Praise for Christy Award® Finalist SUSAN MAY WARREN

“Susie writes a delightful story…. A few hours of reading doesn’t get better.”

—Dee Henderson, CBA bestselling author of the O’Malley series

“Susan Warren is definitely a writer to watch!”

—Deborah Raney, RITA® Award-winning author of A Vow To Cherish and Over the Waters

“Susan May Warren is an exciting new writer whose delightful stories weave the joy of romantic devotion together with the truth of God’s love.”

—Catherine Palmer, Christy Award®-winning author of Love’s Haven

“Nadia blended heart-stopping romantic suspense with authentic detail that plunked me into Russian life. The result was a dynamic read!”

—Colleen Coble, bestselling author of Distant Echoes and Black Sands

“Get ready for an exhilarating adventure through modern-day Russia. International intrigue and a handsome stranger combine in this moving romance.”

—Jefferson Scott, bestselling author of the Operation Firebrand series on Ekaterina

For Your glory, Lord

In Sheep’s Clothing
Susan May Warren

www.millsandboon.co.uk

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

King David is one of my favorite biblical heroes. Throughout the Psalms and through his mistakes and victories, he displays emotions I can embrace. And, whether he is dancing (half-naked!) or moaning that his heart has turned to wax, he displays a faith in God that surprises me. David made no bones about it—he needed God. God was his entire life, and he had no problem saying, “God, I’m your guy…so please come and help me!”

I have to admit, David’s brazen faith astounds me. It wasn’t that he was without sin (murder and adultery come immediately to mind). So where did this confidence come from?

His confidence comes from God’s unfailing love—which He proves to David, and to His chosen people. Psalm 22, verse 24, gives me hope that this confidence can be mine, also. “For He has not despised or disdained His afflicted one; He has not hidden His face from him but has listened to his cry for help.”

David didn’t deserve God’s love. He didn’t earn it. He simply needed it…and received it.

I wrote In Sheep’s Clothing in Russia, back in 1998 when we were missionaries there. At the time, I had four children under the age of seven, was homeschooling and lived on the ninth floor of a high-rise apartment that had water pressure only from midnight to 4:00 a.m. (Which meant I did my laundry and dishes in the middle of the night.) I had no telephone (no e-mail!), no car, and my husband worked over an hour away in a tiny village. I felt a little…um…overwhelmed.

I’ll never forget the day my husband came home, weariness and distress in his eyes. He told me a horrific tale of espionage and a KGB plant in the church where he’d been working. Right then, the seeds for In Sheep’s Clothing were sown, along with a deep grief over what the members of that church had suffered at the hands of their so-called pastor.

Also living in Russia at the time were two other missionaries. Not long after we moved there, they were murdered. This rocked my world. Here I was, “suffering” for the Gospel, and everything I’d counted on (namely, the safety of my family in this foreign land) seemed to crumble.

I was tired and afraid. And, like Gracie, or Vicktor, I had my own gaggle of “demons” whispering lies into my ears. Like “You were foolish to bring your children so far overseas.” Or “What do you hope to accomplish?”

Truly, I was in a place of need. What could I do to make my family safe and leave a lasting impression on my world, when it seemed that darkness stalked me on all sides?

Nothing—except trust the Lord. Writing this book became a catharsis for me. I learned, as Gracie and Vicktor do, that God’s favor (or His forgiveness) can’t be earned. It’s a gift. And in order to receive it, all I have to do is need Him. I learned that God was my strength when life felt too big, or too dark. And I learned that with God there is always hope.

That’s the secret David had. The belief that when he got on his knees and asked, God would provide.

God provided in so many ways as I wrote. I am deeply grateful for the support and encouragement of the following people:

Karen Solem—for finding a home for In Sheep’s Clothing! Thank you for your part in making this dream possible.

Krista Stroever and Joan Marlow Golan—for your enthusiasm and for believing in me. Krista, your letter (even without the stickers!) is one of my all-time favorites!

Constantine Utuzh—Now in Heaven. A man of conviction and passion, he made me realize how important small acts of kindness can be.

The Far East Russia CoMission teams from 1994-1998. (Especially the ladies!)—The friendships forged during these times made living in Russia a billion times easier.

Alexi and Cindy Kalinin—I can’t help but think of you when I read Gracie and Vicktor’s story. Your friendship is among my most cherished.

Ellen Tarver (and Daniel and Tom!)—Thank you for reading In Sheep’s Clothing, and later for saving me from being locked in my room all day. Your friendship is such a blessing.

David Lund—Thank you for reading In Sheep’s Clothing, and for believing in me even when I had my doubts. You’re such a blessing to me.

Andrew and my sweet children—For all those moments when I read aloud over dinner, or shooed you away with a death-glare, or talked plot endlessly…thank you for listening politely, for understanding and most of all for believing in my dreams. I’m so grateful for you.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Discussion Questions

Prologue

If the train trudged any slower into the station, American missionary Gracie Benson would be dead by sunset. Five minutes. Twenty steps. Then she’d be safely aboard.

God obviously wasn’t on her side. Not today, at least.

Then again, He certainly didn’t owe her any favors. Not after her fruitless two years serving as a missionary in Russia.

Gracie purposely kept her gaze off heaven as she hunched her shoulders and pulled the woolly brown scarf over her forehead. Please, please let this Russian peasant guise work. The train huffed its last, then belched, and Gracie jumped. Hold it together, Grace. Long enough to fool the conductor, and find her berth on the train for Vladivostok. Then she could finally slam the compartment door on this horrific day—no, on this entire abysmal chapter of her life. So much for finding redemption as a missionary in Russia. She’d settle for getting out of the country alive.

She tensed, watching an elderly man dressed in the typical Russian garb of worn, fake leather jacket, wool pants and a fraying beret gather his two canvas duffels and shuffle across the cement platform. Would he recognize her and scream, “Foreigner!” in the tongue that now drove fear into her bones?

Without a glance at her, he joined the throng of other passengers moving toward the forest-green passenger cars. A younger man, dressed mafia-style in a crisp black leather jacket and suit pants, fell in behind the old man. Gracie stiffened. Had he looked her way? Help me, Lord!

Just because God wasn’t listening didn’t mean she couldn’t ask. The irony pricked her eyes with tears. This morning’s events had whittled down her list of trustworthy souls in Russia to a fine point. She’d give all the rubles in her pocket for someone like her cousin, Chet, FBI agent extraordinaire, to yank her out of this nightmare into safety.

Not that she should give any man a chance to introduce himself before decking him. She’d been down that road once. Never was too soon to trust another man within arm’s distance.

Gracie shuffled forward, in keeping with her disguise of tired village maiden. She clutched a worn nylon bag in one hand—her black satchel safely tucked inside—and fisted the folds of her headscarf with the other. As the smell of diesel fuel and dust soured the breathable air and cries of goodbye from well-wishing relatives, grief pooled in Gracie’s chest. Poor Evelyn.

Biting it back, Gracie cast a furtive glance beyond the crowd and caught sight of a militia officer. The soldier, dressed in muddy green fatigues, an AK-47 hung over his shoulder like a fishing basket, leaned lazily against a cement column, paying her no mind.

Hope lit inside her. Freedom beckoned from the open train door.

Stepping up to the conductor, she handed the woman her wadded ticket. The conductor glared at her as she unfolded the slip of paper. Gracie dropped her gaze and acted servile, her heart in her throat. Please, please. The conductor paused only a moment before punching the ticket and moving aside.

The train resonated with age in the smell of hot vinyl and polished wood. The body odor of previous passengers clung to the walls, and grime crusted the edges of a brown linoleum floor. Gracie bumped along the narrow corridor until she found her compartment. She’d purchased a private berth with the intent of slamming the door, locking it from inside and not cracking it open until she reached Vladivostok. The U.S. Consulate, only ten minutes from the train station, meant safety and escape from the nightmare.

Escape from the memories. Surely Evelyn’s killer wouldn’t follow Gracie to America.

Tossing her satchel onto the lower bunk, Gracie untied the headscarf and shook out her shoulder-length damp hair. Blowing out a deep, shuddering breath she willed her pulse to its regular rhythm.

So maybe she’d been too hard on God. He had gotten her this far. Perhaps He hadn’t turned his back, completely, on Gracie Benson, a.k.a. foreign-missionary-flop-turned-fugitive.

Gracie grabbed the handle and began to roll the door shut.

A man’s black shoe jammed into the crack.

“No!” Grace stomped on it with her hiking boot. The assailant grunted and yanked his foot back. She threw all her weight into the door. “Get away!”

An arm snaked through the opening and slammed the door back, nearly ripping off Gracie’s hands. She stumbled back onto the bunk, fumbled for her bag.

How had he found her? “Get out!”

Gracie’s heart lodged in her throat. The man was huge. Dark eyes, knotted brow, muscles and menace in a tweed jacket, he stomped into her compartment.

She screamed and flung her bag at him with all her five-foot-two-inch, one-hundred-and-twenty-pound strength.

He sidestepped and caught it.

God, help me please, now. Gracie scuttled to the farthest end of the berth. “Get out!”

He reached inside his jacket—for a knife? She kicked at him, panic blurring her vision, and pain stabbed her foot as she connected with his shin.

He winced. “Calm down!”

English? The accent still sounded Russian.

She jerked. Sucked in a breath. “Get away from me.” She hated the shakiness in her voice. What had happened to six months’ worth of self-defense classes?

“Are you Grace Benson?”

He knew her name. Every muscle turned to liquid. She pushed against the far wall, vowing that this time it would be different. If he touched her, she’d go down bruised and kicking and clawing his eyes out.

“I’ll take your silence as a ‘yes.’”

Was that a smile on his face? She calculated the distance to the door. Trample over him. Run!

“I’ve been searching all over for you,” he said, with a sigh of exasperation.

I’ll bet you have. Had he taunted Evelyn before he slit her neck, too? Her breath left her.

His blue eyes glinted, as if in victory.

Where was the scream that filled her throat? Why, oh why, in times of terror, did she go into lockdown? She shot a glance into the hall.

Where was the conductor?

Her assailant turned and slammed the door closed, cutting off her escape.

Gracie went cold. Oh God, this is it! Please help me!

She watched the man drag a hand through his hair as if contemplating her demise. Would he slit her throat? Or did he have different plans? Not again.

She erupted like a woman possessed and dove at him. “Get away from me!”

He grabbed her forearms in an iron grip. “Stop it! Please. I’m not going to hurt you, trust me!”

She wrenched away from him. Fell back onto the bench seat. Her breath burned her lungs.

“Perestan!” He shook his head as her roaring pulse filled her ears. “My name’s Vicktor. I’m with the KGB and I’m trying to help you.”

Chapter One

Twenty-four hours earlier

Khabarovsk, Siberia

Nickolai Shubnikov knew how to whittle away his son Vicktor’s pride with the skill of Michelangelo—one agonizing chip at a time.

“Whoa, Alfred! Slow down.” Vicktor Shubnikov wound the leather leash twice around his grip and dug in, hoping to slow his father’s Great Dane/Clydesdale. The animal dragged him like a nuisance as he plowed through the row of street vendors, chasing an errant smell.

Two years ago Vicktor might have labeled vet duty sweet revenge. Today he called it atonement.

Vicktor dodged a babushka hawking a bouquet of lilacs, jumped another pedaling sunflower seeds, and skidded to a halt before the metal canister belonging to a wrinkled woman selling peroshke. The fried sandwiches laced the air with the odor of grease and liver. Alfred shoved his wide Dane snout into the sandwich bag.

“Get your beast out of here!” the woman cried. She whacked at Alfred, who didn’t even flinch. Vicktor, however, felt her land a hearty blow on his shoulder.

“C’mon, you mutt.” Vicktor grabbed Alfred’s fraying collar and yanked him away. He thrust the woman a ten-ruble note. She swiped it from his hand.

“Why do you do that to me?” They half trotted down the sidewalk, Vicktor hunched over at the waist and trying to match Alfred’s gait. The dog’s black jowls flopped and his saggy eyes gave no indication of remorse.

Penance. He cursed the impetuousness that had led to this moment. If only he’d been smarter, faster, wiser, he’d be in Lenin Park on this sunny Sunday, slapping shots against Roman, outscoring the former wing. Or maybe he’d be at Yanna’s volleyball game. The Khabarovsk Amur volleyball team didn’t need help from their fans to bury their opponents—he went for the pure joy of watching Yanna’s power spike.

If only David could see her now.

He checked his watch. Noon. Hopefully Evgeny would be in the office. He hadn’t called ahead, but the vet kept normal business hours, and Sunday had been a working day since Stalin outlawed the religious day of rest some sixty years earlier.

He muscled the Dane toward the dirt path that led to Evgeny’s office. Vicktor had to admire his friend for carving out his dreams into a private practice. He and Vicktor had chewed away long hours in high school, concocting ways to free the laboratory mice from Tatiana Ivanovka’s biology classroom. Between the pranks, however, Evgeny had revealed the love of medicine inherent to true physicians. Why he had gone into animal medicine still baffled Vicktor. Then again, Vicktor had sworn he’d never join the militia, and look where he had ended up.

Evgeny’s office, a tiny green log house, sat lopsided and forlorn in the shadowy cover of three nine-story concrete high-rises. Vicktor turned up the dirt path and shivered as the sun passed behind a building. He shoved his free hand into his leather jacket pocket, wishing he hadn’t taken out the lining. That morning, during his run, the wink of the sun against a cloudless sky and the fresh breeze smelling of lilac had lulled him into believing winter had finally surrendered to spring in Siberia. He’d jogged home, unzipped the wool lining from his jacket, thrown his shopka on the top shelf and kissed winter goodbye. Now, as he approached the office, his lips felt parched from the cold, and a faint musty odor curled his nose, like the smell of moldy clothes sitting in old snow.

The Dane jerked out of Vicktor’s grip and he tripped, glared at the animal and picked up his pace. Of course Alfred would be anxious to see Evgeny; the vet had treated him for nearly ten years.

Two paces before the door, Alfred skidded to a halt, sat on his haunches and growled.

“It’s just a checkup, pal. Cool it.” He patted the dog’s head. Still, the way the door hung ajar raised the fine hairs on the back of Vicktor’s neck. “What do you see?”

Alfred growled again, a threatening rattle in his ancient throat, and curled his lips, showing canines.

“Tiha. Quiet, boy,” Vicktor commanded. He paused, took a step toward the door and pushed. The door groaned, as if in warning.

Vicktor recoiled as the smell of rotting flesh hit him. He covered his nose.

Alfred whined.

“Stay,” Vicktor rasped, and looped the leash around the door handle. Gulping a breath, he stepped across the threshold. It took all his military training not to gag at the odor that poured from the room.

“Evgeny?” Vicktor surveyed the reception area. Broken glass from the smashed display case crunched under his feet, a cash register lay overturned on a ripped vinyl chair. Whipping out a handkerchief, Vicktor cupped it over his nose and tiptoed around broken vials of animal narcotics on his way to the examination room.

“Evgeny? It’s Vicktor.”

Silence.

In the examination room, the leather bench where Evgeny examined Alfred on occasion had been slashed, the stuffing pushing through the cut like a festering wound. A jumble of medical utensils gleamed like weapons of war where the sun licked the wooden floor.

He backed out, a sick feeling welling in his gut. He crept toward Evgeny’s office, rueing the creak of floorboards. When he swung the door open, Vicktor’s blood ran cold.

Shards from the ruined glass cabinet littered the carpet. An emptied drawer lay upturned over its contents, a foot-size crater in the middle. Notebooks and ledgers, slashed into pieces, were strewn like stripped leaves. The squash-yellow area rug bled with the black and red dye of crushed pens.

Vicktor ducked back into the hall. “Evgeny?” He heard panic in his voice. He purposely kept few friends, but Chief Veterinarian Evgeny Lakarstin was one of them. With the exception of Roman and Yanna, and two Americans he didn’t acknowledge to his coworkers, he depended on Evgeny. He counted him as the type of paren with whom he could share a sauna and shed a few secrets while he sweated.

And in Vicktor’s world, trust wasn’t an easily acquired commodity.

Vicktor headed for the back door leading to the kennels. Even from the hall, the eerie silence gave him chills—no dogs barking, no plaintive mewing.

Two steps before the back entrance, he spied another door to his left. He’d thought it a closet before, had even asked Evgeny about it once. The tall vet had shrugged and said, “Supplies.”

Vicktor’s eyes narrowed, instincts firing. He grabbed the handle. With a squeak the door opened.

He grabbed the door frame and hung on with a white fist as he tore his gaze away, wincing.

Etched in his mind, however, was the image of Evgeny lying in a pool of his own russet-colored blood.

Three hundred people clapping, cheering, for her, Gracie Benson. It just might have been the worst moment of her life.

How she longed to find a safe place and hide from tomorrow.

Gracie stood on the platform in front of the church, listening to the congregation applaud her for two years of missionary work, and felt like a sham. She was a joke, an embarrassment, a failure, and no amount of applause or kind words from Pastor Yuri Mikhailovich could erase that fact. She swallowed hard. She just hoped God wasn’t watching.

She’d had her second chance. And had blown it.

Maybe she could get her job back at Starbucks. She made a mean mocha latte. Her unfinished English degree felt light-years away. She probably couldn’t recite a Robert Frost poem even if the KGB—no, the FSB; wasn’t that their new name?—put her under the bright lights and stuck needles under her toes.

Pastor Yuri shook her hand, his meaty grip slightly sweaty in hers. “Thank you, Gracie, for your hard work. We won’t soon forget it.” His brown eyes, deep and holding a lifetime of spiritual wisdom, settled on her.

She chilled. No, they would forget the vacation Bible school, the children’s bell choir, the Sunday School classes she taught. Despite her two years serving as a short-term missionary in Far East Russia, as soon as her replacement flew in, they would erase Gracie Benson from their minds.

Whereas she would cling to them forever.

Maybe not all of them, but certainly Evelyn and Dr. Willie Young, her coworkers, and definitely Andrei Tallin, the sweet man with nearly palpable affection staring at her from the front row. She tried to ignore the ache in his chestnut-brown eyes. She’d turned down his proposal for marriage only a week ago, and felt like a jerk. The guy had gone above and beyond his job as her chauffeur these past two years—translator, bodyguard, friend. She’d nearly given her heart to him.

Nearly.

It would be a long time before she trusted a man again. A lifetime, perhaps.

Of all her friends, she would definitely remember Larissa. Larissa Tallin, with honey-sweet brown eyes, tawny hair cut like a man’s, a smile so warm it made Gracie reevaluate every friendship she’d had back in America. The woman had even been thrilled with the cross pendant Gracie had given her, despite Larissa’s atheism. Larissa may have been ten years her senior, but Gracie knew she’d never forget the woman who’d become as close as a sister.

It was because of Larissa that Gracie wept into her pillow every night. What was wrong with her that she couldn’t even lead her best friend to salvation?

Pastor Yuri finished his farewell speech and again reached for her hand, and Gracie thanked the Lord for making her from stoic Scandinavian stock. She managed a convincing smile.

Why, oh why, did Russia have to obey their visa laws? It wasn’t like they took any other laws seriously.

The clapping died as she found her seat next to Dr. Willie and Evelyn, career missionaries and the lucky ones who got to stay. The successful missionaries who changed lives and made a furrow in the eternal landscape of the soul.

Gracie’s heart felt like it weighed a million pounds and sweat beaded her brow as she stood for Yuri’s presermon prayer. The sun poured through the lace curtains of the log church, heating the room like a sauna, despite the lingering chill outside. Still, most babushkas huddled under three layers of wool and headscarves, relying on the masses of clothing as a bulwark against an early death. Gracie shifted in her denim dress, feeling rumpled, hot and empty. She’d leave more than her emotions flopping and bleeding in the former Soviet Union. She’d leave her hopes for a new Gracie. Her dream for a fresh start.

She sat, and Pastor Yuri began his sermon. Yuri’s venerable presence on the podium as he gripped the lectern and moved into his impassioned speech reminded her that he had been her champion. He’d stood up for her a year ago when her one-year visa expired, working some behind-the-scenes magic that allowed her to stay. He’d been encouraging, and, although she couldn’t understand everything he said, she felt as if he somehow appreciated her. His handshake and solemn eyes had to mean something.

She might have impressed the pastor, but he didn’t know the truth. Unless over the next five days before her departure her ministry took a hundred-and-eighty-degree about-face and she turned into Billy Graham or D. L. Moody, she’d be returning to the States the same scarred failure she was when she left it. Only this time, she’d be out of second chances.

As if reading her thoughts, Evelyn reached out and wrapped her soft, wrinkled hand around Gracie’s. “You’ll be okay, honey,” she whispered.

Gracie looked away, blinked tears.

Unless she figured out a way to stay and keep fighting for redemption, not likely.

The fact the militia had sent Chief Arkady Sturnin in response to Vicktor’s call meant two things. Either they’d forgiven Vicktor for the past, or the chief was the only one in the office.

Yeah, like Vicktor had to guess at the right answer.

“He was a friend of yours?” Arkady’s cigarette bobbed between his lips as he talked. The ash dropped onto the linoleum and sizzled in a muddy puddle.

Scowling, Vicktor waved the smoke away and watched the forensics team prepare Dr. Evgeny Lakarstin’s remains for the morgue. Although every door in the clinic had been propped open, the odor from the wreckage of medicines embedded the blue walls, the muddy wooden floor, the cracked plaster ceiling. Nausea dogged him as Vicktor watched the mortal remains of his friend manhandled.

“Yeah.”

“Funny no one found him before this.” Arkady’s bulldog face jiggled when he spoke. “Did you have an appointment?”

Vicktor worked a nagging muscle in the back of his neck. “No, I just stopped by. My father said Alfred’s been a bit droopy.”

“With a mug like that, doesn’t he always look droopy?” Arkady guffawed at his joke.

Vicktor clenched his jaw.

“Have you been to the kennels?” Arkady asked, his laughter dying.

“Yeah. Right after I called you. It’s not pretty. Every animal has been gutted.”

Arkady toyed with his Bond cigarette, squashing fuzzy eyebrows into one wide brush as he scanned the small clinic.

“What do you suppose this is?” The old man bent over to finger a wad of soggy papers, grunting as he went down, sounding every bit of his nearly sixty years.

Vicktor winced with remorse. Arkady had aged a century since the Wolf incident. Another residual casualty, another cop paying for Vicktor’s impulsiveness and reckless pride.

“I don’t know,” Vicktor answered thinly as he stalked back to the lab.

A fog of saline and alcohol hung low and heavy. Vicktor put a hand to his nose as he stood in the doorway watching technicians gather evidence from the black lab table and smearing it on glass slides. Every vial had been smashed, and a gooey amber liquid covered the table like syrup. What had Evgeny been cooking up in here?

“Vicktor Nickolaiovich.” Thankfully, the technicians still gave him respect, using his full name to address him. The technician motioned to him, then crouched behind the lab door.

Vicktor crossed the room and knelt beside him, arms hanging over his knees. The man peered into a thin metal bucket.

“What are we looking at?”

“Ashes.” The tech wiggled the can. The orange peels at the bottom shifted and Vicktor made out a thin layer of charred paper, curled as if peeled from a block of chocolate.

“What is it?”

“Looks like the remnants of a tetrad, the kind professors use to record lab data.”

A notebook. For experiments? Vicktor rubbed his chin and rose. Why would Evgeny burn his lab notes? Turning, he glimpsed another tech slip something into his pocket. “What are you doing?”

The man whirled. Reed thin, with bloodshot eyes and scaly skin, he blanched. Vicktor grabbed him by the collar and shoved the tech against the sticky lab table. Glaring into his eyes an inch from his nose, Vicktor reached into the man’s pocket and pulled out an unbroken vial. Novocain.

“Zdraztvootya? I believe that’s called stealing.”

The tech’s Adam’s apple dipped twice in his neck. “He doesn’t need it anymore.”

The room went quiet. Vicktor let the kid go and blew out a hot breath. The tech’s mottled face, glistening with a scrim of sweaty fear, told Vicktor he wore what Roman would call his “tiger” face. Great. Just when he thought he had a clamp on his emotions.

Good thing Roman wasn’t here. Though perhaps, if he were, Vicktor wouldn’t feel like the only uninvited guest at a birthday party. The militia stepped up and took notice whenever a COBRA walked into the room—the training the FSB received to become the special agents who fought the mafia guaranteed respect.

Or better yet, the entrance of David Curtiss, Green Beret and Delta Force captain, would get their attention. Only, he couldn’t shout that little alliance across the room, could he? Sometimes Vicktor felt like David, better known as Preach, was in his head, his little voice of reason, and he would admit, only to himself, that he needed Preach’s words of wisdom way more than he’d thought ten years ago.

Who knew that a pickup game of hockey, a fistfight and an American-style pizza would lead to friendships that felt tethered to Vicktor’s very soul?

Sometimes he wondered if Roman and David had planned it that way.

Vicktor set the vial in a tray on the examining table and shot the tech a scalding look. “Get to work.”

Stepping into the hall, he fielded a frown from the Bulldog.

“Spequietsye, Vicktor. This isn’t America. Loosen up.”

Arkady’s voice, although low, tightened Vicktor’s gut. He swallowed a retort, closed his eyes and sighed. “Sorry.”

Arkady was right. He didn’t need a new generation of enemies in the militia, and another stunt like that could route his next urgent phone call straight to the morgue.

Arkady tapped his cigarette. The ash died to gray before it hit the floor. “Your shirt is too tight, Vicktor. You’ve changed. Ever since you got back from that stint in America, nothing is good enough for you. You see everything through American eyes…American cop eyes. Black and white. Don’t forget you are Russian. The law has shades of gray here.”

A muscle tensed in Vicktor’s jaw. Arkady was from the old school, the days of propaganda and the Cold War, the easy days when the bad guys were easily identifiable—they wore red, white and blue.

It hadn’t helped his relationship with his former chief when he had accepted the six-month internship in America. The friendship had taken further serious hits when he defected to the FSB, a.k.a. the former KGB, six months ago. The chief just didn’t get it—after the Wolf incident, the blunder of Vicktor’s militia career, Vicktor had to rescue himself from early retirement. Besides, the FSB had been chasing him like a hound since his training in the States, and after Roman had smoothed over the incident, they’d practically thrown him a welcome bash.

“We’re on the same side, you know,” Vicktor said.

Arkady drew on his cigarette as if he didn’t hear him.

Vicktor suddenly wanted to dump this entire thing in Arkady’s lap. A lifetime of chasing the scum of society had left an ugly pit in his stomach. He preferred the intellectual sparring of the international crimes unit where he now worked. But the memory of Evgeny, all smiles and jokes, stripped his anger, leaving only aching.

He needed answers. He wasn’t about to disappoint another person he cared about, especially posthumously. He’d find Evgeny’s killer even if he had to wrestle his pride into hard little knots.

Vicktor dredged up a respectful tone. “Yes, sir.”

Chapter Two

Vicktor banged out of his apartment building and spied Roman leaning back against his building, arms akimbo, wearing a stocking cap, a running suit and a smile.

“Missed you last night.”

“I had to work.” The last thing Vicktor wanted to remember was the fact he’d missed out on a group chat. Like he had friends to spare. Vicktor made a face at him and began stretching from side to side. “I found Evgeny Lakarstin dead in his lab yesterday.”

Roman went silent at that, his mouth in an O.

“I was up until midnight answering questions and writing reports.”

“Fun. Well, then I hate to be the one to tell you Mae’s in town. She’s pulling transportation duty for some army brass. She told me to say hi to ‘Stripes.’”

Okay, that hurt more than he would have expected, even with Roman’s warning. “Oh, really?” Just what he needed to make his day—the memory of Mae Lund, her right hook against his chin, the fact that she was over him enough to say hello, and the knowledge that she probably looked better than he had a right to imagine. Only she knew how much he needed her opinion, how he’d relished the nickname she gave him.

“She made captain, by the way. She’s flying DC-10s.”

Good girl. Mae had earned her stripes through grit and spunk, and in the active, objective part of his brain, he couldn’t blame her for not falling for the first Russian to flex his muscles. Even if he had done it saving her life.

“I thought she was on Search and Rescue.”

“Not when she can speak Russian. They have her translating, too. By the way, David was online, as well.”

The rising sun peeked through gaps in the tall buildings. It turned crisp, slightly frozen street puddles bright platinum and hinted at a beautiful spring day.

“Let’s run,” Vicktor snapped. He didn’t know what irritated him more. That he’d been up until all hours describing Evgeny’s death scene for his old militia cohorts, that he’d slept with one-hundred and thirty pounds of Great Dane on his face, or that he’d missed a chance to check in with the only people who knew the nightmares that haunted him.

Especially after a day when those nightmares seemed particularly fresh and brutal.

Roman scrambled to keep up as Vicktor shot down the sidewalk toward the wide greening boulevard between Karl Marx Street and Lenin Street. Roman, of course, wouldn’t think of asking him to slow down, and that fact kept Vicktor at a speed that pushed his heart rate into overdrive.

He didn’t care. Two weeks into his summer running habit, he needed an intense workout to drive Evgeny’s corpse from his mind. Internal snapshots of Evgeny had pushed sleep into the folds of eternity.

He hardly noticed Roman behind him the entire kilometer to the river.

The Amur River pushed yellow foam and brown ice in thick currents north to its Pacific mouth. Vicktor let the snappy wind comb his hatless head and chill the sweat on his brow. Next to him, Roman gripped his knees and gulped frosty breaths. Remorse speared Vicktor. He shouldn’t wrestle his grief during Roman’s workout time.

“Sorry, Roma,” he muttered, stopping and leaning against a stone wall that separated the beach from the boardwalk.

Roman straightened, his forgiveness written in his signature lopsided grin. “Kak Dela, Vita? I’d say from this morning’s sprint we aren’t simply stretching our muscles. You trying to exorcise some personal demons?”

Vicktor looked away from Roman’s intuitive blue eyes. “You’re starting to sound like Preach.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Tell me what’s up.”

Vicktor turned, braced himself on the fence and leaned in, forcing screams up his calf muscles. “It’s nothing. I’m just tired.”

Roman crossed his arms and propped a hip on the stone. Wind whistled down the boardwalk, sifting through Vicktor’s Seattle PD sweatshirt. He shivered.

“Tired?” Roman echoed after a bit. “Tired of what? Grieving your mother? Trying to make things right with your pop?”

Vicktor tossed him a frown. “You are definitely sounding like Preach, or maybe Mae. Stop psychoanalyzing my life. I’m just…tired.” He stared at the dirty Amur. “Sometimes I just wonder if it wouldn’t have been better if it had been me who’d been shot instead of my father.”

“You gotta go forward, pal.”

“Yeah. Well, Evgeny sure isn’t going forward. I’m going to find his killer.”

Roman nodded. “I know. But when you do, you’re still going to be exhausted.”

Vicktor shook his head. “I know where you’re going with this, and I’m telling you before you start, ditch the God-talk. I’m not interested. You know God and I have issues. The bottom line is God isn’t going to solve my problems. Ever.”

“Calm down, Stripes.” Roman held up his hands in surrender. “As your friend, I get to say that you’re wrong, but I’m on your side anyway.”

“Let’s run.” Vicktor jogged back to the boulevard. He heard Roman fall in beside him and set a reasonable pace. They ran in silence, listening to the wind rustle through the trees and traffic fill the streets.

It was just like Roman to foist his religion into Vicktor’s problems. He and David had been systematically ambushing him for years.

They just didn’t know how it felt to experience God’s cold shoulder. He’d tried the God route, once upon a time, and sorry, no thanks. Not that he’d ever mentioned his trial run with God to Roman or David. He’d rather have his tongue skewered slowly.

He was going to find Evgeny’s killer without God’s help. It just mattered too much to trust to a fickle God who did…or didn’t…come through.

They ran in rhythm, vaulting in one accord the craters in the broken sidewalk and murky puddles of mud. Crumpled paper cups and refuse frozen by winter’s embrace edged the path. Vicktor wondered if their national disregard for cleanliness irked Roman as much as it did him. Roman, too, had been to America, and Europe and even Japan once, and had seen the swept streets, the manicured lawns and the lush gardens. Nevertheless, Roman was forever flinging an easygoing smile into his assessment of life in Russia. Vicktor wondered if anything ever stymied his optimistic friend. Roman and Yanna were always telling Vicktor to loosen up, as if, somehow, that would help him find a new life for his handicapped father. Or help him wrestle the guilt of knowing he’d condemned the man to his threadbare armchair.

So maybe his run was about more than exorcising Evgeny’s ghost from his mind. “Tell me about your latest love, Roma.”

“Oh yeah, it’s hot. I spent yesterday at the gym, arguing with the dead weights, and the night before having a long and personal chat with a bowl of ramen noodles. I’m the man.” He shook his head. “Sorry. My long run as a single guy is in no imminent danger of ending.”

“You expect too much, Romeo.” Having stood on the sidelines watching Roman trot through numerous short-lived relationships, he knew his friend wouldn’t stay single long. The man was a sponge for women, with his tousled brown hair, thick muscles and easy laughter. It was Roman who couldn’t seem to figure out what he wanted.

“All I expect is a woman who cares about honesty and living a life for God.”

“I’m not sure, but I think there is a rule about nuns getting married.”

Roman elbowed him, and Vicktor dodged a puddle, laughing.

“I’m serious. Those types of women don’t exist. Sure, you might find a Godly woman—look at Mae. How about Sarai? You had a good thing going with her back in college. But even those women have their hidden agendas. In general, women can’t be trusted.”

“Ouch. That’s a pretty cynical statement, considering two of your best friends are women.” Roman veered around a meteorsize crater in the middle of the sidewalk. “Seriously, though, you don’t trust women? Mae, Yanna?”

“I’m not dating Mae or Yanna. Nor will I. I learned from Mae that dating warps friendship. Love is a game for a woman—one designed to confuse and decimate men.” He gave a mock shudder.

Roman didn’t laugh. “Nice. You’re a real walking Don Juan. I’ll bet the ladies love hanging around you.”

Vicktor ignored him and he went on. “Sorry, but that’s the truth. Remember what Sarai did to you? She led you on, then blink, walked out of your life without even a goodbye. I’d think you’d be my champion.”

Roman’s hand clamped on his shoulder, yanking him to a halt. His friend’s eyes sparked, and Vicktor recoiled, suddenly aware he’d pushed Roman too far.

“You couldn’t be more wrong, Vicktor. About God. About women. About Sarai. I regret losing her more than you can guess. But I don’t blame the entire female population for my broken heart.”

“Sorry.” Vicktor shrugged off Roman’s grip, feeling like a jerk for mentioning Roman’s first love.

Roman inhaled an unsteady breath, his blue eyes scrutinizing his friend. “I don’t know what happened to you yesterday, but you need to get a hold of your fear of trusting people. Trust is a choice, pal. No man is an island, and, unless you choose to believe in people, you’re going to live a pretty chilly and barren life.”

Roman’s words felt like a sucker punch. Vicktor already lived a desolate life, his best friends being attached to a modem. Yes, he had Roman and Yanna, but more often than not he poured out his frustration to a dog he didn’t even like. “That’s not fair. I trust you.” He broke their gaze.

“And I trust you, my friend. But you need more than me and Yanna, Mae and David. You need the Savior. And you need the love of a good woman.”

“Just like you do?”

Roman smiled. It eased the moment, as well as the band around Vicktor’s chest. “Da.”

Roman released his grip and they fell into step, cooling down from their run with a brisk walk. The winking sun had skimmed the tops of the apartment buildings and the wind was dissected by the wad of budding trees along the boulevard. The smell of freshly baked bread swirled on the crisp air. Vicktor’s stomach roared.

“That animal sounds hungry.” Roman smirked.

Vicktor ignored him, cut off the path and tramped across the stiff grass toward the Svezhee Bread Factory.

Five minutes later, two loaves of bread tucked under his arm, he rejoined Roman, who waited on the sidewalk, eyebrows high, tapping his foot.

“Gotta feed Alfred,” he mumbled.

Roman laughed. “By the way, I found a woman for you. Someone honest and not confusing in the least.”

“What?” Vicktor frowned.

Roman jerked his head, indicating a blonde heading in their direction. Her hands were fisted in her coat pockets, her legs, pulling against the hem of her denim skirt as she strode. Her vivid scowl and blazing eyes broadcast her fury as she stalked toward them.

“Just your type, Vicktor,” Roman said, voice low, teasing.

Vicktor’s eyes roamed over the lady, for some reason empathizing with the frustration written on her face.

Five steps away, she glanced up and met his eyes. Green. Intense. Vulnerable. His heart caught at that last impression and he barely remembered to stumble backward to let her pass.

“Da. Just my type,” he echoed as he watched her march down the sidewalk.

Gracie felt the man’s stare on the back of her neck and picked up her pace. Way to go, Gracie. Ex-pat rule number one—don’t make eye contact with a man in Russia. Or anywhere, for that matter.

She distanced herself from the gawker on the sidewalk, her heartbeat slowing. Poor guy did look frayed. His pensive blue eyes, a furrowed brow, his black hair in spikes and perspiration running down his unshaven jaw. Her heart twisted in response. She knew all about feeling frayed, worn down, defeated.

A frosty wind gusted through her thin raincoat and she shivered.

The smell of fresh bread wafted after her as she beelined to the bus stop. She would have dearly loved to pick up a fresh loaf for Evelyn, but thanks to Leonid, her absent chauffeur, she was hoofing it all over Khabarovsk. Leonid had better have a wallop of a reason for being late three times in a row. She once again wished for Andrei, but he was already assigned a new post somewhere. Thank the Lord for Larissa, who had come into work at Aeroflot Travel early to meet her. Her travel agent friend even bumped her into first class.

“Your flight is at four p.m. Be there by one p.m. and don’t be late,” Larissa had said, melancholy in her eyes. “There’s only one flight a month out of here now, and it’s packed.”

Friends like Larissa, and her cousin, Andrei, would be difficult to replace.

Especially since she was leaving, forever.

Gracie’s throat closed and she didn’t dare look at heaven. She knew she’d blown it. The reality was mortifying—a missionary who had never led someone to the Lord. Why, she couldn’t even convince her best friend, let alone the masses. Larissa’s heart was as hardened to the gospel as a rock on the Lake Superior shoreline.

With five days left, the time bomb of a ticket in Gracie’s pocket ticked away.

She joined a handful of old women waiting for the bus, their wide faces peeking out from fuzzy gray scarves wound twice around their heads. Their desolate eyes matched their headgear. Life took all the guts the elderly could muster, especially on gray spring days.

As a grimy orange bus chugged up to the curb and coughed exhaust, Gracie fished around in her coat pocket and unearthed five rubles for fare. She climbed aboard and squeezed in beside a grizzled old man. The vodka on his breath nearly knocked her to her knees as she snared an overhead bar.

She hoped Evelyn was still home. Her boss wasn’t expecting her, but Gracie dearly needed a fresh e-mail from her mother to ward of the feeling of dread that hovered over the morning. She gritted her teeth against the breath of the toothless rummy, and hung on while the bus lurched toward Victory Square. The bust of Lenin towered over the cobblestone parade grounds, a heap of bouquets wilting at the base. Only four days earlier she had shivered on the balcony of the Youngs’ sixth-floor apartment and watched Russia revel in the old days of the might and power of the Cold War. They’d pushed out the old arsenal, including tanks and Katusha rocket launchers, and had assembled them in the square, crushing the stones to dirt. She had to admit the sound of a thousand or so male soldiers singing the Russian national anthem had sent pangs of patriotism through her. Indeed, there were times she dearly missed America.

Ten minutes later, she felt nearly soused herself, courtesy of the wino beside her. She gulped fresh air as she stumbled off the bus. Approaching the Youngs’ building, she noticed Leonid’s blue Zhiguli was not parked in front. She’d held out a slim hope he’d actually check in with Evelyn, not relishing the day hiking around town. Still, as much as she needed a lift she had to admit to some relief. The guy gave her the creeps. He ogled her like a starved lion. Her irritation died in the face of the alternative. Hoofing was definitely safer.

Gracie shuffled into the dank corridor and called the Youngs’ lift. It wheezed to life and lumbered down six floors. Shivering, she wondered why someone didn’t clean the cobwebs, hanging Spanish-moss–fashion from the dark corners. A pile of old cigarette butts, crushed juice boxes and plastic bags added a musty odor to the shadows. She smirked as she read the new chalk graffiti on the already well-decorated walls—“Natasha loves Slava.” Some things were the same throughout the world.

The elevator doors wrenched open and a buzzing fluorescent light beckoned her to enter. Gracie hesitated and waged her familiar self-debate. She’d been imprisoned twice in an elevator in Russia and the experience had left scars on her psyche, not to mention her olfactory glands. Still, six flights of stairs waged a compelling case. She pushed the sixth-floor button, charred black from a vandal’s lighter, and ascended in the tiny box sticking of dog urine. Perhaps she would walk back down.

The lift stopped on the sixth floor. Gracie stepped out and froze.

The black metal door protecting the Youngs’ flat, a standard for foreigners, hung slightly ajar. Talk about creepy—it groaned as Gracie eased it open. “Evelyn?”

The inner wooden door gave easily. Gracie stood there, her stomach coiling into a cold knot. Evelyn was a zealot about locked doors.

“Dr. Willie?”

Silence oozed from the apartment. Gooseflesh rose, pricked her neck.

“Evelyn? Dr. Willie?” Alarm pitched her voice high and it added to the gnawing fear in her gut. Stop. It. She took a deep breath. There were simple explanations. Like, they’d gone out shopping and forgotten to lock the door.

She nearly jumped through her skin when she closed the door and found the Youngs’ coats neatly hung on the hallway hooks. From the kitchen, the refrigerator clicked on and buzzed.

She startled, turned and braced her hand on the wall. Stupid girl. Maybe they were next door. Gracie stepped into the kitchen. A fresh, wet rag dripped into the sink next to the drying rack, which held the clean breakfast dishes. Bacon grease glistened in a cast-iron pan on the stove. On the ledge, an African violet sparkled, freshly sprayed.

“Evelyn?” Maybe she was in the bathroom.

Gracie stalked down the hallway, noticing the French doors to the family room were closed. If Dr. Willie was studying, he wasn’t answering. A light streaming from the bathroom urged her down the hall. Gracie stuck her head in, a smile on her face, ready to catch Evelyn hanging laundry. A stepladder and a fresh batch of laundry drying from a line above the bathtub cast gloomy shadows on the white tile.

No Evelyn. Gracie flicked the light off and stood in the hall, listening to her heart beat.

Stop. Gracie held up her hands as if to halt the ridiculous fear cascading over her. She would not let the unknown push her beyond the cradle of common sense. Evelyn and Dr. Willie had obviously left and forgotten to lock their door. Odd, but not impossible. Besides, weren’t they safely tucked under the protective wing of her Heavenly Father? Gracie bowed her head, shame dissolving her fear. Forgive me for my lack of faith, Lord.

Gracie checked her watch. She still had time to download her mail and send her mother a note. She headed for the bedroom office.

Knocking on the bedroom door, she laughed at her silliness. If Evelyn were in the bedroom, she would have heard her long before Gracie’s timid rap.

As she pushed open the door, the moment slowed like an old movie on creased film. Horror filled her—starting at her gut and building until it emerged in an all-out howl. Her bones turned to rubber. Gracie collapsed to her knees and fought for breath.

No, no!

She whimpered as she pulled herself across the bloody floor toward Evelyn’s unmoving body.

Chapter Three

Toweling off after his frosty two-minute shower, Vicktor caught the phone on the third ring.

“Slyushaiyu.” He rubbed a hand over his clean-shaven skin and winced at a raw spot. The clock hands inched toward eight-thirty.

“You have some explaining to do, Shubnikov.” Comrade Major Mikhail Malenkov’s voice grated Vicktor’s already throbbing nerves.

“Come again?” Vicktor folded his towel and hung it over a straight-backed chair.

“Maxim. He’s supposed to be your partner. Yet you didn’t have the courtesy to call either him or me and let us know that one of your best informants is stone cold in the morgue?”

“He was a friend, sir, and unless I missed a memo, my understanding was Maxim just shares my office space.”

“Don’t get smart. You know he’s assigned to you.”

Vicktor’s eyes narrowed as he surveyed his closet. His voice grew cold. “I was walking my dog. I found Evgeny by accident.”

“Right. Next time call your own guys for backup. We don’t need the goats in the militia sniffing around our dela.”

“Since when are local murders our business?”

“Since they are mafia hits.”

Vicktor scrambled for balance, his sock halfway on. “Mafia hit?” Hope lit inside him. That meant the case would head to the COBRA force of the FSB. Roman’s division. Vicktor schooled his tone. “Sorry about the oversight, sir. Old habits die hard. I’ll call our guys next time.”

Malenkov’s voice softened to a cultured tone. “Aren’t you supposed to be here by now, Captain?” The phone hummed in Vicktor’s ear.

He slammed it onto the cradle and smirked. With Roman on the inside, maybe Vicktor wouldn’t have to kowtow to Arkady. He’d happily shove the raw memories and unending penance behind him.

He tugged on his black suit pants and white oxford. Straightening his tie in the mirror, he caught a glimpse of Alfred, sprawled on an armchair, tearing into the last of his loaves of bread.

Vicktor crossed the room in two strides. “You’re a menace, you know?” He tried to wrench the bread from the dog’s mouth, then gave up and scratched the dog behind his pointed ear. “Try not to eat me out of house and home, huh? No furniture, no pillows, no shoes and I promise to take you home tomorrow morning, okay?”

He thought he heard the dog sigh with contentment as he slammed the door behind him.

The sun had peeled off the initial chill of the morning. Vicktor flipped up the collar of his tweed sports coat while he coaxed his forest-green Zhiguli to life. He felt like flicking on his siren and parting traffic on his way to work. As it was, anticipation sent his accelerator into the floorboard and he soon found himself in the back parking lot. Screeching into his regular space, Vicktor hopped out and shut the door.

“Vicktor!” A feminine voice, high and smooth, sailed over car tops to greet him. Yanna strode over to him, hitching her leather computer bag and gym bag up her right shoulder. The satchels dwarfed her lean body, but she was crisp and pretty in a black leather skirt, hose and matching jacket. Yanna knew how to pull off European fashion.

“Do you have a game tonight?” he asked, melting into her stride.

“Against the Vladivostok Torrents. They’re still unbeaten.”

“Until tonight.” He winked at her. Yanna’s volleyball team had taken the championship for the city and was smoking their way toward nationals. Yanna’s serve could melt butter and her spike sent him to his knees in terror and admiration. He didn’t have a prayer when they played one-on-one down at the beach.

“Come and watch the game tonight. It’s at Dynamo Stadium.” Yanna flicked back her silky brown hair and looked up at him, those brown eyes so clear and genuine. His heart twisted. Why couldn’t he find a girl like Yanna? Roman was right: his life was desolate. Never mind about the Savior garbage, but maybe he could be persuaded to let someone quiet into his life. Someone supportive. Forgiving.

Yeah, that was likely. Especially if he let them close enough to get a glimpse of the real Vicktor.

He returned Yanna’s smile. “I’ll try and make it to your game.”

“Great!” She bounced through the door he held open.

They fell silent walking in the back entrance of FSB Headquarters. The mustard-yellow building covered nearly a city block and loomed five stories tall. The rumors ran as deep as the dungeons but few had involuntarily ventured lower than the first floor and lived to tell about it. Vicktor and Yanna walked through the gray corridor in silence, their feet echoing against the cement. They passed abandoned interrogation rooms and doors that led to the secrets below. Vicktor wondered at the wisdom of the FSB occupying the same building its predecessor, the KGB, had occupied for sixty years. Fear was embedded within the walls.

They climbed the stairs and entered the lobby. “I’m ducking into Personnel,” Yanna said. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Yanna, wait.” He caught her arm, a lump rising in his throat. His voice stayed low. “Sorry about missing the chat last night.”

She blinked twice at him, as if he’d dashed her with a bucket of ice. She gave a furtive look around the lobby. “No problem.” Whirling, she nearly sprinted away from him.

Vicktor stared after her. He was making all sorts of friends this morning.

He took the steps two at a time to his office on the second floor, then threaded his way through a minefield of desks to his office.

Vicktor snorted as he rounded Maxim’s desk, buried somewhere under an avalanche of paper. Yesterday’s teacup soiled a stack of notes and Snickers wrappers littered the floor, but the desk chair remained empty. Annoyance flooded him as he recalled the major’s words. The rookie was slightly difficult to mentor when he never showed up for work. Partners. The word made him cringe. Maxim didn’t have a clue what it meant and Vicktor didn’t have the time or desire to teach him. Vicktor shrugged out of his coat and hung it in his wardrobe.

Grabbing his coffee mug, the one with Mount Hood glinting off the side in gold etching, he scooped in a generous amount of instant coffee, added a spoonful of cream and plugged the samovar in, waiting for it to boil.

He turned on the ancient paperweight they assigned him a month ago, a.k.a. his desktop PC, coaxing it with a few sweet words. While it eased to life, he weeded through his phone messages. Two distraught families from cold cases who would never know what happened to their mafia-connected kids, and a call from Arkady. Filing the other two in the Maxim pile, Vicktor flicked his fingers on Arkady’s note while he dialed his father.

Nickolai caught it on the sixth ring. Vicktor didn’t know if he should be glad or brace himself for the inevitable.

“Slyushaiyu!”

Vicktor forced a cheery tone. He thought he’d make a great undercover cop. “Privyet, Pop. How are you?”

Silence.

“Do you need anything?”

“What would I need? A son who stops by and visits once in a while, maybe?”

Right. Okay. Nickolai had his happy face on today. “I’ll stop by later. Do you need some bread?”

He supposed he should be grateful his father still spoke to him after the accident. The old man hadn’t assigned blame, but he didn’t have to. The Santa Barbara reruns and the constant tapping with his metal cane turned the knife with precision.

Silence crackled through the line. “Pop?”

“Da. Da. Bread is all I need.” He hung up and Vicktor stared at the dead phone.

He was off to a great start this morning. Vicktor kneaded his temple. If his mother were here she’d know what to do. But Antonina had abandoned her men on a snowy night two years ago, and the grief and anger had driven the Shubnikov men apart long before Nickolai’s accident. The Wolf’s bullet had simply pushed them beyond reconciliation.

Steam fogged the room, obscuring the glass windows that separated Vicktor’s office from the rookies on the floor. Vicktor filled his cup and stirred the coffee. It wasn’t Starbucks, which he’d visited more times than he should have in Oregon, but at least it was coffee. Sorta. Okay, it smelled the same.

A cup and a half later, he had read through his e-mail messages and reached for the phone. He hoped Arkady had eaten a full breakfast. He needed the man slightly sluggish when he needled him for information about Evgeny.

“Give us a break! Lakarstin’s body isn’t even cold!”

Nope. Probably had kasha. Even Vicktor would be on edge after a bowl of cold, lumpy mush. “I know, Chief, but what do you know? Tell me, anything.” Please, let him say he was handing the case to the COBRAs. He didn’t want to be caught in the middle of a range war.

Vicktor heard Arkady snuffle, and could almost see him lean back in his tattered desk chair and take a pull on his cigarette. “Well, let’s see what you can do with this, hotshot. His neck was slit.”

“I’m not quite that stupid, thank you. Tell me something new.”

“And he had a wad of paper shoved up his nose.”

“What?”

“You mean you goats in the ‘FezB’ don’t know a mafia hit when you see one?”

“What mafia? That’s not the Russian signature for a hit.”

“It’s a North Korean superstition. They shove the paper up a victim’s nose to keep their spirit from haunting them. Even a rookie would know that.”

Vicktor thumbed his coffee cup handle, ignoring the barb. “What would the North Korean mafia want with a veterinarian?”

Arkady’s chair creaked as the Bulldog shifted his weight. Probably putting out that cigarette.

“That is a good question. Was your buddy into drug smuggling?”

“Now, how would I know that?”

Arkady laughed. Vicktor tensed.

“You said that dog of yours was a bit sluggish…maybe he needed a fix?”

“At Alfred’s age, following a cute poodle just about does him in.”

“Your pal was into some sort of tyomnaya delo, some nasty business, for the mafia to track him down. They were searching for something, too. We found a charred notebook in the garbage can, like he tried to keep something out of their hands.”

Vicktor remembered the orange peels. “Maybe it’s some sort of ledger.”

Vicktor heard the flick of a lighter.

“Are you doing an autopsy?” he asked.

“Cause of death is pretty obvious.”

“Not to the FSB.” As soon as the words left his mouth Vicktor wanted to bang his head on his desk.

A chill blew into Arkady’s voice. “Something you want to tell me?”

Vicktor’s stomach knotted. Why, oh why, couldn’t he keep his mouth shut? “I heard the word mafia and…well, it’s not personal, Chief.”

“Your COBRAs have been banging on my office door all morning. You tell them this is my case and I’ll hand it over if and when I want to.”

“It’s not your jurisdiction anymore.”

“I’ll say what’s my jurisdiction. You just remember, you chose to leave. Nobody forced you out.”

“I don’t see it that way.”

Silence stretched the moment taunt. Then, in a voice so thin Vicktor hardly recognized it, Arkady whispered, “You watch your back over there, Vita.”

Vicktor opened his mouth. Nothing emerged.

“I gotta go round up the boys,” Arkady said, his voice fully recovered. “They’re probably out stealing the hubcaps off cars.”

He hung up and Vicktor clutched another dead phone in his white-knuckled fist.

Gracie fumbled with the ropes that bound Evelyn’s wrists. She couldn’t look at Evelyn’s ashen face.

Evelyn’s body lay at a contorted angle and her head had lolled back to reveal a jagged cut just below her chin. Gracie kept her gaze on the rope. Her fingers were slick, her eyes flooding. “It’s almost loose, Evelyn,” she soothed, as if her glassy-eyed friend could hear.

When the knot slid free, Evelyn’s still hands remained a sickly gray, the blood refusing to flow into the gnarled fingertips. Gracie wrapped her arms around her waist and rocked. Her breath wheezed through dry lips.

“What happened?” she moaned. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, her body shuddering with shock. “What happened?” She heard a wail, and with horror realized it was her own. “Oh God, help me.” She covered her head with her hands, scraping up control. Her breath came in hiccups, hard, fast.

An eerie silence invaded the room. Gracie’s skin chilled. What if the murderer still lurked nearby? Fear drove her to her feet.

She had to call the police.

Her head spun as she wiped tears from her face. The phone. Stumbling to the desk, she picked it up and dialed 9-1-1.

The dead tone buzzed in her ear. Fool! Russia didn’t use 9-1-1. For the first time in two years Gracie dearly wished she lived in America. She held the receiver against her forehead. “God, help,” she whimpered.

Her eyes latched on to the phone list. Andrei. She left a trail of red on the number pad. “Be there!” she demanded, sobbing. She slammed down the receiver on the tenth ring, then grabbed up the telephone, shaking it. “Be there!”

Larissa. Gracie grabbed the handset. Crumpling to the floor, she pulled the phone into her lap and dialed. She hugged her knees to her chest as she closed her eyes and listened to the ring.

“Aeroflot Travel. This is Larissa Tallina. Hello.”

“Help.”

“Gracie, where are you?”

Thank the Lord, Larissa recognized her voice.

“Help. Evelyn…” Gracie’s voice sounded reed thin, unrecognizable. Her head spun. Acid pooled in the back of her throat.

“Are you hurt?” Larissa’s voice held panic.

Gracie shook her head.

“Are you at home?”

Gracie shook her head again, beginning to tremble.

“Gracie, talk to me! Where are you?”

Focus. Gracie steeled herself, inhaled deeply and formed speech. “Evelyn…was…murdered.” She felt a sob roiling to the surface.

Larissa gasped.

A floorboard creaked; the refrigerator hummed from the kitchen. “Larissa, don’t leave me! Are you there?”

“Da, Da, Da. I’m here.” Larissa’s voice sounded pinched, perhaps with grief. “Stay right where you are. I’m calling the police. Stay put.”

Gracie’s plea lodged in her dry throat and surfaced in a ragged whisper. “Don’t hang up.” The dead tone buzzed in her ear. Oh please, Lord, no. Please don’t leave me here all alone. She pushed the phone receiver into her cheek and blew out, fighting the panic clogging her mind.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.”

Gracie curled into a ball, ignoring the comfort that could be hers, covered her hands with her face, and wept. Her sobs echoed through the flat and drowned the rasp of the steel door as it eased open.

Chapter Four

The Wolf had grown to like the alias. He liked to think of himself as a hunter. “Where is it?” He slammed his hands down on his desk and leaned forward in his rickety chair. The flimsy piece of laminate trembled, as did the weakling sitting in the straight chair across from him.

“I don’t know.” The man’s face paled. He turned up his fraying collar.

The Wolf saw the quiver in his hands, and rolled his gaze up to the ceiling. The ceiling fan swirled the stale air through the tiny office. Dust rose from the matted red rug and mixed with the sour smell of mold clinging to the walls of the cement and log building. The place should have been destroyed years ago. Someday it was going to come down, but he hoped to be long gone before then.

He rose, rounded his desk and leaned against it, folding his hands on his lap. His stress was beginning to manifest itself in the flesh of his knuckles. His fingers screamed as dry skin cracked and bled. He needed a bottle of Smirnoff and a good massage. But not here, not now. Pleasure would have to wait until he’d finished what he’d started. That’s what commitment meant. Putting off ’til tomorrow the delights of the flesh, staying the course until the job was complete.

That much he’d learned over the thirty years of his virtual imprisonment.

He watched the man fidget, play with his leather key chain. Idiot. The man had all the markings of a new Russian—cocky on the outside, kasha for stuffing. Flighty. Uncommitted. Men like the one before him made the Wolf physically ill. They had no idea what it meant to sacrifice for the Rodina, the Motherland. Men like him were like a virus, infecting the motherland with greediness and a lust for westernism. He despised the leather jacket, the black shoes, the clink of keys to a fancy Japanese sedan.

He despised the next generation. Their idealism, their selfish dreams. The Wolf smiled. He’d shattered some of those illusions today.

He let the kid sit in silence, watched a line of sweat drip down the angular face.

“It’s your own fault.”

The younger man looked up, eyes lined with red. “How’s that?” The tough tone was belied by an edge of horror.

“If you’d dug deeper, none of this would have happened.”

“He didn’t have it. He knew nothing!”

Weakling. “He knew.”

“He died rather than tell you?”

“Yes.”

The man rose and went to the window. “I feel sick.”

The Wolf knew just how the kid felt. He remembered the day not so long ago, when everything he built his life on dissolved like salt in water.

He’d been left to drown.

The Wolf clamped a fat hand on the chauffeur’s shoulder. The younger man jumped. Outside the grimy window, a group of blue-gray pigeons wandered through the garbage of an over-flowing Dumpster, picking at juice cans and hard bread. The wind blew a plastic bag through the rutted dirt yard. It caught in the branches of a budding lilac.

“Find what I need and you’ll feel much better. I promise.”

In the wake of Gracie’s sobs, the whine of the steel door on its hinges ignited her adrenaline like tinder.

Someone was here.

Gracie held still, letting the saliva pool in her mouth. She heard nothing but the whistle of a draft from the outside hall, yet she felt a presence slink toward the bedroom. Gracie drew in a slow, noiseless breath, trying to ignore the sound of her pounding heartbeat. The presence edged closer. Clamping down on her trembling lower lip, she moved the telephone to the floor. It jangled.

Gracie froze.

Glancing around the room for a weapon, her heart sank. The Youngs had nothing more dangerous than a couple of oversize pillows in their room. Her slaughtered body would be found clutching a feather pillow like a shield. Revulsion sent an unexpected streak of courage into her veins. She wasn’t going to let Evelyn’s murderer kill her without a fight.

Her eyes fell on the crystal vase Dr. Willie had given his wife for Christmas. Gracie eased to her feet and grabbed the vase. The faux flowers went airborne, scattering the potpourri Evelyn had tucked inside.

Gracie heard a brushing sound, as if the intruder had skimmed his jacket along the wallpaper. She gritted her teeth, willed her pulse quiet, raised the vase.

The door cracked open.

Gracie wound up.

A fuzzy white paw clawed at the invisible.

The vase crashed.

Gracie’s heart nearly rocketed out of her open mouth. Shaking, she sank onto Dr. Willie and Evelyn’s double bed and wheezed deep breaths.

She’d nearly killed a cat. What if it had been the killer? What was she supposed to do, bean him with a pot of flowers? The absurdity of her defense sent heat into her face. She was a fool. And she might be in danger.

Glancing at Evelyn’s butchered body, she pushed a hand against her pitching stomach and released a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry, Evelyn. I have to get out of here.”

Gracie grabbed her satchel from its landing place near the door and stepped out into the hallway. Nothing but shadow and the plink of water from the kitchen sink. On noodle legs, she ran to the door, just daring someone to leap from the kitchen or the living room. She’d send him out of the window and into the next country.

She stepped into the hallway, strode to the landing and started down the stairs. One step at a time, skipping two, then three, feeling the hem of her dress catch as she hung on to the rail and flung herself down every flight until she stumbled, breathless through the entrance and out into the clear, blue-skied day.

Her gaze landed on a babushka, still attired for January, sitting on a bench near the door. The old woman scrutinized her with a slit-eyed stare. Gracie stalked away, her strides not nearly long enough for the speed she needed. The cacophony of sirens, horns and car engines on the street played her tension like a drum.

Footfalls streaked up behind her. She ducked her head. Panic made her stiffen, yet she glanced up.

A teenager ran past, his backpack slapping against his hip. He frowned at her as he whizzed by. She lowered her eyes and repositioned her satchel on her shoulder, increasing her stride.

Color caught her eye. Dark red. She slowed and examined her hands.

Blood. Her breath stuck in her throat. Blood welled in the creases of her palms, smeared her hands, stained her shirt-sleeves. It saturated her denim skirt, lined the hem of her trench coat.

She’d held her head in her hands, wiped her tears…Evelyn’s blood streaked her face.

Gracie felt another howl begin in her gut and fought it. She wanted to retch on the sidewalk.

Run.

Light-headed, she stumbled to an alleyway. Threading between metal garages, she found a niche between two blue, peeling units and sank down next to a pile of vodka bottles.

Hiccuping in horror, she wrapped her arms around her body and rocked as Evelyn’s pale face ravaged her memory. And Gracie was covered in her blood. The world spun; she forced herself to breathe. Battling for sanity, she spoke aloud.

“Get home. Get clean. Get out of Russia.”

Yes, get out of Russia. Now. Gracie climbed to her feet. Bracing an arm on the garage, she forced herself to formulate a path home.

She’d cut through the garages, around the park, along the alley and behind the bread kiosk, then make a frenzied dash to the front door.

Ducking her chin, she raced toward her apartment.

“We’re not as free as you think, Vita, that’s all.” Yanna didn’t look at Vicktor. She stirred her cold tea, pushing the tea bag into a wad at the bottom of her cup. The beverage had long since sent off its last wisp of steam. Vicktor’s stomach churned as he watched her twirl her spoon. Something was eating at her, something bigger than tonight’s tournament.

Vicktor kept his voice low. “Could you be more clear?”

Yanna sighed, dropped the spoon and flicked her hair back. It shone rich mahogany in the well-lit cafe. She crossed her arms over her chest, wrinkling leather and appearing exasperated. “Nyet. Just keep our little online friends a secret. Don’t breathe names, or even connections. Chat rooms are not private, even encrypted ones like ours. Ponyatna?”

“Yeah, I got it.” Annoyance plucked his nerves and he felt a faint ripple of fear. He wasn’t under any illusions that the Internet, and even his e-mail, couldn’t be monitored. That was why they used nicknames and chatted in English, why Preach had set up their private, encrypted chat room. Vicktor rubbed his thumb along the handle of his coffee cup. Post-Communism residue soured his stomach.

“Is it lunchtime yet?”

Yanna’s face lit up. “Roma!”

Vicktor stood and locked hands with Roman, who grinned. “I got a tidbit for you that will make your day.”

“You’re on Evgeny’s case,” Vicktor guessed. It gave him pleasure to see his friend’s smile droop.

“How did you know?”

“Malenkov. Chewed my ear off this morning for not calling him on his day off.”

Roman turned a chair around and straddled it, joining them at the round table. He eyed Vicktor’s beverage with a grimace. “Vicktor, why can’t you drink tea like every other Russian?”

Vicktor ignored his sour stomach and took a long, loud sip of his coffee.

Roman put two hands to his neck and squeezed, mimicking choking. Vicktor nearly choked for real with laughter when a waitress hustled up, and looked at the COBRA captain like he had a disease.

Yanna shook her head.

Roman cleared his throat, becoming, instantly, the counter-terrorist Red Beret who knew how to defuse a tense situation. He smiled, nicely. “Got any borscht?”

“I’ll see,” the waitress snapped. She whirled and headed for the kitchen.

Roman gave an exaggerated shiver. “Oh, how I love Russian service.”

Vicktor gulped his laughter. Roman didn’t need any outside encouragement.

“So, you already know my big news.” Roman crossed his arms and waggled his eyebrows. “Well, I’ll bet you don’t know this…”

Vicktor gave him a mock glare.

Roman glanced at Yanna. “He’s grumpy, huh?”

She smirked.

“Roman,” Vicktor warned.

“Keep your shirt on, Vita. Some of us got to asking how the comrade major found out about Evgeny. I mean, Arkady certainly didn’t roust him out of bed with the news, did he?”

Vicktor leaned forward, his heart missing a beat. “Who told him?”

“Actually, we’re not sure.”

Vicktor’s eyes narrowed.

“But we do know the call came in early this morning on one of Major Malenkov’s private lines, right after he came in to work.”

Disbelief almost stole Vicktor’s voice but he forced out the words, “The comrade major’s phone is tapped?” He glanced at Yanna, whose eyes were wider than her teacup.

Roman held a finger to his lips.

Vicktor gasped. “Why?”

Roman’s smile vanished. “Listen to me, Vita. Everybody’s phone is tapped at HQ. Fourth Department knows all.”

The Fourth Department. Internal Affairs. Shock turned him cold. Why would the Fourth be investigating Comrade Malenkov?

“The call came in on an ancient number we’ve been monitoring for years.” Roman leaned forward for emphasis. “It’s been out of use for a decade, but the comrade major himself requested the tap.”

Vicktor’s mind reeled. Why would the major ask to have one of his lines tapped?

“Why hasn’t the number been used for so long?” Yanna rested her elbows on the table. “Shouldn’t it have been reassigned?”

“It used to be Comrade Major Ishkov’s line. I guess they thought leaving it open might lead to his murderer.”

“Murderer?” Vicktor said, and three heads turned from a nearby table.

Roman shot him a cross look.

“Sorry,” Vicktor mumbled. He schooled his volume. “Ishkov was one of the heavyweights, mentored under Khrushchev. I didn’t know he was murdered.” He pushed his coffee away, his appetite gone. “I thought he had a heart attack. I remember him. He was a legend. I never did figure out why he didn’t retire.”

“They needed him around to keep the old spies in line. Ten years ago, the plants from the old KGB were still working the system. Ishkov was assigned to reel them in and send them to pasture. He bought it before he could finish the job.”

“So Malenkov kept Ishkov’s number open to see if he could tempt some of the old goats in from the cold, in case they called to report?”

“Maybe.” Roman fingered his soup spoon.

Yanna steepled her fingers and rested her chin on them. “So, you’re saying an old agent, or an informant, called in on Ishkov’s old number, got Malenkov, and reported Evgeny’s murder?”

Roman pointed at her. “Tochna.”

“Who would know enough about Evgeny’s murder to call Malenkov, and why?” Vicktor asked.

Roman gave Vicktor a steely look. “One of Arkady’s boys? Disgruntled?”

Vicktor scowled. “Hardly. His men are more loyal to him than their own wives.” Still, the image of a scaly-skinned tech at Evgeny’s clinic flashed through his memory. He pressed his thumb and forefinger to his eyes and pinched the image away. “I don’t know.”

“Food for thought,” Roman commented, and crossed his arms over his chest.

Vicktor chuckled to himself, spying Roman’s captain bars glinting gold on the collar of his COBRA uniform. Although clad in black jeans, boots and a black leather jacket, Roman never could stray far from the reminder of his rank. Roman had fought for his bars—Vicktor didn’t blame the guy for wearing them every waking moment. He supposed it kept Roman focused on his end goals, and his mind off his losses.

“Ah, food for the famished!” Roman smiled broadly at the waitress skulking back to them. She balanced a bowl of borscht on her tray.

Ignoring him, she plunked the borscht down on the table. “Twenty rubles.”

Roman peeled a bill off a wad from his pocket. She snatched it from his grip and marched back to the kitchen.

A tendril of steam curled from the borscht like a ribbon and Roman made a show of sniffing. The smell of dill clawed at Vicktor’s taste buds, but he doubted he’d ever have an appetite again after Roman’s news.

The cell phone trilled in his coat pocket. Vicktor dug it out and flipped open the case. “Shubnikov.”

“Get over here, and don’t ever say I never did you any favors.”

“Arkady?”

“That’s still Chief Arkady to you. I’m at Kim-yu-Chena Street, apartment twenty-three, sixth floor. You’d better hurry if you want to beat the rest of your three-letter cohorts here and get a piece of this.”

“Piece of what?” Vicktor asked, wadding a paper napkin in his fist.

“You’re in luck, hotshot. The Wolf has struck again.”

Chapter Five

Gracie’s keys shook as she fought with the bolts of her steel door. Flinging herself inside her apartment, she slammed the door shut behind her.

Fatigue buckled her knees and she crumpled hard onto the floor. Sweat poured down her face, into her eyes, down her chest and back. Hiccuping breaths, she fought with her buttons, then shrugged out of her coat and left it in a heap.

Get clean. The thought pushed her forward, beyond exhaustion. Toeing off her shoes, she unbuttoned her dress, let it slide off and left it in a ring. Stumbling down the hall, she whipped her turtleneck over her head and pitched it into the corner. She slapped on the bathroom light, then reached for the faucet and cranked the water on full, hoping the city hadn’t turned off the hot water yet. She ripped off her socks and underclothes and shoved her hands under the spray. Dried blood loosened, dripped off her. Evelyn’s blood. She felt her stomach convulse.

Keep it together, Grace. She fought the shakes as she climbed into the tub, unwilling to wait for the water to warm, and grabbed her soap.

The water turned her skin to ice. Blood edged her fingernails, lined the creases in her hands. She scrubbed until her fingers were raw and wrinkled. Her eyes burned as she watched the water pool red at her feet.

Evelyn. Oh, Evelyn.

A howl, hot and painful, began at Gracie’s toes. By the time it had worked into her chest, she was shaking.

Gripping the sides of the tub, Gracie sank into a ball and wept.

Evelyn deserved better than this. After everything Evelyn had done for God, didn’t that guarantee her some safety? It felt as if Gracie had been kicked in the chest. “Is this how You protect those who serve You?”

What did it mean to be a Christian if she couldn’t count on the Almighty for the one thing she needed from Him—protection? Why had she poured out her life for a God who so obviously didn’t care?

Gracie curled her arms over her head, kneaded them into her wet hair and rocked. Evelyn’s face, white and horrified, stared at her. She pressed her fists into her eyes. She heard herself moan, and gulped it back.

If Evelyn’s sweet life devoted to God couldn’t protect her from a brutal murderer, then where did Gracie, a soiled failure, stand in God’s eyes?

Memory hit her like a fist and she heard laugher.

Tommy’s laughter. She pushed away the feeling of his hands on her body, his roughness. Had she seriously thought that an escape across the ocean might free her from the nightmares?

She got out of the tub, toweled off and grabbed a robe. Shivering, she realized she’d come full circle.

She was alone. Just as she had been the night three years ago when she’d gone home with the campus jock.

No wonder God had abandoned her. What a farce she lived.

Better than anyone, she knew she didn’t deserve God’s forgiveness, let alone His protection.

She pulled the robe tight, trying to warm herself, but it was quite possible she’d never be warm again.

The ringing phone sliced through her despair. Gracie’s heart stopped. Who knew she was here?

No one.

The only people who would call her now were…dead.

She dried her hair with the towel and dashed to her room, panic making her muscles pulse. She tugged her sweater over her head and was pulling up her jeans when the ringing finally stopped, leaving an eerie silence in its wake.

Gracie abandoned her apartment moments later, to the sound of the murderer—she was sure it was him—again ringing her line.

Vicktor flipped on the siren. Somehow the rhythmic whine slowed his heart beat and enabled him to sling his car safely around traffic toward Leningradskaya Street.

The Wolf had returned. Vicktor’s knuckles blanched white on the steering wheel as he tried to corral his racing thoughts. The implications of the Wolf appearing again after nearly a year meant he hadn’t moved on to Moscow, as informants had speculated. Vicktor’s pulse hammered in his ears.

Maybe he could finally put right what went wrong and atone for his mistake. And it all hinged on him finding a woman covered in blood, stumbling around Khabarovsk.

How hard could that be?

Vicktor screeched onto Leningradskaya, nearly dropping his cell phone. “Yanna, you still there?”

“We just got the file from Passport Control, Vicktor. It’s loading. Hold on to your shirt.”

Vicktor slowed and turned into the rutted courtyard of Grace Benson’s apartment. Please, please let her have returned home. He’d spent the last hour walking through the crime scene with Arkady, reliving every crime that bore the Wolf’s mark. The Wolf’s first victim had been a girlfriend of a KGB colonel. Ten years hadn’t erased from Vicktor’s memory her glassy eyes, or the wound across her throat. No forced entry, no obvious struggle. Medical Examiner Comrade Utuzh had dubbed the killer “the Wolf,” like the Siberian dogs who stalked their prey, then pounced without mercy. This was a lone wolf, however—cruel, maybe desperate.

And an American woman might be Vicktor’s only lead. While Vicktor scoured the scene with Arkady, Yanna had pulled the FSB file on the victims—Dr. and Mrs. William Young. Evidently, they had one emergency contact, a woman who just might match the description offered by the local neighborhood watch, an elderly babushka sitting outside the apartment building. Vicktor had tracked down the American’s address, and after calling her flat three times, he’d had to concede that Miss Grace Benson was not going to answer.

But…maybe she was holed up inside, hiding. He eased his car over a pothole as he struggled to think like an American.

“Yanna?”

“The file is still loading,” Yanna snapped. “That’s what we get when the government siphons funds for parades instead of equipment.”

Apparently Yanna still nursed wounds over the city’s penchant to re-do the streets every time Putin came to town, leaving her with ancient paperweights for computers. No wonder she did so much of her work at home.

Vicktor softened his tone. “I’m sorry, I’m just in a hurry.”

“Blond, five foot two, green eyes.”

“Thanks, Yanna. You’re a prize.”

“I forgive you.”

Five minutes later he was leaning on the American’s doorbell. “I know you’re in there,” he muttered to the closed door. “I see the footprints.” Her steps were outlined in mud, and a wad of fresh dirt stuck out from a groove in the metal door. She’d scuffed her shoes stumbling over the frame.

No answer.

He buzzed the neighbor. A wide-faced babushka cracked open her door and peeked her nose over the chain.

“Did you see your neighbor come home—an American lady?” Vicktor asked.

The babushka ran a wary gaze over him. She shook her head. Vicktor leaned close and lowered his voice. “Did you hear anything?”

“Nyet.” The woman slammed her door. Vicktor tried not to kick it and sucked in a hot breath.

Think, Vicktor. Preferably like an American.

Vicktor ran down the stairs two at a time to his car. What would an American do when faced with the murder of a friend? What would David do?

Call the cops. Americans believed in their judicial system and their police force. In the absence of cops, she would call soldiers, or maybe American friends in town.

Or the U.S. embassy.

Vicktor climbed into his car and slammed the accelerator to the floorboard. The Zhiguli screeched out of the courtyard, scattering a flock of pigeons.

The nearest American consulate was in Vladivostok. She’d have to take the Okean train. Vicktor checked his watch. He had forty minutes before the next train left.

The voxhal teemed with travelers toting children and suitcases. The Trans-Siberian Railroad remained Russia’s best and most efficient method of transportation, especially after the fall of communism when the ruble plummeted to new, despairing depths. People could barely afford bread, let alone an airline ticket. The train, however, could transport a person to Vladivostok and back for the price of a McDonald’s Happy Meal.

Vicktor flashed his ID and hustled past vendors hawking wares in the dank underground passageway that burrowed under the train tracks. Ascending to the platform for the Okean train, he squeezed past a soldier holding an AK-47 and surveyed the crowd.

No blond American. He fought frustration and strode through the crowd. She had to be here. The train had rolled in and layered the air with diesel fumes. Vicktor wrinkled his nose and tried not to sneeze. A baby began to wail. The crowd murmured as it shifted toward the tracks. Vicktor backed away, took a deep breath and stared at their shoes.

Americans could always be identified by their footwear—sensible, low, padded and expensive. Russians wore black—black heels, black loafers, black sandals, black boots.

He spotted a pair of brown hiking boots and trailed his gaze up. Smart girl. The American had wrapped her head in a fuzzy brown shawl like a babushka and now clutched it as if a hurricane were headed in her direction. She held a nylon bag in the other hand, a black satchel peeking through a tattered corner.

She joined the throng and shuffled toward a passenger car. He clenched his jaw—he had to get her before she boarded that train. Pushing through the crowd, he worked toward her, but the passengers tightened and packed him in. He felt an elbow in his side, didn’t search for the owner, and plowed forward. The crowd split into two lines and he suddenly found himself propelled toward a car entrance. He scanned the other queue and glimpsed the American handing over her ticket.

Gotcha!

Stepping up to the conductor, he flipped open his identification, weathered her annoyed expression, and took the train steps in two strides. Taking a left, he edged into the car and peeked over the tops of embarking passengers until he saw Miss Benson’s fuzzy, shawl-covered head duck into a compartment.

Vicktor pushed past a family stowing suitcases and reached the Americanka’s door just as it was sliding shut. He rammed his foot in the gap and curled a hand around the door, intending to slam it back.

Her boot crunched his loafer. “No!”

Pain speared up his leg. He yanked his foot back, unable to stifle a grunt.

“Get away!” she yelled, and started to yank the door shut.

He wedged his arm into the crack, banged it open and plowed into her compartment. She stumbled back, clutching her bag.

“Get out!”

Her startled, fearful look stopped him cold. Rattled him.

She flung her satchel at him. He caught it. What was her problem?

She gasped and scurried back into the corner, looking as if he were going to eat her alive. “Get out!”

Okay, he could concede he might be a bit scary—big man, no identification. He reached into his pocket, scrambling for English.

She nailed him in the shin with her boot.

He winced and couldn’t keep frustration from contorting his face. “Calm down!” he ordered. Yes! His language skills hadn’t defected.

Only… “Get away from me!” she shrieked. Her face blanched, as if his English had stunned her.

Shoot. He didn’t want to scare her, but most of all he wanted to get off the train before it started rolling.

“Are you Grace Benson?”

Her eyes went wide.

Bull’s-eye. He smiled at his sleuth work. “I’ll take your silence as a ‘yes.’”

Fury filled her green eyes. She glanced past him, into the hall, as if hoping for reinforcement.

He had to make her understand. “I’ve been searching all over for you.”

Oh joy, she went white.

He turned and slammed the door shut behind him. He didn’t need an audience, and he had a feeling she wasn’t going to go quietly. Sighing, he weighed his options as he ran a hand through his hair. Now what? An ugly picture of him throwing her over his shoulder, fireman style, and hauling her from the train filled his mind. No, bad idea.

Turning back, he caught the warning expression on her face a millisecond before she went berserk. She pounced on him, clawing at his face.

What was wrong with her? He grabbed her forearms. “Stop it! Please. I’m not going to hurt you, trust me.”

She ripped her arms from his grip and sat down, hard. Her breath came in gusts.

“Perestan!” he hissed, both to her and his thundering heartbeat. “My name’s Vicktor. I’m with the KGB and I’m trying to help you!”

Chapter Six

Shock turned her numb. Gracie drew her legs into a ball and stared at the officer. He blinked at her and smiled, as if suddenly he’d solved her every problem. He was a KGB officer?

“Is that supposed to inspire confidence?”

His smile dimmed.

“I mean, the KGB isn’t exactly a foreigner’s best friend. So, excuse me for my hesitation.”

His eyes darkened, and she called herself a fool for her sassiness.

“Actually, it’s the FSB now,” he said, “and you’d better start to trust me. I am trying to save your skin. You’re not leaving Khabarovsk until you answer some questions.”

“Spit it out—the train has already whistled,” she retorted with false bravado. Behind her sassy mouth lived a coward whose brain was screaming, Run!

His jaw dropped like he’d been slapped. She saw shock flicker in his blue eyes, then he stepped up to her and held out a hand. She stared as if it were a bomb.

“C’mon. We’re not having our chat here.”

“I—I’m an American citizen,” she stammered. “I want a lawyer.”

“Why? Do you need one?”

Gracie’s heart slammed into her ribs. “No,” she squeaked, swallowing hard. His hand remained outstretched.

“I could stay on the train. You can’t make me get off.”

A muscle tensed in his jaw. His presence filled the compartment—wide shoulders, thick arms that strained the material of his jacket. He was tall enough to scrub his head on the door frame, and he looked as fit as a soldier and in no mood to argue. His eyes latched on to hers and sent a streak of fear into her bones. She raised her chin, hoping to appear strong and defiant.

“I could make you get off, but I won’t.” His tone was low, calm. “If this train moves, however, I stay here, in this berth with you all night until we get to Vladivostok.” He paused. “Your choice.”

Gracie ignored his outstretched paw, stood, grabbed her bag and brushed past him just as the train lurched. She felt his presence closing behind her as they wobbled down the corridor. The train had already begun easing forward. She paused at the door, watching pavement glide by.

He touched her elbow. “Jump.”

She shot him a glare and made the easy leap to the platform. He swung down right behind her. His hand again curled around her elbow.

“Unless I am your prisoner, please unhand me,” she snapped.

He withdrew his hand, but stayed close enough to rein her in, obviously to ward off any impulses she might have to ditch him in the tunnel back to the parking lot.

Gracie seethed all the way through the station, refusing to make room for cold fear.

The KGB. She didn’t know what was worse. Being chased by a killer or interrogated by the KGB. Where was a decent hiding place when a person needed one?

They climbed into his greasy rattletrap of a car and Gracie huddled on the smooth vinyl seat, shooting a glare his direction. He ignored her. Motoring into traffic, he said nothing.

“Some interrogation,” she muttered.

He kept his eyes forward, but she noticed his whitened grip on the steering wheel.

“Where are we going?”

“Back to the scene. We need you to walk through what happened with us.”

“What? No!” She grabbed the door handle. “Let me out! I’m not going back there.” She began to shake, her composure unraveling. Tears bit her eyes. Where was Miss Sass and Courage when she needed her?

He pulled over and she braced herself, poised to fly out of the car and run until she hit the Chinese border, or beyond. Let him try to catch her. She didn’t care if they had to run her down with a tank—she wasn’t returning to the scene of her friend’s murder.

He grabbed her arm, reached across her and held her door shut.

Was she that transparent? “Get away from me.”

“Don’t be afraid, Miss Benson. I’ll be there with you.”

She stared at him, at his eyes and the way they looked so incredibly blue, surprisingly tender for the situation, and suddenly, hot tears were running down her cheeks. “I don’t even know you.” Agony stretched her voice thin. “I just want to go home.”

He continued to hold her arm, but loosened his grip on the door. “I know,” he said. His words were a salve on her raw emotions. Oh, how she wanted to unravel into a puddle of pain.

“I know you don’t know me. But I mean you no harm. All I want to do is find your friends’ killer.”

His voice had turned soft, and even with the accent, she could hear a man trying to soothe a woman’s fears. He might have tried that approach when he was breaking into her train compartment. She looked away from him.

“You must have been horrified to find them. I’m sorry you had to see it,” he said.

“Them?” she croaked, then realized he meant Dr. Willie. So…Evelyn’s kind, handsome husband had also been murdered. A moan ripped through Gracie, and she covered her face with her hands.

The cop put his hand on her shoulder. Warm, strong, a presence that she should probably shrug off. But it seemed so…kind. She just closed her eyes and let herself cry.

The sounds of her anguish filled the car. She didn’t even think to be embarrassed; she just let her grief spill out. The cop didn’t move, didn’t pull her into an awkward, polite embrace, but didn’t remove his hand, either. Somehow that balance felt comforting.

She finally pressed her fists into her eyes, trying to stem the tears. “I didn’t know Dr. Willie had been killed.”

“I’m sorry.”

His tone went straight to her battered soul.

Okay, so maybe she’d misjudged him. Or, more likely, she again was falling victim to her own abysmally bad judgment.

She glanced at him. He didn’t betray any inkling that she might look a mess, with blotchy skin and bloodshot eyes.

Raising dark eyebrows, he smiled sadly. “Ready?”

She shook her head, then nodded, completely confused.

“Okay.” He eased the car out into traffic and they rode in silence until he pulled up to the Youngs’ apartment building. Gracie felt emptied. The front door hung open and she recalled with pain the suspicious gaze the old babushka had sent her when she had tumbled outside.

Of course. She’d been covered in blood. No wonder the old woman had gaped at her. Thankfully, now the bench outside the building was empty.

The FSB agent—whatever his name was—got out, came around the car and opened the door. He held out his hand, and after a second she took it. He held it a second longer than was necessary, it seemed, to help her out of the car.

“Thank you…”

“Captain Vicktor Shubnikov.”

He smiled, and the warmth in his expression helped her rally.

“Ready to go up?”

She nodded.

They rode up the lift. Dread pushed down on her with every passing flight. The doors bumped open on the sixth floor and she shuffled out, Captain Shubnikov on her tail.

The Youngs’ door hung open. She heard voices inside—gruff, angry Russian.

“This way,” Captain Shubnikov said, and pointed to Evelyn’s kitchen.

Gracie obeyed, greatly relieved not to have to enter the room where her best friend lay murdered.

“She’s not there.” Larissa hung up the telephone and sat back in her office chair, folding her arms over her silk blouse. “Are you sure she’s not at the Youngs’?”

Andrei fiddled with his car keys and shook his head. “I went up there, peeked in. The place is a cop circus. She’s nowhere to be found.”

Larissa had never seen her cousin so…shaken. She knew he was in love with the American, but Gracie’s disappearance had him unglued. His hair was mussed, his jacket hung on slumped shoulders. Had he even shaved today? His jingling car keys frayed her nerves.

Where was Gracie? Larissa chewed her lip. They had to find her, fast. Before the FSB got to her. The last thing Gracie needed was a day with the FSB to force her back inside her turtle shell. The poor thing was just getting used to taking public transportation. The sooner she was out of Russia, the better—for all of them. Even if it did rip a hole through Larissa’s heart. She’d come to truly care about the American with the obsession about God that matched that of the rest of her mother’s family. Religion was the opiate of the masses. Of the Tallin family, for sure. Look what it had done to Andrei.

Larissa stood up and crossed to the front of her desk, grabbing Andrei by the collar of his coat. “Find her. Make sure she’s safe. Bring her back to her place and I’ll meet you there later.”

Andrei’s brow furrowed. “You’re not coming with me?”

She circled back to her desk chair, pausing for a moment to give him a frown. “I have work to do.”

Vicktor strode in behind Grace Benson, feeling sorry for the lady every step of the way. It seemed utterly unfair that she should have to face the horrific scene twice in one day. That had never seemed clearer to him than in the car when she nearly shattered before his eyes. Oy, he had to admit, he’d never seen a woman so completely wear her feelings on the outside of her body. And when she looked at him with so much fear in her eyes, well, he’d had to fight the weird desire to pull her into his arms.

Her wounded expression had reached out to him in the train and turned him into some sort of cream puff.

He felt like a jerk for suspecting her, but that was his job. He shoved his hands in his pockets and fought to harden the soft places she’d touched in his heart.

Grace crossed her arms and stared out the kitchen window. Her erect posture gave her dignity, but Vicktor had seen the slight quake of her shoulders and the two deep breaths she’d gulped as she entered the kitchen.

“Ask her what she knows,” Arkady said, following them both into the room.

Vicktor shot a look at him. The chief leaned against the counter, watching the American’s body language like a psychiatrist. After a moment, he turned his gaze to Vicktor, a hard edge to his brown eyes.

“Zdrastvootya,” he said with a biting tone, “you can still speak English, right?”

Vicktor glared at him. “Miss Benson, could you please tell us what happened here?”

She breathed a sigh of palpable sorrow, but she tucked a stray blond hair behind her ear and lifted her chin.

“I came this morning to check e-mail. When I arrived, the doors were open.”

“Both of them?”

“Da. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

She nodded. “It was creepy. Evelyn is very careful about keeping her doors locked, so I knew something was wrong. I never guessed…” Her voice plunged to a whisper and Vicktor fought the urge to take a step toward her. His face must have revealed pity, however, for Arkady shot him a scowl.

Vicktor fisted his hands in his pockets. “Where did you find her?”

“The bedroom. I checked the house and decided to do e-mail before I left.”

“Do you often check your e-mail here?”

Her eyes sparked. “I don’t have my own computer.”

He couldn’t imagine life without his laptop. Odd for an American.

“What did you do when you found her?”

Gracie’s shoulders shook, but her voice emerged steady. “I untied her hands. Then I called my friend Larissa. She told me she would call the police.”

Vicktor translated her answer for Arkady, who lit a cigarette. “Ask her why she took off.”

“Why did you leave, Miss Benson?” He wanted to cringe at the sight of her red-rimmed eyes.

“I was afraid. I thought the murderer might still be in the flat.”

“Smart,” he said, and was instantly glad when he saw one side of her mouth tug up.

Arkady scowled at him. “Did you ask her what these Americans were doing here? What organization were they with? Did they have any enemies?”

Vicktor waved him quiet. “This doctor and his wife—what did they do here?”

Her eyes aged before him, and he found himself wondering how old she was.

“They were missionaries. Dr. Willie worked mostly with the leaders of the church, but sometimes he would help out a few doctors he knew.” She shook her head as if anticipating his next question. “No, I don’t know any names. It seemed like Dr. Willie knew just about everybody, but I can’t tell you whom.”

“Did they have any enemies?”

Her eyes locked on his. “No.”

He turned to Arkady. “She doesn’t know anything.”

“Tell her to stick around.”

“She’s headed for the border, Chief. I pulled her off the Okean to Vladivostok.”

“Take her into custody.” Arkady let the ash from his cigarette fall to the ground.

“Right. And have the U.S Consulate hound me for the next decade? No thanks. She doesn’t know anything.” Vicktor glanced at her. “Let her go home.”

“She’s hiding something.” Smoke puffed out of Arkady’s mouth with each word. “Did she see anyone? Ask her again.”

Vicktor shot Arkady a crippling look. “Is there anyone else that could have come here today?” he asked in English.

She frowned, as if the possibility hadn’t occurred to her. Then she closed her eyes and rubbed her index finger between her pinched brows. The gesture seemed so forlorn, it made him want to take her home, lock the doors and dare the Wolf to come hunting.

The Wolf. He’d nearly forgotten that these weren’t just any murders—these were Wolf attacks.

“Please, anything,” he said, flinching at the earnestness in his voice.

“Well, maybe,” Gracie replied.

He raised his eyebrows, fighting hope.

“My driver, Leonid, didn’t show up today, and I thought maybe he would come here.” She scowled and shook her head. “But probably not. His car wasn’t here, and he hasn’t been very dependable lately.”

“This Leonid…what’s his full name?”

She gave him a pitiful look. “I don’t know. We call him Leonid the Red.”

Vicktor frowned.

“His hair. It’s red.”

Gracie’s wretched answer sounded hollow even to herself. She was useless. She turned back to the window before the captain could see her crumple.

It didn’t help that the other cop studied her as if she were evidence. She crossed her arms and glowered at him over her shoulder. Let him try to push her into a corner. She might be a foreigner, but she was still an American citizen. She knew her rights. She watched him wrap his fat lips around his foul-smelling cigarette, and she wrinkled her nose in disgust. The cop glared back at her as if she had the answers and was hiding them.

If it hadn’t been for Captain Shubnikov’s presence, she would have been afraid. The captain’s voice bolstered her courage. She had the oddest feeling she was safe with him in the room.

Behind her the two cops argued in Russian, probably about her. Then, strangely, they left her alone in the kitchen with only a cloud of smoke as a reminder of her showdown with the KGB. That and the quiver she’d somehow managed to hide. But she hadn’t collapsed. That counted.

Where were Andrei and Larissa? Four hours had passed since her phone call. A horrifying thought struck her—what if the murderer had already pounced? How much danger were they in? She shuddered, remembering the eerie phone call unanswered in her flat. Five days left on her visa suddenly seemed like an eternity.

Gracie rubbed her eyes with her thumb and forefinger and scanned her memory for anything that might help Captain Shubnikov find the Youngs’ killer. It was doubtful that anything she learned in Russia would be valuable to anyone with an appetite for murder. Her memories were of sweet children singing praise songs, the weird advice of well-meaning babushkas and friends laughing over tea. Nothing in that batch seemed suspect.

She heard a knock at the door. More cops, then a Russian voice calling her name. She turned, and in strode Andrei. Worry knotted his face.

“Gracie?”

He hesitated before her, as if suddenly unsure what to do. Tears rimmed his eyes.

Then, wordlessly, he held out his arms.

“Oh, Andrei, it was just so awful,” she whispered, and walked into his embrace. She rested her head on his shoulder, wrapped her arms around his waist and let herself cry.

His arms tightened around her. She’d never been so grateful for his friendship.

After a few moments, he put her away from him, scanned her from head to toe. “Are you okay?”

Gracie managed a shaky smile, not sure how to answer.

“Kto eta?”

Blue-eyed Captain Shubnikov stood in the doorway.

Andrei answered in English. “Andrei Feodorvich Tallin.” He hesitated, then stepped forward and extended his hand, eyes wary. “I’m a friend of Gracie’s.”

Shubnikov fired off a question in rapid Russian.

“Speak English, please,” Gracie muttered.

The investigator ignored her.

Andrei looked at Gracie as if confused. Then he replied in an even quicker staccato.

What was Shubnikov’s problem? The shift in his demeanor astounded her. Only moments before, he’d seemed a friend. Now she’d been sucked back to the Cold War.

“What does he want?” Gracie asked, and frowned at him. He met her gaze with cold eyes that felt like a slap.

She’d been duped by the KGB. She should have kicked him harder.

From this angle, he looked every inch KGB menace. His neatly clipped army-style haircut did nothing to soften high cheekbones that slanted to his square, pure tough-guy jaw. A hint of dark stubble punctuated otherwise smooth skin and he had folded his arms across a sturdy-looking chest, rumpling his sports coat. Arrogance in his dark blue eyes gave him a dangerous look. He started to drum his fingers on his arm, as if waiting for an answer.

Andrei leaned over and translated. “He says he has to ask you more questions.”

“What? We’ve already talked. You tell him whatever he has to ask, he’ll ask it now.” Wait, who was she kidding? Mr. Games knew how to speak English. She glowered at him.

Andrei closed his eyes and grimaced. She waited for him to translate, but instead he breathed wisdom into her ear.

“Gracie, he’s with the FSB. They don’t understand the word no. They’re like your FBI—above the law.”

“The FBI is not above the law.”

Andrei shrugged. “Believe what you like, but here the FSB doesn’t answer to anyone.”

Gracie dug her fingers into Andrei’s arm. “Don’t you dare tell him where I live.”

“He probably already knows.”

Gracie felt like a child with a giant name tag around her neck, the type they gave her in kindergarten to help her find her school bus. She had absolutely no control over her own life.

Acting like she didn’t exist, Andrei and Investigator Shubnikov talked a moment longer. Gracie turned away and sulked.

Andrei finally settled a hand on her shoulder. “He’ll call you if he needs anything. You’re supposed to stay in town. I think we can leave now.”

She shrugged off his touch. Oh, sure, she’d stay. Long enough to pack a carry-on for her trip south. “I need to get Dr. Willie’s computer.” She whirled and leveled a piercing glare at the two-faced captain. He blinked as if shocked, but she jutted her chin and brushed past him, hoping her cold shoulder sent him frostbite.

Gracie bumped past the cops dusting the room, kept her gaze off the sheet-draped body and walked over to the coffee table where the black laptop hummed. With a jerk, Gracie unplugged the computer from the wall. It died with a gasp. She was putting her hand on the cover to push down the screen when a hand clamped her wrist.

“Let me go!”

“That’s evidence, we need it.” Shubnikov’s English seemed fine now.

Games, games, Mr. KGB. So very typical of all men.

“I need it. I have to write to America, tell them what’s happened.”

“Call them.”

Gracie snatched her arm out of his grasp. She tugged her coat around her and knotted the sash. “When can I have it?”

His gaze roamed over her face. She felt it burn, but kept her expression neutral. He turned and barked at one of the techs, who mumbled something in return.

“Tomorrow.”

The air puffed out of her. “What?” She licked her lips and scrambled for an answer. “Well. Fine. Tomorrow, then.”

For the briefest moment she thought she saw him smile. Arrogant jerk. Brushing past him, she joined Andrei standing by the door. Her satchel dangled from his hand.

“Take me home, please.”

Andrei hung the satchel over her shoulder, then crooked his elbow. She slid her arm through his and left the Youngs’ apartment for the last time.

Chapter Seven

A muscle knotted in Vicktor’s neck as he watched Miss Benson leave with her chauffeur. But he didn’t realize his teeth were clenched until Arkady sidled up behind him.

“She’s a looker, eh?”

Yeah, looks like trouble. What was with her sudden about-face in demeanor, as if he was the one who’d dragged in reinforcements? He didn’t lead her on with a smile. He’d been warm, kind, supportive.

She had all but kicked him in the teeth. So much for his feelings of pity. Vicktor turned, and nearly plowed into Arkady behind him.

Arkady smiled. “She got to you.”

“Not a chance.” Vicktor stalked past him to the bedroom.

“You know what this means,” Arkady called after him. “You’ve just inherited problems. You know Americans can’t keep their noses out of anything.”

Vicktor stopped. “She’s got other things to worry about. Her boyfriend, for one.”

Arkady drew in on his cigarette. “Chauffeur.”

“Yeah, right. I saw the grip he had on her, and from the expression on her face, I don’t think she minded.”

Arkady’s cheek twitched in another smile.

“I gotta work,” Vicktor mumbled. He strode into the bedroom, Arkady’s chuckle ringing in his ears.

The faster he solved this crime and washed his hands of the blond American, the better. Arkady had her pegged. If Grace Benson were anything like Mae or David, he’d have to beat her away from the investigation with a stick. Americans never let anything lie.

The woman’s body had been outlined and bagged. Two techs were taking blood samples from around the room, from the comforter, the carpet, a nearby bookshelf and even the hallway. A scant trail of brownish red led from the bedroom to the front door. Vicktor stared at it, rubbing an irritating whisker on his cheek.

“Why did he kill the two separately?” Arkady’s question voiced his thoughts.

Vicktor glanced at him and watched Arkady blow smoke from his nose like a medieval dragon.

“Why didn’t he just tie them both up and torture them until they got what they wanted?”

“Maybe he came in, killed the husband and then surprised the wife. Or vice versa,” Vicktor suggested.

“What about motive? If it were a burglary, the computer would be gone.”

“Seems that way.” Vicktor cupped the back of his neck with one hand and leaned his head back, stretching his taut muscles. Two Americans, from all outward appearances living like their Russian neighbors, here on goodwill visas, victims of a Wolf attack. Why would the Wolf murder missionaries?

The Wolf always attacked key players—FSB agents, informants, even mafia brass. But missionaries? Tyomnaya Delo. They had to be up to their elbows in something nasty. Vicktor strolled around the bedroom. He stopped at the tall bookshelf next to the door, squinted at dusty books, Bibles and commentaries, and nearly pulled out an English version of The Last of the Breed, by Louis L’Amour. On the night table sat a photograph of a small boy wearing a cowboy hat. Cute. Chubby cheeks and blue eyes, with a patch of tawny brown hair.

He lifted the edge of the bedspread and found dust balls, sunken suitcases, a broken pencil and a pair of crumpled black dress socks.

Rubbing a thumb and forefinger over his eyes, he tried to recall what Grace had said. They were missionaries. Dr. Willie worked with a few doctors in town, but I don’t know who. Oh, that was helpful. Then again, that was during the cooperative stage of the interrogation. Perhaps she hadn’t been worth the effort of yanking off the train. His shin began to throb. Next time he had to apprehend her, he would wear his hockey gear.

Next time? No, thanks.

Stepping over the woman’s corpse, he crossed the room and noted a pair of glasses, a thin book and a medicine bottle on the floor next to the bed. Sighing, he pulled back the lace curtains and stared out the window. Outside, children ran in a wild game of tag, their school backpacks propped against rotting wooden benches. Laughter and games. Life skipping by while inside the building that shadowed their play, two human beings lay slain, their lives spilled out like spoiled milk.

Senseless. He wondered whom the victims had left behind.

An angry and frightened blond Americanka for one.

He was about to let the lace fall when he noticed a curling photograph, covered with a translucent film of dust, wedged between two ceramic pots of blooming African violets. He pulled it out. A tanned and smiling version of the victim in the family room stood in the middle, his arms draped around the shoulders of two men. On the left stood a Russian with a wide face, a bushy salt-and-pepper goatee and a mustache. Set against steely gray eyes, his smile could have been a wince.

The other man was not Russian. He was small with straight dark hair, brown eyes and a bright smile. Vicktor guessed Korean.

Vicktor turned over the picture, hoping for identification. Nothing. Disappointed, he slid the photograph into his pocket.

“Vicktor!” Arkady hollered from the family room.

Vicktor found Arkady standing beside an opened sofa.

“A storage drawer,” Vicktor said starkly. “With contraband?”

Arkady snapped on surgical gloves and lifted a piece of manila paper. “Empty visa forms from the Russian embassy.” He handed Vicktor a black metal box. “Look in here.” His expression betrayed his knowledge of the contents.

Vicktor found a black inkpad and two rubber stamps, one with the Russian seal and the other from the DPRK—Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. North Korea.

He felt as if he’d been kicked in the gut.

“It seems our American missionaries were into something a little more ‘humanitarian’ than just preaching the Bible,” Arkady muttered.

“Tyomnaya Delo.” Vicktor slammed the cover down. He just hoped he wouldn’t have to be the one to tell Gracie Benson.

Gracie sat with her back propped against her living room sofa, the phone between her feet. She wound the cord around her finger as she listened to the line ring.

“No one?” Larissa asked.

Gracie shook her head.

Taking off her glasses, Larissa rubbed a red spot on the bridge of her nose. “You would think they would give you the director’s home number.”

Grace set the receiver back in the cradle. “Dr. Willie probably has…had it. I’m just a missionary peon. Dr. Willie and Evelyn were the team leaders.” The caretakers. The winners-of-souls. The missionaries who mattered.

And God had let them be slaughtered, like sheep.

The low sun striped her brown rug with the hues of twilight, and the chill of a spring evening crept into her noiseless flat. Sitting on the sofa, Andrei looked dazed, and his occasional deep, agonized sighs did nothing to assuage her grief.

God had so vividly abandoned all of them, and she had not one word of hope to offer her friends.

“We should call your Pastor Yuri,” Larissa mumbled. Andrei gave her a sharp look.

Gracie cringed at her oversight. Of course Pastor Yuri should know. He was Dr. Willie’s coworker and friend, and the closest thing she had to a supervisor. “I’ll call him.”

Andrei put his hand over hers as she grabbed the receiver. “Wait, Gracie. Is there anyone else in the States you could call? Your brother? Anyone else from the mission? How about your mother?”

Gracie eyes burned. “No, I can’t call her.” A lump balled in her throat. “She doesn’t need to worry.” Her mother would only panic and send her brother, or worse, her cousin and all his FBI buddies, after her. No, she had to keep this horror close to her chest until she disembarked from the plane. Then, she’d hide in the safety of her own bedroom overlooking the harbor on Skyline Drive in Duluth. They’d have to pry her out with a two-by-four. “No,” she repeated.

“I think someone in America should know what happened.” He glowered at Larissa, and Gracie scowled at the obvious tension between the two. “For her own good.”

“I have you two, and Pastor Yuri,” Gracie said. “Later tonight, when it is morning in America, I’ll call Headquarters and talk to our missionary director. He’ll know what to do.”

Larissa flattened her lips and nodded.

Andrei slid off the sofa. His arms wrapped around her shoulders and she sank against his wide chest, welcoming his familiar leather and cologne smell. Andrei was safe. Honest. As opposed to the game-playing Mr. FSB she’d met today. And to think she’d actually thought she’d seen kindness in his eyes. He was probably laughing at her naiveté over a shot of vodka at that very moment.

“Gracie.” Andrei’s voice was low. “I have to ask you. Do you know why the Youngs were murdered?”

Gracie mouth opened. She felt as if she’d been slugged, and jerked away from him. “No, I don’t.”

“They didn’t give you anything or mention anything that seemed out of place lately?”

“No, Andrei. I have no idea who would kill the Youngs, or why.” Her voice shook.

“Okay,” Andrei said, and reached for her.

She backed away from him. “Not okay.” She glanced from Andrei to Larissa. “Do you think I’d keep that from you? Or worse, maybe you suspect me?”

Larissa’s mouth dropped open.

“Davai, Gracie. Of course we don’t suspect you.” Andrei actually looked angry, his brown eyes glittering. “I just wanted to know what you thought. If you knew anything.” He looked away, and his expression made her wince.

She stared in shame at the betrayal written on her friends’ faces.

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow, when things have had a chance to…calm down,” Larissa said. “Right now I think you need some sleep.”

Oh, sure, so she could dream about Evelyn’s chalky death expression? She’d probably never sleep again. She whisked tears from her cheeks. “No. I’m okay. I’m sorry. I’m just a little…yeah, maybe tired.” She suddenly wanted to curl into a ball and just stay there, perhaps under the covers, forever. Never. Wake. Up.

Larissa returned the smile. “Let me tuck you into bed, Gracie. I’ll sleep on the sofa and Andrei will guard the front door.”

Larissa silenced Gracie’s protests with a look. “In Russia, friends watch out for each other.”

Oh, now she felt like a real give-me-a-prize-for-my-insensitivity type. She so obviously didn’t deserve these friends. She nodded, unable to speak.

Andrei helped her to her feet. Tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear, he stared over her head, toward Larissa. “I’ll call Pastor Yuri.”

Larissa didn’t answer as she guided Gracie from the room.

Vicktor braced his elbows on his knees. The arena seat felt like it had been constructed with razor blades. He’d forgotten how long these matches were. Next to him, Roman waggled his fist.

“Oh-Rah!” he shouted.

From the court, Yanna looked in their direction and returned the fist-up victory gesture. Her spike had just landed her team another point, and they were well on their way to cleaning up the two-out-of-three game match. Vicktor watched them set up for another serve and tried to focus on the game.

“Want a soda?” Roman asked.

Vicktor shook his head.

“I heard about the missionaries. Ouch.” Roman made a face. “Don’t jump to conclusions too quickly, my friend. You know the Wolf. If it is him, he kills good guys just as often as bad.”

“These missionaries had fake passports and visas. I wouldn’t call that your usual missionary paraphernalia.”

Roman stared straight ahead, but Vicktor saw a muscle pull in his jaw. It had to stab his friend’s Christian pride to discover that one of his own had been found treading on the dark side. It didn’t make Vicktor happy to see his friend suffer. He respected Roman’s, David’s and Mae’s religion, even if he didn’t agree with it. It had certainly changed Roman from a womanizing hooligan to a straight-shooting hero of the state. If anything, Roman’s Christian beliefs made him a better friend and soldier. Probably a better man.

“Don’t worry,” he said quietly. “If your missionaries are clean, I’ll clear their name.”

Roman’s gaze didn’t waver from the game, but Vicktor saw his slight nod.

“Hey, check out the redhead in the corner by the south entrance.” Roman didn’t point, but angled his head slightly.

“I knew you wouldn’t stay single long,” Vicktor said as he squinted in the direction of his friend’s gaze.

“Look closely, Vicktor. I wouldn’t dream of chasing this one.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.