Sands of Time Page 6

  Or maybe her racing pulse had more to do with his grip on her arm. And the way his eyes sparked—so utterly macho, so utterly in control. So very Roman.

  Except, she’d noticed from the first that this wasn’t the same charismatic young man she’d fallen for a decade before. He wore hardness around his eyes, and an unfamiliar clench to his jaw. She’d known him as an idealistic college graduate, hoping to change the world. He’d charmed her with his smile, his humor, even his faith, so young, yet so vivid. For a short time she’d believed that together they might make a difference.

  Sadly, the only difference he’d made was to break her heart.

  Judging by his expression, that playful Roman had died under the double-edged choices of his job. Before her sat a man she didn’t know—a soldier, with sharpened edges, dark eyes and danger emanating off his demeanor like a hue. Just the man she feared he’d become. She suddenly felt like crying.

  “This is not a joke, Sarai. David did ask me to come, but because you’re in real trouble. Governor Bednov has declared martial law. And if you don’t leave with me tonight, you’re going to get trapped in Irkutia…and arrested.”

  She took a breath and stepped away from him. “Yeah. Hardly. First of all, for your information, I treated Bednov’s son tonight, and while, yes, we were unsuccessful, Bednov knows what I do here and my work matters. He’s not going to shut it down.”

  Roman shook his head.

  Her voice tightened and she shook her arm out of his grip. “Secondly, I’ve been in countries before that had political coups, and survived just fine.”

  He raised his eyebrows and, just for a second, she had the urge to slap him.

  Fine. She held up her hand in surrender to his unspoken point. “Listen, this is all going to blow over. Besides, Smolsk is about as remote as I can get. Bednov is not going to send an army of FSB regulars out here to arrest me.”

  “But I could.”

  She felt her mouth open and hated herself for showing shock. “You wouldn’t.”

  He swallowed, sighed, looked away and for a second she glimpsed the young man who had begged her not to leave, even if it had only been on her answering machine. “I don’t want to.” Then his eyes hardened, as did his voice. “But I might have to if you don’t come nicely.”

  A beat of challenge passed between them, and she felt the last of her dreams swan dive. He’d arrest her?

  Like a criminal?

  Ouch. Her chest felt as if a caribou sat on it and for a moment she felt light-headed. “Roman, I have work to do here. This clinic is due to officially open in three weeks. I can’t leave now.”

  “You can come back.”

  She couldn’t contain her disbelief. “It took me nearly a year to get a visa the first time. Do you seriously think that, especially after martial law, they’d let me return anytime this century?” She stepped away from him. “Look around you. My clinic has an ER, an operating room, a delivery room, five rooms upstairs for overnight patients. I have an equipped ambulance, a defibrillator, an ultrasound machine, an X-ray room and even a dental chair. Do you have any idea the headaches and cash it took to get this stuff here?” She shook her head. “Roman, I leave town for even a week and this place will be stripped clean. The mafia will piecemeal out my supplies to the highest bidder, and if I ever make it back in, I’ll be starting from zero—if I can even get it started again.”

  “You’re not safe here.”

  She looked away, closed her eyes, fighting the angry prick of tears. “I’m just as safe here as anywhere. I’m needed here.” She wanted to add that God had put her here, but Roman wouldn’t understand that, would he? He knew nothing about personal sacrifice for the sake of the gospel.

  “I can’t let you stay here.”

  She met his eyes, the ones she’d once thought held love, even her future, and saw only resolve.

  She swallowed hard and picked up the needle to numb his wound. “Fine. Arrest me. But hold still first.”

  He caught her wrist halfway toward his head. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  She stared at him, disbelief huffing out of her. “Are you scared of me?”

  He narrowed one eye, but said nothing.

  “C’mon, trust me, Roman. If it’s one thing you can count on, I’ll do my job. Right. Even if it costs me my freedom.”

  He didn’t meet her eyes as she numbed his wound and administered five stitches.

  She finished in silence, snapping off her gloves. “When was your last tetanus shot?”

  “Sarai, listen to me. I’m only trying to hel—”

  “You can sleep in one of the upstairs rooms, if you want.” She turned toward the door, milliseconds away from tears. She could hardly believe her brother—and the man she once loved—would so belittle her dreams, her life’s purpose. Did they seriously think that after being held at gunpoint in a refugee camp in Somalia, or choppered into a burning village in Chechnya, that she would be the slightest bit ruffled by a little disturbance in a city two hundred kilometers southeast?

  She found her composure by the time she hit the hallway, and broke out in long strides.

  “Sarai!”

  She didn’t turn. Wouldn’t turn. Ever. “Go back to where you came from, Roman. I don’t ever want to see you again.” Her words would have carried more emphasis if they hadn’t cracked at the end.

  She entered her office and slammed the door, locking it as it shuddered.

  Roman slammed his fist into the door. “Why do you always have to be a martyr!”

  “Go away!”

  She heard him hiss, perhaps holding back a few Russian adjectives. Well, she’d heard them all before, and frankly, with his chosen profession, she wasn’t surprised.

  Okay, so maybe that wasn’t fair. David had kept her apprised of Roman’s desire to be God’s man in his profession. Still, he had so much potential to be more…and perhaps that was what hurt the most.

  And she wasn’t a martyr. She was just doing something no one else could do. She didn’t exactly see people lining up for her job, did she?

  If people like her didn’t stick around when life turned into a battlefield, who would?

  Sarai sank to her knees with her back against the door, pressed her palms into her eyes and refused to cry.

  Chapter Five

  “I sat in the hall all night staring at her locked door.” Roman ran his palm against his eyes, fighting the tug of sleep. “She’s simply overjoyed to see me.”

  On the other end of the cell phone line, Vicktor gave a snort. “You have all the fun.”

  Yanna’s sat–cell phone toy had saved Roman a few minutes ago when she routed Major Malenkov’s call to his jacket pocket. Only, eight a.m. Khabarovsk town time translated to five a.m. on the Smolsk clock. Three hours he’d been sitting there on the cold concrete floor, trying to talk Sarai into opening her door.

  It would help if she gave him a response other than muffled sobs. She’d been quiet for more than an hour now, however.

  He felt like a real hero. Flying across three time zones so he could be the bad guy. At least in Sarai’s eyes.

  And soon, in the FSB’s eyes, also. Because the clock was ticking. Malenkov had ordered him to check into the office by the end of the day. Roman didn’t even want to calculate the hours he had before Malenkov discovered that unfortunate glitch.

  “Sarai offered me a cot in one of her convalescence rooms, but I have this gut feeling she’s just waiting for me to snooze off so she can ditch me.”

  “C’mon Redman, aren’t you overreacting?” Vicktor said. Roman could hear him on the other end take a sip of coffee. The guy had a regular java addiction after his short-term gig working for the Seattle Police Department. Roman could use a shot of caffeine right now, if only to ease the headache that knotted his brain.

  “No. I don’t think so. At the very least, she’s not talking to me. Do you believe she actually thinks David and I concocted this mess to get her out of the country?”
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br />   “Bednov’s edict is probably in the news.”

  “If I leave to get a newspaper, she’ll bolt.”

  “She lives for that clinic. If anything, she’ll chain herself to her examining table.”

  Roman smiled. Yes, Sarai would do something like that. He’d practically had to threaten to handcuff her and drag her away from Red Square the day of the Moscow coup.

  Until, of course, he’d nearly gotten killed.

  That event had changed things with head-spinning velocity. She’d nearly given him windburn exiting from his life.

  “Well, then, you’ll have to turn the Redman charm on overdrive.”

  “Sadly, I think she’s immune.”

  Vicktor laughed. “Roman, the fact is, the problem with you and Sarai is that you are too much alike. Driven. Focused. Sadly, you’re focused on different things.”

  “Yeah, like I want her alive.”

  The humor evaporated from Vicktor’s voice. “I think she’d say the same thing about you.”

  Roman stared at the closed door, hating how those words dug into the crannies of his chest. “What’s the latest on our dead American?”

  Silence. Apparently Vicktor didn’t want to change the subject.

  “Listen, you of all people should know that I’m doing my best to live out my Christian life the only way I know how. What more does she want of me? I don’t understand her, and she certainly doesn’t get me.”

  “I think she gets you just fine. The problem is you can’t accept it.”

  “That’s not why she left me.”

  “Then why? I remember you two back then. You were inseparable. Do you remember the night you took her to the Moscow circus?”

  Yes. It had probably been the last full and refreshing breath he could remember. Everything seemed a blur since then.

  “You told me that night that you were going to marry her,” Vicktor said quietly.

  I would have. Except, she didn’t want me.

  “I don’t know. I guess she was afraid I’d get killed. But let’s take a good look at who’s been the one to risk her neck over the past decade. If anyone is on a suicide track, it’s Miss Save the World.”

  “Well, you’re both going to be dead if you don’t throw her over your shoulder and hightail it back here. You’re lucky. Malenkov is tied up all day in meetings, but I can guarantee you he’ll come hunting you when he sets foot in the office. I suggest you be here.”

  “I know.” Roman sighed, glanced again at Sarai’s closed door. C’mon Sarai, loosen up. “So, did Utuzh give you a report on our dead guy?”

  “Oh, yeah. The smell—you were right. Not vodka. He had acute kidney failure. If he hadn’t been murdered in the casino, he might have ended up dead in North Dakota. And the stuff you freaked out over—good instincts. Uranium. HEU, the same stuff your Smirnov had, at least the same substance. Whether it came from the same source is difficult to determine.”

  “He must have ingested it somehow.”

  “I don’t think he used it as pâté on his black bread, Roman.”

  Roman shook his head, feeling the knot in the back of his neck tighten. “What did he have in his stomach?”

  Vicktor paused, perhaps reading the report. “Vodka. Fish—fresh-water Kombola. Some bread.”

  “Run a check on everywhere he stayed while in Russia. Talk to the hotel, see what local café serve Kombola.”

  “Roma, if the guy ate contaminated food, wouldn’t we have others who were sick?”

  “Maybe we do.” Roman instantly regretted his tone. “Listen, I’m just…tired. Maybe, also, find out if there are any decommissioned reactors near the cities he stayed in. And, question the Alexander Oil guy when he tries to claim the body.”

  “Ladna. I’ll call you. Try and get back here before you get into real trouble.”

  “Yeah, well, tell that to She Who Locks Herself in Her Office.”

  Vicktor laughed as he hung up.

  I could use a little help, God. Roman ran the back of his hand across his whiskered jaw. No, better yet, I could use some answers.

  Like, why Sarai, a woman who at one time smiled every time he walked into the room, couldn’t stand to be around him longer than ten minutes. He was just trying to be the man God wanted him to be—he just wasn’t doing it her way. She should take it up with God, not him.

  He was perfectly happy with the profession God had chosen for him. Being a cop felt right, and he did it well, or at least, had until recently. Yes, there may have been a blink in time when he considered being a missionary. A blip, really, when he’d helped Sarai at an orphanage and thought that perhaps, maybe, he could invest his life into saving people’s souls, rather than their skins. However, God didn’t want everyone to be a missionary, did He? He needed cops, too.

  Roman closed his eyes, leaned his head against the wall. He shouldn’t have put so much hope—against his better judgment, he might add—into seeing her face. Into thinking that all this time she might have kindled a respect for him. He’d let foolish dreams soften his heart, and she’d landed a stinging blow with her reaction.

  He could understand her disappointment, even reluctance to leave all she’d worked for…but to believe he’d try to sabotage her career with a fabricated story?

  Did she think so little of him, and his respect for her?

  Again, false expectations. She probably hadn’t thought of him but once over the past decade—when she laughed with David over Roman’s Epcot fiasco.

  That’s all he was to her, a big joke.

  A fool.

  He closed his eyes, feeling the hard panes of the concrete floor drill into his spine. He should have curled up, snatched a little shut-eye. But, like the fool he was, he’d sat with his gaze glued to her door. As if she was some sort of criminal. Well…she was. Or would be soon.

  But could he arrest her?

  Even to save her life?

  She already hated him…he could hardly make it any worse. Except…the thought of her in handcuffs made him ill.

  That, the fact that he hadn’t eaten in about twelve hours, and the smell of cleanser and antiseptic redolent in the hall did wonders for his stomach.

  C’mon, Sarai, open the door.

  He stood and stretched his cramped muscles. Probably, she’d had the good sense to crawl under her blanket and get some sleep while he’d been sitting here like an idiot. Served him right. This entire trip had idiot written all over it. Or maybe, Love Sick Fool.

  Whatever. He should take Vicktor up on his hint, throw Sarai over his shoulder and shove her on the nearest transport, even if she went kicking and screaming.

  That would be better than arresting her.

  Maybe.

  He braced his arm against the wall, stretching his calves. Then he broke into a quick walk down the end of the hall.

  He had to admit, Sarai had built an impressive place here using her Russian resources. Compared to Western facilities, the clinic had primitive written all over it, from the white-washed concrete walls, the cracked floors, even if they were clean, and plainly attired rooms. All the same, he noticed all the essentials for an ER trauma in the room at the end of the hall, and wondered how often she had had to use it.

  She had ambition. And guts. He knew a bit about what it took to get supplies—especially medical supplies—into Russia. She needed the resources of Solomon and the courage of King David.

  Obviously the Sarai he’d known—the one who loved to watch Russian movies, who made a mean stir fry and beat him in chess—had morphed into this driven, all-work-no-play medical soldier.

  He had a good reason for his frontal assault into his career. Like trying to escape a heritage of failure his father left behind. But Sarai came from a family of achievers, of heroes. So, what was her excuse?

  He was leaning against the ER reception counter when he heard it—the squeak of hinges. Sarai poked her head out of the open door, checked the hall and then slid out, pulling it quietly behind her.

&nbs
p; The little sneak.

  How he hated when he was right. Especially about Sarai. Please, couldn’t he be wrong, just once?

  “Sarai!” He took off in a sprint down the hall.

  And, wouldn’t you know it, she did, too.

  “Sarai!”

  Great, he’d seen her. And why hadn’t she seen him? Because she wasn’t a trained spy, that’s why. Because she lived her life in the open, honestly. Because she dedicated her life to helping others stay alive…and didn’t risk it unnecessarily. Most of all, she didn’t do maniacal, over-the-top things like spend the night like a bull dog outside another person’s door.

  Okay, so she was waiting for him to leave. But she wanted to get home, get a shower, and the last thing she needed was Roman following her to her two-room apartment only to notice that she still kept the picture of them together at Gorky Park.

  In fact, she kept it next to her bed.

  Yeah, that would certainly communicate Over You wouldn’t it?

  She stepped up her sprint, cut toward the main doors and slammed through them.

  She could nearly feel Roman’s breath behind her as she tore out into the street. The sun had just begun to sear through the trees and buildings along Ylista Pushkina, but shadows still pooled in the ice-rutted surface of the parking lot. The wind felt fresh and cold on her tired face, and smelled crisp, of early winter. She ran to her Toyota Camry, an import she’d picked up in Irkutsk.

  Why did he have to be such a diehard? He and David were two peas in the same pod—they ought to be brothers. Another good reason for her not to fall for Roman.

  Again.

  She poked her car key into the lock, turned it.

  Roman slammed his hand against her door before she could open it. He was breathing hard, and frankly looked a little green as he turned to her. “What are you doing?”

  She lifted her chin. “Going home.”

  “Super. I’ll drive.” He held out his hand for her keys.

  She closed them in her fist and shoved her hand into her pocket. “No way. I want you gone. Out of my life. Skedaddle, which is English for Das Vedanya.” She couldn’t believe she was actually wrenching those words out of her mouth emphatically, without flinching. If he didn’t look too close, he’d never know she’d spent a good portion of the last three hours crying in frustration and fury. And maybe a little over her broken heart.