let me in! Bednov’s found you.”

Bednov? Wait…Sarai rubbed her temples, confused. She’d only just called Julia, how…? She sank into a chair. “What?” How could Bednov be after her? He had to be after Roman.

Horror felt icy cold in her veins. What had Roman done?

More importantly, what were those soldiers going to do to him?

Why had she let him back into her life? He was exactly the terrorist he claimed he was hunting.

A terrorist in her ravaged heart.

She should have locked the door three days ago and refused to come out. Well, she wasn’t leaving now. They’d have to pry her out like an oyster.

On all fours, she crawled to her desk, climbed under it, and pulled the chair to cover her. She curled her arms around her up drawn knees. She was just a doctor. A simple frontier doctor.

Why was it she always managed to land in the middle of a war?

“Go away, Roman, go!”

And take your tanks with you.

“Y
ou gotta do something fast, Roma, or I will.” Vicktor’s knee crushed the spine of Mr. Fight Club—Roman tried not to find satisfaction in that—and held his hand back in a submission hold as they crouched behind the admissions counter.

How had a quiet morning with the sun just beginning to dent the morning gray pallor turn into heavy drama? Armed soldiers hunkered down outside the doors, and his old friend Mafia One lurked behind cover of a darkened exam room, having escaped Roman’s clutches. Roman smelled diesel exhaust—evidence of military vehicles outside—and sweat slicked the back of his neck.

“Certainly this much manpower can’t be to get one American out of Russia,” Vicktor said.

“That’s what I’m afraid of. Look at these guys. They’re not military. They’re too old, too experienced. Either Special
Forces or mercenaries. And, I’m betting the latter. I have a sick feeling they’re after me. Especially after the break-in at Khandaski. They found me through Sarai.”

“Or, they found her through you.”

Roman clenched his jaw. “Thanks for pointing that out.” He crouched beside her office door, gave it another pound. “Sarai!”

“Go away!”

Roman met Vicktor’s gaze, tasting failure.

“Comrade Novik!” The voice boomed thought a megaphone into the building. “You and your hostage come out, and no one will get hurt.”

His hostage? Vicktor made a face, mirroring Roman’s dread.

“Am I the hostage? Or is she?” Vicktor nodded toward the closed door.

“I don’t know. But Bednov—or someone—is serious about getting their hands on both of us. And that can’t happen. We need to get Sarai out of here. I have a sick feeling, Vita, that if we surrender her to that rabble out there, she’ll become a face on Amnesty International’s Web site.”

Vicktor glanced at his hostage, applied pressure and received a satisfactory grunt. “What do you want with the American?”

Fight Club gritted his teeth, refusing an answer.

Roman turned away while Vicktor encouraged his response.

“I don’t know!” Fight Club ground out. “Governor Bednov asked us to find her. She’s an enemy of the state.”

“
You’re
an enemy of the state,” Vicktor retorted, but his face wore a pensive expression.

Roman checked the clip on Vicktor’s service pistol. “We can’t hold them off. They’ll toss tear gas next, or worse, and none of us will walk out of here alive. You know that.”

Roman saw Vicktor wrestle with the truth. They’d both witnessed Russia’s version of hostage negotiations—or lack thereof, up close and deadly in Moscow. They’d sort out the bodies—emphasis on
bodies
—after they charged.

“I have an idea.”

Vicktor said nothing, just met Roman’s gaze.

“We’re going to arrest her, and you’re going to walk her out of here, under FSB protection,” Roman said.

“Bednov’s men will arrest me.”

“No—you’re here legally—with a legit paper trail. Killing you would only raise too much suspicion. They want me.” Roman glanced at Fight Club. “You wait until she walks out of here, safely. Understood? She’ll still be in FSB custody. Then, I’ll surrender. Think of it as a trade off.”

“Roma, you can’t do this. You put yourself in their hands, and I don’t know how long it’ll take for us to free you.” Roman read Vicktor’s expression, and saw the lingering unspoken words:
if ever.

“There’s no other way. I should have done this three days ago, when I first got here. But I let my pride and my emotions get in the way. Now we’re all in danger.” He sighed. “Give me your handcuffs, Vicktor.”

Vicktor wordlessly reached onto his belt and unsnapped his cuffs. “She’ll never forgive you. Especially if Malenkov
makes us put this on her permanent record. She’ll have to leave Russia forever.”

Roman stood, glanced again at Vicktor. “After the dust clears and you’re safe in Khabarovsk, tell her that I really was on her side.”

Vicktor nodded, his expression stony.

Roman kicked in Sarai’s door.

He heard Sarai scream, but couldn’t see her in the semi-darkened room. “Sarai?”

Muffled hiccups, coming from under the desk. He crouched. She had her chair pulled in against her and peeked out at him with wide, scared eyes.

Those eyes zeroed in on his heart and he felt nauseous. As if someone had sucker punched him. “Sar,” he said softly. “You have to come with me. For your own good.”

“Get away from me,” she said, her tone sharp. No crying now.

He reached for the chair, hating himself. “No. Come out, or I’m coming in to get you.”

She gripped the chair with whitened hands.

C’mon, Sarai.

He gritted his teeth against his own disgust and yanked out the chair. She cried out, and he didn’t want to know if he’d hurt her. But she leaned back, kicking hard, aiming for his jaw.

“Sarai!” He grabbed her leg, dodged a kick, then another and pulled her toward him.

“No!” She swung at him, connected with his check and he shook away a flash of heat.

“Stop it!”

“Get away from me!”

“Don’t do this. You’re going to get hurt!”

She hit him again before he grabbed her hands and clamped them together. She was crying now, and he felt like it, too. Vise-gripping her wrists, he reached for the cuffs and snapped them on. When he let go, she made to hit him again. He dodged it, but wished he’d let her. It probably would have made them both feel better.

Or not. At this point, nothing would make him feel better. Ever.

She scooted back then, breathing heavily, staring at her cuffed hands. Silence pulsed between them, and he heard only their breathing, and his breaking heart.

“I hate you,” she said softly. Then, she lifted her eyes and looked at him. Tears ran down her face, her hair askew from their struggle. “I really hate you.”

He wondered if he could breathe, his chest felt so tight. But, he forced out words, and they sounded weak and ragged. “I know.”

He hated himself, too.

Then he reached out, grabbed her by the arms and pulled her to her feet. She jerked away from him.

“Vicktor will take you out of here,” he said.

She looked at him a long moment, frowning, silent. He couldn’t read her expression. He pushed her gently out into the hallway. Vicktor stood up, a foot still on his captive’s neck. Sarai had her head down, refusing to look at either of them.

Roman handed Vicktor the gun. “Take care of her.”

Vicktor nodded, then touched her elbow. “
Poshli,
Sarai.”

Roman traded places with Vicktor, subduing Fight Club. At least until they got outside. And then, well, hopefully the mercenaries would move in quickly, before Fight Club could revive their old relationship.

“I’m an FSB agent here on assignment and I’m coming out with the American!” Vicktor’s voice sounded confident. Firm. He held Sarai like she might be a criminal, shot one last look at Roman and marched out the front door.

Roman tried to watch, but the ranks closed behind them.
Please, Lord, protect her, and Vicktor.

And then the mafia boys rushed him.

“You let her go?” Bednov cursed into the cell phone as he stared at the television screen, watching the duo walking out of the building and climbing into an FSB vehicle. The dark-haired agent leading the girl held his badge high, evidence of official custody.

He had no doubt the renegade Captain Novik had cooked up this scenario with his FSB pal. Bednov’s head spun and he sat, hard, on his sofa. With the American in FSB custody, he could hardly order his men to gun her down, at least with the world watching.

The camera panned back to the entrance, and he experienced slim satisfaction that the next shot betrayed a cuffed—and bleeding—Roman Novik.

Bednov rubbed his hand across his forehead, and it came back slick. Julia stumbled across the floor, on her way to the bathroom. She looked sickly in her pink satin bathrobe,
her hair knotted, her mascara in trails down her once-pretty face. He barely recognized her.

Which would make it easier to dispose of her. Eventually. But soon enough so that she couldn’t destroy his long-term plans.
I’ll make sure you pay…

She closed the door to the bathroom without looking at him.

“What do I do with him?” Fyodor’s voice sounded drawn. “Take him back to Irkutsk?”

Bednov wrestled through the cotton of his brain for a game plan, something to discredit…no, make Novik suffer. It wasn’t enough that he be killed. Novik needed to be an example for anyone who thought they might cross Bednov. Especially now. He stared again at the screen, at the rabble of men that he’d picked to protect him and his interests—Russia’s interests—in the new era.

They had to take him seriously. Fear was power…Stalin had taught him that.

“Take him to Chuya,” Bednov said.

Silence on the other end of the phone made him smile.

Sarai felt like a refugee. No, an international criminal. Or maybe both. She wrapped her arms around herself and shuddered, just like the AN-2 Russian air trap that flew her out of Irkutsk, into the sunrise. Across the aisle, Vicktor, her captor’s accomplice, stared out the window.

She remembered the cold fear that had nearly crumpled her as she walked through an assembly of ragtag soldiers into the frigid air and blinding sunshine. Some wore uni
forms, others simply submachine guns and etched war faces. They’d watched Vicktor pass holding his FSB badge, silent in their suspicion. She felt her skin prickle at the memory of the fear that one would jump out and yank her from Vicktor’s grip.

At the time, she didn’t know what she preferred.

Especially when she saw a television crew documenting her darkest moment. Just what she always wanted, her face on national television as a criminal. Maybe the international wires would pick it up and her parents could participate in her misery.

When they arrived at Vicktor’s car, he’d opened the door and gestured her to climb in, saying nothing in the way of condolences or apology. He’d pulled away with a dark look on his face, and she’d glanced away from him to watch as the horde poured into the clinic.

Toward Roman.

For a second, something inside her felt weak, and floppy, and she thought she might faint. What had Roman done? And what was going to happen to him? The very fact that she let those thoughts slice through her anger told her what a fool she’d become to fall for him again.

They’d driven in silence to an airstrip outside Smolsk, where Vicktor removed the cuffs and escorted her onto a small airplane.

Silently. Pensively.

It made her very, very afraid. “What’s going to happen to Roma?” she asked aloud, now, in the airplane, rubbing the places where the cuffs had chafed.

Vicktor seemed not to hear her.

Maybe she didn’t want to know. Maybe Roman even deserved it, the way he’d wrestled her into handcuffs, yanked her out of her life without even a nod toward her feelings. She didn’t even have her duffel bag, her passport, her Bible, her picture…

No, she certainly didn’t need the picture.

Tears rimmed her eyes and she blinked them away. She was sick of crying.

“Where are we going?”

Vicktor glanced at her. “Khabarovsk. You’ll be safe there. You can get a new passport and visa in Vladivostok.”

“Then what?” She felt suddenly small, even naked.

Vicktor had incredibly dark scary eyes, yet when he smiled, she saw a hint of deep compassion. “Then, we’ll see. I’m sure God has something for you to do there.”

She frowned at him. Something for her to do? But her life, her mission was in Smolsk. She wouldn’t be happy doing anything else.

She felt something heavy lay on her chest. Was she happy in Smolsk? Really happy?

Lonely. Afraid. Overwhelmed. Occupied. But happy?

Frankly, she hadn’t been happy since she left Roman in Moscow. Yes, she’d always wanted to be a missionary. But more than that, she wanted to be used by God. For her life to matter.

None of that included happiness.

Like she told Roman, she didn’t exactly understand what it meant to deny herself, pick up her cross and follow Christ,
nor the part that said,
For whosoever will save his life shall lose it.

She had denying down to a science, however. She’d followed Christ to the four corners of the earth for the sake of the gospel, and nearly lost her life on more occasions than she wanted to count.

Maybe losing her life wasn’t about actually
losing
her life, but the things she thought she needed to make her life complete.

The clinic. Her legacy.

She’d prayed for God to use her to minister to the people of Smolsk. Roman’s angry tones swept into her mind.
“Anya and Genye are more than capable of opening this clinic…”
Could it be that God had been at work this entire time to get her out of the way?

Regret filled her throat. How could she have been so arrogant?

Worse, how could she have not seen that God had not only been trying to get her surrender, but had given her the one thing for which surrender might have been sweet?

Roman.

Roman, silent as she accused him of selfishness, Roman holding her when she was cold, terrified and exhausted.

Roman, his eyes glistening as he looked in her eyes and snapped on handcuffs. To save her life.

What if, in losing her dreams, she found that God satisfied the needs inside her she didn’t want to admit she had?

Needs like protection. Like safety. Like…being cherished.

Maybe Roman had been right. Picking up her cross meant not only sacrificing what she loved, but also following God…

Out of Smolsk.

Into the world, wherever He led even if He led her into Roman’s dangerous, exhilarating, very scary life. Into new worlds, new opportunities to save lives.

Trust in the Lord with all your heart.
The thought filled her mind, lifted her gaze out of the window, above the clouds, toward the heavens.

I want to, Lord. Help me to trust you. To follow you, whatever I have to surrender.
She closed her eyes at the last and felt her chest tighten. “What are they going to do to him, Vicktor?” she asked again.