“Now who’s being sarcastic?”
“My dear, do you think this is the first time God has used human weakness and temptation to get his message across? I don’t care if you met this Eric in a sewer. He has been sent by St. George. You will see.”
Natalie rolled her eyes but said nothing.
“Careful, they’ll get stuck that way.” Nonnie couldn’t possibly have seen her expression! She was just plain eerie sometimes.
“Do you have the necklace?” Nat asked her.
“Of course.”
“Why did you bring it here? What are you going to do with it?”
“That’s why I called you, but instead of letting me explain, you tell me about dead men and drunk men in bars! This is not how you were raised, Natalya—”
Natalie covered her eyes with her hand.
“—but regardless, you are my granddaughter and you are here, so you should be a part of this exchange. It is your right and your heritage. So. We will meet at the Cathedral of the Assumption, in the Kremlin, at dusk, in front of the iconostasis. You will see the St. George icon there, painted in the twelfth century. I was baptized under it.”
“Dusk? But that’s in less than an hour—”
“Yes. Hurry, Natalya.” And Nonnie hung up.
Eric said, “Where do we need to be?”
“Kremlin. Cathedral of the Assumption.”
The Cathedral of the Assumption, with its five gold domes, stood in the east-central section of the Kremlin, dwarfing the Church of the Deposition of the Robe. Whose robe, McDougal didn’t know, nor did he particularly care as he and Natalie walked toward the cathedral square.
At last he would meet the little old lady who’d started all the trouble and led him on this merry chase to Moscow. He didn’t say much to Natalie, since he was still smarting from her perceptive summation of his dating habits, and now was not the time to confess all and beg forgiveness.
The interior of the cathedral was nothing short of magnificent. Their footsteps echoed loudly in the sacred space, in contrast to the silence of the saints and martyrs who gazed down at them from every imaginable surface.
Just under all five domes were vertical expanses of windows, which welcomed the dwindling light into the cathedral. Giant, colorfully painted pillars stood in the center of the place, framing the visitor’s first glance at the awe-inspiring iconostasis, rows upon rows of gilt-framed icons to inspire prayer.
Chandeliers poured fountains of crystal at intervals, creating an atmosphere rather like a holy ballroom. McDougal half expected all of the saints and martyrs to come down and socialize, dance, or perhaps proselytize over cocktails.
The twelfth-century icon of St. George stared sternly out among the others, clutching his spear.
“Our buddy George needs to find a new hairstylist,” McDougal said. “And his eyebrows look waxed, like a woman’s. You sure he was straight?”
Natalie smacked him lightly in the arm. “Don’t be sacrilegious.”
“But I do it so well. It’s one of my specialties.”
The doors opened behind them, and a tall, regal man with a white mustache entered, a small older lady on his arm. She moved slowly and clearly didn’t see well, but her face was animated. She drank in the air of the cathedral as if she couldn’t get enough, cocked her head as though she were recording every sound.
“Nonnie!” Natalie ran to her and embraced her with obvious affection, despite her frustration with her grandmother’s shenanigans.
“Natalya!” The old lady eventually pulled back, found her cheek, and patted it. She looked secretly delighted. “You’re as crazy as I am, aren’t you?”
“Probably.” Natalie turned to extend her hand to the tall man with the mustache. “It’s nice to see you again, Colonel. We’ve met a couple of times.”
“Yes, yes. Good to see you again, young Natalie.”
Eric walked up behind her. “Eric McDougal, sir. Mrs. Ciccoli. Pleased to meet you both.”
The colonel nodded civilly.
“Is this the boy you’ve been kissing in the street, Natalya?”
“Um—”
“Yes,” McDougal said. “She couldn’t resist.”
“Aren’t you the impudent one?” Nonnie commented. “Give me your hand.”
He did, and she took it, tracing her old fingers along his, running them over his palm and even the back of it. She nodded. “Yes. St. George sent you. It’s fitting that you should be here today.”
McDougal felt an odd energy flow through him at her touch, which discomfited him even more than her words. “It is?”
“Yes.”
Natalie seemed to sense his unease. “Nonnie, where is the archbishop you spoke of?”
“He will be here.”
Slowly, Tatyana unwrapped her scarf to reveal the magnificent necklace, the miniature saint on his horse nestling against her skin. As if on cue, the chandeliers came on, catching the twenty-two-karat gold and electrifying the scene playing out over her bosom.
The dragon writhed in agony, the horse reared to crush the beast under its tiny hooves, and the saint kept perfect balance as he ended the conflict. Good conquered evil; all was right with the world.
“St. George,” Nonnie said. “Patron saint of England, the Knights of the Garter, the Knights of the Round Table. Hero of Spenser’s
Faerie Queene
. Patron saint of the cavalry. Patron saint of the Scouts, both English and Russian. Patron saint of Moscow.”
“Old George does wear a few hats, doesn’t he?” McDougal commented.
Natalie’s grandmother ignored him. “Catherine the Great founded the Order of St. George in 1769 as the highest military honor. She herself was the very first recipient as the grand master of the order, and she commissioned the necklace for the occasion.”
“How did it end up in our family?” Natalie asked. “You’ve never told me.”
“Before her death, Catherine gave the necklace to a lady-in-waiting who had been particularly loyal and was said to be as good with a sword as her husband. The lady had foiled an assassination plot against Catherine.That lady was my great-great-great-great-great-grandmother, and she began a tradition of passing the St. George piece down to the eldest surviving daughter of each generation.”
Nonnie placed her hand over the little knight. “One day it will pass to you, my dear. But in the meantime, we need it to prove who we are. We need it in order to reclaim the family treasures that my mother and father were forced to leave behind.”
“How can it prove who we are? We could have stolen it.” Natalie’s face fell. “In fact, we
did
steal it, Nonnie. And it’s still not right.”
Her grandmother looked faintly amused. “It proves who we are, my girl, because nobody else knows that our possessions are here. No one—unless my sister, Svetlana, was ill-advised enough to tell someone before she died.
“And as for having ‘stolen’ the necklace from your employer? We did no such thing. We took it, which is quite different.”
“How?” Natalie challenged her. “The man who shot your father—he took the necklace as well.”
Nonnie wagged her finger back and forth. “Von Bruegel? No. He stole it.”
“Semantics.”
“This has nothing to do with semantics, young lady, and everything to do with precision of language! To
cut
is not the same thing as to
slice
, though they both involve wielding a knife. To
amble
is not the same thing as to
scramble
, though both involve moving forward with one’s feet . . .”
“Okay, okay, okay, Nonnie.” Natalie buried her face in her hands. “Now I know why my mother became a linguistics professor,” she muttered. “
You
are the actual source of my childhood dictionary torment.”
Colonel Blakely had stuffed his hands into his pockets and wandered toward the south portal to examine Ivan the Terrible’s Monomakh throne. The doors hadn’t quite closed; one was cracked open about an inch.
Quickly, the colonel strode back to the group. “I hate to interrupt this fascinating discussion,” he said, “but there is a group of men approaching, and I don’t think they’ve come here to worship.”
“But this is the Kremlin,” Natalie exclaimed. “There are guards—”
“Yeah?” McDougal shot a glance at the one wizened old woman in black sitting on a chair near the south portal.
“Not her, maybe, but outside—”
An explosion ripped through the air, seeming to come from outside the northeast corner of the cathedral.
“A distraction,” said Colonel Blakely. “Classic ploy—gets the guards’ attention.”
The old woman in black ran for the doors and disappeared.
“Move, everyone,” McDougal ordered. “Move now, or we’re dead.” He hustled the group to the left, around the corner, into an alcove that held two tombs. “Down. Get flat on the floor and don’t make a sound.” He pulled the Glock from his waistband and slid along the wall, back toward the nave of the church.
“Eric, no!” Natalie protested.
He held a finger over his lips and gestured for her to do as he’d said. Then he crept silently away. He heard the creak of the old doors, footsteps, whispers.
“There’s no one here,” a man said in Russian.
“They’re inside, I tell you. The four of them.”
“All exits are blocked?”
“Yes.”
Not good news. McDougal inched forward until he got at last to the passageway, from where he had a limited vantage point. Three men, not street thugs. Professionals. Armed—and the weapons had silencers. That was both good and bad: good because a silencer played hell with accuracy. Bad for obvious reasons—nobody would come running at the noise when they were fired.
If all the exits were blocked, then he was dealing with at least six, maybe seven men. McDougal had a healthy ego, but he was under no illusion that he was Batman, Spider-Man, Superman, or any combination thereof. So he backtracked toward the rest of the group.
Yeah, so he couldn’t fly, stick to vertical surfaces, or put his fist through cinder blocks . . . but he could draw attention away from Natalie, her grandmother, and the colonel—and run.
After all, McDougal had experience running from furious fathers and bent-out-of-shape boyfriends, not to mention husbands with hatchets. He’d be in his element.
As he slipped back into the alcove, the colonel said quietly, “I can still hold my own in a fight. But there are six of them.”
Eric shook his head. “Too risky. And one of us needs to stay with the ladies.”
“If they harm anyone in this cathedral,” kooky Nonnie said in a stage whisper, “they will be cursed by all the saints and the order of St. George and by the spirit of Catherine the Great herself.”
“Um. I’m sure you’re right, Mrs. Ciccoli. Meaning no offense, but I don’t think they care at this point in time.” He paused. “There’s only one way to handle this. I can draw them out and away from you, but I’ll need to have what they want.”
“The necklace,” Natalie said.
He nodded. “Exactly.”
Nonnie clutched it and shook her head.
“Mrs. Ciccoli,” Eric said gently, “this would only be temporary, I promise you. I’m good at . . . getting away from people. Okay? It’s”—he looked at Natalie—“part of what I do. We will meet later and I will return the necklace to you, so that you can reclaim your family heirlooms.”
She hesitated.
“I swear. Scout’s honor,” he said, deliberately invoking a group that claimed St. George as its patron saint. None of them needed to know that he’d been unceremoniously kicked out of the Boy Scouts at age thirteen, on account of a girl and a bottle of tequila. “We’ll meet up again at the Savoy later tonight.”
“Nonnie,” Natalie urged, “you can trust this man. He came all the way to Moscow with me. He’s prevented two attacks on me.”
Mrs. Ciccoli fingered the little St. George around her neck.
“Nonnie, you said yourself that Eric was sent by St. George. Please, take off the necklace and give it to him,” Natalie begged. “It’s not worth our lives!”
“All right. Help me.” She turned her back to Natalie, who fumbled with the clasp. Selia Markovic had done a good job repairing it. Finally Natalie got it open and lifted the heavy piece from her grandmother’s chest.
Natalie shoved it at McDougal, her hands shaking.“Be careful, Eric. Please. Come back to me this evening.”
He closed his hand around the necklace. Then he nodded and stood up.
“Promise?”
He bent down and kissed her lips. “I promise. Now, stay hidden.”
Thirty
Avy changed quickly into a nurse’s uniform, and then she and Liam sat in the ambulance with their “repossessed” Nazi and the rest of the enterprising faux medical team. Liam’s expression grew thunderous. “Double? You want us to pay double? Sod you pickpockets! You bloody den of thieves, you.”
The irony of the situation seemed to escape him entirely, and Avy was hard-pressed not to laugh. “Trenton, just give them the money. We’re hardly in a position to argue. We have a plane to catch.”
“Just give them the money, she says! Let me tell you, love, finances aren’t what they once were, what with this retirement business. I used to be able to nick a bauble or two when times got tough. But I’m just a regular working stiff now—”
“Trenton, you’ll never be a regular anything. And besides, my company is going to hire you. You’ll work on commission, do what you love, and be paid well.”
“You neglected to mention my prospective employment, love.”
“I wasn’t sure you could go straight. I’m still not. You’ll be on probation for a lo-o-o-ong time.”
“Double or nothing,” the faux medic broke in.
“So pay the man already, darling,” said Avy.
Grumbling, Liam pulled out his wallet and forked over more rubles. This worked miracles in terms of getting the ambulance to move, and within thirty minutes or so they arrived at a small private airfield to the west of Moscow’s city center.
The driver pulled the ambulance up to what looked like a pile of junk with a propeller stuck on as an afterthought. Two men dressed in coveralls stood leaning against it, looking bored.