He closed his eyes.
She sighed. Then, “Sleep Vadeem. I’m trusting God to watch over the both of us and I’m not going anywhere.”
She’d been saying that for three days. For the first time, he was glad she meant it. He smiled slightly, and buried himself in the sweet envelope of sleep.
“I don’t know!” The young monk’s face twisted against the knife digging into his neck. True to his Abkhazian blood, he glared back at Ilyitch like a mangy dog in a corner.
“Back off Ilyitch. I already asked him. He doesn’t know.” General Grazovich looked considerably less foreboding than he had after Ilyitch’s arrival an hour prior. So, their uneasy relationship might have spiraled a bit out of control. It set Ilyitch’s every nerve on edge trying to get face-to-face with a man hounded by the FSB, and perhaps it did make him a bit trigger happy with his fists, especially when Grazovich accused him of trying to get them both collared. Right, like he ached to return to a Russian prison? He’d tasted enough ten years ago. Did the slimy general think he did this for the game of it? Ilyitch knew better than the general the torture techniques of the FSB.
Grazovich wiped at the trickle of blood that seeped out from the corner of his mouth. “You’re making too much noise.” Warning edged his tone. Ilyitch tried to ignore it, as well as every voice that rose like a howl from his past to haunt him, to push him towards terror.
Instead, Ilyitch tightened his grip, his meaty hand digging into the windpipe of Brother Papov. “I’m getting tired of these games. You said that if we waited, the girl would bring us the book. .”
Ilyitch heard a hammer click back, and the spine-chilling press of metal against his neck.
“Back off.”
The general always did have a weakness for his Abkhazian family members.
Ilyitch slammed the monk against the wall, cursed, and let him go. He turned and jerked away from the weapon Grazovich held at his neck. “Your cousin is considerably less help than you led me to believe.”
In the moonlight, Ilyitch saw danger gather in the general’s eyes. Time flipped back and he saw General Grazovich and his “troops” as they mowed down the Georgians guarding the make-shift prison, saw what the Abkhazians were capable of, fueled by seventy years of Communist oppression. Ilyitch’s Adam’s apple scraped his throat as he swallowed. He backed away, hands slightly raised, fighting against turning them into fists.
Suddenly, the general turned his glare at the younger man, his cousin, as if suddenly realizing the web the man had tangled for him. “You specifically said you knew where the crest was hidden. I’m counting on you, Cousin. I’m in no mood to let my brother die.”
“I—I’m not sure. I thought it would be in his belongings, or at the very least that the girl would have it. Timofea was so desperate to send the key to her.” Papov raised his hands, his sleeves falling back to reveal skinny arms. “She has to know where the crest is. Please.”
If he didn’t know better, Ilyitch would have thought the monk was about to curse. Or cry. He was just thankful the general had turned his predator’s gaze away from him.
“Listen, maybe I put too much stock in the legend. Timofea was old and delirious…” Papov’s voice pinched on the high edge of panic as his gaze flickered down and caught on the damp weeds pooling around their feet. “I told you everything I know. Really. The old man had been talking about the crest in his sleep, and I assumed… well, I’d heard the stories… but I was probably…”
“What exactly did the old man say?” Ilyitch took a step nearer.
The blood drained from Papov’s face. He looked at Grazovich for comfort. “Timofea told me about a man he met, someone who knew about the crest.”
Ilyitch grabbed his tunic, shook him just enough to arrest his attention. “Who was this man?”
“He… He called him Anton. He told me that Anton had sought refuge at the monastery, and when he left, he left behind the key… and a book. I looked for it for nearly a year. I thought for sure… the way he talked about the girl…”
Ilyitch exchanged a glance with Grazovich, who was nodding, eyes dark. Their relationship had righted, soldier and general. Ilyitch taking orders, just as he had been for a decade. General Grazovich reminding his soldier, at every hesitation, to whom he owed his freedom, even today.
“She’s a smart one. You sure she doesn’t have the book?” Ilyitch asked, releasing the monk and wiping his hand on his jeans.
Papov shook his head. His voice turned plaintive. “I… I don’t know.”
“Are you sure you don’t know?” Ilyitch kept his voice low. “Absolutely?”
“I’m sure.”
“That’s good to know. I’d hate to think I was killing you when you might still be of some use to us.”
The monk stared at him a long time, long after Ilyitch buried his pero into his lungs.
“That quiet enough for you?” Ilyitch muttered as he wiped his knife on the grass. But when he turned, Grazovich was gone.
Chapter 13
Vadeem opened his eyes without moving a muscle.
Kat was a horrid watchdog. Terrible. Bottom of the pit. One hundred percent failure.
But, he would take beauty over protection any day.
Her chin had bobbed down to her chest, her hair cascading like a waterfall over her face, tempting him to reach up and wrap a finger around a thick, silky end. Her eyes were closed, and this near, so near he could feel her breath, he could see she had a tiny smattering of ginger freckles across her nose and cheeks. He could hardly breathe for the sight of her.
I’ll take care of you. Her words came back to him, and he smiled at their accuracy. He’d slept well, too well judging by the dent of pale light creeping in through the windows. Outside, sparrows chirped.
She stirred. He didn’t move, hadn’t moved except for his eyes, having learned the technique of waking motionless years ago. Now he held his breath, unwilling to disturb her.
He heard a scrape, the thud of feet on the stairs, and his mind tensed. Surely, Grazovich hadn’t tracked them here. No. Only Ryslan knew where he’d gone, adding a crude laugh and a promise to keep his eyes on Grazovich.
And, as of last night, Grazovich hadn’t budged. He was still playing tourist in Pskov, taking up residence by day in a local library, and by night in the hotel bar.
Vadeem watched out of the corner of his eye as a man topped the stairs. He stood in the second floor lobby, scanned the room.
His gaze landed on Kat.
Vadeem shuttered his eyes, as the man approached. Solid underneath a thin brown jacket and dark dress pants, he looked mid-forties with sandy brown hair thinned at the temples. Pursing his lips, as if dreading the task before him, he held a package in both hands and crept towards Kat…
Vadeem launched off the sofa like a panther.
He hit the man hard. They slammed into the wood floor. The man grunted and sprawled like a sack of potatoes while Vadeem pinned his neck to the ground.
“Vadeem!” Kat grabbed his arm, yanking. “That’s Pyotr. Get off him!”
The man blinked at him, blue eyes filled with confusion.
“Pyotr.” Vadeem rolled off his victim, who eyed him warily.
“Pyotr, as in, I had dinner with his family last night?”
Vadeem grimaced. He held out a hand as he found his feet. “Sorry, I guess I’m a little—”
“Jumpy? Aggressive? Paranoid?” Kat filled in, her hands on her hips.
Vadeem met her frown. “Cautious.”
Pyotr stared at the two, eyebrows high. “Yes, well, I’m glad someone is. After the tale she told us last night of being mugged in Moscow and shot at in Pskov, I’d say a bodyguard is a good thing to have around.” He took Vadeem’s hand, who hauled him up from the floor. “Glad to meet you, Vadeem…”