Sands of Time Read online

  Sorta.

  Staring at the images on the screen, Roman felt his chest tighten. Please, God, don’t let Sarai be in the middle of that mess.

  “He’s in the morgue,” a voice said behind him. Roman turned to see Vicktor striding up. “Utuzh has scheduled him for a mandatory autopsy in the morning. He has no next of kin, and his emergency contact was listed at Alexander Oil. They’re sending a man over later to ID him.” Vicktor had his hands shoved into his leather jacket, and fatigue weighed on his face.

  “Who?” Roman asked, trying to get a fix on something other than the image of Sarai in one of those burning buildings. Last he heard, she was in the Irkutsk region, but he thought she was serving in some remote village. There was no good reason she’d be in the city. None.

  Except, of course, for her propensity to not listen to good advice and charge ahead into the danger spots in the world. They—her family, her friends—had all breathed a sigh of relief when she’d accepted the assignment in Siberia.

  As if freezing to death might be a better alternative to being shot in Somalia. Or kidnapped in Chechnya. Or tracked by the MSS in Beijing.

  Yeah, loving Sarai was a real picnic.

  It might be easier if she loved him back, just a little. But she’d dumped him. A smart man might remember that. Still, he couldn’t help feel that somehow he’d let her down. That he might have been more.

  Should have been more. Better. Stronger. Wiser.

  The story of his life. A legacy the Novik family just couldn’t seem to shake.

  He watched the screen, vaguely aware that Vicktor had answered him with a sorry shake of his head, then dialed Yanna’s number. The short hand clicked toward eleven on the station clock. Roman should head home, see if David had sent him an e-mail. The guy worried too much about his kid sister. As if she was going to get gunned down by terrorists way out there in the middle of nowhere. David should know her better than that—he spent enough time making sure she knew how to survive.

  Besides, Roman was the last person Sarai would run to should she need help. She’d proved that in Moscow.

  As if on cue, memories put him right back in the middle of the road, with gunshots, screams and explosions shattering windows overhead. A nearby Molotov cocktail had taken him down, and a piece of glass nearly shaved off part of his head, missing his jugular by about eight inches.

  Roman, what if you were killed? Sarai had asked, with enough worry to tug at his heart. Her jade green eyes in his, concerned, even glossy with unshed tears, still had the power to sweep the words from his brain. He sat there, letting her hold a cloth to his wound and just…enjoyed it. Enjoyed the worry on her beautiful face and the fact that being around her made all the noise outside—and inside—his brain subside to a warm hum. Sarai embodied calm and focus, the eye inside the storm. Somehow, she made him slow down enough to take a deep, sweet breath. At that moment, all he could think of was the way her hand cupped his face, and how he wanted to put something on the angry scrape on her chin.

  Her next words had snapped him out of happy moment, right into hurt.

  “What are you trying to prove? You’re going to get yourself killed, and you won’t even know why. I don’t need a hero. I just want a man who loves God!”

  Whoa. Ouch. But still, maybe that was just fear talking. Days later, however when she wouldn’t return his telephone calls, her words began to throb. And the thirteen year silence since then gave the message resonance. Got it. No hero. Why, he wasn’t sure. Obviously, however, he was the only one receiving Sarai’s very clear message because every time trouble so much as whimpered on this side of the ocean, David dialed Roman’s cell.

  Then again, that might have more to do with David’s trust in Roman than Sarai’s need for a knight. Thankfully, up to now, Roman had been able to do hero-duty from a distance, through favors, or friends.

  Because, while he had no idea what Sarai did want, he had a crystal-clear picture of what she didn’t.

  Him. Especially now that he was a full-fledged FSB Cobra captain—throwing his life away for glory, as she had so often accused.

  Right. There were parades in his honor every day.

  He turned away from the news. He might just arrest himself if he didn’t get a shower, and soon.

  One of the hot shots on his Cobra squad cranked up the volume.

  “In an effort to subdue the violence, and pinpoint the source of the coup, Governor-elect Bednov has issued orders that all persons holding a foreign visa leave the Irkutsk province within three days. Any remaining foreigners will be arrested and held as international terrorists.”

  Roman stopped, glanced at Vicktor, feeling sick. Vicktor caught his eye, shook his head.

  Maybe he should turn off his cell phone.

  Sure, and then maybe his heart.

  Chapter Three

  “What kind of idiot are you?”

  Governor Alexander Bednov heard the sharp edge of his words and saw them cut through his wife’s grief to reveal fear.

  She should be afraid. Especially today. “Where did you find this American doctor, and what did you tell her?”

  “Nothing, I told her nothing. Just that…he…Sasha was so sick.” She held her trembling hands in front of her, as if in surrender.

  Shaking, he advanced toward her, fighting his fraying edges. This day hadn’t been easy for either of them. He had anarchy reigning in the streets, and she’d lost her son.

  He never liked Sasha much, anyway. But he’d hid it well, with gifts and vacations and lots of electronics from America, courtesy of his overseas affiliations.

  Affiliations that he’d gladly cut off at the neck.

  For Julia’s sake, he’d gulp a breath, offer her comfort while he quietly sorted through chaos and initiated some damage control. “Where is this doctor from?”

  “I don’t know. I think a village in the north. I got her name from Katya.”

  The maid. Of course. The woman from the Evenk people of Khanda seemed set on sticking her chin into their lives. Second thing he did after ridding Irkutia province of foreigners would be to herd the indigenous plague into a pen and lock the gate.

  He rose, went to the door and summoned a bodyguard. “Find Katya. I want to talk to her. Now.”

  Julia sat on the bed, quietly sobbing.

  She looked and smelled brutal. Probably had emptied the liquor cabinet by herself over the last three hours.

  He knelt before her, pulled her into his arms. “Maya Doragaya, don’t cry. I’m sorry. I know you were only thinking of Sasha.”

  At his endearment, Julia held on to him, shaking. In the next room, he could hear the sounds of the medical technicians he’d hired to prepare Sasha for burial. Murmurs and low tones. He’d paid them well enough to keep their silence. Besides, this day, the entire region sympathized with his grief.

  “Alexei, please, I want an autopsy.” Julia leaned away from him and pleaded with him with her bloodshot eyes. “Please. I have to know if…if…well, why he died.”

  Alexei ran his hand over her long hair. He loved her hair most of all, the way it slid through his fingers. And her sleek, thin neck. She might not have Natasha’s political savvy, but Julia pleased him in ways his first wife couldn’t begin to imagine.

  Still, he had a pretty good idea of what killed the son he never wanted. And keeping that to himself rated only second to cleansing Irkutia—and then the Motherland—from the influence of foreign poison. With the right leader, and plenty of cash, they could again be a world power.

  The only world power.

  “Nyet, Julia,” he said, pressing a kiss to her head. “Sasha is gone. It won’t help to let someone cut him open.” He let the words be brutal and, as he hoped, she flinched.

  “But we do need to find that doctor. And you’d better hope that she knows nothing, or she’ll be the first foreigner to get a firsthand glimpse of a Siberian gulag.”

  “I say you sit tight and see if she turns up.” Yanna sat on Vicktor’s b
lack leather sofa, legs pulled up to her chest, watching the news.

  “And what if she is in Irkutsk, trapped, or hurt?” Roman looked up from his pile of clothes, pretty sure he’d lost most of his mind over the past hour. As news in Irkutsk progressed from bad to stomach clenching, his instincts had made up his mind for him. Just like they had in Moscow.

  This excursion into the past was really going to hurt. Or maybe not? In his wildest imagination, Sarai actually gave him an ecstatic smile and dove into his arms.

  Right after she told him how she’d been hoping he’d show up. Apparently he needed a good kick in the head.

  Still, David had asked. Twice.

  Vicktor sat at his laptop, IMing with the guy in their private chat room David had set up for their covert communications. They had no doubt it was probably under surveillance, but at least the people reading their mail knew neither side was passing information. Just…encouragement.

  Mostly, David, user-name Preach, was the guy with wisdom. And when it didn’t involve his independent sister, David’s wisdom was worth pure gold.

  This time, Roman had to wonder if said wisdom was going to cost him any last chance he had with Sarai. She wasn’t especially known for her tuck-tail-and-leave tendencies. To the best of his recollection, her brother had to send in some of his Delta buddies to get her out of Somalia the last time. According to David, she hadn’t been especially impressed—or convinced she needed saving.

  Which left him at a stalemate. If she wasn’t in trouble, well, she wasn’t moving. And if she was…

  He didn’t want to go there.

  Now that Govenor Bednov had issued the seventy-two-hour window, Roman heard the doom clock ticking.

  Maybe, she could, for once, just trust him?

  “Listen, Bednov’s not kidding, Yanna. I know him, and let’s just say he’s used to getting his way. He was a hard-line Communist for years, and he hasn’t changed philosophies, if you know what I mean. If they lock up Sarai—or anyone for that matter—he’ll bury the case in paperwork for the next century. If we’re lucky, Sarai will just wind up in woman’s prison and not a political gulag.” He felt sick at that thought and threw an extra pair of wool socks and a black sweater into his duffel. Political gulag wasn’t the white-collar crime prison of the West. Russia reserved them for the criminals they seriously wanted to torture.

  “And how are you going to find her?” Yanna asked. “Irkutsk is a mess.”

  “I’ll start at her village. If she’s not there, maybe someone will know where to look.” Roman threw in a pair of gloves, and his 9 mm Grach service pistol. He caught Yanna’s wide-eyed look and shrugged. “Not sure exactly what I might meet out there.”

  “Just don’t use it on Sarai.”

  “Excuse me?” He grabbed the map Vicktor had downloaded from FSB HQ files of Irkutia. He might be able to navigate his hometown of Irkutsk in his sleep, but the western territory was still uncharted—mostly because for the past seventy years it had been closed to the Russian public, inhabited mostly by indigenous people or sectioned off for nuclear research. And now much of it had turned into oil fields. Smolsk was located on the south side of one of the largest fields in all of Siberia.

  “I just mean when she puts up a fight, I hope you don’t have to, ah, resort to extreme means,” Yanna said. She unclipped her long mink brown hair from its inverted ponytail and shook it out.

  He cringed at the mental image of having to arrest Sarai, for her own good, and toss her out of Irkutia. Not only that, but an arrest on her record might insure that she never set foot in Irkutia—or even Russia—again.

  He pulled on his black parka. “Don’t worry. I’m going to sweet-talk her to her senses. I won’t be taking anyone into custody on this trip.”

  Yanna smirked and even Vicktor turned in his chair. “You’re in over your head, Redman. You’re going to need a better game plan than that. I recall that last time you tried to sweet-talk her out of something, it ended with you bleeding in Red Square.”

  “That was a long time ago. I’m older and wiser.”

  Yanna laughed, and for some reason it didn’t sound supportive.

  Roman glared at her. “Sarai is a smart woman. She’ll see reason.”

  Vicktor shook his head. Smirked. “Oh, by the way, if you see any international terrorists, how about giving us a call before you, say, evacuate half of Siberia?”

  Roman gave him a dark look.

  Yanna rose from the sofa, walked to the entry and began to pull on her boots. “I’ll give you a ride to the airport.” She grabbed her bag, unzipped it. “But I wanted to give you this.” She held out what looked like a small pocket PC.

  “What is it?” Roman took it, opened it.

  “It’s a sat phone. My design. It’s got a GPS and is linked to a program on my computer. If you get into trouble, and you can’t get a good signal, you can type out a text message, or even tap out Morse code on the keys and we’ll be able to find you.”

  “No hiding from you guys, huh?” Roman pocketed the phone, turned to Vicktor. “You’ll cover for me with Comrade Major Malenkov?”

  “He didn’t okay your travel plans?” Vicktor raised one dark eyebrow. “How did you get that travel pass?”

  Roman didn’t answer as he laced up his boots. He had traded in some favors to get an FSB pass from the Irkutsk office. Favors that he would have just as soon kept unredeemed and in the past. “I told them I was investigating a murder, which is the truth.”

  Vicktor cringed. “Roma, if he finds out you’re AWOL…”

  “Just—If Utuzh finds anything of interest during the autopsy of our American smerchik, page me.”

  Vicktor didn’t smile. He stood up, crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this. Maybe I should be going. I’m not on probation—”

  “No.” Even Roman could tell he sounded a bit defensive. Or maybe possessive? He grabbed his wool hat off Vicktor’s bench. Vicktor’s Great Dane, Alfred, raised his head, gave him a disdainful sniff. “Listen, this won’t be hard. Twenty-four hours, I’ll be back here and Malenkov won’t even know I’ve gone. I’ll get into Irkutia, track down Sarai, convince her that she needs to leave and then we’ll all come back to Khabarovsk—”

  “And live happily ever after.” Yanna shoved on her gloves. “You’re such a dreamer, Roman.”

  Yeah, anyone with a wide-angle perspective on this trip could see that.

  Vicktor opened the door for them. “Just be careful. And come back. Because if you don’t get her out under the three-day window, she’s not going to be the only one in trouble.” He ran a hand behind his neck, rubbed a stiff muscle. “I don’t want to see your name on some interagency bureau report as AWOL, or worse—aiding and abetting a fugitive, Roman.”

  The words resonated through Roman, lingering long after he rode to the airport in silence with Yanna, and climbed aboard the 1962 AN2 cargo plane to Irkutsk.

  By the time Roman landed at the Irkutia airport, he felt like an iceberg. He requisitioned a hardtop jeep, tried not to think about the smell of smoke layering the air and drove northwest, to Smolsk.

  Despite the numbing cold pressing in on his toes and hands, he couldn’t deny the smolder that had begun to burn in the middle of his chest. Sarai, just ahead on the horizon.

  Intersecting his path.

  Just like she had thirteen years ago.

  Without closing his eyes, he could put himself right back to that fateful day at the Moscow circus, when he’d had nearly everything he’d ever hoped for. The circus, and the surreal world it created, should be some sort of metaphor for his relationship with Sarai.

  What a summer. Although he’d known her for two months, and spent nearly every waking hour vying for her attention, she still took his breath away every time she looked his direction. She hadn’t the foggiest idea that her smile made his heartbeat hiccup, or that her laughter felt like a balm on his raw and bruised heart. She believed in him. Respected him. After his last v
isit home, Roman needed that like he needed water.

  “Look at those dogs, Roman!” Sarai spilled a few popcorn kernels into her mouth, her gaze fixed on the poodles that now walked on their front paws through rings. He barely glanced at them, happy instead to trace her face, her freckles that looked like spilled sunshine over her nose, her beautiful green eyes the hue of pale jade and her silky dark blond hair that never wanted to stay in her braid. She had a simplicity about her, no games, no hidden agenda. When she’d walked into his life, suddenly everything made sense.

  Roman didn’t care that she was the little sister of his best friend. Or that she was American, and that despite Perestroika and Glasnost, American-Russian relations still felt strained. Her visa deadline felt like a noose around his neck. Three weeks and she’d head back to Boston to medical school unless he did something.

  Like ask her to marry him?

  He’d wrestled that question, weighing it against her dreams and his skills. He wanted to be a soldier. One who kept Russia heading in the direction of freedom.

  She hoped to be a doctor, and the way she’d patched him up a few times this summer, he knew she had the touch. She’d certainly healed him, in more ways than she could imagine.

  Most of all, she made him realize that there could be room for someone in his life. He could admit that he needed that smile to come home to. He had to marry her. They could make it work, somehow. They had to—he wasn’t sure if he could go on breathing if they didn’t.

  Sarai put down her popcorn, clapping as the dogs ran out of the center ring. The room darkened and Roman put his arm around her. She settled perfectly into his embrace.

  “What are they saying?” she asked as the announcer came on.

  “They’re introducing the high-wire walker.” He pointed to a spotlighted man on a wire high above their heads.

  Sarai sucked in her breath. “You’d never get me up there. My hands are slick just thinking about it.”

  Roman took her hand and she giggled.

  “What if I was up there, carrying you across?” Why did he say stupid things like that? He wanted to yank his words back. They only betrayed how desperate he felt to fill in the tiniest gaps in her life. She so didn’t need him, yet he couldn’t get by a day without her.