East of the Sun (7 page)

The security guard posted just inside the entrance gave her the expected once-over as she stepped inside the bookstore. A wave of heat hit her. With it came the smells of people, damp wool and books. The store was crammed with the latter from top to bottom, the aisles so narrow that it was a challenge to squeeze past other people in their equally thick coats. Once past travel guides and language books, she aimed for the architecture and history sections. On her very rare visits before, she’d noticed that the selection had been surprisingly good.

She managed to kill a good fifty minutes before she selected two books and headed to foreign fiction for something that would aid her sleeping while in Moscow. It didn’t take long to pick two more books. Even if they didn’t manage to lull her to sleep, they would at least help her while away the hours of wakefulness.

Outside in the street again, the cold came as a shock after the overheated air of the bookshop. Her cheeks tingled as she surveyed the scene. In the short time she’d been inside, the city had come alive. Now the sidewalks were crowded and young people hung around in small huddles. Across the street a group of young soldiers on weekend leave walked up the street, a bounce in their step.

The strap of her book-laden bag was digging into her shoulder. There had to be a café close by. She could have something to eat and start looking at her new books. For sanity’s sake she needed to pass at least a few more hours before she could go back to the hotel.

She walked to the corner of the block and turned left. The street sloped gently downwards and it was slow going with the weight of the books over her shoulder and patches of ice underfoot. At the bottom of the street the slope evened out and she stopped for a moment. On the opposite side of the street, a few hundred metres to the left, she spotted a coffee place and headed that way immediately, carefully trying to avoid the many pedestrians rushing towards warm destinations of their own.

It happened fast, too fast. One moment she was glancing into a shop window at a display of decorative Russian porcelain and the next her right shoulder was wrenched back painfully.

She saw a young face, a beanie pulled low over the forehead, hands pulling at the strap of her bag.

‘No!’ she yelled. ‘What are you doing?’ Somehow she managed to keep her grip on the heavy bag. ‘Stop, help!’ Still she held on, clutching it to her body, but the young man was stronger than his skinny frame looked and he started dragging her down the street.

‘Stop!’ She aimed for his ankles. The kick was clumsy, without any real power, and she only managed to land a weak blow to the side of his leg.

He glanced around and she caught another glimpse of mean eyes and the determined curl of a lip. She wouldn’t let go. If she could hold on long enough, someone might help her.

‘Help!’ she shouted, but no one did and she could feel her grip starting to slip.

Amelia held on and held on, but she could feel her strength waning. The young man – boy – turned around and for an instant released the tension on the strap. She felt herself stumbling backwards. And then, with another sharp yank, he pulled again and freed the bag from her grip.

The victorious smile was smug and brief. He snarled something incomprehensible at her and set off. By the time she regained her balance, he’d reached the end of the block. Once more time he looked around and then he disappeared around the corner.

There was no point in trying to follow him. He was too far ahead, she’d never catch up. And he looked just like every other Moscow weasel. There was no way she would find him again.

She looked around. No one had even tried to come to her aid! On the opposite side of the street, a few people stood staring at her vacantly. She glared at them and felt the urge to shout at them for not helping her, but in the same instant the adrenalin left her body and all she was aware of was her aching arms and shoulder. She pulled off her gloves. Her hands were red and swollen.

Stunned, she assessed her situation. She didn’t know what to do. Would it help to find a member of the
militsia
? Or maybe she
should
try and follow her assailant. She leaned against the closest building, trying to garner a coherent thought. No, she couldn’t approach the
militsia
. Only an idiot would ask them for help right now. It would merely invite more trouble. And trying to pursue her attacker would be futile. He was gone, hadn’t even hesitated to show her his face, just to emphasise how little he feared her.

Pain was creeping into her raw hands. Shakily Amelia pulled her gloves on again and started walking back to the hotel for lack of a better option. She stuck her hands into her coat pockets, hoping warmth would ease the soreness. There: salvation. Her fingers closed around something familiar. Her wallet! How had it ended up there?

It came back to her. When she’d paid and loaded the heavy books into her bag, she’d stuck the wallet into her coat pocket to keep it out of the way and had forgotten to put it back. The relief she felt was overwhelming. Her cards and room key were safe. The thug wouldn’t know where she was staying.

Twenty minutes later Amelia entered her hotel room, still shaking. She threw off her coat and walked across to the wardrobe. She sank down on her knees to be eye level with the room safe and punched in her security code. She knew it was irrational, but she had to be sure. The door swung open.

Nothing had changed. Nothing was gone. Her phone, money and a few other valuables were safe. Why wouldn’t they be? For a moment, happiness erased her pain and shock.

Her notes, her carefully compiled and even more carefully guarded clippings were gone, though. Everything about her return to Russia was encapsulated in that small collection. What would she do without them? Amelia could feel panic rising in her chest at the thought that her reassuring stash of information was gone.

Hold on. Breathe. Get a grip, she told herself. It wouldn’t be too difficult to collect the information again. Besides, didn’t she know just about every word that was written in there anyway? Slowly she started to breathe normally again. It wasn’t the end of the world.

There were always stories doing the rounds in expat circles of people having their purses slashed or stolen in the metro or of being mugged on the street. Had she lost her edge, that crucial constant awareness you needed to survive in a big city, especially a nasty one like Moscow?

And then another thought.

What if the attack hadn’t been random? What if it had been planned, what if someone had come looking for her? If that was true, if it wasn’t random, her closely guarded secret was now in someone else’s hands.

8

W
hen Amelia stepped through the door, she immediately surveyed the vast room, wondering for the hundredth time how, and why, she’d let Mara persuade her to agree to a second meeting with Nick Sanford.

Two days after Mara’s party she was still irritated by the whole thing and had very nearly not come. If she was honest, she was mainly annoyed with herself for not staying in control, for letting someone else, however dear, take the initiative away from her. This was no one else’s fight to fight, something she had been so adamant about, but after a long debate, Mara had convinced her that she had nothing to lose by meeting him again. Which may or may not be true, but she had also tired of arguing her point and had ended up giving in. Besides, the weekend was beginning to feel very long, and the chance of filling the hours until the next day’s meeting with the new ambassador with something at least potentially useful was better than sitting in her hotel room.

She hated to admit it, even to herself, but Mara’s persistence had caused her to start doubting her conviction that it would be best if she alone chased the few remaining leads, especially after what had happened the previous day during her bookshop outing. Eventually she’d told herself that if she didn’t like or trust the man Mara continued praising to the high heavens, she could simply opt not to involve him. It was the only way she could make her defeat feel palatable, the only thing that made it possible for her to maintain a sense of control.

At a corner table pushed close to the large windows that looked out onto Tverskaya Street she saw Nick Sanford, the man who’d been seated next to her at Mara’s dinner. She wondered how the meeting would go today. When they’d met, she’d made it clear that she wasn’t thrilled about being bamboozled and consequently, rather unsurprisingly, their dinnertime conversation had never progressed beyond superficial trivialities. Although she’d known she was being unfair to someone who had apparently also been unaware of the plan, she hadn’t been able to stop herself from blaming him for Mara’s tactics. She hated appearing vulnerable, even more so in the eyes of a stranger, and had kept him at a chilly distance throughout the remainder of the evening. In truth, she was surprised that
he
had agreed to another conversation.

Quickly she weaved her way through the tables towards him.

He stood up and offered his hand. ‘Good morning.’

With a measure of satisfaction she noticed that he looked uncomfortable too.

‘We didn’t get off to the best start, did we? The other night.’

Briefly, she shook his hand. ‘Yes, well. I hadn’t planned on involving anyone in this, and when you . . .’

‘. . . called you “a favour” so tactlessly . . .’

‘Forget it,’ Amelia said, still not sure that she wanted to actually forget it. Her pride had been wounded and she couldn’t stop wondering if they’d been discussing her behind her back, but she
had
made the decision to meet him again and so here she was. She busied herself with unwinding her scarf, unbuttoning her coat and removing her hat, knowing that her hair would be pressed flat against her skull. Not that it mattered. She wasn’t here to impress Nick Sanford.

‘Still, I apologise,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if it makes a difference, but I really had no idea what Mara was up to.’

‘Forget it, really. Although Mara meant well, she overstepped the line, but I didn’t help the situation by reacting so badly. I’m sorry too. I took it out on you.’ How she hated being in this position. She pressed on, though. ‘Thank you for meeting me.’

‘Would you like some coffee?’ Nick asked.

Amelia glanced at the mercifully short line of people awaiting their turn at the dark wooden counters of what had once been a bakery and was now one of the city centre’s most popular coffee shops.

‘Oh, don’t worry, I’ll go get some,’ she reached for her purse and pointed to the half-full cup in front of him. ‘You?’

‘I’m all right for the moment, thanks.’

As she moved back in the direction of the counter, Amelia’s movements felt stiff and jerky, as if they weren’t very coordinated. She didn’t like being scrutinised and she knew that Nick Sanford would be looking at her as she stood contemplating the list of coffees on the wall menu. In all probability he was also wondering what he was letting himself in for. Perhaps Mara had cornered him again too. Maybe he didn’t want to be here either.

Aware of the likelihood of his gaze on her, she straightened her back and squared her shoulders, not wanting to give him the slightest impression that she was weak or helpless. She would be the one in charge of the conversation today.

When she returned to the table, she offered him a brief smile and allowed herself a moment to consider the muscular, fair-haired man seated opposite her.

Mara had said that that he was a geologist who’d worked in Russia for several years and that he had a good knowledge of the mining industry, that he was American and that he could be trusted. Most importantly, Mara was convinced that he could help her. That was all she knew. At the party she hadn’t really given him a chance to tell her more about himself or his line of work.

‘All right, let’s start again,’ she said, wanting to send a clear signal that she would be in control of their interaction from now on. ‘I’ll be fair – despite the dubious methods she used the other night, Mara is generally a sensible woman and she clearly believes I should talk to you. I know that you know the local mining industry and that you’ve worked here for a while.’ She glanced at him, but continued stirring her coffee, hoping to signal that the next words were his, that he should tell her more about himself.

She was surprised when he got straight to the point.

‘I remember the story. I mean, how could anyone forget? In fact,’ he said, ‘it still resurfaces from time to time. Of course it’s not the first time something like that had happened, but your husband was a foreigner and the most prominent representative of his country, so it was even more disturbing. Everyone in the expat community gets nervous at the mere mention of the whole thing. People thought, some still do, that it served as a warning to foreigners messing with valuable Russian assets.’

‘Messing with?’ Amelia asked. ‘From what I know, Robert wasn’t “messing” with Russian assets, but was trying to keep things moving forward and make those assets more valuable for all involved . . .’ She trailed off when she realised how defensive she sounded.

Nick seemed not to have noticed her tone or was deliberately ignoring it.

He shrugged and gave her a half-smile. ‘To some that would count as too much interference already. Listen,’ he said, leaning his elbows on the table, ‘I’m aware of some of the things that happened last year, but I’m sure much of what’s been reported is not necessarily fact. Maybe you should tell me your version. At the time there were rumours that Robert was involved in mining industry talks and because Mara enlisted
my
help, I’m guessing that it’s true. Since I have some knowledge of local mining companies and the way they operate, maybe Mara is right, maybe I can be of help.’

She simply nodded, unnecessarily continuing to stir her coffee in an effort to buy time to think about how much she should tell him. When she lifted her cup and looked at him over its rim, she decided that she might as well, at least for the moment, see if he did possess any knowledge that could help her. That didn’t mean there was a need to tell him every last detail about herself or the situation. Until she had a clearer idea of his usefulness and, more importantly, his trustworthiness, she would try to keep her revelations to him to a minimum.