In Sheep's Clothing (10 page)

“Can I help you?”

Grace stared at him as if he’d spoken French.

“Let’s have this conversation inside.” He tried the smile again. “Please?”

Grace paused, then slowly stepped aside while Andrei opened the trunk. Inside, two bulging suitcases lay like fat carcasses, jostled from a back-road journey. Andrei heaved one out. Grace grabbed the other. Vicktor moved up behind her and gripped the handle, covering her hand. She stiffened.

“Let me help you,” he said gently. Uh, where had
that
tone come from?

Grace turned, her face only inches from his. She smelled good. Clean and fresh and pretty and he suddenly felt like a stray next to her. Something that sniffed the garbage and slept under Dumpsters.

“Ladna,”
she mumbled, using the Russian term for
okay.

She turned toward the building, and he stumbled after her, hating her ability to throw him off balance. Thankfully she didn’t glance back to watch him scrape himself together.

The bag thumped against Vicktor’s leg as he followed Grace and Andrei down a small hill and into the darkened entrance of the apartment building. The third step had eroded from the cement staircase. Grace stepped over it with practiced grace. The old, cranky lift groaned as it plummeted down nine flights, and Vicktor gave thanks he lived on the fourth floor.

“Okay, what do you want to talk to me about?” Grace stepped back. The dark corridor eclipsed her expression.

He hesitated, wishing for privacy. “I found some…contraband at your friends’ flat.”

Grace folded her arms across her chest.

“I found visa papers,” he continued, his voice low, “forged visa papers and a counterfeit Korean stamp.” Even in the dim light, he saw her brow crease. He knew he shouldn’t be telling her this—not when she might still be considered a suspect by Arkady. And certainly not in the middle of the hall, regardless of how he pitched his voice. This should wait until they were inside her flat. Where he could lock Andrei in another room and grab a pillow for his shins.

But maybe giving out a morsel of information would earn her trust.

Vicktor took a deep breath and braced himself. “We think they were, uh, smuggling something into or out of North Korea. Maybe even people.”

“That’s a filthy thing to say.”

So much for earning her trust. The elevator arrived. Grace stomped in and the small box trembled. Andrei and Vicktor squeezed in behind her. They stood inches apart in the dim light as the lift shuddered upward. Silence pulsed between them. Vicktor couldn’t remember the last time he’d had so much fun.

The doors opened, and Andrei purposely hip-checked him into the wall. Vicktor glared at him as Gracie worked the lock to the steel door.

“What’s
wrong
with this door?” Gracie gave it a kick, obviously unraveling.

“Let me try.” Vicktor touched her shoulder, intending to nudge her aside. She jerked away and gave him a look that should have knocked him out. Except that a tear had caught in her lower lash.

There went his voice. Abandoning him on the battle line. He felt like an idiot.

“What do you want?” she demanded, her voice tremulous.

Vicktor took a deep breath and looked away from her, unable to see her pain. It unnerved him that she had the ability to make him feel like he’d personally screwed up her life. Not to men
tion her ability to make him
feel
in the first place. “I want to help.”

“Then find their killers.”

“I’m trying, Miss Benson. I’m not your enemy…”

She sucked in a breath.

“…contrary to popular belief.” He glared at Andrei as he said it.

Vicktor fished around in his coat for the picture he’d picked up at the Youngs’ apartment, unable to figure out what else to do, hoping he wasn’t making it worse. “Do you possibly know these men?”

Grace tucked her hair behind her ear, and accepted the picture. She studied it. Her nod gave him the first flicker of hope of the day.

“The Russian is Yuri Mikhailovich, the head pastor of the Russian Church in Khabarovsk. The other man is Pastor Paul Yee, head of the Korean Church in town.” She lifted her chin. “Maybe the Youngs smuggled
him
in.”

“Maybe.”

Okay, that only made her mad. She glowered at him and shoved him the picture. “Leave me alone.” But her voice shook, just enough to make him pause, stare hard.

Her eyes had turned deep green, and the haunted look in them skimmed under his defenses and clipped his heart.

The woman was more than afraid. She had secrets. And demons.

He knew all about nightmares haunting the dark places.

She yanked her gaze away.

He released the breath he’d been holding as she turned the key in the lock.

Stepping back as she yanked open the door, he braced himself for more fun once they got inside.

She froze, staring inside. “Oh, no.”

Vicktor peered over her shoulder and winced.

L
arissa fingered the gold chain at her neck, absently running the tiny gold cross along the links as she clicked on the search engine results for “Bali.” Just the sound of the word sent a tremor of delight running up her spine. She angled her computer screen away from the door and clicked on the “Tour of Bali” welcome page. Palm trees and coconuts, backlit by a rich orange and cranberry sunset, filled the screen. The scenes sent warmth through her. She clicked on the accommodations page and lost herself for a few moments inside luxury suites and alongside pools so vivid she could nearly feel the water gliding over her sun-baked body.

Soon. Thankfully her cubicle didn’t have a window, but the lingering image of crusty gray snow, black puddles of mud, the streets lined with paper, plastic bags, cigarettes and the byproducts of animals, made her nose curl.

The sooner the better.

She checked her watch, counting down the hours she had yet to put in at this dingy office. Boris would be waiting for her
when she got home. Maybe sitting in his Moscovitz, his hands drumming the wheel as he watched her stroll up the street. Perhaps he’d have a bunch of purple chrysanthemums or white dahlias wrapped in florist’s paper lying on the seat.

She saw right through his pitiful advances. It wasn’t hard to recognize a ploy when he stepped into her office six months ago, asking her to arrange a flight to Moscow, something he could do in the lobby, or over the telephone. When he “bumped” into her two nights later, at a disco, she knew. And played along.

The first few weeks, she wondered why he’d picked her. Boris was doting enough, tolerable. He tried to hide his age, his obvious paunch, his cynicism. She allowed it, curious and bored with the men who fancied her. He was a puzzle, but smart. She knew that from his eyes. Dark brown, always watching. She could practically see the gears working in his head, especially in his unguarded moments. Finally, after she’d fielded his questions—coyly, of course—she realized.

The Youngs. The man was after Dr. and Mrs. Young. Briefly, she considered her loyalties.

Then she saw beyond the present into the future. Her future. Whatever he was planning, she’d extract some promises. Gently, subtly. She’d reel out information, play with his ego until the hook was planted. Then she’d give it a good jerk.

Bali. He’d suggested it, but it sounded fine. Anywhere outside the former Soviet Union would work. She could ditch him at any time, as long as she had the cash.

It only took a little emotional nudge, and some external prodding, for him to unwrap his plans. He needed her, and she’d gladly agreed. It was a partnership forged in greed, but she didn’t care about the motivations. She wanted results.

If she had to sacrifice a friend, she’d do it. Perhaps with sadness. But she’d done her time. Bali and the rest of the globe awaited.

Her hand closed over the cross. The gold bit into her hand as she logged off the Internet.

“I’m okay!” Grace stuttered. “Let go of me!” She put two hands on his chest and pushed.

He’d grabbed her. Instinctively, of course, to keep her safe. “Let me go in first.” He looked beyond her, into her apartment.
Ouch.

She started to move forward. He swept out his arm. “I’m not kidding. Stay here.”

Vicktor took his Makarov pistol from his shoulder holster. She stared at the weapon with wide eyes. Andrei didn’t look any better, pale and frozen behind her. Some bodyguard. Vicktor stepped into the flat.

Destruction pervaded the apartment. Clothing spewed into the hallway; the pieces of a shattered mirror glinted like droplets of water on the brown carpet. Stillness embedded the walls. Vicktor’s skin prickled. He stepped farther in, crunching glass under his loafers.

“What happened to my apartment?” Grace whispered from the hall.

“Tiha!”
Vicktor snapped. He strode down the hall, stopped briefly in the family room, and continued to her bedroom. Bedclothes, the contents of her closet and upended drawers littered the floor. Someone had stepped on a framed photo of the couple murdered yesterday. Vicktor listened for the sound of breathing.

Nothing.

Turning, he slammed open the bathroom door, flicked the switch. Light scattered shadow from the room. Only a flimsy shower curtain. Adrenaline poured out of him as he whipped it back.

“Okay, come in.” He sheathed his weapon and returned to the doorway.

“This is unbelievable,” Gracie said as she tiptoed inside.

Vicktor stepped over an emptied box of medicines and knickknacks. Behind him, Andrei lugged in the suitcases and propped them against the wall in the hall. The guy looked like he’d been punched.

Grace pushed past Vicktor and stood in the center of the room. “It looks like a robbery,” she said. “But I don’t have anything of value to steal.” She had begun to sway, like a drunk. She braced her hand on the sofa, then sat down hard.

Vicktor looked away before the expression on her face made him do something really stupid, like pull her into his arms.

Her chauffeur crossed the room and sat beside her. “It’ll be okay, Gracie,” he said.

Vicktor wondered what Andrei meant by “okay.” Because he felt pretty sure that
okay
wasn’t going to be a part of her vocabulary until she put Russia a couple billion kilometers behind her.

Broken glass from the wall unit crunched under his feet. “Was this locked?” he asked, pointedly not glancing at the couple.

“Yes,” Grace said.

Vicktor dug out his cell phone, then grimaced when the battery light died. He dropped it back into his pocket and paced the room. Kicking aside a pillow, he found her telephone, smashed.

“Do you have another phone?”

“In the kitchen.” She pulled away from Andrei.

Vicktor suppressed a smile.

The contents of her refrigerator covered her linoleum floor in a swampy brew that included pickles and mashed potatoes. He found the telephone receiver in the sink, the rest under a plate of greasy fried cabbage he uncovered with his toe. Rubbing his chin with the back of his hand, he returned to the family room.

Grace was on her knees, gathering the remains of a bottle of vitamins. Andrei stood sentry behind her. He glared at Vicktor when he returned. What? Was it his fault that she had a knack for finding trouble?

“Miss Benson, do you know why anyone would want to rob you?”

She sat back on her heels and gazed up at him, her expression morose. She looked emptied, as if someone had
reached inside her and torn out her heart. He swallowed, hard, and tried to push away the feeling that somehow he’d failed her.

“I don’t know,” she answered weakly.

Running a hand through his hair, he turned away and blew out a breath. His gut said this wasn’t the act of a thief. Someone had entered Grace Benson’s flat looking for something, and when they didn’t find it—rage.

What if she had been here when the thief broke in?

Oops, he shouldn’t have entertained that thought.

“Who did this?” she asked, her eyes moving from her chauffeur to Vicktor and back.

“I don’t know.” He hated his answer. Crouching before her, he hung his arms over his knees. “Do you have any enemies? Anyone who would want to hurt you?”

“I am a
missionary,
” she retorted. “I work with the Church, the poorest people in Russia. What enemies would I have?”

He schooled his tone. “Well, obviously someone doesn’t like you.”

Her eyes widened as his words sank in. The medicine slid from her hand. “I have nothing of value here…and no enemies…that I know of.”

Andrei crouched beside her. “You can’t stay here, Grace.” He put a hand on hers. “Come with me. You can stay with my parents in their village.”

Vicktor pinched his lips. The chauffeur was right, of course, her flat wasn’t safe, but the man couldn’t simply tuck her away in some little hamlet. And, aside from the fact she was Vicktor’s prime witness, she was also a victim and a target.

“Nyet.”

“Why?” Andrei’s eyes darkened.

Vicktor pounced to his feet a second before the chauffeur. He took in Andrei’s clenched fist and narrowed his eyes.

“Watch yourself,” Vicktor growled in Russian. “Just give me an excuse to pull your license and make you hitchhike for the next ten years.”

Challenge flickered in Andrei’s eyes. Andrei obviously wasn’t afraid of him. That meant he had a
kreesha,
someone with pull who stood behind his words and actions. Mafia? Yet, something had definitely rattled the guy when he’d seen Gracie’s flat.

Who was Andrei and what was he doing hanging around a missionary? “Can you protect her?” Vicktor asked.

Andrei’s mouth drew into a fine line. “Better than you can.”

Now was probably a good time to reinforce all those reasons why the civilian population should quake when the FSB walked into the room. Civil rights were definitely overrated.

Except…he shot a glance at Grace. She looked stricken, and it spiked his heart. She needed a friend, and unfortunately, she felt more comfortable with her driver than with the FSB. He took a calming breath. “Can you bring her into the office tomorrow?”

Andrei nodded stiffly. He reached out for his charge. “Let’s go.”

“I’ll call in a team to sweep the place for evidence,” Vicktor said as the pair brushed passed him.

They didn’t acknowledge him. Grace retrieved her satchel from the floor and slung it over her shoulder. Andrei stalked out the door.

Gracie suddenly stopped, one hand on the door frame, and turned. Her gaze lifted to Vicktor’s and held it. Intense and needy, it implored him with an unspoken request. “Thanks,” she finally said.

Then she whirled and followed her chauffeur.

Vicktor watched her leave, listening to his heart make all sorts of promises he wasn’t sure he could keep.

Gracie cupped her hands over her face and willed herself not to cry. Her eyes burned, her face felt chapped. She was tired of tears. Fury churned inside her. Who had done this? And what was he after?

God, where are you?
The thought rose, unbidden, and she deliberately forced it away, unable to face the answer.

“Gracie, are you okay?” Andrei’s hands gripped the steering wheel, and his voice was low. Gracie nodded, glancing at him. He appeared tired, drawn. She’d seen him toe up to the FSB captain, and gratitude swept through her for his faithful protection. Whatever they had said, obviously he’d won.

Nevertheless, as she closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the rest, the image of Captain Vicktor Shubnikov—his pensive blue eyes, his face twisted in worry, and the smell of his clean, spicy cologne—uh-oh, should she be noticing that?—filled her mind. So she liked him. Was that a crime to admit? He wanted to help, she felt it in her gut, despite his poking around the Youngs’ computer.

Maybe she shouldn’t have treated him like vermin.

Especially when she could hardly suppress a smile, remembering the feel of his arms around her, holding, protecting.

“That cop is worthless. I’ll bet he’s searching your place for cash right now.”

Andrei’s derisive tone spliced her thoughts. She frowned at him. “I don’t think so, Andrei. He seems nice.”
Too much information.

Andrei shot her a dark look. “He’s
not
nice. He’s FSB. Of any person you might meet in Russia, he’s the dead last person you should trust.”

Gracie nodded, but she was remembering the captain’s eyes and the look he’d given her as she left. It spoke to her in a way that she couldn’t ignore. He
cared
what happened to her. No matter what Andrei said.

Which was probably a sign that she was already in deep trouble.

“You don’t know cops like I do,” Andrei mumbled.

She hoped she wouldn’t get to, either.

“Goal!” Roman pumped the air with his hockey stick, rolling in a circle on his blades.

Vicktor skated to the curb and dug the ball out of a gutter. Sweat streaked between his shoulder blades and down his
back, saturating his sweatshirt. Flipping the ball toward Roman, and ignoring the look of triumph on his opponent’s face, he skated to a bench and grabbed a jug of water.

“That’s three to one, Vita. Your mind’s not on the game.”

Vicktor grabbed a towel from his gym bag and swabbed his face. A scant wind hissed through the trees, ruffled his hair and raised gooseflesh on his clammy skin. Twilight slung long shadows across the paved boulevard in Lenin Park. Beyond the Amur River, a fiery red sun painted the river in cinnamon hues. Vicktor palmed his lower back and stretched.

“Give me a second to focus, Roma,” he said, frustrated that he couldn’t unstick Gracie Benson from his brain. Where was she, and was she safe?

Roman sat down on the bench, tugging out his own bottle of water.

Vicktor skated backward, flexing his new skates. His feet had started to burn. “Any leads on Evgeny’s murder?”

Roman draped the towel around his neck. “We’re talking to a couple of the pet owners, but other than a babushka mourning her Persians, nothing.”

Vicktor retrieved the ball and began batting it with his hockey stick.

“Might have something on your American missionaries, however.”

Vicktor nearly drove the ball into the trees. “What?”

“Malenkov brought us the case this afternoon.”

Vicktor peered over Roman’s shoulder at two children on swings in the playground. The swing set squealed in irritating rhythm. “Then, despite my report and Utuzh’s opinion, he doesn’t think it’s the Wolf.”

Roman hung his arms over his knees. “Sorry, Vita. He’s sticking to the mafia leads.”

Vicktor skated over and sat on the bench, feeling the last shreds of hope unravel. “Maybe the Wolf’s gone, moved to Moscow.”

“Maybe.”

The breeze washed through the trees, carrying remnants of Siberia’s winter smells. Vicktor grabbed his leather jacket. “So, what do you know about the missionaries?” He tried to keep his tone light, knowing anything Roman uncovered would stab at his convictions.

Roman unsnapped his skates. “Malenkov got another call.”