Heart of Steam & Rust (Empires of Steam and Rust) (7 page)

Pyotr soldiered on, oblivious, pretending to show his wife all the sights in the ratty local shops, while at the same time scouting the neighborhood. Lina played along, making cooing noises and enthusiastic outbursts appropriate for a newlywed, all the while cataloging possible places for ambushes ... or hidden assignations, perhaps?

What exactly had her counterpart been doing before she was killed?

Had she actually been in the tavern—the Black Dog—when she was shot, or had she left there to meet someone, perhaps an informant, perhaps the actual traitor?

The people of the neighborhood appeared to be stolid, working-class folk, with a predominant mix of fishermen and other dock workers. The streets’ ramshackle shops catered to the locals’ modest tastes, offering little that would have appealed to Lina, were she not disguised as a lower-class newlywed. Yet, she and Pyotr stopped at nearly every establishment, pausing and pretending to look while scrutinizing the people and locations. They also lingered a long time while settled on a bench on one of the less dilapidated piers, gazing romantically at the river—or each other.

At least, that’s what they appeared to be doing. In actuality, they were taking careful mental notes of each passerby. The mental notes Lina took were more literal than Pyotr’s.

The minds of the people that she focused on were mostly open books, concerned with mundane things: whether the landlord would raise the rent; how a wife would afford shoe repairs for her children; what tomorrow’s weather would bring; where a man’s next meal would come from.

Lina read other, lower thoughts, too—of black-market deals and possible robberies, of drug cravings and sex transactions. A few of the latter fantasies focused on Lina, but Pyotr’s muscular arm draped protectively on her shoulder discouraged any actual contact from those appraising Lina with lustful eyes.

Pyotr kept his thoughts businesslike nearly all the time, though Lina caught an occasional glimpse of a memory from last night, or a hope that tonight might contain a similar encounter.

Lina hadn’t decided on that yet. She was not, in fact, convinced that the previous night had not been a tactical error. Had she let him come too close?

She hoped she wouldn’t have to modify his memory, as her counterpart seemed to have done to Captain Andreyev. But if that’s what it took to accomplish her ends....

Through the whole boring reconnaissance, Pyotr actually enjoyed himself—which annoyed Lina more than slightly. Obviously he couldn’t see the turmoil in her mind; to him, the day combined spycraft, which he loved, and being close to Lina, which he also loved. By early evening, though, he seemed to sense that something was eating at her.

“Is there a problem?” he asked quietly as they walked back to their hotel.

“No,” she lied, trying to tamp down the vague unease that had been growing in her all afternoon. “I just wish this afternoon walk had yielded some tangible results.”

“You said yourself that it was merely a scouting expedition.” He sighed, jumping to the wrong conclusion. “I know it must be hard for you not to be able to use your … usual methods to hunt up the traitor and his accomplices. Perhaps we should have waited, given you time to replenish your lost equipment in Moscow.” Something flitted through his mind—a brief idea—but he dismissed it before she could figure out exactly what it was. Something to do with her magic...

She furrowed her brow and concentrated, but the idea had fled, and she didn’t want to try and dig deeper—especially not in public. So she merely said, “No. It would take too much time. Some of what I need is not easily replaced, and the traitor’s trail has already grown too cold.” And of course, obtaining replicas of her doppelganger’s magical paraphernalia would actually do her no good at all. Again, she longed for her home, her network connections, her old way of life.

But would this crime really have been easier to solve on her world?

“Let’s go to our room and freshen up,” Pyotr suggested. Thoughts of romance flashed briefly through his mind, but he tamped them down. “Then we can get some dinner and visit some of the taverns.”

“Including the Black Dog.”

A disquieting vision of Lina dead—a combination of who she was then and her current blonde disguise—flashed through Pyotr’s brain. He was worried about her, determined to do whatever he needed to keep her safe, but he only said, “Of course.”

EIGHT

They checked their room for signs of intruders with the efficiency of longtime spies, but found no indication that anyone had entered since they’d left earlier in the afternoon. That made them both feel better; their mission did not seem to have been discovered yet, which should make tonight’s investigations easier.

Lina decided that she wanted to take a bath, to wash off some of the local grime and relax before they went to dinner.

Pyotr offered—helpfully and with only a slight sexual afterthought—to scrub her back, but she declined, preferring to be truly alone and have time to collect her thoughts.

Once the bathroom door was closed, she examined her body again. The blonde-dyed hair made her look even more like her original self, which was slightly disconcerting, especially since the “collars and cuffs” of her hair no longer matched.

She’d read mixed feelings about her disguise in Pyotr. Had they been lovers longer, the change might have thrilled him, adding some spice to their familiarity. Their “relationship” was so young, though, that the blond hair twisted his emotions, making him feel as though he was lusting after a completely different woman—that he was betraying
his
Lina. Which, of course, he
was
, though not in the way he thought, since the mind in this body was not actually the woman he loved.

Lina pushed aside the twinge of guilt that gave her.

He could have
his
Lina—perhaps—once Lina Alexeyevna Ivanova returned home.

She gazed at her breast, and, again, could only vaguely see the scar from her fatal wound. It was like looking at a faint star in the night sky, one that you could only see out of the corner of her eye. Why did it seem obvious to Pyotr but not to her? Why?

Telling herself she would not solve this mystery by staring at her own breasts, she slipped into the tub, immersing all but her face. The last time she’d done this bobbed to the surface of her memory, but no explosion shattered her enjoyment of the bath this time.

She let the warmth of the water caress her skin, felt the sensation seep into every fiber of her being, focused on it and quieted the unruly thoughts in her mind.

Focus would allow her to solve this problem. Focus would allow her to find the assassin. Focus would allow her to find her way home.

Home ... It had only been a few days, but already her former world, her former life, seemed almost dreamlike.

A knock on the door.

“Lina … Are you alright?”

She heard the concern in his voice, felt the emotion even through the closed bathroom door. She sat up in the tub.

“Yes, I’m fine.”

Relief and happiness from the other side of the door.

How long had she lain submerged in the tub? “What time is it?”

“Nearly seven.”

The better part of an hour.

“We should get some dinner.”

“I’ll be right out.”

“Would you like me to towel you off?” A thrill of memory and anticipation. He was really such a sweet man—especially for a spy.

Lina laughed, unused to such feelings. “There’ll be time enough for that later.” In fact, she found herself looking forward to it.

Another happy thrill from beyond the door.

She got out of the tub, wrapped herself in a towel, and opened the door a crack. “Hand me my green dress, would you?”

He nodded and grinned, trying to catch a glimpse of her skin before he went to fetch the outfit.

She closed the door and toweled herself dry.

Pyotr knocked perfunctorily and opened the door a crack without waiting for a reply. He stuck his arm in, holding the dress. “Is this the one?”

He knew it was; her wardrobe had been destroyed along with her apartment; she had only one green dress in her luggage. “Yes. Thank you.”

“I’ve something else for you as well,” he said. “I think you’ll be pleased.”

His penis
, she guessed.
Men!

But that’s
not
what he was thinking. In fact, he seemed to be trying very hard
not
to think of something. That worried her.

She peered at the door, trying to bore through it with her gaze, trying to delve into his thoughts—but he’d gone already, moved to the other side of the room, at the very edge of her read-through-the-door range, and she got nothing more than vague excitement.

Frustrated, she dressed quickly, not even bothering to fix her hair.

“What is it?” she asked, bursting into the parlor, trying to seem enthusiastic, rather than anxious.

Smiling, he held out a plain brown box, the size of a hatbox, to her.

A totally irrational part of her mind screamed
“Bomb!”
But no. Surely she would have sensed something if Pyotr were about to kill them both, and all she read was pride and love.

How could he love her so much?

“What is it?” she asked, still hiding her nervousness.

“Open it,” he suggested, handing it to her.

Warily, she undid the string holding the box closed. She listened intently, but heard nothing. The package did smell rather odd, though, almost like … spices. She lifted the lid.

Inside lay a strange collection of knickknacks: colorful stones, cut crystals, candles, incense and burners, a bit of modeling clay, feathers, chalk, pins, and other things she did not immediately recognize. She felt … puzzled.

“I know it’s probably not exactly what you need,” he said with puppy-dog enthusiasm, “but hopefully it will be enough for you to work with.”

“I ...” she began, unsure what to say.

“I asked Major General Bepov to have some of the other Section operatives pull together a replacement kit for you after we left. Of course, none of the rest have your level of expertise, but they did the best they could and sent the package by special courier almost immediately after we left Moscow. I arranged a dead drop with Petrenko earlier, and picked it up while you were in the tub.”

He had left the hotel while she’d been bathing? She cursed herself for being so wrapped up in her own problems that she hadn’t even sensed it. If she had missed that, what else might she have missed?

“So,” he asked, “what do you think?”

“I ... Thank you, Pyotr. I can see you went to a lot of trouble.”

“Will it be enough? Will you be able to use your ... powers?”

“Perhaps.”

“Well ... Go ahead.” he urged.

“Not now. I’m hungry. I don’t do my best work when I’m hungry.”

“We’ll eat, then. You can try after.”

Her innards tensed. “Yes,” she said. “Later.”

“Shall we eat at the Black Dog?”

“Only if we want to be poisoned,” Lina replied.

Pyotr tensed. “You think the assassin will be there?”

“No. I think they’re probably barely fit to serve liquor, never mind food. Their cuisine might kill us without even meaning to.”

He chuckled. “Pick another place, then.”

“The bistro half a block down smelled tolerable.”

“The bistro it is.” He extended his arm to her and looked toward the door.

She smiled at him. “Let me fix my hair first.”

He helped brush her hair, which made the process take longer than it should have, but she enjoyed it. The unexpected arrival of the box full of magic paraphernalia had renewed the anxiety the bath had soothed away.

Somewhere on these streets lurked someone who knew about the previous attempt on her life. The actual assassin might even be here, skulking in every shadowy doorway, window, and alley. Once she and Pyotr left the relative safety of their room, she would need to keep all her senses on high alert.

Pyotr would be watching, too, of course, but he was only human ... while she was something more. So why did she feel like something
less
?

The hotelier tried to hustle them into his dining room when the pair crossed the lobby. “For your first night!” he said. “It will be special.”

Both Pyotr and Lina had to insist they had other plans. “Tomorrow,” Lina said, giving him a small psychic push.

The man immediately fell into line. “Of course,” he said, clicking his heels together and bowing. “Perhaps breakfast, as well?”

“Sure,” Pyotr agreed, escorting Lina toward the door.

Heavy clouds clotted the night sky over Vilnius, smothering the riverfront with utter darkness. This section of town boasted no streetlights; its waterfront byways were illuminated only by the light streaming from inside the establishments that catered to nighttime clientele. As Lina and Pyotr exited the hotel, the Black Dog beckoned from across the block; loud music, laughter, and the smells of food and tobacco poured out of its open windows and doorway.

Lina and Pyotr walked quickly past it on their way to the bistro. Something about the Dog—an aura of menace, perhaps—made Lina’s skin prickle.

Was it because she had been killed there previously?

Of course, they didn’t know for
sure
that’s where she’d been killed; it was merely the last place investigators had been able to prove she’d been. Her body had been found in a nearby dockside alley, which she and Pyotr had walked past during their earlier tour of the neighborhood.

She’d felt no sense of foreboding in the alley. What was it about the bar, then?

For the first time, Lina wished that she really did possess her counterpart’s supernatural powers. Perhaps the other Lina would have been able to read the place, find some trace of what had happened. In her Russia, Lina had met a few people skilled in psychometry—she’d even tested one in her lab. That man, Boris Aronin, could sense who had passed through an area for up to a week, and he could provide uncanny details about the owner of any object he touched.