“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 back into his muscles.
“Did he contact her again?”
“Yes, although I didn’t get much of the conversation. I’ve never met anyone with her tvordost. She didn’t even blink when I showed her the picture.”
“He looks a lot different now. A plastic surgeon is a terrorist’s best friend. You think she’s on the level?
Hearing his partner suggest it aloud fertilized all Vadeem’s gut instincts. He did wonder, think, well okay, maybe just a teensy bit, that Miss Ekaterina Moore might be exactly who she played herself to be.
A naïve, gutsy, in-trouble tourist.
“I don’t know.”
Ryslan said nothing, but in the silence, Vadeem heard his own voice, calling himself a fool. If this Americanka had nothing to do with the General’s smuggling plot, then the real fence was out there—without even a hint of FSB surveillance. Vadeem wanted to bang his head against the wall.
“You’d better keep her in your sights, just to make sure,” Ryslan said quietly, fatigue weighing his tone. “I’ll watch the general.”
“I’m putting her on a plane today.” Vadeem tried not to remember her pitiful pleading, her tears, the way she hit him in the chest when he’d turned off what little part of his heart he could still feel and stood his ground. Yes, she’d chipped away at his gut instincts with her sob story. So much so, he spent the night wondering how a woman with such honest honey-brown eyes could lie like a serpent and wishing, in the darkest corner of his soul, that he was wrong.
The sooner he got her out of Russia—and his mind—the sooner he could tail Grazovich with a vengeance. “If she’s his contact, the general will start getting jumpy.”
“Are you sure that’s the best thing?” Ryslan asked. “If you’re right, she could lead us right to our source.”
…Or down a rabbit trail that would cost him precious weeks of investigation. Besides… “Someone tried to mow her down last night in her hotel room. She’s not staying in Russia.”
He heard Ryslan swallow. “Just don’t blow this, Vadeem. Remember your priorities.” He clicked off the line.
Vadeem pocketed his cell phone, thankful the call had at least roused him early enough to get a cup of coffee before he had to wake poor Miss Moore.
“Captain Spasonov!”
The tone put to his name notched his pulse up a beat. He didn’t like the hue of the sergeant’s pallor nor the beads of sweat trickling down his wide face.
Vadeem’s stomach clenched, and he instinctively knew before the agent said it.
“She’s gone. The American has escaped.”
Chapter 5
Vadeem leaned against the gate of the monastery cemetery, watching Ekaterina Moore trace her finger across the lettering on a simple gravestone. How long had he been watching her? He’d memorized the taut set of her jaw as she lifted her face occasionally into the morning sun, the red lines etched down her cheeks, her shoulders, slightly slumped, her long legs pulled up to her chest and locked with a firm arm.
If she was an arms dealer, she had her alibi down to a science. The wind from the Velikaya River, not far off, teased the hair around her face, now turned bronze by the remnant hues of dawn.
She looked so bereft, his fury had disintegrated long ago. She wore a face that said her hopes had turned to ashes. He had a look of his own, just like it, tucked deep into his past. Perhaps that was why he felt his suspicions dissolving like badly set holidyetz – Russian meat gelatin.
It didn’t help that he understood exactly what she was searching for. Identity. Family. A connection. He’d listened to her story last night with more than a healthy dose of empathy, and hated himself for having to be the bad guy. And the way she’d leaned forward and let herself cry in his arms… well, it made him feel something he’d long forgotten.
Needed.
But he couldn’t sacrifice Miss Moore to soothe the demons from his past. Grazovich obviously wanted something, and Vadeem couldn’t chance letting her get in the smuggler’s sights. She’d be flying back to New York by tomorrow morning.
Then Ekaterina Moore, suspected arms dealer, likely tourist, would be out of the equation.
He waited until she looked toward the rocky cliffs that formed a natural fence between the river and monastery grounds. Then, he edged out into the cemetery. He kept his hands in his pockets, but every muscle bunched, ready to spring should she see him and try to flee.
A meadowlark called Vadeem’s presence, but Miss Moore didn’t budge. He drew closer, and his shadow betrayed him. She stiffened.
“I thought I’d find you here,” Vadeem said, and was surprised to hear compassion in his voice.
She hung her head. “I realized I had no where to go. Except here.”
“And home.”
She said nothing but she winced, obviously wounded. He crouched beside her, and gently drew her gaze to his. Pain edged her eyes.
“Maybe Brother Timofea just wanted you to see the place where he lived,” he said in an unfamiliar tone.
“He knew he was dying.” She looked so pitiful, it drew him right in. He felt her pain spear his heart before he could block it. “The monk told me Brother Timofea’s dying wish was that I get the packaged. From the postmark, however, it looked like it took a year to send it. Why? And why was it so important to him that I have an old key?”
“There were no clues in his cell?”
Her hazel eyes darkened. “They told me they cleaned it out long ago. No. Nothing remains except this grave.”
A breeze rode in from the river, bringing with it the fresh, wet smell. Vadeem sat beside her in the grass and read the cement gravestone. “1898-2001. That’s a long time to live.”
“Especially if you’re carrying around a secret.” She worried her lower lip, and it gave her a pensive look. “Do you think he was trying to pass it on to someone else, maybe in absolution?”
“Why you?”
She shook her head. Bags hung in half moons under her eyes, and her face was drawn. “Maybe I’m a relative?”
“To a monk?” He smiled. Her pitiful half-smile drove the spears in further.
Oh, there was only one way out of this, and he knew it.
“I’ll tell you what, Miss Moore. The train for Moscow doesn’t leave until this afternoon. We have at least two hours before we need to head back to Pskov. You promise not to go running off again and we’ll see what we can find out from these brothers between now and then.”
The real smile seemed like a blast of pure sunshine, washing over his wounds. Her eyes lit up, and something jumped to life deep inside his chest. She nodded. “Maybe you should call me Kat.”