Love and Triumph: The Coltrane Saga, Book 8 (25 page)

Marilee and Vladimir were told that the Bolsheviks still wanted the gold returned. Irina had been seen in the area, and they felt it was just a matter of time until she tried to buy her lover’s freedom with the gold despite contrary orders from the Whites.

The village of Tobolsk was no more than log houses, whitewashed churches, and a few commercial buildings. They had been told that the Czar and his family were being held in the governor’s house. A high wooden fence had been built around it.

It was decided that Marilee could best obtain information by finding work in a restaurant frequented by newly assigned soldiers. She was hired and given a room above the restaurant where she could live. Vladimir and his soldiers returned to the White underground, maintaining cautious communication.

Marilee settled down into her routine. The restaurant was open nearly all the time, for there was nowhere else to go during the harsh winter months.

She could not remember such brutal weather in her whole life. The temperature had dropped to nearly seventy degrees below zero, and the rivers were frozen several feet deep. The world was a sculpture of ice and snow. Yet the smoldering intensity of her determination provided all the fuel she needed to survive—and succeed.

She had decided to use a more Russian name, and called herself Natasha Kievsky. She quickly became a favorite with the soldiers, who found her beautiful and vivacious. She did not, however, allow the teasing to go too far. She demanded respect, and she got it.

There were, of course, constant invitations from the young soldiers for dinner or a trip into Tyumen for dancing and theater when they had a pass. She knew the time would eventually come when it would be necessary to get closer to one of the soldiers in order to gain important information, but she also knew that she had to be both patient and discreet. Nothing of value could be learned from an ordinary soldier.

One Saturday night an officer walked in whom Marilee had never seen before. She knew at once that he was someone important when the soldiers instantly fell silent.

He scanned the room with narrow, suspicious eyes as he unfastened his greatcoat. He hung it on a hook by the door and Marilee saw that he wore stiff shoulder straps with bright metallic lace. She moved closer and saw that the straps had two longitudinal colored stripes down the center and three five-pointed stars. He was a lieutenant colonel!

He was tall and heavyset, with piercing black eyes. Marilee found him attractive, but in a formidable way. She took a deep breath, hoping she did not appear overly anxious as she made her way toward him. It was her first encounter with an officer, and he could prove a valuable contact.

He looked up at her coldly, but she did not flinch. Giving him her warmest smile, she spoke to him in fluent Russian. “Good evening, sir. My name is Natasha Kievsky. What is your pleasure?”

“You! I’ll have you naked and served to me on a platter,” he said mockingly in French.

Keeping her composure, Marilee answered him in French. “I’m sorry, sir, but
I
am not on the menu tonight. Perhaps you’d like to try our special—a platter of nice smoked cod and our best iced vodka.”

He blinked, then he threw back his head and laughed. “I never thought a restaurant servant would be so learned. Can you forgive me?”

“Of course.” She laughed with him. “If I weren’t able to overlook a lot of things, I’d never last in this job, believe me.”

They became friends at once. He introduced himself as Boris Gorchakov and said he had only recently been assigned to the 2nd Regiment. By the time the evening ended, he had asked her to join him at his quarters for a nightcap. Marilee demurely refused, knowing he would be back. Somehow she sensed he was important, and that he might just be the officer with whom she would have to pretend romance to get the information she—and the Whites—needed.

Boris came into the restaurant every night. He always sat alone. It was as if it was understood that Gorchakov did not want company.

Every evening he extended the same invitation to Marilee when she got off work. “I have an apartment of my own just across the way. It’s not much, but it’s warm and cozy, and I keep a supply of good caviar you won’t find elsewhere in this miserable place.”

Marilee continued to refuse but flirted with him mercilessly. She began to wear her peasant blouse a bit lower, affording him a view of delicious cleavage when she leaned to place his drink in front of him. She did not miss the way he drew in his breath sharply, and knew she had achieved the effect she wanted. After a few nights she did not move away when he reached to touch her; instead she smiled warmly as his hand moved from her waist to trace the swell of her hips beneath her skirt. His looks became more intimate, and he began to trail his fingers down her arm, brushing now and then across her breast as she served him.

A few times, when business was slow, she had dared to sit down at his table and chat. She let him do the talking, not wanting to arouse his suspicion that she might be a spy. At first he only tried to persuade her to go home with him. But then, as they became closer friends, he began to unwind and confide his problems—how miserable he was in his post, how he’d rather be in battle, how he wished the damnable war would just end so he could get on with his life. She learned that he was hard-core Bolshevik and felt that the Czar and his family should be exiled to the deepest regions of Siberia instead of being kept in a fine house at great expense to the government.

One night, when he was in an extremely talkative mood, Marilee dared ask, “How does the Imperial family act? Do they seem happy?”

He flashed her an accusing look. “What do you care? Are you sympathetic to the Imperialist dogs?”

“No, no.” She shook her head quickly and reached to cover his hand with hers. “I just thought maybe they might be complaining.”

He grunted and slouched back in his chair. “No,” he admitted, “they don’t complain. To be honest, I try not to be around them that much. I seldom see them. One of the soldiers said the four Grand Duchesses are acting out little plays. The boy joins in. The Empress knits and sews, and the Czar writes letters and reads.”

Marilee squeezed his hand and asked, “So what do you do all day to keep yourself busy?”

He shrugged and took a sip of his vodka. Then he looked from her bosom to her face and gave her a suggestive wink. “I count the hours till I can see you,
dushka
.
And I wonder how long you are going to make me suffer for your company in a more private place, where we can really get to know each other.”

She squirmed in her chair playfully. “Oh, tell me,” she continued to tease him. “What do you do?”

Relaxed by the vodka, and feeling that he had no reason to be on guard with her, he said casually, “Oh, we have some prisoners to keep an eye on. Some radical counterrevolutionaries. Whites, they call themselves.” He sneered. “I call them sons of bitches and say they should be shot.”

Marilee straightened in her chair and put her hand to her throat. “You mean there are dangerous prisoners kept around here? I didn’t know—”

“No one knows,” he hissed, suddenly realizing that he had said too much. “Forget what I just told you.”

He reached to squeeze her arm so hard that she winced with the pain and cried, “Boris, please stop. You’re hurting me.”

He released her but continued to glare at her. “You ask too many questions,
dushka
.
I must be careful. It is not wise to trust anyone these days.”

Her heart was pounding. She now knew that headquarters had been right. There were political prisoners being held near Tobolsk, and there was every reason to believe that her father was one of them. Now, more than ever, she had to gain Boris’s confidence and learn as much as possible from him.

Taking a deep breath, Marilee leaned forward and gave him her most beguiling smile as she huskily whispered, “You can trust me, my sweet, because I trust you. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t accept your invitation to have a drink with you at your apartment later tonight.”

He looked at her silently for a few seconds. Then, when he realized that she was quite serious, his rugged face took on a happy glow. “Yes, yes, you can trust me, Natasha. I am your friend. I want to be
more
,”
he added meaningfully.

“Time will tell.” She winked.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. No matter what it took, she would find out if her father was being held prisoner, and where.

It was nearly closing time when Boris signaled to her. “I’m going to leave now,” he said, paying her for his drinks and giving her a generous tip. “I want to make sure I’ve got a nice fire burning and some caviar and chilled vodka waiting. Maybe I’ll even make us a tray of fish and cheese. Would you like that?”

“Anything.” She leaned to pick up the money from the table and looked at him through lowered lashes. She let her breast brush against his arm and heard his soft gasp. “Anything, Boris. I do want to get to know you better.”

As he left, Marilee stared after him. She was going to have to be on guard, lest she find herself in a situation from which there would be no escape.

He returned promptly when the restaurant closed, and Marilee gathered her thick wool cape about her and prepared to step out into the frigid night.

And then she stopped dead in her tracks.

Could it be?

She blinked as she saw two men crossing the street and coming toward the restaurant. The wind was blowing mercilessly and snow was whipping about them. She told herself she was wrong, that she had mistaken the second man for someone else.

He could not be Cord Brandt.

Not here.

He looked up as he stepped onto the wooden boardwalk, and her heart leaped to her mouth. It was Cord. He was about to speak, but then he stiffened. The bearded man with him was a stranger to her, and it was he who asked, disappointed, “Is the restaurant closed for the night? We’ve come a long way, and—”

“It is closed!” Boris snapped abruptly, annoyed by the way one of them was looking at Natasha. He started to walk by them, pulling her with him.

Marilee could not move. Dear God, what was Cord doing here? What did it mean?

“Natasha!” Boris said coldly, giving her hand a tug. “Come with me. Now.”

Cord blinked, mouthing the name silently.

Suddenly she came to life. She knew that if she continued to stand there, she risked being exposed. She allowed Boris to pull her along and refused to look back.

“I’ve seen that one with the beard before. I think he’s a subversive. I’ve got men checking to find out what business he has here, though there is little doubt,” Boris added with a sneer.

“And what might that be?” Marilee asked.

“Why, they’re here to try to free the Czar, of course. We’ve been watching how they pour into the village—former officers of the Czar using assumed names, secretive visitors with precise Petrograd accents mingling with shopkeepers and merchants. They ask questions and make promises, and then disappear.

“It’s not as easy to make contact with the Imperial family now. Still, we’re always alert to strangers—especially when we know for a fact that they’re Whites,” he finished angrily.

Dear Lord, where on earth did he get that idea? She could not vouch for the man with him, but she knew that Cord Brandt was a Bolshevik through and through. “What makes you think they are Whites?” she asked, keeping her tone casual.

“What else could they be?” He led her down an alley beside a general store, then up a narrow stairway to a single door.

As he fumbled for a key, Marilee dared to probe him further. “But the other one. What about him? Why do you think he’s White?”

Boris pushed the door open, and they were greeted by the cozy warmth of a softly burning fire in the grate. He turned to take her in his arms. “Don’t worry about him,
dushka
,”
he said thickly, his lips nuzzling her face. “That is work for me to do tomorrow. Tonight, you have only to worry about me—and how much I adore you.”

Marilee took a deep breath. Swallowing against the bile of revulsion that rose in her throat, she lifted her lips for his kiss.

Thoughts of Cord Brandt would have to wait till later. Now she had to become the world’s greatest actress—and remind herself every single second that she was doing it to find a way to free the father she adored.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Marilee knew that accepting Boris’s invitation to go to his apartment meant he would think she had finally given up all her reservations and was ready to go to bed with him—just as she also knew she had no intention of doing so. She would have to be very tactful, lest he get mad. All she wanted was to gain his confidence and get him to talk. Although it was a big risk, she was banking on him passing out before he got too amorous—or determined. All evening she had ordered his drinks doubled and paid the difference in his bill out of her own pocket. She knew that vodka sneaked up on a person, and Boris Gorchakov was just arrogant enough to think he had no limit.

“So, you like my place?” Boris asked as he moved to a sideboard where there was yet more vodka. Without waiting for her to respond, he went on. “When I received my orders for this obscene outpost, I was determined to have my privacy. No barracks for me.”

Marilee glanced around the huge room. It was like an attic, with eaves and tiny arched windows. The floor was wooden and worn, and the furniture was sparse. In a far corner was the sleeping area, where a muslin curtain hung from ceiling to floor to conceal, she supposed, a bed.