He winced. Don’t make me cart you out of here like a two year old. He turned and wrung out a polite tone. “Yes. I’m sorry, Miss Moore, but you’re leaving Russia, today. And if I have to throw you over my shoulder and haul you to the train kicking and screaming, I’m prepared to do that.”
“Over my dead body.” She stood in the middle of the cemetery, hands on her hips. The wind teased her hair around her face. Her eyes shimmered with fire.
Vadeem sucked in a breath, feeling like he’d been punched in the chest. American to the bone, she actually glared at him, like he was her hired farm hand who’d just ditched her with a ripe-for-harvest crop in the field.
“I don’t think we’ll have to go that far.” He strode over, picked up her backpack, and shoved it into her arms. “But, rules are rules.”
He bent down, grabbed her around the knees, and threw her over his shoulder.
Ilyitch stepped off the train and turned up his collar against the crisp Moscow wind. The train belched and smoke clogged the already polluted sky. Ilyitch lit a cigarette, then crossed the street where a shiny Moscovitz waited. He threw the bag in first, then climbed into the back seat.
The driver didn’t even turn around. Ilyitch let a smile tweak his cheek as he watched Moscow hustle by. Twelve hours in Pskov had turned his stomach raw. Wooden huts, sunken by time and the shifting earth, ringed the town like a barricade of slums. Only six hours by car from Moscow, the city—the grand Pskov where Czar Nikolai had abdicated the throne—made Ilyitch burn with shame. With her outhouses, central water pumps, and coal smoke spiraling from hovels built in the Lenin era, Pskov embodied the sudden halt of progress. Thankfully, Moscow had marched on. As had Ilyitch. Capitalism wasn’t just for the West. Wasn’t it Gorbachev who said, “Sell anything, sell it all!”?
He’d taken the old boss at his word.
The car ground to a halt, snared in traffic. Ilyitch considered hoofing it, but he didn’t need to ignite any suspicions. He sat back in the seat, cracked the window, and flicked out the cigarette. Spasonov would be boarding the train by now. By tonight, Ekaterina Moore would be back in the city. His city.
A city he’d just as gladly kiss good-bye as decrepit Pskov. No more drizzly Moscow days where the cold dug into his bones. No more traffic, no more press of crowds. No more apartments the size of an American bathroom.
He’d get the key. Get Grazovich’s hidden treasure. And get out of Russia.
Kat folded her hands across her chest and tried to figure out where her life had begun to unravel. Twenty-four hours earlier, she teetered on the edge of her past. Today she was drowning in confusion and fury. No thanks to her not-in-this-lifetime, former hero, who had her under virtual arrest on the commuter train. She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him.
He had tilted his head back, his eyes all but closed, as if he were exhausted. Served him right. She was no lightweight and he didn’t have to carry her halfway back to the hotel or hold her hand like a flighty preschooler all the way to the train. She comprehended his meaning about two-point-three seconds after he picked her up like a sack of grain.
She was going home. Quest over. Door to the past slammed shut.
Tears burned her eyes and she gnawed her lower lip to keep it from trembling. She could claw his eyes out for stealing from her the only dream she ever had. A thousand descriptive words rose unbidden and she forced them back, deep inside, fighting instead to accept her future. God, she moaned, don’t send me home without answers.
Fulfill the promise. What did Timofea mean? The question made her cry aloud.
She clamped her hand over her mouth, horrified.
Captain Spasonov roused and looked at her.
She blinked back her tears and stared down at her new hiking boots, now scuffed and dirty, feeling mortified.
“I’m sorry, Kat. But you have to trust me.” He spoke quietly, an unwelcome balm on her razed emotions. “I’m only trying to keep you safe.”
“You can’t possibly know what you’re destroying.” Her own tone made the tears spill in a hot flow down her face.
To make it worse, he scooted over to face her, his knees bumping hers. He handed her a handkerchief, and when she refused it, he dabbed the tears from her cheeks himself. She flinched and pulled away.
Hurt flickered across his face, as if her feelings actually meant something to him. She wanted to slap him.
He sighed. “Tell me what is so important that you’d risk your life.”
“Is that what I’m doing?” She forced her chin to remain steady, and met his eyes.
They seemed genuinely concerned for her. “I believe Grazovich wants something from you. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have spoken to you, or pressed his luck at customs, much less try to pass off as coincidence your reunion on the train.”
“I still can’t believe you think that nice professor is a terrorist.” She swallowed hard, seeing Spasonov’s face harden. Anger streaked through his expression. She winced. Then she remembered Taynov’s eyes. Old, battle-weary eyes. Maybe.
“It doesn’t matter what you believe. What matters is what I know. And I don’t want you hurt.”
His gentle words hit her in a soft place. Her heart lodged in her throat, and she struggled to speak. “You don’t?” she squeaked.
He smiled, and an unfamiliar tenderness gathered around his eyes. “Absolutely not.” Then he ran a finger down the side of her face and scooped up a tear.
The kind gesture made her freeze. He must have read her body language, for he immediately withdrew his hand. “Are you hungry?” He tried to hide his embarrassment, but she saw it creep into his face.
She sat up, wiped her eyes. “Maybe. Thank you, Captain.” Perhaps he wasn’t such a hard-hearted creep after all. He did have blue eyes that looked like the ocean at dusk, eyes that were deep and mysterious, hiding a multitude of secrets—maybe even treasures.
“Call me Vadeem.” He smiled, and seemed nearly boyish, charm and innocence wrapped together in a heartwarming package. “What you would like?”
She rubbed her arms, feeling goose bumps. “Maybe some M&M’s?”
He laughed. “For lunch? C’mon, Miss Moore. You need to eat better than that. I bet I can scrounge up some fruit juice from the food cart, maybe some peanuts.”
“M&M’s. Plain. I don’t do peanuts with my chocolate.
He smiled, her first glimpse into a true friendship, and shook his head. “You Americans. You don’t know how to eat right. You live on carbs and chocolate—”
“And soda, don’t forget that.” She only half-hated the fact she’d warmed to his teasing.
“America has turned Russia into a land of junk food.” He signaled to a woman pushing a cart down the aisle. “I need to teach you how to eat, I can see.” He pointed to two cartons of apple juice, a banana, and a bag of plain M&M’s. Kat reached for the bag, but he snatched it back, burying it in his lap while he paid the vendor.
“Not until you have some real food.” He opened the apple juice and handed it over. Kat made a face, but liked the way he waggled his eyebrows at her. She drank the liquid down.
“Now some potassium.” When he held out the banana, she snatched the M&M’s from his lap. He frowned.
“Gimme the banana. I’ll show you how Americans eat fruit.” She opened the bag of candy. Vadeem eyed her with suspicion as he handed over the fruit. Kat peeled the banana, then carefully put one M&M candy in the center. “Chocolate has protein, you know. It’s made from beans.” Then she bit off the banana, taking the candy with it.