“I met the monk who took care of Timofea. He said the old monk had a picture of me.”
Silence.
“And of mom.”
She’d heard him breathe in and out, heavily.
“Please, Grandfather. There is a Russian FSB agent here who wants to kick me out of Russia. He thinks some sort of international smuggler is after me.”
“Are you okay?” He’d sounded more calm, more cold than she’d ever remembered.
“Yes, I’m fine. There’s been some sort of mistaken identity here. I’ll be fine, but…” Her voice turned plaintive. If anything, her stoic Grandfather, raised from tough farm stock, would respond to her need for the truth. “…I need to know who Magda was. I want more. I feel as if half of me lays buried in Russia, and I don’t know why. Can’t you do this for me?” She paused, and threw in her last card. “For Magda?”
He groaned, and she imagined him scrubbing a hand down his face, his green eyes filled with sadness as he conjured up the image of his deceased wife. Her heart twisted. Maybe it was too much for him. Guilt stabbed at her. Maybe she should just return home and savor her memories with the only family she had left.
“I met Timofea during the war.”
She’d waited, her heart in her throat.
“He was my contact. We worked together for a while.”
“You were in Russia helping the Partisans.”
“Yes.”
It teetered on the edge of her tongue to ask him. Were you with the CIA? Were you a spy?
No, some secrets were too deep. Instead—“Do you know anything about a promise someone made Timofea?”
“No, my lapichka. I have no idea why Timofea sent you that key.”
She believed him. It was the same voice that read her the Bible, told her the truth about boys, and whispered promises to care for her as she stood out in the rain sobbing over her mother’s newly dug grave. Her heart sank.
“Do you want to stay in Russia?” The sorrow in his voice felt like a leaden weight on her heart. “I suppose it is time you discovered your ancestry. I don’t know, truly, if you will find what you are looking for. It was such a long time ago.” He voice fell, became old. “I tried… once…”
She tensed. Grandfather returned to Russia? When?
“Where are you?”
“I’m staying at the Hotel Rossia, Room 312.”
“The one off Red Square?”
She was struck dumb.
“You promise to come home to me?” She could almost see him pacing, see the worry lurking in his wrinkled face.
She made a squeaky sound that she hoped sounded affirmative. Her throat closed.
“Sit tight. And I’d say a prayer if I were you.”
Say a prayer. Unfortunately, it felt like her prayers didn’t travel past the cracked white plaster ceiling. Please Lord, help me find the answers. Help me find my past. Despite her pleading, she couldn’t escape the feeling that the doors of heaven had slammed shut over the past two days.
Yet, she refused to forsake the joy that could be hers. The words of David reverberated through her head. “You, O Lord, have never forsaken those who seek you.” There were plenty of times David felt abandoned by God. The prophets, Elijah, Jeremiah, even Jonah grieved the loss of God.
Why couldn’t she?
He was out there, and a drowning person has only one choice—grab the lifeline or go under.
She dug through her backpack and found her Bible, opened it to Psalms 9, and continued reading David’s song. “Sing praises to the Lord… he does not ignore the cry of the afflicted.”
Faith wasn’t only about clinging to the unseen God. It was about praising Him while she did it, while she waited for rescue.
She spent the night praising Him for the salvation yet to come.
“Miss Moore?” The door to the reception room opened, and a small woman with black hair down to her waist, dressed in navy pants and a sleeveless sweater, motioned her out into the hall. Kat set the cocoa down next to the doughnuts and stood to meet her.
“I’m Alicia Renquist,” the woman said, as she motioned her into the hall. “I’ve been requested to help you in any way we can.”
“Thank you.” Kat followed her down the carpeted, paneled hallway to a conference room. A large oak table filled the room. A spray of freesia with lilies in the center sent out a rich fragrance. Miss Renquist pulled out a padded leather rolling chair for Kat, then settled herself in the next one, turning it to face her.
“I came to Russia to find my past,” Kat said, not sure what this woman knew. “I’m part Russian, and I think I have family here. My grandmother was from here. I was thinking we could start there?”
“What was her name?”
“Magda Neumann. I think her maiden name was Klassen.” She dug into her backpack, pulled out the Bible, and produced the picture. “I was given this picture. It’s the only clue I have.” She handed it over to Miss Renquist.
The woman stared at it, turned it over, and read the back. “It says Klassen on the tombstone. Do you think it was a relative?”
Kat nodded. “Perhaps one of these two women was Magda Klassen.”
Miss Renquist handed her back the picture. “I’ll request a search from the FSB database, and see if they’d be willing to help.”
Kat forced a smile, but her hope tripped. Sure, the FSB would be begging to help after she’d snubbed Captain Spasonov this morning.
He’d looked rough, standing there in the hall next to the two crisply attired American CIA agents, his brown curly hair mussed and sticking straight up on one side, gray bags hanging under his eyes. The guy needed a decent night’s sleep and most likely medical attention. Instead, he’d spent the night crouched outside her door.
Obviously, he knew her better than she wanted to admit. She’d had every intention of bolting the second he settled her in the hotel room, and he must have read it in her eyes, or the way she too easily acquiesced to his plans to drive her to the airport the next morning.
He’d abandoned a good night’s sleep to keep her safe. He might be stomping on her dreams, but he did it with good intentions.
There’d been hurt in his eyes when he said good-bye at the hotel. Hurt, a touch of anger, and plenty of worry. She pushed away the feel of his hand, warm in hers, sending tingles racing up her arm. She’d never forget the fear etched in his tired eyes when he took her hand. He‘d meant his words, “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
Then she had to smart off to him.
She winced. Two days with the guy, and she felt as though she’d betrayed her best friend. Ragged emotions and adrenaline had her clinging to Vadeem Spasonov like a buoy.
She’d certainly cut the ties of friendship with her in-your-face exit this morning. She swallowed the bitter taste of regret.
“Thank you,” she said to Alice Renquist. “I appreciate all the help the embassy could give me in locating my family.”
Miss Renquist patted her hand. “It may take a few days. We were wondering, actually, if you might be able to help us.”
“Help whom?”
“Your country.”
After the save by the black suits this morning, she was Uncle Sam’s best friend. “How?”
Miss Renquist had long, red, manicured nails, and she tapped them on the table. “We have a situation.”
Kat knew all about “situations.” She’d had a few herself over the past forty-eight hours. “I’m not sure I follow you. How can I help?”
“You’re an international adoption specialist?”
Kat sat back, and frowned. “Yes.”