In Sheep's Clothing by Susan May Warren Page B

elderly babushka sitting outside the apartment building. Vicktor had tracked down the American’s address, and after calling her flat three times, he’d had to concede that Miss Grace Benson was not going to answer.
    But…maybe she was holed up inside, hiding. He eased his car over a pothole as he struggled to think like an American.
    “Yanna?”
    “The file is still loading,” Yanna snapped. “That’s what we get when the government siphons funds for parades instead of equipment.”
    Apparently Yanna still nursed wounds over the city’s penchant to re-do the streets every time Putin came to town, leaving her with ancient paperweights for computers. No wonder she did so much of her work at home.
    Vicktor softened his tone. “I’m sorry, I’m just in a hurry.”
    “Blond, five foot two, green eyes.”
    “Thanks, Yanna. You’re a prize.”
    “I forgive you.”
    Five minutes later he was leaning on the American’s doorbell. “I know you’re in there,” he muttered to the closed door. “I see the footprints.” Her steps were outlined in mud, and a wad of fresh dirt stuck out from a groove in the metal door. She’d scuffed her shoes stumbling over the frame.
    No answer.
    He buzzed the neighbor. A wide-faced babushka cracked open her door and peeked her nose over the chain.
    “Did you see your neighbor come home—an American lady?” Vicktor asked.
    The babushka ran a wary gaze over him. She shook her head. Vicktor leaned close and lowered his voice. “Did you hear anything?”
    “Nyet.” The woman slammed her door. Vicktor tried not to kick it and sucked in a hot breath.
    Think, Vicktor. Preferably like an American.
    Vicktor ran down the stairs two at a time to his car. What would an American do when faced with the murder of a friend? What would David do?
    Call the cops. Americans believed in their judicial system and their police force. In the absence of cops, she would call soldiers, or maybe American friends in town.
    Or the U.S. embassy.
    Vicktor climbed into his car and slammed the accelerator to the floorboard. The Zhiguli screeched out of the courtyard, scattering a flock of pigeons.
    The nearest American consulate was in Vladivostok. She’d have to take the Okean train. Vicktor checked his watch. He had forty minutes before the next train left.
    The voxhal teemed with travelers toting children and suitcases. The Trans-Siberian Railroad remained Russia’s best and most efficient method of transportation, especially after the fall of communism when the ruble plummeted to new, despairing depths. People could barely afford bread, let alone an airline ticket. The train, however, could transport a person to Vladivostok and back for the price of a McDonald’s Happy Meal.
    Vicktor flashed his ID and hustled past vendors hawking wares in the dank underground passageway that burrowed under the train tracks. Ascending to the platform for the Okean train, he squeezed past a soldier holding an AK-47 and surveyed the crowd.
    No blond American. He fought frustration and strode through the crowd. She had to be here. The train had rolled in and layered the air with diesel fumes. Vicktor wrinkled his nose and tried not to sneeze. A baby began to wail. The crowd murmured as it shifted toward the tracks. Vicktor backed away, took a deep breath and stared at their shoes.
    Americans could always be identified by their footwear—sensible, low, padded and expensive. Russians wore black—black heels, black loafers, black sandals, black boots.
    He spotted a pair of brown hiking boots and trailed his gaze up. Smart girl. The American had wrapped her head in a fuzzy brown shawl like a babushka and now clutched it as if a hurricane were headed in her direction. She held a nylon bag in the other hand, a black satchel peeking through a tattered corner.
    She joined the throng and shuffled toward a passenger car. He clenched his jaw—he had to get her before she boarded that train. Pushing through the crowd, he worked