Vadeem watched Ekaterina Moore trudge out of the monastery gates, the low sun turning her hair rich amber. She’d obviously had a doozy of day, and rightly deserved, the little escape artist. Still, her shoulders shook, and the fact she was crying made Vadeem want to step out from under the full lilac and yank that awful rolling suitcase out of her grip as he muscled her into HQ. The bag rolled like a rummy behind her as she dodged ruts in the sidewalk. She stopped now and again to wipe her eyes, and once she turned and stared back at the monastery as if she’d left behind her soul and contemplated a dash back to retrieve it.
He’d have to dodge the effect of those amber brown eyes brimming with tears if he hoped to keep his eye on the prize. Namely, Grazovich. And, after watching the smuggler scoop her up like a prize, Vadeem would lay odds the two were in cahoots.
She wouldn’t shake him again.
Vadeem followed her as she plodded down the street, thankful he had both Grazovich and Moore now in pocket. Grazovich, true to form, had headed straight for the Intourist hotel, found a room on the second floor, and ordered a bottle of Absolut. A couple of purple five-hundred ruble notes in the clerk’s pocket and Vadeem would know if Grazovich did anything but drink himself into a stupor.
Miss Moore stopped, set her backpack down on her suitcase, and stared up the street. No, no taxis. He could read the realization on her face and in her drooping shoulders. She worked a small book out of a side pocket; a traveler’s guide no doubt. A slight wind pulled her hair back from her face as she frowned, flipping pages, worrying her bottom lip as she read. She looked up, as if to gather her bearings, and he turned and memorized the contents of a nearby bread kiosk. A moment later, she was again trolleying her baggage down the street, in the direction of the Avtovoxhal. He gave her begrudging points for her on-her-feet thinking.
Then again, anyone with the slightest travel savvy—and especially an international fence for combat accessories—would know that taxis loved to pick up fares at the local bus station.
Vadeem zipped back to his Zhiguli, a loaner from the local FSB set-up, and followed her, just to keep her in his sights, as she adeptly scored a cab at the depot. He stayed on her taillights all the way back to Pskov and hung out at the ATM machine, fighting his awakened suspicions while she checked in at the local Intourist Hotel. Lodging options were few in Pskov, but it slammed a few more nails in her coffin that she chose Grazovich’s hotel.
She finally loaded her gear into a rickety elevator and headed upstairs.
He approached his newly acquainted desk clerk informant. “Which one is she in?” “302.” The desk clerk offered a conspiratorial smile, as if she’d joined the police force.
“Thank you.” Vadeem took a seat across the lobby, behind a full hibiscus, and crossed his arms over his chest, wondering if his little tourist was staying put for the night.
She appeared thirty minutes later, face scrubbed, and looking sharp in a pair of khakis and a pink wide collar blouse. She’d obviously emptied half her backpack. It sagged like a deflated ball off her shoulder. He fell in thirty paces behind her when she stepped out onto the street.
The wind reaped her perfume and sent it streaming back at him. Oh my, did she smell good. Floral, maybe roses, or lavender. Something simple. He paused on the steps, watching her go, debating the wisdom of leaving Grazovich unguarded.
Except, what was she doing wandering around Pskov?
He stuck his hands in his jacket pockets and followed her trail.
He found her just around the corner, sitting in an outside bistro, backpack at her heels and nibbling at a fingernail while studying a menu. One leg was crossed over the other and her tennis shoe moved to the pop rock they were piping over the boom box on the cashier’s table. At first glance, no one would guess she had just spent the day on the lam and wading knee deep into a terrorist’s agenda.
A half block past the bistro, he bought an ice cream from a vendor and ate it while he watched her pick at a potato salad.
She had her cover down to an art form. Presently, she looked about as forlorn as he felt every Saturday night in the bleak months of winter—restless, frustrated. But he suspected the brain behind those woeful eyes held a knowledge of the inner workings of a howitzer or a scud missile. Vadeem threw his cone into the trash, tired of this charade.
He skidded to a halt, stunned, as Ivan Grazovich approached the café like a man on a mission. He wore a smile. Vadeem bristled. Somehow the fact that his gut instincts had played true felt like a knife in his chest.
Okay, so he’d hoped, in the tiniest corner of his heart, to be wrong. He edged near a building, folded his arms on his chest, and waited in the shadows, craning his ear.
“Miss Moore!”
Vadeem grimaced as the young lady actually looked happy to see the international thug.
Grazovich sat down. Miss Moore smiled, a pitiful one, but still, the smuggler was on the receiving end, and it seemed as if the world had tilted toward evil.
Vadeem clenched his jaw as she shook her head, those pretty, deceptive eyes tearing up. She pulled up something from under her shirt, a brass key on a shoelace. Grazovich touched her arm. She looked grateful. The smuggler ordered a Pepsi.
Vadeem fought a sneer, knowing the man had already consumed half a bottle of vodka.
Then she laughed, and the sound of it speared Vadeem’s bones. He felt sick and wanted to hit something, hard, when the grin that followed looked genuine. Vadeem considered his options. Could he arrest the team yet, or did he have to wait until they actually committed the crime?
They’d already amassed enough evidence to satisfy his suspicions.
The pair stood, and Grazovich picked up her bill. Vadeem followed them like a hungry dog as they strolled back to the hotel, she with an obviously lighter step.
They said good-bye for a long time, while Vadeem was stuck examining a display of Matroshka dolls in the lobby gift shop. Grazovich left first, taking the elevator.
Vadeem turned to follow.
Miss Moore walked into the bookstore, nearly smack into him.
“Excuse me!”
Vadeem blinked, suddenly at a loss for words. Those eyes were honey to his reflexes. He turned away, his head down, his adrenaline spiking. “No, excuse… me,” he stuttered. He picked up a porcelain Gel vase, examining it. Although he’d traded the militia jacket for his brown leather coat and wore a pair of sunglasses on his head, one lingering look and his surveillance gig would combust on the spot.
She said nothing and moved past him. The perfume stayed.
While she examined a scarf, he made a quick exit, scooting out into the lobby and hiding behind his favorite hibiscus. The desk clerk gave him a look. He frowned at her and shook his head. The last thing he needed was an untimely update from his cohort in crime.
He was back at the ATM machine when Miss Moore exited the shop and headed up the elevator.
He took the stairs.
She was collecting her key from the floor monitor when he reached the landing. He backed down a step and flattened himself against the wall. He just wanted to get a layout of where she was, what side of the hotel, what room. He’d find a perch in the grocery store across the street and make sure she was tucked in before he trained his binoculars on Grazovich’s room for the night.
He was on the landing when he heard a scream. Fifteen strides later, he stood in her doorway, his pulse roaring.
She was on her knees, holding a green sweatshirt in one hand, and a wool sock in the other. Her body shook.
He heard feet thumping down the hall behind him. She turned, looked at him, and went white.
“Calm down. I’m not going to hurt you.”