So, maybe there was more to the rumored jet-lag induced dementia than she gave credence.
He tucked the picture into the folder. “We’re not even sure you were the intended target tonight. Perhaps he was after me—”
“But what about my hotel room?”
He held up a hand. “We just need to consider all the possibilities if we’re going to unravel this mess.” He closed the file and folded his hands atop it. “Please, would you tell me why you are in Russia, and what you were doing today at the monastery?”
Her heart stopped hard, right against her ribs, and for the first time since her arrival, she wanted to chuck this entire adventure and race back to New York and the ho-hum safety of Matthew’s arms.
“Have you been following me?” Her voice sounded as pinched as her courage.
He nodded, his face turning hard. “And you better be thankful I did, or you’d be on your way to the morgue right now.”
That thought turned her cold. He’d been following her because he thought a killer was on her trail. Sixteen hours in Russia and already someone wanted her dead.
What was she doing here? Maybe all Matthew’s angry prophecies were accurate. Silence became her betrayer as her eyes filled, and she hiccupped a sob that echoed off the walls.
Her dementia had latched on with a vengeance. Through blurry eyes, she saw Captain I-Am-Your-Nightmare Vadeem grimace, as if he’d been walloped hard. He looked away, rubbed his whiskered face with one of those powerful hands. Swallowed.
The big bad bodyguard actually looked… afraid?
“I’m… ah, sorry, Miss Moore. I shouldn’t have been so… blunt.” There was that tenderness again, the one she’d heard in his voice seconds before she’d been tackled, and the kindness in it threatened to unravel her on the spot. She wrapped her arms around her waist and held in a vicious tremor as tears dropped off her chin.
She heard his chair scuff back, then felt his hand on her shoulder. Slowly, he knelt in front of her, then pulled her into his arms. She leaned awkwardly against him, the soft leather of his jacket cold against her cheek, her tears puddling on the smooth fabric. He said nothing, but rubbed a hand along her back. His five o’clock shadow rubbed against her forehead and he smelled of soap and leather, and most of all, safety. She closed her eyes and lost herself in the tender comfort of a stranger.
“Please, Miss Moore. Tell me what happened today at the monastery. Then I can get you on a plane for home and the nightmare can be over.”
“I was aiming for Spasonov.” Ilyitch didn’t have to be in the room with Grazovich to feel his gunmetal gray eyes boring into him. His icy silence over the phone was enough to raze every open nerve.
“You nearly killed her.” Grazovich’s voice seemed strained, probably from choking up lies for the Americanka while he let him do his dirty work. Dirty Abkhazian. The former military general in the former Soviet republic of Georgia had turned thief and was bent on financing his country’s revolution by unearthing Mother Russia’s secrets. The Georgians probably lost the war on purpose, hoping to rid themselves of this wart to the north. Ilyitch had been out of his brain ten years ago to hook up with the Abkhazian terror forces. Brainless and desperate for cash.
Circumstances hadn’t changed much over the course of the past decade.
“Did you at least take the key?” Grazovich had the consonant slur of a man who’d spent the better part of the evening investigating the inside of his Absolut bottle. The drinking had gotten worse since the Georgians had nabbed the general’s brother. Torture must be knowing your flesh and blood sat in a rat-infested hole in Georgia, waiting for execution.
“I thought you wanted her to keep it,” Ilyitch ground out. “You said, ‘let her lead us to the map first’.” He added just enough lilt to betray his lightly veiled disgust. It’s a fable, he wanted to scream. But he kept that editorial to himself, remembering the icy clamp of leg irons against his flesh.
“Things have changed,” Grazovich growled, affected by Ilyitch’s mocking. “She didn’t get the book. We’ll have to find it ourselves. Get the key. She’s wearing it around her neck.”
Ilyitch let out a curse. “I could have snatched it this morn—”
“Get the key.” Grazovich bit out, “My boy will do the rest.”
Your boy’s done enough all ready.
“What if ‘your boy’ is wrong?” Ilyitch kept his voice low, despite the fact no one would dare sneak up on him. He kept a safe distance from—and one eye—on a convention of FSB agents amassing in the hotel lobby. One turned and glanced in his direction. He turned away and leaned against the building, awash in shadow. “Let me grab her. She’ll tell us what we want to know.” The fact that Grazovich had her close enough to snatch—twice—and hadn’t, made Ilyitch want to put his fist through the cement wall. What games was the general playing? Miss Ekaterina Moore held the key to their plans—in more ways than one.
The thief on the other end remained silent. Frustration pushed into Ilyitch’s tone. “You could have ended this in her hotel room, instead of playing noble.” He couldn’t help but dig in the knife after seeing the way Grazovich let her waltz up to her room—alone. “Were you thinking you’d romance it out of her?”
“You nearly killed her.” the Abkhazian retorted. “We need her alive, and full of answers.”
“Ah, a romantic. Perhaps that’s why you love digging up Russia’s soul.”
“Russia has no soul. She sold it to the highest bidder years ago.”
“Now you’re a philosopher.”
Grazovich lowered his voice, added a growl. “Get the key. Call me when you have it.”
“It won’t do us any good without the map.”
“Just get the key, or you’ll be wishing we had left you to rot.”
Kat pulled the woolen hotel blanket over her shoulder and tried, again, to curve her body around three very pronounced peas in the mattress of her century-old hotel bed. The springs squealed when she moved, splicing her thoughts with the effectiveness of a blade. It had to be some further cruel jet lag trickery that kept her mind from collapsing into sleep when her body felt as if she’d run a marathon. Her brain kept circling around two thoughts: she wasn’t leaving, despite Captain Vadeem’s posted guard and assertions to the contrary, and God had somehow vanished over the past twenty-four hours. Where was the Almighty when she needed Him? Certainly, throughout her life, she’d never needed Him more than now.
She tugged on her blanket. It slid up over her toes where cool air nipped at them. She couldn’t continue to stare at the pale walls. Sitting up, she clicked on the bedside lamp. A dusty glow fanned out over the red blanket. Kat reached for her backpack, hauling up dust balls from the floor under her bed as she plopped it on her lap. She found her pocket Bible inside and flipped to the bookmark. It opened to Psalms, and the words made her cringe.
“The Lord is a refuge for the oppressed, a stronghold in times of trouble. Those who know your name will trust in you, for you LORD have never forsaken those who seek you.”
“Oh God, where are you now? Have I not sought you? Have I not trusted you?” Kat rubbed her face with her hands. Sleep tugged at her, but the ache inside would not subside. Just when she needed her faith the most, it seemed to crumble in her grip.
Would she be one of those spiritually poor who turned away from God when life smote them? Would her earthly pain eclipse her heavenly joy? God seemed much closer yesterday morning, when life was in her grip. She closed the Bible. She had few choices here. Either God would come through, or not. But in the end, she could only hang onto hope, or despair would run her over.