she leaned one hand on the table. “Tell Captain Vadeem you did a good job last night.”
Then she tipped the table, just enough to spill the coffee down his trousers. Whirling, she ran from the café, his fury echoing in her ears. She slammed out of the hotel doors, and suddenly the only sound was her own thundering heartbeat and the slap of her feet on the sidewalk. She hadn’t won awards on her college track team for nothing. Freedom filled her nose and she ran, nowhere, and safely out of the grip of the Russian militia.
-
“She says she’s here, looking for relatives.” Vadeem rubbed his thumb and forefinger into his weary eyes, seeing only spikes of light against blankness as he pressed the cell phone to his ear. Ryslan’s voice crackled on the other end, sounding a million kilometers away instead of across town at FSB HQ, where he’d spent an obscene portion of the night pushing paperwork. From Vadeem’s position, he gathered that neither man was in a cheery mood. Vadeem’s brain felt filled with wool and every joint ached from sleeping on the fraying armchair down the hall from Grazovich’s room. Thankfully, Pskov’s FSB branch had decided to cooperate with their Moscow big brothers, and set up surveillance on Grazovich so he could get some shut-eye. He didn’t want to know where, or if, Ryslan had finally bedded down.
Despite the relative comfort of the hotel lobby, Vadeem had spent the better part of the wee hours contemplating Ekaterina Moore and her mysterious key, not to mention her amber brown eyes, the touch of her disheveled silky hair against his cheek, and the smell of her skin as she sobbed into his shoulder.
There he went again, entangling himself in her memory. He’d do well to remember that she was probably an arms dealer with a stellar ability to deceive. Physically shaking himself, he tried to focus on Ryslan’s words. “Her parents are dead, but her visa application says she’s part Russian.”
“She said her grandfather is some sort of World War II hero,” Vadeem said. “And she says she came looking for an old monk who sent her a key. Maybe they’re related?”
“A key?” Ryslan’s voice perked up. “What kind of key.”
“Some old relic. She’s wearing it around her neck.” Vadeem stalked to the hallway, peeked down at Grazovich’s room. No movement told him the guy was still in his vodka stupor. “I’ll tell ya, Ryslan, she looked me right in the eye, with tears, and told me that she just wanted to find her ancestors.” He rubbed a tense muscle in the back of his neck, quickly giving up. “She’s got her story cold.”
“What if she’s telling the truth. What if she is related to the old monk?”
“Yeah, and I’m related to the last czar.” Vadeem nodded at a woman in a rumpled cocktail dress emerging from a room across the hall.
“Well, your highness, think on this. What if her dadushka hooked up with Timofea during the war? We had Americans running all over our borders. Or, better yet, what if he found himself a nice little peasant girl and brought home a Russki souvenir.”
“I thought the Americans stopped at Berlin.”
“Not the partisans. There have always been rumors American OSS ran supplies in and organized missions throughout Estonia and Belorussia. Maybe he hooked up with Timofea through the partisan network. After all, no one can be trusted in war. . .not even a monk!” Ryslan laughed, and in the early morning, it sounded more like a snort.
Vadeem cringed. “So that could be a link to her past.” Although after what she’d told him, the link had obviously been severed. The woman had him convinced, however briefly, that she’d come to visit the old monk. Her tears had certainly felt real—damp and hot. “What do you think about the key? Does it mean anything?”
“Nothing about a key in her file. What’s up with Grazovich.”
“Sleeping like a baby in his room.” Vadeem paced back to the floor lobby, trying to work life
Then she tipped the table, just enough to spill the coffee down his trousers. Whirling, she ran from the café, his fury echoing in her ears. She slammed out of the hotel doors, and suddenly the only sound was her own thundering heartbeat and the slap of her feet on the sidewalk. She hadn’t won awards on her college track team for nothing. Freedom filled her nose and she ran, nowhere, and safely out of the grip of the Russian militia.
-
“She says she’s here, looking for relatives.” Vadeem rubbed his thumb and forefinger into his weary eyes, seeing only spikes of light against blankness as he pressed the cell phone to his ear. Ryslan’s voice crackled on the other end, sounding a million kilometers away instead of across town at FSB HQ, where he’d spent an obscene portion of the night pushing paperwork. From Vadeem’s position, he gathered that neither man was in a cheery mood. Vadeem’s brain felt filled with wool and every joint ached from sleeping on the fraying armchair down the hall from Grazovich’s room. Thankfully, Pskov’s FSB branch had decided to cooperate with their Moscow big brothers, and set up surveillance on Grazovich so he could get some shut-eye. He didn’t want to know where, or if, Ryslan had finally bedded down.
Despite the relative comfort of the hotel lobby, Vadeem had spent the better part of the wee hours contemplating Ekaterina Moore and her mysterious key, not to mention her amber brown eyes, the touch of her disheveled silky hair against his cheek, and the smell of her skin as she sobbed into his shoulder.
There he went again, entangling himself in her memory. He’d do well to remember that she was probably an arms dealer with a stellar ability to deceive. Physically shaking himself, he tried to focus on Ryslan’s words. “Her parents are dead, but her visa application says she’s part Russian.”
“She said her grandfather is some sort of World War II hero,” Vadeem said. “And she says she came looking for an old monk who sent her a key. Maybe they’re related?”
“A key?” Ryslan’s voice perked up. “What kind of key.”
“Some old relic. She’s wearing it around her neck.” Vadeem stalked to the hallway, peeked down at Grazovich’s room. No movement told him the guy was still in his vodka stupor. “I’ll tell ya, Ryslan, she looked me right in the eye, with tears, and told me that she just wanted to find her ancestors.” He rubbed a tense muscle in the back of his neck, quickly giving up. “She’s got her story cold.”
“What if she’s telling the truth. What if she is related to the old monk?”
“Yeah, and I’m related to the last czar.” Vadeem nodded at a woman in a rumpled cocktail dress emerging from a room across the hall.
“Well, your highness, think on this. What if her dadushka hooked up with Timofea during the war? We had Americans running all over our borders. Or, better yet, what if he found himself a nice little peasant girl and brought home a Russki souvenir.”
“I thought the Americans stopped at Berlin.”
“Not the partisans. There have always been rumors American OSS ran supplies in and organized missions throughout Estonia and Belorussia. Maybe he hooked up with Timofea through the partisan network. After all, no one can be trusted in war. . .not even a monk!” Ryslan laughed, and in the early morning, it sounded more like a snort.
Vadeem cringed. “So that could be a link to her past.” Although after what she’d told him, the link had obviously been severed. The woman had him convinced, however briefly, that she’d come to visit the old monk. Her tears had certainly felt real—damp and hot. “What do you think about the key? Does it mean anything?”
“Nothing about a key in her file. What’s up with Grazovich.”
“Sleeping like a baby in his room.” Vadeem paced back to the floor lobby, trying to work life
Similar Books
