Authors: Gayle Lynds
“Bloody inconsiderate of Pyotr,” the husband, Greg, grumbled loudly. His English accent was thick. “Leaving us high and dry as a martini without a clue when he’ll be back, the wanker. I
need
a martini.”
“Now, now, dear.” The wife, Courtney, patted his arm. She was obviously American. “He’s just out having a good time. What are vacations for, if not to have a wonderful time?”
They sat down on the sofa, and she put her large straw shoulder bag on her lap. It was heavy—inside was her Glock. She was wearing a dark blue blouse in some sort of light summery fabric tucked into matching trousers. With the sleeves of a yellow sweater tied around her neck, she looked sporty. He wore an eye-bruising Hawaiian shirt decorated with huge green palm fronds and orange hibiscus flowers. His jeans looked designer, but it was hard to tell—the Hawaiian shirt fell sloppily over them, concealing the 9-mm Beretta holstered at the small of his back.
As would be expected, the comings and goings and registrations of more guests soon attracted attention, and Judd and Eva—“Mr. and Mrs. Roman”—became part of the background.
From the sofa, they watched the lobby doors. Eva’s chest was tight. Every time the doors opened, she grew more tense.
After two hours, she was ready to jump out of her skin.
Judd had been glancing at her. “Waiting is always the worst. Let’s find out how Tucker is. I’ll call.”
“Yes.” They had phoned twice and heard he needed surgery.
“Hello, Gloria,” Judd said into his burner cell. “No, don’t worry. I’m not going to tell you where we are. Hold on. I’m putting you on speakerphone so Eva can hear. How’s Tucker?”
Judd and Eva hunched over the phone, their heads bent, their shoulders touching. As they watched hotel guests come and go, they listened to Gloria’s low voice: “He hemorrhaged, so the doctors operated to reduce the pressure on his brain. They removed part of his skull. It’s apparently standard procedure when the brain swells a lot. They froze the piece of skull and hope to put it back in his head once he’s better.”
Eva took a deep breath. “That sounds ominous.”
“He came through the operation fine, and they’re watching him closely,” Gloria said noncommittally. “I know you want to keep in touch to find out how he is, but Bridgeman has declared war. He ordered me to notify Interpol to look for you. I haven’t done it yet, but I’ll have to pretty soon. He didn’t think to ask whether I’d heard from you, but it’s only a matter of time.”
“What will you say?” Judd asked.
Will you lie for us?
“I don’t know. I’ve got to go. Stay safe.” And the line went dead.
Someone new had arrived at the registration desk. A short man with skin the color of dry mud, he wore a black baseball cap and a long white linen
djellaba
embroidered with black thread. He was speaking Arabic with the clerk. Judd was fluent, and Eva had been studying it. She heard the names Pyotr Azarov and Francesca Fabiano and something about suitcases. The desk clerk made a call. The man in the baseball cap turned to survey the room.
Judd stood up and reached his hand back to her. “Let’s go outside, honey, and get some fresh air. My arse is going bloody numb from waiting.”
“Hasn’t affected its fine shape, though,” she said brightly. Standing, she slid the straps of her straw bag up onto her left shoulder so her gun hand would be free.
They pushed through the doors into the cool air of evening. Taxis and pickups cruised past. They walked to the curb.
“What were they saying?” Eva whispered.
“His name is Hata, and he’s here to pick up Krot’s and his girlfriend’s luggage. They’re staying somewhere in the souk tonight.”
“Let’s bug his car so we can follow the luggage.” She dipped into her straw bag, took out a small case, and popped it open. She offered him the microtransmitter that lay inside.
He waved it away. “It’s better if you do it. I’ll set you up.”
The glass door swung open, and Hata backed out, pulling a brass cart loaded with two roll-aboard suitcases, a valise, and a shopping bag. In three quick steps, Judd reached the door and held it open for him.
Eva heard him ask the man a question in Arabic—something about
help you.
But Hata shook his head.
“Mish be eed.”
His car was not far away.
As Hata pushed the baggage cart off down the sidewalk, Judd ambled alongside. Hata barely reached Judd’s shoulder, but the short man’s stride was long, aggressive.
Eva followed. She heard Judd say “vacation” and “tourist.” He was asking which sights to see. Hata answered with few words, while Judd played the chatty Brit, gesturing and holding forth. Hata turned the cart toward a black Citro
ë
n parked with two tires up on the sidewalk.
Eva closed in, but there was still no way she could plant the bug without Hata’s seeing her.
Hata took out a key chain, touched a button with his thumb, and the door to the Citro
ë
n’s trunk lifted. He turned back to his cart just as Judd grabbed the shopping bag and one of the suitcases.
With breathtaking speed, Hata pulled a stiletto from inside his
djellaba
and aimed it at Judd’s heart. The needlelike point caught the lamplight and flashed.
“Thief, thief!” he bellowed in Arabic.
Judd backed up, talking quickly, still holding the suitcase and shopping bag as he led Hata away from the car.
Eva stepped off the curb and ran. Vehicles rushed past, spinning up dust.
Furious, Hata was dragging the cart after him, leaning forward, stiletto in hand, determined to strike. Judd kept dancing backward, balancing the suitcase and shopping bag, and spitting words out like a nail gun. From what she could understand, Judd was trying to convince Hata he should accept Judd’s help.
Brushing past the car’s rear fender, Eva pressed the bug low against the rear passenger window. As it slid down into the door frame and out of sight, she sprinted away. Hata’s and Judd’s dangerous dance had not slowed. She raised her chin, caught Judd’s eye, and nodded.
Judd hurled the suitcase and shopping bag at Hata.
Screaming obscenities, the little man leaped out of the way while tissue paper and silky slips, bras, and panties exploded from the bag. Cursing a string of oaths, he dropped to his knees to gather up the garments.
Eva saw Judd dash off. As she raced around the block toward their rental car, she smiled to herself. Now they would find Krot.
In the medieval souk, smoke from charcoal braziers drifted past shuttered windows, the odor oily. Streets twisted in a snakelike maze. Katia looked around with relief—the passageway was too narrow for the Mercedes to follow. Perhaps they were safe at last.
“Who exactly is the person you phoned—Liza Somebody?” Katia asked.
“Her name is Liza Kosciuch,” Pyotr told her. “She grew up in Warsaw and Leningrad. We’ve known each other since the old days. Her inn is private, the sort of place the police ignore and others fear. No one talks about it. No one can find it even if they’ve heard rumors of its existence.” He gestured. “This is it.”
They stopped at a three-story building, where a small round window near the top of a short door was covered by an ornate iron grille that appeared strong enough to bar a prison cell.
Pyotr knocked, and soon the window opened. Behind the grille appeared the face of a middle-aged woman. Her cheekbones were high, her nose straight, and her chin square. Deep lines cross-hatched her cheeks. She must have been a great beauty in her day.
“Ah, is you, Pyotr.” She had a heavy Russian accent.
“Hello, Liza,” he said. “Glad you can take us in.”
“Naturally.”
The face retreated, and the window closed. As Pyotr found his wallet and counted out ten hundred-dollar bills, the door opened.
Liza beckoned. “Come.”
Bending over to pass through the doorway, they left the drabness of the souk for a bright foyer with a high ceiling, sunny yellow walls, and a tile floor that was a mosaic of blue and green. Katia looked eagerly around. An antique silver samovar shone atop a mahogany table. But the centerpiece was Liza herself. Her luxuriant silver-gray hair was pulled back in sterling clips, and she was dressed in a baby-blue Donna Karan jogging suit.
“I appreciate your help.” Pyotr tried to hand the greenbacks to Liza.
She waved him off. “Is always pleasure to see you, Pyotr. And who is this beautiful woman?”
“Katia Levinchev,” Pyotr told her. “Katia, meet a Cold War heroine.”
Liza laughed and waved a dismissive hand. “Welcome to safety.”
As Pyotr returned the money to his pocket, Katia studied the foyer. Perhaps eight feet wide, it extended twelve feet to a generous arch through which a corridor showed. Inside the arch stood a silent, heavyset man with shoulders like boxcars. He carried some kind of rifle. His eyelids blinked slowly as he watched them.
“Spartak, you remember Pyotr,” Liza told him. “This is his lady friend. First lady friend he ever show me.”
Spartak nodded.
“Da.”
There was a straight-back wood chair behind him. Sitting down, he laid the rifle across his lap, one hand firmly on the grip.
“So, Pyotr, you look good,” Liza said. “Any more big changes since Switzerland?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.” He took Katia’s hand, lifted it to his lips, and kissed it. “I want to marry Katia.”
“Oh? You are crazy new man. What next—babies?” She laughed. “But what about you?” She turned to Katia. “Will you marry this broken-down old assassin?”
“I’m thinking about it.” The truth was, despite everything, she did want to marry him.
“I hear hesitation,” Liza decided.
Katia shrugged. “We still have things to talk about.”
Liza’s eyes narrowed, and she studied them. “Is wacky world we live in. Cold War made sense. Grab happiness while you can.” She turned to Pyotr: “Your room is ready. Your luggage is here soon. I will call when Hata is close.” She handed him an electronic key. “Enjoy.” Opening a door next to the samovar, she disappeared.
His gaze bored, Spartak said nothing as they passed him.
More tiles paved the hall. To the left, the top half of a Dutch door was open, showing a spotless kitchen. At last Pyotr stopped at a simple wood door, no peephole. “This is ours.” Using Liza’s electronic key, they entered to the romantic music of Sergei Rachmaninoff. It filled the room.
“Oh, my God.” Katia walked inside, listening excitedly. “Piano Concerto Number Two.”
Locking the door, Pyotr grinned at her. “Rachmaninoff himself is playing. There’s nothing like great Russian music played by a great Russian composer. It was recorded in 1929.” He sat on the love seat, watching her.
“How did you— Oh, never mind.”
As the music soared, she wrapped her arms around her breasts and closed her eyes. Each note seemed to resonate within her, and in her mind it was spring in Bedford, with the linden trees leafing and tulips blooming along Main Street. She had finished her homework, the dinner dishes were done, and they were watching television. Papa and Mama were on the couch, his arm around her, and Katia was sitting on the floor between them, feeling their legs pressed against her shoulders. It was a sweet feeling, the tactile sensation of protective love.
At nine o’clock, she had gone off to bed. Then something unusual happened—Papa said good night not only in the living room, but came into her bedroom as well.
“You are happy in school?” He sat on the edge of her bed.
“I like it.”
“No, you’re not happy.” His blue eyes scoured her face, looking for the truth of her.
“I miss home,” she admitted.
“Of course you do. Your mother and I do, too.”
He had a simple face, nothing distinctive about it, but a good face, a solid peasant face with a snub nose and round cheeks and curly brown eyebrows.
“Always remember you come from Stalingrad,” he told her. “Two million Soviets and Germans died there in World War Two. The city survived and became great again. When you have problems, think about their resolve and their sacrifices, and you’ll come through like Stalingrad, still standing.” He looked down at his hands. “Have fun, too. You have a good life ahead of you, my dear Katyusha.”
He kissed her on the forehead and both cheeks. With a big smile, he stood. In the doorway he turned and gave her a cheery wave.
But she did not see him again for years. For a few seconds, she could still feel the security of his presence, could still smell his old-fashioned aftershave, Old Spice. Her throat tightened. But then the music ended.
The room was quiet except for the warm crackle of the fire in the stone fireplace. Katia saw Pyotr was watching her from the love seat, head cocked, smiling tenderly.
She sat beside him. “My parents loved Rachmaninoff’s music.”
“Liza always has something Russian playing for me. Kind of her.”
“But you don’t pay for the room.”
He hesitated. “Years ago we happened to be working in Athens at the same time. I got word she was in trouble. I arrived in time to help.”
“You saved her. You feel safe here, don’t you.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes. I’m sure no one followed us, and Liza’s security is cutting edge.” He paused. “Liza’s right, I’ve been going through a lot of changes. Getting older can do that to you. Affairs come and go—I never wanted any of them to last. But with you, Katia … I’d do anything to slow down time, stretch every moment.” He lifted her hand and kissed the fingertips. “It feels to me as if we belong together. You understand my past, what I was. I love you for more reasons than there are stars in the sky, and I think you love me.” He paused. “But if you can’t believe in my love, we should end this right now.”
Her lungs tightened.
“Will you tell me how to get in touch with your father now?” he asked gently. “I just want to find a way to reach out to Seymour.”
She looked away and bit her lower lip. “Papa is dead. He died seven years ago.”
For a moment he appeared stunned, then discouraged. “I’m sorry, Katia. I’m really sorry. Did you ever get to see him again?”