In Sheep's Clothing Read online

  Praise for Christy Award® Finalist

  SUSAN MAY WARREN

  “Susie writes a delightful story…. A few hours of reading doesn’t get better.”

  —Dee Henderson, CBA bestselling author of the O’Malley series

  “Susan Warren is definitely a writer to watch!”

  —Deborah Raney, RITA® Award-winning author of A Vow To Cherish and Over the Waters

  “Susan May Warren is an exciting new writer whose delightful stories weave the joy of romantic devotion together with the truth of God’s love.”

  —Catherine Palmer, Christy Award®-winning author of Love’s Haven

  “Nadia blended heart-stopping romantic suspense with authentic detail that plunked me into Russian life. The result was a dynamic read!”

  —Colleen Coble, bestselling author of Distant Echoes and Black Sands

  “Get ready for an exhilarating adventure through modern-day Russia. International intrigue and a handsome stranger combine in this moving romance.”

  —Jefferson Scott, bestselling author of the Operation Firebrand series on Ekaterina

  For Your glory, Lord

  IN SHEEP’S CLOTHING

  SUSAN MAY WARREN

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  King David is one of my favorite biblical heroes. Throughout the Psalms and through his mistakes and victories, he displays emotions I can embrace. And, whether he is dancing (half-naked!) or moaning that his heart has turned to wax, he displays a faith in God that surprises me. David made no bones about it—he needed God. God was his entire life, and he had no problem saying, “God, I’m your guy…so please come and help me!”

  I have to admit, David’s brazen faith astounds me. It wasn’t that he was without sin (murder and adultery come immediately to mind). So where did this confidence come from?

  His confidence comes from God’s unfailing love—which He proves to David, and to His chosen people. Psalm 22, verse 24, gives me hope that this confidence can be mine, also. “For He has not despised or disdained His afflicted one; He has not hidden His face from him but has listened to his cry for help.”

  David didn’t deserve God’s love. He didn’t earn it. He simply needed it…and received it.

  I wrote In Sheep’s Clothing in Russia, back in 1998 when we were missionaries there. At the time, I had four children under the age of seven, was homeschooling and lived on the ninth floor of a high-rise apartment that had water pressure only from midnight to 4:00 a.m. (Which meant I did my laundry and dishes in the middle of the night.) I had no telephone (no e-mail!), no car, and my husband worked over an hour away in a tiny village. I felt a little…um…overwhelmed.

  I’ll never forget the day my husband came home, weariness and distress in his eyes. He told me a horrific tale of espionage and a KGB plant in the church where he’d been working. Right then, the seeds for In Sheep’s Clothing were sown, along with a deep grief over what the members of that church had suffered at the hands of their so-called pastor.

  Also living in Russia at the time were two other missionaries. Not long after we moved there, they were murdered. This rocked my world. Here I was, “suffering” for the Gospel, and everything I’d counted on (namely, the safety of my family in this foreign land) seemed to crumble.

  I was tired and afraid. And, like Gracie, or Vicktor, I had my own gaggle of “demons” whispering lies into my ears. Like “You were foolish to bring your children so far overseas.” Or “What do you hope to accomplish?”

  Truly, I was in a place of need. What could I do to make my family safe and leave a lasting impression on my world, when it seemed that darkness stalked me on all sides?

  Nothing—except trust the Lord. Writing this book became a catharsis for me. I learned, as Gracie and Vicktor do, that God’s favor (or His forgiveness) can’t be earned. It’s a gift. And in order to receive it, all I have to do is need Him. I learned that God was my strength when life felt too big, or too dark. And I learned that with God there is always hope.

  That’s the secret David had. The belief that when he got on his knees and asked, God would provide.

  God provided in so many ways as I wrote. I am deeply grateful for the support and encouragement of the following people:

  Karen Solem—for finding a home for In Sheep’s Clothing! Thank you for your part in making this dream possible.

  Krista Stroever and Joan Marlow Golan—for your enthusiasm and for believing in me. Krista, your letter (even without the stickers!) is one of my all-time favorites!

  Constantine Utuzh—Now in Heaven. A man of conviction and passion, he made me realize how important small acts of kindness can be.

  The Far East Russia CoMission teams from 1994-1998. (Especially the ladies!)—The friendships forged during these times made living in Russia a billion times easier.

  Alexi and Cindy Kalinin—I can’t help but think of you when I read Gracie and Vicktor’s story. Your friendship is among my most cherished.

  Ellen Tarver (and Daniel and Tom!)—Thank you for reading In Sheep’s Clothing, and later for saving me from being locked in my room all day. Your friendship is such a blessing.

  David Lund—Thank you for reading In Sheep’s Clothing, and for believing in me even when I had my doubts. You’re such a blessing to me.

  Andrew and my sweet children—For all those moments when I read aloud over dinner, or shooed you away with a death-glare, or talked plot endlessly…thank you for listening politely, for understanding and most of all for believing in my dreams. I’m so grateful for you.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Discussion Questions

  Prologue

  If the train trudged any slower into the station, American missionary Gracie Benson would be dead by sunset. Five minutes. Twenty steps. Then she’d be safely aboard.

  God obviously wasn’t on her side. Not today, at least.

  Then again, He certainly didn’t owe her any favors. Not after her fruitless two years serving as a missionary in Russia.

  Gracie purposely kept her gaze off heaven as she hunched her shoulders and pulled the woolly brown scarf over her forehead. Please, please let this Russian peasant guise work. The train huffed its last, then belched, and Gracie jumped. Hold it together, Grace. Long enough to fool the conductor, and find her berth on the train for Vladivostok. Then she could finally slam the compartment door on this horrific day—no, on this entire abysmal chapter of her life. So much for finding redemption as a missionary in Russia. She’d settle for getting out of the country alive.

  She tensed, watching an elderly man dressed in the typical Russian garb of worn, fake leather jacket, wool pants and a fraying beret gather his two canvas duffels and shuffle across the cement platform. Would he recognize her and scream, “Foreigner!” in the tongue that now dr
ove fear into her bones?

  Without a glance at her, he joined the throng of other passengers moving toward the forest-green passenger cars. A younger man, dressed mafia-style in a crisp black leather jacket and suit pants, fell in behind the old man. Gracie stiffened. Had he looked her way? Help me, Lord!

  Just because God wasn’t listening didn’t mean she couldn’t ask. The irony pricked her eyes with tears. This morning’s events had whittled down her list of trustworthy souls in Russia to a fine point. She’d give all the rubles in her pocket for someone like her cousin, Chet, FBI agent extraordinaire, to yank her out of this nightmare into safety.

  Not that she should give any man a chance to introduce himself before decking him. She’d been down that road once. Never was too soon to trust another man within arm’s distance.

  Gracie shuffled forward, in keeping with her disguise of tired village maiden. She clutched a worn nylon bag in one hand—her black satchel safely tucked inside—and fisted the folds of her headscarf with the other. As the smell of diesel fuel and dust soured the breathable air and cries of goodbye from well-wishing relatives, grief pooled in Gracie’s chest. Poor Evelyn.

  Biting it back, Gracie cast a furtive glance beyond the crowd and caught sight of a militia officer. The soldier, dressed in muddy green fatigues, an AK-47 hung over his shoulder like a fishing basket, leaned lazily against a cement column, paying her no mind.

  Hope lit inside her. Freedom beckoned from the open train door.

  Stepping up to the conductor, she handed the woman her wadded ticket. The conductor glared at her as she unfolded the slip of paper. Gracie dropped her gaze and acted servile, her heart in her throat. Please, please. The conductor paused only a moment before punching the ticket and moving aside.

  The train resonated with age in the smell of hot vinyl and polished wood. The body odor of previous passengers clung to the walls, and grime crusted the edges of a brown linoleum floor. Gracie bumped along the narrow corridor until she found her compartment. She’d purchased a private berth with the intent of slamming the door, locking it from inside and not cracking it open until she reached Vladivostok. The U.S. Consulate, only ten minutes from the train station, meant safety and escape from the nightmare.

  Escape from the memories. Surely Evelyn’s killer wouldn’t follow Gracie to America.

  Tossing her satchel onto the lower bunk, Gracie untied the headscarf and shook out her shoulder-length damp hair. Blowing out a deep, shuddering breath she willed her pulse to its regular rhythm.

  So maybe she’d been too hard on God. He had gotten her this far. Perhaps He hadn’t turned his back, completely, on Gracie Benson, a.k.a. foreign-missionary-flop-turned-fugitive.

  Gracie grabbed the handle and began to roll the door shut.

  A man’s black shoe jammed into the crack.

  “No!” Grace stomped on it with her hiking boot. The assailant grunted and yanked his foot back. She threw all her weight into the door. “Get away!”

  An arm snaked through the opening and slammed the door back, nearly ripping off Gracie’s hands. She stumbled back onto the bunk, fumbled for her bag.

  How had he found her? “Get out!”

  Gracie’s heart lodged in her throat. The man was huge. Dark eyes, knotted brow, muscles and menace in a tweed jacket, he stomped into her compartment.

  She screamed and flung her bag at him with all her five-foot-two-inch, one-hundred-and-twenty-pound strength.

  He sidestepped and caught it.

  God, help me please, now. Gracie scuttled to the farthest end of the berth. “Get out!”

  He reached inside his jacket—for a knife? She kicked at him, panic blurring her vision, and pain stabbed her foot as she connected with his shin.

  He winced. “Calm down!”

  English? The accent still sounded Russian.

  She jerked. Sucked in a breath. “Get away from me.” She hated the shakiness in her voice. What had happened to six months’ worth of self-defense classes?

  “Are you Grace Benson?”

  He knew her name. Every muscle turned to liquid. She pushed against the far wall, vowing that this time it would be different. If he touched her, she’d go down bruised and kicking and clawing his eyes out.

  “I’ll take your silence as a ‘yes.’”

  Was that a smile on his face? She calculated the distance to the door. Trample over him. Run!

  “I’ve been searching all over for you,” he said, with a sigh of exasperation.

  I’ll bet you have. Had he taunted Evelyn before he slit her neck, too? Her breath left her.

  His blue eyes glinted, as if in victory.

  Where was the scream that filled her throat? Why, oh why, in times of terror, did she go into lockdown? She shot a glance into the hall.

  Where was the conductor?

  Her assailant turned and slammed the door closed, cutting off her escape.

  Gracie went cold. Oh God, this is it! Please help me!

  She watched the man drag a hand through his hair as if contemplating her demise. Would he slit her throat? Or did he have different plans? Not again.

  She erupted like a woman possessed and dove at him. “Get away from me!”

  He grabbed her forearms in an iron grip. “Stop it! Please. I’m not going to hurt you, trust me!”

  She wrenched away from him. Fell back onto the bench seat. Her breath burned her lungs.

  “Perestan!” He shook his head as her roaring pulse filled her ears. “My name’s Vicktor. I’m with the KGB and I’m trying to help you.”

  Chapter One

  Twenty-four hours earlier

  Khabarovsk, Siberia

  Nickolai Shubnikov knew how to whittle away his son Vicktor’s pride with the skill of Michelangelo—one agonizing chip at a time.

  “Whoa, Alfred! Slow down.” Vicktor Shubnikov wound the leather leash twice around his grip and dug in, hoping to slow his father’s Great Dane/Clydesdale. The animal dragged him like a nuisance as he plowed through the row of street vendors, chasing an errant smell.

  Two years ago Vicktor might have labeled vet duty sweet revenge. Today he called it atonement.

  Vicktor dodged a babushka hawking a bouquet of lilacs, jumped another pedaling sunflower seeds, and skidded to a halt before the metal canister belonging to a wrinkled woman selling peroshke. The fried sandwiches laced the air with the odor of grease and liver. Alfred shoved his wide Dane snout into the sandwich bag.

  “Get your beast out of here!” the woman cried. She whacked at Alfred, who didn’t even flinch. Vicktor, however, felt her land a hearty blow on his shoulder.

  “C’mon, you mutt.” Vicktor grabbed Alfred’s fraying collar and yanked him away. He thrust the woman a ten-ruble note. She swiped it from his hand.

  “Why do you do that to me?” They half trotted down the sidewalk, Vicktor hunched over at the waist and trying to match Alfred’s gait. The dog’s black jowls flopped and his saggy eyes gave no indication of remorse.

  Penance. He cursed the impetuousness that had led to this moment. If only he’d been smarter, faster, wiser, he’d be in Lenin Park on this sunny Sunday, slapping shots against Roman, outscoring the former wing. Or maybe he’d be at Yanna’s volleyball game. The Khabarovsk Amur volleyball team didn’t need help from their fans to bury their opponents—he went for the pure joy of watching Yanna’s power spike.

  If only David could see her now.

  He checked his watch. Noon. Hopefully Evgeny would be in the office. He hadn’t called ahead, but the vet kept normal business hours, and Sunday had been a working day since Stalin outlawed the religious day of rest some sixty years earlier.

  He muscled the Dane toward the dirt path that led to Evgeny’s office. Vicktor had to admire his friend for carving out his dreams into a private practice. He and Vicktor had chewed away long hours in high school, concocting ways to free the laboratory mice from Tatiana Ivanovka’s biology classroom. Between the pranks, however, Evgeny had revealed the love of medicine
inherent to true physicians. Why he had gone into animal medicine still baffled Vicktor. Then again, Vicktor had sworn he’d never join the militia, and look where he had ended up.

  Evgeny’s office, a tiny green log house, sat lopsided and forlorn in the shadowy cover of three nine-story concrete high-rises. Vicktor turned up the dirt path and shivered as the sun passed behind a building. He shoved his free hand into his leather jacket pocket, wishing he hadn’t taken out the lining. That morning, during his run, the wink of the sun against a cloudless sky and the fresh breeze smelling of lilac had lulled him into believing winter had finally surrendered to spring in Siberia. He’d jogged home, unzipped the wool lining from his jacket, thrown his shopka on the top shelf and kissed winter goodbye. Now, as he approached the office, his lips felt parched from the cold, and a faint musty odor curled his nose, like the smell of moldy clothes sitting in old snow.

  The Dane jerked out of Vicktor’s grip and he tripped, glared at the animal and picked up his pace. Of course Alfred would be anxious to see Evgeny; the vet had treated him for nearly ten years.

  Two paces before the door, Alfred skidded to a halt, sat on his haunches and growled.

  “It’s just a checkup, pal. Cool it.” He patted the dog’s head. Still, the way the door hung ajar raised the fine hairs on the back of Vicktor’s neck. “What do you see?”

  Alfred growled again, a threatening rattle in his ancient throat, and curled his lips, showing canines.

  “Tiha. Quiet, boy,” Vicktor commanded. He paused, took a step toward the door and pushed. The door groaned, as if in warning.