The thought made him wince. Even the little he could remember about his parents was fading after twenty years. He’d spent most of his life memorizing the daily habits of the current ward nurse in his orphanage rather than gleaning the finer points of manhood from a father. The difference meant he learned more about how to read people in a flash than how to build a relationship—a lesson he’d taken to heart and practiced well as his stint as a Red Beret in the new Russian Army. He could count his close friends on his closed fist, and he liked it that way.
He’d learned at the sturdy age of eight the high cost of friendship and had veered an unwavering course around it ever since. Ryslan, his partner of three weeks, was the closest thing he had to a buddy, and even that thought wasn’t appetizing when he had to choose between an unscheduled Saturday afternoon hike through Moscow’s Gregarin Park or stacking shots of vodka at the local FSB night dive with Ryslan and his COBRA pals.
Not that belonging to the elite group of COBRAs didn’t have its merits. With the right moves, he could have any number of women lining up to melt his cold exterior. But they only saw a man whose physique reflected familiarity with the rigors of a regular PT schedule. And their brand of friendship left his gut pinging with emptiness. He’d pass on the ladies, the buddies, and, as for the COBRAs, well maybe a high-profile arrest would do what the vodka shots and false camaraderie couldn’t—earn their respect.
“Just keep your eyes on him.” Vadeem shrugged out of his leather jacket, reached over, and pulled a militia uniform jacket off a coat tree. Grabbing the hat off the corporal, he snuggled it down over his head. “If she is involved, I’ll know.”
Ryslan harrumphed as he left the militia booth.
Vadeem buttoned the jacket over his black pullover as he thumped down the stairs, hoping Grazovich didn’t notice his black jeans and loafers instead of the standard issue military grays and black boots.
The American’s confused voice lifted over the cluster of officers as she gestured to something in her hand. He approached the tallest officer, who stood a few feet back. “What’s up?”
“An American. She set off the alarm with some sort of souvenir she had in her coat pocket.”
“What is it?”
“Looks like a key.” The official moved away, and Vadeem got a full view of the hapless arms dealer. She looked about as sinister as his grandmother, if he had one. Her tousled hair, the color of caramel, fell over her face in thick strands, and a button on her white blouse had come undone. Her jacket, a glaring red affair that screamed “tourist!” hung off her shoulders, weighted down on one side by a bulging backpack that skimmed the carry-on limit. Fear filled those big amber eyes, and for a moment they looked up, and caught him staring at her.
Her expression was so desperate it rattled his resolve to hike her back to one of the dusty offices and put her thumbs to the screws.
“Please, gentlemen, return this woman’s key and let her be.” Ivan Grazovich, smuggler and terrorist to the rescue.
Vadeem’s eyes narrowed, seeing the way the gangster moved close and tucked an arm around the lady’s waist. “She’s with me,” Grazovich said.
A tall soldier with gray eyes gave Grazovich a hard look. “And who are you?” Vadeem stepped closer, gaze pinned to the woman, and watched the way her blue eyes widened in shock? Or relief?
Oh, she was about as innocent as Comrade Stalin.
“Leave the woman alone, gentlemen. Haven’t you terrified her enough for one day?” Grazovich smiled. Mr. Good Will.
Vadeem repulsed the urge to grab the smuggler by the cuff of his starched white dress shirt, or his black trench coat, and wrestle the truth out of him with the blunt end of his Makarov.
Instead Vadeem strode forward and hooked a hand around the woman’s arm. “You can wait for her past customs,” he clipped at Grazovich. Then, ignoring the man’s glower, he towed Miss Arms Dealer through the crowd and into the inner sanctum of Militia Border Control.
Ilyitch stood in the shadows and watched the FSB agent tow the American into his custody. A sick feeling welled in his gut. She’d taken the bait, and now all their hard work, the waiting, the plotting would disintegrate under the scrutiny of Russia’s finest. They would confiscate her belongings, ship her stateside on the next available transport and, with her, his hope of wiggling out from under the general’s thumb. Every time Grazovich set foot on Russian soil, Ilyitch took a quick and painful survey of his rubles, no, dollars, and cursed the balance. He needed Grazovich to be right. Ilyitch didn’t have time, patience, or luck to waste chasing after a fable.
Especially with the FSB on their trail. Ilyitch noticed Grazovich watching the FSB spectacle. An ugly smear masqueraded as a smile on the smuggler’s face. Again, Ilyitch would have to yank Grazovich out of the hole he’d dug. And then he’d have to baby-sit, hoping the general avoided trouble… like seducing, or worse, an American on her first day in town, at least until she helped them unlock the secrets of the monk.
Ilyitch turned and shoved his fists into his jacket pockets, ruing the day he’d met the general, and every day he’d known him since.
Chapter 2
Ten paces into custody, Kat’s voice caught up to her. The first thing it addressed was the six-foot-two-inch military henchman’s grasp on her arm. “Let me go!”
Her cry emerged in English—her Russian having deserted her—but to her utter shock, the bully bit out a terse, “No.”
In English. She stumbled along with him down the cold cement corridor, not sure what emotion won the battle—fear, anger or shock. Her heart drummed a beat of terror against her ribs, her breath snagged somewhere in the land of freedom behind her.
“In here, please.”
Again, English… and manners? She glowered at the creep, despite the fact her legs had turned numb, and let him muscle her into a room. Barren except for a warped wooden table and two decrepit chairs, the gray tomb reeked of KGB menace. Mr. Militia released her and she stood there, one hand nursing the tenderness in her arm, trying to dredge up a coherent thought.
“I’m an American. I have rights.” Her voice sounded like it wanted no part of her words, the tone feeble and ready to race for the border.
He smiled, just enough to annoy her, or perhaps frighten, and motioned to a chair. “Please, sit down.”
She looked behind her. He’d closed the door. A slit of a window high above her illuminated the dust clinging to the walls and ceiling, but did little to penetrate the cement room’s murky shroud. She steeled herself against an involuntary shudder and wrestled in a deep breath. “Why am I here?”
“I just want to talk to you. Please sit down.” The officer sat down, folded his large hands on the table, and again smiled.
She narrowed her eyes. If he was trying the Good Cop/Bad Cop routine, she wasn’t buying. The man might have incredible blue eyes and a bevy of solid power and strength poorly hidden under that ill-fitting gray jacket of his but, under the circumstances, those qualities weren’t at all appealing.
In fact, right now those blue eyes felt as cold as a Siberian winter as they pinned her down. She rubbed her hands on her arms, and took a calming breath, feeling anger knot her chest. “I’ll stand, thanks.”
The jerk pursed his lips, so arrogantly calm she wanted to slap him. Except, she wasn’t sure that, in reprisal, he wouldn’t just slap her into handcuffs and ship her off to the nearest gulag.
Did they still do that?
Her knees suddenly surrendered, and she reached for the chair. The officer smiled, as if in victory. “You don’t have anything to fear from me, Americanka.”