Sands of Time Page 17

  You’re after your own personal glory, Roman.

  No, he wasn’t. He was out to save lives.

  A sick burning filled in his throat. How he hated when her words tunneled deep and unearthed doubts.

  Apparently she knew him better than he knew himself. Because, if he was honest, he’d rather have his fingernails gnawed off by piranhas than die in disgrace like his father.

  Besides, he owed Bednov a taste of his own medicine. The thought became a memory, and with it, emerged his father’s voice. “We failed communism.” Roman found himself back inside his father’s dingy two-room flat the last time he saw him alive.

  The man looked grizzled and pale, with a tinge of yellow to his skin that hinted at liver poisoning. The scent of vodka embedded his rumpled suit coat—the only one he owned—a piece of the past from the days when he had reason to wear it. Roman took the vodka bottle from his father’s clasp.

  “Right, Pa. Whatever you say,” he said softly. He’d flown in for three days, mostly because his old boss—a militiaman and neighbor—had seen Gregori Novik slouched in the corridor, next to a potato bin. And temperatures in Irkutsk hovered just above zero. Roman had to get his father to help—the hospital, at least.

  “We failed communism!” Gregori grabbed at the bottle, missed and went down chin-first into the floor. He lay there, groaning, and Roman sighed. Gregori hadn’t been the same since Glasnost. Since his “religion” had fallen, along with the busts of Lenin.

  Roman grabbed his father under the armpits, hauled him into the bedroom. He pulled off the old man’s valenki and winced. The man’s feet were nearly black.

  Frostbite.

  “Pop, I need to get you to a hospital—”

  “Nyet.” His father wrestled himself out of Roman’s grip and flopped back on the bed. Roman noticed the gray tinge of the sheets, and the smell emanating from the center of the bed. How had his father gone from respected munitions factory director to rummy?

  Alexander Bednov. Once his father’s boss, he’d taken over the factory and sold off the pieces to the highest bidder, just like every former Party leader turned capitalist in the early days of perestroika.

  Bednov had left his father jobless. Without a ruble to his name.

  He’d also pinned on Gregori the blame for the missing capital, had even threatened jail time until Roman handed out rain-check favors to officials from here to Siberia.

  Some, he still hadn’t repaid.

  Roman wrestled his father out of the dingy suit coat and pulled up the covers. Now what? He saw the faintest remnants of his mother’s touch—a family picture hanging from a nail on the wall, a military pose the army had snapped of Roman his first week as a Brown Boy. Wallpaper, a rose-and-gold pattern she’d put up just months before she left, peeled from around the door frame.

  She’d married someone else, a friend of Gregori’s who had surfaced from the rubble with his own small empire. Roman could barely forgive her as she lay dying of leukemia two years later. Christ’s strength had carried him through those black months. But Gregori never said goodbye. Just drank himself into numbed oblivion.

  It felt like a century since their family had been intact. Roman had grown up in that flat, and in the back of his mind he saw happier times—the New Year’s tree, his parents attending his hockey matches, the Communist flag hanging on the wall, right next to a picture of his father with Irkutia’s General Secretary Varanov. Those had been days filled with hope and a future. Roman wandered through the flat, picking up garbage, empty vodka bottles, cigarette butts. His chest tightened as he fought waves of despair. He stopped in the family room and stared at a picture of his father, in his uniform, gleaming with medals, his arms around his wife and son as he stared stoically into the camera. Roman remembered that day. He’d been about twelve. His father had dressed them up, taken them in for a portrait. Roman had held his breath, trying not to smile as the photographer counted down the seconds until he replaced the cover on the camera.

  Roman had wanted to be just like his father that day. And a thousand days after that, even when he went into the military. He’d be a Party man. A man who lived for Mother Russia.

  Until he met David Curtiss. David, and the awakening of freedom in Russia, introduced him to a new way of living. A living that had purpose beyond a government, that outlasted leaders. A living that earned him a right hook across his jaw the first time Roman had mentioned it to his disillusioned father. The slap felt like a pero, a knife slicing deep into his heart, dividing the past from the future. A future that now meant that he’d never end up curled with a bottle like his old man.

  Roman believed in Jesus and His ability to change him from the inside out, to make his life purposeful. To give him a real hope and a future. One that didn’t include letting Bednov escape.

  Roman blinked away the memories and stared into the stream of light cutting through the darkness, filtering the snowflakes.

  There had to be a way to nab Bednov and save Sarai. It started with getting Sarai to trust him, to believe that he only wanted the best for her and to get her to abandon her death grip on her clinic and leave with Vicktor.

  The only remaining alternative would be to arrest her.

  He still couldn’t quite get that thought into his brain without wincing.

  But he couldn’t leave. Not with Bednov still in power. Even if he left Irkutia, Bednov’s men would track him and Sarai across Russia, and beyond. Sarai wouldn’t be safe until Bednov was brought down.

  He gunned his sled, drove even with Sarai, and she slowed slightly.

  “Sarai! Are you cold?”

  She looked at him. Shook her head.

  They were out in the open and under the starry sky, the clouds having been emptied by the blizzard, with the moon pouring down light. Idle oil wells made eerie outlines. They’d long passed Alexander Oil headquarters. The road would appear soon. Roman estimated thirty or so kilometers to Smolsk.

  The cold wind leaked in under his hat and burned his ears. His breath puffed out ahead of him, streaming behind him. He focused his brain on a hot cup of tea and a warm bed. Make that sedative-free tea.

  And repaying Bednov for the crimes against his family, and all of Russia.

  Roman would somehow be the patriot his father hadn’t been.

  Sarai watched Roman hunch over as he tunneled into the night. She’d fudged the truth—she felt frozen clear through, and couldn’t feel her legs, let alone her toes. The only things hot were her hands—thanks to the handlebar heaters on this polarius snow bike—and her heart.

  Or maybe pure shock generated the heat inside.

  She’d just knocked out two guys, saved Roman’s hide and was now fleeing for her life.

  Forty-eight hours in his life and he’d turned hers upside down. Who, exactly, had she become?

  Please, please, reach Smolsk soon. She focused her thoughts on something warm—her comforter, hot tea, maybe Roman’s arms around…

  She shook the thought away. Despite their kiss, they had no future. Not as long as Roman insisted on being a cop instead of… No, that wasn’t fair.

  For the first time, as she’d gotten an in-her-face glimpse of the dark side of his job, she knew that God had to have called him to his place in the world, just as He’d called her to missions. Roman was a man of honor, of discipline and sacrifice, of courage. A real hero, and a man who trusted God.

  She cut her gaze back to him. He looked cold as he hunched over, fighting through the snow. Her doctor’s concern stabbed at her. He shouldn’t be out here in the snow, in the cold.

  His pants were probably frozen to his legs.

  He wouldn’t be in this mess if she’d listened to him. If she hadn’t gone racing off to Khanda. What good had she done there, anyway? What if her guess about the connection between Maxim and Sasha was wrong?

  By returning to Smolsk and staying in Irkutia, she could be risking both their lives.

  And, well, she’d already been there, done that tod
ay.

  Her sled hiccuped and she jerked forward. Roman’s sled pulled out ahead.

  She felt the hum trail away, then the machine sputtered and died. The sudden quiet, after the steady roar in her ears, felt strangely serene. Roman turned, then circled his snowmobile.

  “What’s up?” he said over the roar of his engine.

  “I dunno. It just died.” He looked like the abominable snowman, frost caking his hair, his whiskers.

  “Must be out of gas.” He had to have seen her shivering. “You’re cold.”

  She said nothing.

  “C’mere.” He reached out, grabbed hold of her jacket and nearly pulled her off her snowmobile into his lap.

  Up close, she could see that frost whitened his eyelashes, coated the ends of his hair.

  “I’m worried about you,” he said. He pulled her tight to him, circled his arms around her. “Maybe I need to find us a place to hole up, get warm.”

  Right here, right now, she felt warm. How she wanted to close her eyes and stay. Right. Here.

  He’d nearly drowned, been pummeled by a couple of goons and was probably frozen to the core, and he was worried about her?

  It surged a wave of longing, and regret, inside her.

  “Roman, didn’t you say there was an airfield around here?”

  He put her away from him slightly and nodded. She searched his eyes and saw in them confusion. She summoned her courage.

  “Maybe I should leave.”

  She wondered if he heard her. He said nothing. Stared at her. Frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  He cut his engine.

  In the silence that flooded into the wake, she heard only her heartbeat, and the mourning of her dreams. But for Roman, and all he’d gone through for her today…

  “We could go there. Didn’t you say we could requisition a plane? We’ll leave Irkutia.”

  He stared at her, but the smile, the ooo-rah, even the hug she half hoped for was strangely absent.

  “What about your clinic?”

  Huh?

  “I mean, well, don’t you want to go back and check on it before you leave?”

  He had to have been under that ice longer than she thought. “I, ah…”

  He touched his forehead to hers. “Sar, I know how much the clinic means to you. We’ll leave tomorrow. After you’ve checked on things and we’ve warmed up.”

  Warmed up? She felt something hot start in her throat and zing the back of her eyes. Now this was the Roman she’d hoped for. Someone who put her dreams ahead of his own. Someone who cared enough about her life goals to make sure they would be taken care of in her absence.

  Finally.

  “What if you’re right and Bednov or someone sends militia after me?”

  Roman’s gaze was searching her face. “My number-one priority here is keeping you safe. That’s all I care about. I promise you, I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  He cared about her. It wasn’t a declaration of love, but right now it could be enough.

  She closed her eyes, leaned against him. She was cold. But only on the outside. Inside she felt warm.

  And not lonely in the least.

  “Climb on behind me.”

  Sarai shifted to sit behind him, locking her arms around his waist. She leaned her head against his coat.

  Roman pulled the cord, then, when the snowmobile hummed, he glanced back with a reassuring smile. “Didn’t I tell you once that I’d always make sure you were safe?”

  Oh, too late. Because her hero FSB agent hadn’t the slightest inkling that around him, she, and her heart, felt anything but safe.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “What do you mean they got away?” Alexei Bednov didn’t care if his tone woke Julia. She needed to wake up, maybe attend to some of his needs. Bednov rolled out of his bed and paced the floor in his bare feet. Outside, night seeped into the room, fractured only by the display on his digital clock and the occasional blocks of light from flats across the street.

  Julia lay sprawled beside him, her dark hair in mats on her pillow. He’d flipped her onto his shoulder and tossed her in bed a few hours ago. She still reeked of vodka and cigarette smoke, but he hadn’t cared. He needed her only for what she could give him, however little.

  Probably, he’d have to think past this moment, to what she could give him tomorrow, and the day after. Losing Sasha had changed her.

  If she’d been sober, she’d have had nothing to do with him. He’d seen the fury in her eyes during her rare coherent moments. She meant what she said. “I’ll make sure you pay….”

  He tightened a fist and turned away from her. She should learn from others the consequences of leveling threats against Governor Alexander Evgeyovich Bednov.

  “How did they escape?” he asked.

  He could hardly believe Fyodor’s reply. “She drugged them.”

  Bednov ran his hand over his thinning hair, feeling physically ill, and sank onto the side of the bed. “You can find them, right? Get rid of them? I don’t care how.”

  Fyodor sounded tired. “I’ll find them, Governor. I might need some backup, however.”

  Bednov rubbed his hand across his forehead, trying to ease the knot from his frontal lobe. “Okay. I’ll send some men. The FSB shouldn’t be any trouble. I’ve put out a warrant for Novik’s arrest. He’ll end up like former Governor Kazlov.”

  “And the American girl?”

  Bednov glanced at his soused wife. “With agent Novik out the way, who knows what will happen to her?”

  Roman felt like an ice cube when he pulled up to Sarai’s apartment. The wind had died to a rustle, the snow lay like frosting on the dirty roads, the rutted yards. The stars punctured the night canopy here and there, casting silvery brilliance along the icy roads.

  He stopped and turned off the snowmobile, feeling like he might still be moving. Behind him, Sarai shivered, blowing into her cupped hands, trying to warm her nose.

  The door to the apartment building banged and Roman nearly jumped from the sled, ready to pounce on a late night drunk. The man wobbled out into the night and staggered down the road, dredging up one too many memories for Roman.

  He needed to get Sarai inside, make sure Bednov’s men weren’t on her trail, then get someplace warm and clear his head.

  Maybe he could also try to forget that he’d manipulated Sarai. She’d been willing to leave, and he’d turned her down. Which made him more of a heel than she realized.

  He’d keep his promise to David…just not the way David hoped.

  Roman got off the sled, tucked his arm under Sarai’s. She leaned into his assistance, betraying her fatigue and he felt another stab of guilt. She wouldn’t be bone-weary and cold if he hadn’t dragged her out on his investigative hunches.

  A real hero would have her on the first plane out of Irkutia, like she’d suggested.

  “Roman, you can sleep at the clinic,” Sarai said as they made their way up the stairs to her flat. Roman said nothing but took the key out of her stiff hand and opened the steel door. He closed it quietly behind him and locked it before he opened the next set of doors.

  Sarai moved to step inside, but he blocked her. “Just…wait.”

  He moved in quietly, without the lights and listened.

  Nothing but the thud of his own heart against his chest. He let a sigh of relief trickle out. “Okay, I think it’s safe.”

  She came in, turned on the light. “Ah, heat.” She pulled off her valenki and coat, but kept on her shapka. “I think I’ll sleep with it on,” she said with a soft smile.

  With her hair still frozen around her face, her eyes framed by snow crystals, that slight smile found the still-functioning places inside him, and despite the guilt he felt, he reached out and pulled her to him.

  He realized he was trembling.

  She wrapped her arms around him. “We’re okay, Roman.”

  He closed his eyes. For now. But what about tomorrow? Please, Vicktor be here, take her away.
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  She molded to him and hung on longer than he’d anticipated.

  Longer, probably, than was healthy for him. Because, although he’d felt frozen a moment ago, he was thawing quickly.

  He put her away from him. “I’m going to make you some tea while you change out of those clothes.” He went into the kitchen before she could protest, and he heard her close her bedroom door.

  Lock it, Sar. Because while he was a Christian, he was also a man, and right now he felt weary, cold and just a little overwhelmed. He didn’t know how much self-control he could muster if she so much as smiled at him too broadly.

  Especially since he had a dark feeling that after tomorrow he wouldn’t be seeing too many of her smiles. Not once she realized he’d turned down her grand gesture for the personal glory of hunting down Bednov, international smuggler.

  No, not glory. Justice.

  Whatever. Roman went into the kitchen, put on the water and warmed his hands by the flame of the gas stove while it heated. He searched her cupboard and found a box of English Breakfast Tea next to the phony sugar bowl. The tea was steeping by the time she returned wearing sweatpants, a turtleneck, a University of Moscow sweatshirt and two pairs of socks. She’d pulled her hair back, into a ponytail, and without a hint of makeup, she looked like she might be twenty-one, and right out of college.

  She leaned against the door and smiled at him. Sweetly.

  Oh, no.

  Roman backed up, folded his arms across his chest. Lord, help me here to be the guy I’m supposed to be. “I made you tea.”

  “Yes, you did.” Only, she made no move for it. Instead, she advanced toward him. She had a small galley kitchen, with room for a tiny two-chair table, a small stove and a single sink.

  He had nowhere to run. She came up to him, put her hands on his chest and looked into his eyes.

  She had incredible eyes. And he saw right through them to the past, to the time when she’d told him she loved him.

  He should have asked her to marry him. Instead, he’d held her face in his hands and kissed her.