In Sheep's Clothing (9 page)

Utuzh smoothed his bushy mustache as his brow edged skyward in thought. “
Neznaiyo.
If it wasn’t for Evgeny’s murder, and the wadded-paper signature, I could sign off the Americans as smugglers involved in a mafia land war and ship them off in crates to America. But something doesn’t feel right. It’s too easy. Visa stamps, the mafia signature. There’s no effort to hide any of it. I don’t think it’s the mafia.”

Vicktor looked at the floor, squinting at his shoes and running Utuzh’s words through his mind.

“My instinct tells me your vet was in cahoots with these missionaries and it got them all killed.”

“Or perhaps one was really a mafia hit and the other a ruse? To throw us off the scent?”

“Maybe they all knew a few too many secrets.” Utuzh cracked open his lab door. The smell of death leaked through the opening. “All I want to know is if this is the end of the body trail…or the beginning.”

V
icktor nearly tripped over the door frame, seeing his elusive office-mate, Maxim, slouched in his desk chair sifting through messages. His scruffy brown hair scraped at his shirt collar, and the guy had forgotten to shave, again. Vicktor glimpsed a Snickers bar clenched in his left paw.

Maxim glanced up.
“Privyet.”

“Hello,” Vicktor replied. He shrugged out of his coat as he took in Maxim’s sagging face and drooping shoulders. His rumpled brown polyester suit coat hung over his chair. “You okay, Max?”

“Da,”
the younger man confirmed, his gaze glued on his sea of paperwork. Vicktor saw him drop the candy wrapper on the floor and kick it into the pile under his desk.

“You got a message, by the way. The Consulate is sending a representative. Said they’d call when they got here.”

Oy, oy, oy.
That would be fun. Vicktor hung up his coat and grabbed his mug. The samovar glistened through the steam. Vicktor poured hot water into his mug and stirred his coffee and cream to a sandy brown.

“And Chief Inspector Sturnin called,” Maxim said without looking up. “About an hour ago. Said to have you call him back.”

Vicktor speed-dialed the number.

The secretary answered. “Chief’s out.” Her syrupy tone hinted that she was currently between beaus. “Any messages, Vicktor?”

Vicktor could see her gliding one sleek leg over the other and grinning into the phone, a gleam in her brown eyes.

He bristled. “
Da.
Tell him, ‘Chauffeur.’” He hung up, chuckling.

He flicked on his computer, then dialed the in-house computer department. Something inside him wanted to keep his promise to Grace Benson and give her the computer today—after copying all pertinent files, of course. Certainly a doctor would keep some sort of record of his daily activities. He just hoped the American had been high-tech enough to do it on his laptop.

The phone rang in his ear for an eternity while he picked up his e-mail messages. Nothing from Preach or Mae. Dread inched into his thoughts—Mae hadn’t been caught last night, had she?

Taking his coffee with him, he headed toward Yanna’s office, reminding himself that Mae most often used his personal address at home. He threaded through the maze of junior investigators, their heads bowed over mounds of paperwork. A road two meters thick could be laid from Vladivostok to Moscow from the paperwork the FSB generated in one year.

The Electronic Surveillance Department sprawled nearly the entire third floor and was filled with young men with big eyes glued to computer screens, scanning the millions of letters beaming over the Internet within and around Russia each day. They had their “tags”—people they suspected in international espionage, smuggling or industrial crimes, and a small division devoted to reading the mail of diplomats, businessmen, cultural exchange students, and humanitarian aid workers. Vicktor laid good odds that they would have a file on the Youngs.

He entered the reception area and strode toward an office of specialized technicians. The room hummed at a high-pitch as he stalked past cubicles and stopped behind the chair of Artyom Bartnyk. Vicktor grinned. The hacker was in a chat room, and from the looks of the icons on the screen, it wasn’t work related.

“How you doing on that computer I gave you, Artyom?”

The kid jumped.
Ha.
Artyom whirled in his chair, his face the color of a beet. He scrambled for words as his Adam’s apple bobbed.

“How’s Natasha?” Vicktor asked, enjoying this more than he should.

“Fine,” Artyom croaked, then spun in his chair to close out the chat screen. “It’s the only time she can chat that doesn’t cut into her study hours.”

“And the only time she doesn’t have Arkady listening in.” Vicktor clamped the kid on the shoulder, noting the horror in the man’s eyes. “Don’t worry, Artyom, his bark is worse than his bite.”

Vicktor laughed as Artyom’s mouth gaped open. He’d be a little nervous, too, if he were dating Arkady’s only daughter. “Don’t worry, Natasha’s as savvy as her old man. If you can sweet-talk her, I’m sure you’ll have no problem with Arkady.”

“I hope so.” Artyom closed out the chat. “I’m thinking about asking her to marry me.”

“That’s a pretty big step…”

Artyom smiled, and a dreamy look crossed his eyes.

“O-kay,” Vicktor said, seeing the battle lost. “How are you doing on that laptop I gave you?”

“Just getting started.” Artyom scooted his chair toward his PC. The Youngs’ computer was connected to a parallel port on his desktop IBM by a thick black nulmodem cable. He typed in the proper keystrokes and suddenly Dr. Willie Young’s welcome page flashed on the monitor. Ten or so icons dotted the picture of the young cowboy Vicktor had seen in their bedroom.

“What do you want to see?”

Vicktor set his coffee on the desk, drew up a stool and draped his arm over Artyom’s chair. He studied the screen. The icons represented a regular bouquet of high-tech American culture.

“Can you read English?” Vicktor asked.

“Enough to understand Windows and the installation instructions on my favorite games.”

“How about this one?” Vicktor pointed to the icon entitled “My Documents.”

Artyom clicked on it. A dialogue box opened and asked for a password.

“
Tochna.
That’s where we’ll start.” Vicktor whacked Artyom on the back.

Artyom grimaced. “Gimme all you got on this guy. It might take a while.”

An hour later, Vicktor thought he might send the machine through the third-story window if it beeped one more time. “Artyom, you’re supposed to be some sort of wizard. Can’t you find a shortcut to get past this thing?”

Artyom scowled at him.

“I told their American friend she could have the computer back today.” Not like he’d had a choice, with her glaring at him. Okay, so he had had a choice. The fact was, he’d had a hard time not offering to bring the computer back to her himself.

Artyom gazed at the screen and wiggled the mouse.

Vicktor watched the cursor dart, flicking from icon to icon.

“Are you bothering my staff again, Vicktor?”

Vicktor leaned back in his chair and grinned up at Yanna. She’d pulled her long brown hair into a clip, and in a black blazer and skirt, she appeared every inch the director of her Electronic Surveillance Department.

“Sorry, Captain Andrevka. Your hacker here is totally inept.” He saw the glare from Artyom and grinned. “Evidently everything is password protected.”

“Not a bad idea,” Yanna said, rubbing her chin with her forefinger, as if thinking. “Laptops are stolen every day in Khabarovsk.”

She glanced at him. “So, did you have a good time last night?”

Vicktor smiled, swept up by the twinkle in Yanna’s eyes. He nodded. “Good game.” Obviously Mae had made it back to base without hassle. He didn’t want to imagine the late-night conversation she might have had with her partner-in-crime, Yanna. Next question would be about the American he’d cornered on the train.

“Oh, I’m an idiot.” He shot a look at Yanna, who raised one groomed eyebrow. “Don’t go there. It’s just that I’ll bet Miss Benson can get into this thing. She wanted to take it with her.”

Artyom leaned back in his chair. “I doubt it. Passwords aren’t the kinds of things people share, even with their best friends.”

“Still, I’ll bet she knows something.” He pulled out his notebook and reached for the phone. It rang more than ten times before he concluded she wasn’t home.

“Maybe I should pay her a visit,” he mumbled, as if testing the idea.

Yanna nearly yanked him to his feet. From her bemused expression, he knew his guesses about Yanna and Mae’s late-night gossip had been spot-on.
Great.

“Go see her,” Yanna said, grinning. “I’ll stay here and see if I can help my
inept
hacker find a back door.”

Vicktor ignored Yanna’s wink and stalked out of the office.

The sound of the telephone ringing, for the billionth time, shredded the last of the Wolf’s nerves. Especially when he saw Sergei reach for it. He rounded on the kid behind him. “What. Are. You.
Thinking?
”

Sergei yanked his hand away, shock on his face. “Sorry. Reflex.”

“Idiot.” The Wolf was growing weary of Sergei’s appearance, as well as his stupidity. His shiny black leather coat was the only
non-repulsive part about him. Bags of gray hung under the kid’s eyes, and whiskers layered gaunt cheeks, parting around a scar along his jaw. Brains were obviously an overrated attribute in this new era. The hoodlum made the Wolf wince. “Just…hurry.”

Sergei shrugged, and crunched through the shards toward the kitchen.

The Wolf’s mouth filled with curses, words he hadn’t thought or said for over two decades, so meticulously had he created his façade. Even now, his tongue stumbled over them, and he said them again, finding a particular satisfaction as filth spewed into the room. He’d sacrificed so much of his life. Finally, he would reap what he’d sown.

He clenched his fists and stalked into the bedroom. A scatter of balled socks littered the bed, like snowballs on a brown wool blanket. Dust mites, raked out from under the bed, caught in the afternoon sun, swirling in an illuminated swath along the wooden floor. He knelt, lifted the blanket and came up sneezing. More curses.

He was keenly aware of the sound of glass breaking in the kitchen, and decided not to chase after it. So the place got roughed up. He’d send a message; one he hoped would command attention.

He was tired of not being taken seriously. The Koreans had actually laughed at him.

He’d show them.

Sergei appeared in the door. “It’s not here.”

The Wolf swept an arm across the nightstand and sent crashing to the floor an alarm clock, a container of acetaminophen, and a five-by-seven framed photo of Dr. and Mrs. Young. He stepped on the picture. The glass cracked in a web of jagged lines.

The Wolf smiled for the first time in days.

Vicktor gripped the steering wheel, the memory of the ringing phone in his ear.
Please, Miss Benson, don’t be on the train
again to Vladivostok.
Relief felt thick and hot in him when he turned into her courtyard and spied her climbing out of a blue Toyota Corolla.

He pulled in across the lot and watched her. The sun lit her blond hair a dull gold and she appeared tired, lines creasing her wan face. It was hard to discern if she was thin like the Russian girls under her baggy dress and sloppy trench coat, and she was wearing those silly boots again. Yet, her face had a molded softness. And, as she gritted her teeth, prying at the trunk latch, Vicktor decided she was pretty. Not in a chic European way, like Yanna, but more like the Lands’ End models he had seen pasted on the covers of the catalogs on his friend’s table in Oregon—welcoming, casual and friendly.

Then Andrei, her protective chauffeur-maybe-boyfriend jumped out of the car. Vicktor bristled. He absently rubbed his shin, calling himself a fool to be duped by her simple appearance, again. It would do him well to remember how her warm, needy demeanor had vanished the minute her hero driver darkened the door. Vicktor steeled himself and climbed out of the car.

Recognition flickered in Andrei’s eyes and he barely masked a scowl. He leaned down and whispered something into Grace’s ear. She glanced up at Vicktor. Oh boy, did she have green eyes—and he felt just a little sick when they clouded.

“What do you want?” Grace’s voice trembled.

Did he still think her pretty? He studied her—her hands perched on her hips, jeweled eyes glinting with suspicion. Yes, spunk only made her cute.

He jingled his car key as he wandered toward her. “I need to talk to you,” he said in English.

Andrei slid his hand onto Grace’s shoulder and narrowed his eyes.

“I have nothing to say to you,” Grace said.

“If you want to find your friends’ killers, you need to help us.”

Mistrust in her eyes, her stance told him she’d been briefed on the reputation of the FSB. He tensed with offense. Not every
Russian cop abused his power and lived above the law. More and more, with western ideas, that theology was dying a slow death. But, as he read the skepticism on Grace’s face, the stigma felt like a slap.

“All I want to do is talk.”

Grace frowned. Vicktor added a one-sided smile. He could almost see her shuffling between her instinctive trust of cops, and her fear. He actually heard his heart beat in his ears when her expression gentled.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“I have your computer.”

“Where?” She stared pointedly at his empty hands.

“At the office. I need your help with it.”

“What kind of help?” She looked him up and down, as if searching for a gun, or a bowie knife hidden under his jacket. What did she think—that he was going to haul her into HQ and put her in shackles? This wasn’t a Bond movie.

“I’m stuck on the welcome page. Our hackers can’t crack the password, and I’ve been unable to read any of his files.”

She froze and squinted her eyes. “What are you doing snooping around in Dr. Willie’s files?”

Andrei tightened his grip on her shoulder. She shrugged out of it.

Yeah, that’s right, she doesn’t need you, Boris.
Vicktor stifled a grin. “Well, we’re not trying to beat his solitaire record. I’m hoping we can find some clues—”

“I’m not helping you break into the Youngs’ computer, and if you had any sense you’d spend your time finding the murderer instead of stealing files from Americans,” Gracie snapped.

Vicktor’s good humor disintegrated. “
Tiha,
sweetheart. We
are
searching for the murderers. But we have some serious questions about evidence we found in the Youngs’ apartment.”

“Evidence?” Grace raised her brows at Vicktor, as if waiting for him to explain himself, much like a teacher responding to an unruly student.

Frustration strummed a tense neck muscle. Well,
that
hadn’t gone well. Obviously, prying the password from her would take a little more finesse. Vicktor scanned the courtyard. Babushkas on benches leaned forward on their canes. Children, in the bread queue near a dilapidated kiosk, stared at them, mouths agape. Vicktor pointed at the car trunk.