Love and Triumph: The Coltrane Saga, Book 8 (27 page)

The window made a loud scraping sound as he opened it.

“Natasha?” Boris called, sounding alarmed. “What’s wrong? What’s that noise? Are you all right?”

He began to jiggle the doorknob, and Marilee was grateful that Cord had taken the time to lock it after he had burst in.

“Wait a moment, Boris,” she called, making her voice sound groggy, as though he’d awakened her. “You startled me. I knocked something over.”
      

“I’m so sorry,” he cried. “Oh, I do apologize…”

On and on he rambled miserably through the door, while Marilee anxiously watched Cord scramble through the window and disappear into the frozen morning. It was not a long drop to the ground.

Closing the window after him, she took a deep breath, and went to face Boris.

Outside, Cord’s booted feet hit the snow with a soft thud. He glanced about in the purple light, blinked against the glare of the sunrise, then hurried on his way.

On the other side of the alley, crouched unseen behind a collection of garbage barrels, Rudolf grinned.

He had somehow known that when he found Cord Brandt, he would find Marilee.

His comrades would take care of the traitorous German.

He would take care of her.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Cord was so angry that it was all he could do to keep from smashing his fist into Vladimir Dubovitsky’s face. He wanted to know why Marilee, a woman completely uneducated in the ways of subversion, was being allowed to undertake something as dangerous as manipulating a man like Boris Gorchakov.

And the answers he was getting were making him madder than hell.

“She’s aware of the risks, Brandt,” Dubovitsky said quietly, after Cord had exploded. “She knows what she’s doing.”

“No, she doesn’t,” Cord shouted. “There’s no way she can. You need a professional for a job like that. Somebody like that Bolshevik bitch, Elenore Hapsburg. Don’t we have anybody like that available?”

“They would not have the same motivation as Marilee, because Marilee is only doing it to try and get her father out of prison,” Dubovitsky quickly pointed out.

“And besides,” he could not resist goading, “thanks to you, Elenore proved to be a big disappointment to the Zealots, didn’t she?”

Cord let the remark pass. He knew only too well how Elenore had fulfilled the old story about the wrath of a woman scorned.

“She wound up confiding everything to the authorities, but now we’re informed that the Coltranes are en route to Russia to try to locate Marilee. We’ve been asked to help, but, of course, we’re keeping her whereabouts confidential until she’s completed her mission,” Dubovitsky said.

“Well, I just hope they get to her before Boris Gorchakov finds out who she really is,” Cord growled.

“Stay out of it, Brandt!” Dubovitsky snapped.

“No! I happen to care about her, and I’m not sitting back and letting her endanger her life just because you bastards believe that the end always justifies the means—no matter who gets hurt in the process!”

He turned to stalk from the room, but on Dubovitsky’s signal, the other men present moved to block his path.

Realizing that he was outnumbered, Cord turned back around. “Okay, what else is on your mind? I’d like to get back to Tobolsk and keep an eye on things.”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Brandt,” Dubovitsky informed him coldly. “We
do
mind.”

Cord’s eyes narrowed. “There’s no way you can stop me, except by force, and I wouldn’t advise that.” He slipped his hand inside his fur parka, touching his gun.

Dubovitsky was well aware that he was armed. “We have people watching her. You’ll only complicate matters if you get involved. You could even jeopardize Marilee’s position yourself,” he said placatingly.

“No.” Cord shook his head firmly. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“But you said you went to her room over the restaurant. That was taking a hell of a big chance. What if you were seen? You never should have made personal contact with her.”

“Who’s going to be out wandering around at dawn in this freezing weather?” he replied fiercely. “Besides, I had to see her. I wanted to know what she was doing with a goddamn Bolshevik officer, and she sure as hell needed to know I wasn’t just spying for them, pretending to be a White.

“It wouldn’t have had to be that way,” he added angrily, “if you’d have let both of us know what was going on.”

Dubovitsky let that pass. It had not been entirely his decision to keep that information confidential. Instead he said sharply, “You didn’t accomplish anything, because you said she didn’t believe you. You’d have been wiser to contact us to find out what was going on and keep your distance from her. You had no business acting on your own that way. It was dangerous.”

Cord finally exploded. “Let me tell you something! I’m not just some patriotic private citizen out to do my good deed for the fucking counterrevolution! I’m every bit as good at what I do as you and the other bastards in this room!”

Dubovitsky was sitting behind a makeshift desk, and he shrank back in his chair as Cord leaned menacingly toward him. The men standing behind him moved warily forward.

“I’ve got a big stake in this war, Dubovitsky. I’ve got my own personal vendetta against the Bolshevik pigs, remember? One of Lenin’s insane followers killed my mother in a butcher shop in Petrograd with a knife because she didn’t agree with what he was orating about that day. And then the bastards shot my father down in cold blood when he tried to take his revenge on the maniac.

“My father had taken my mother out of Russia,” he went on, moving away from the desk. “They had lived in Germany since they married, but she’d gone back when her father died to clear out the home place. It was their last day there. I was away at Oxford when I got the news. Then I knew it had become my goddamn war, too. That’s why I’m in it. For revenge. And you and everybody else know it. I’ve never pretended that it was for anything else.”

Dubovitsky reached to pat his shoulder in understanding. “We know that, Brandt, and you’re one of our best men. Just don’t let your heart rule your head and make you do something stupid, all right?”

Cord’s anger returned. “I’m not some lovesick schoolboy. I know what I’m doing. And all I ask of you is to pull Marilee off her assignment. Get her out of there, and then tell her who the hell I really am, so she’ll trust me.”

Dubovitsky exchanged concerned glances with the others. He would have liked to be able to order him not to return to Tobolsk, to send him somewhere else that he might be useful, but knew he’d never consent. “Very well,” he said finally. “Go back there. Keep an eye on her—but from a distance. Remember that you could jeopardize not only her life,
but yours as well, not to mention other Whites in the area.”

“And what about backing me up on who I am?”

Dubovitsky shook his head sadly. “We can’t do that now. It would only complicate matters. Let her do what has to be done, then she can be told everything. She needs to put her sole concentration on deceiving Lieutenant Colonel Gorchakov, not on sorting out the feelings that will be provoked by learning the truth about you. That is the decision of those in authority.”

Cord knew it was no use to argue anymore, and besides, he was anxious to get back. Wanting just to end the meeting, he pretended to concede. “All right,” he said finally. “I’ve got no choice but to play by your rules…for now.”

“For now…” Dubovitsky echoed, nodding. “Then go. And we will be in contact. But remember, your original assignment was just to be in Tobolsk in case you’re needed.”

Cord nodded and hurried on his way.

He was not yet sure how he would do it. He knew only that there was no way he was going to allow Marilee to be hurt.

And he also wanted to make sure she didn’t get herself into a situation she couldn’t get out of, one that would haunt her for the rest of her life.

Boris Gorchakov stared at the portrait of Lenin which hung behind his desk in the tiny room he used for an office. He templed his fingers to keep himself from hitting something. His teeth were clenched so tightly his jawbone ached.

The roaring in his head was not only from too much vodka the night before.

He had awakened to realize that Natasha was gone, but when he saw how she’d tucked the blanket around him, he’d dared to hope she might harbor no hard feelings. Still, he had known he would not rest easy until he could be sure.

He had a deep, burning desire for her, an ache in his loins like a gnawing hunger. He had to have her.

So he had hurried into the frigid morning and made his way to her place above the restaurant to let her know how much he regretted the way the night before had so abruptly ended. He wanted to make sure that another date was made for the evening to come. This time, he swore, he would not overindulge in vodka. He would be awake, aware, and very, very passionate.

But when he heard the strange noises coming from within her room after he had knocked, he felt that something was not quite right. Even though she had graciously accepted his apology, assured him she was not angry, and even agreed to see him that night, she had not invited him into her room. He had passed off her reluctance as fear of being caught entertaining a man in her private quarters. He could understand that, and was not anxious to be seen there, anyway. So he had gone on his way, happily counting the hours till he could be with her again, this time to prove to her what a man he could be. How he would make her glad she was a woman!

He arrived at his office to find a dark-haired man waiting to see him. He said he had no time for him, but the man got his full attention with one statement.

“Natasha is not her real name.”

He ushered him into his office, past the surprised gaze of his staff assistant. Once the door had closed behind them, Boris grabbed the man by his shirt and slammed him up against the wall. “Tell me who you are and why you are here, before I lose my patience and kill you…comrade,” he added with a sneer.

“Natasha is not Natasha,” the man repeated, his eyes bulging in fear. Boris Gorchakov was a huge man who could easily crush a man’s throat with the squeeze of one large hand. “She…is…daughter of…Drakar…Mikhailonov.”

Hearing that, Boris emitted a loud, guttural snarl; then he lifted him up and threw him into a chair. “Talk!” he commanded. “And if you cannot prove what you say, then you will die this very day.”

The lieutenant colonel spun around in his chair and faced Lenin’s portrait.

Rudolf was not about to say anything more until the officer got hold of himself. He knew it had to be very disconcerting to a man in his position to hear that he had been betrayed by a woman, especially one who turned out to be a
spy
.

Rudolf had thought the situation over carefully. After following Brandt and watching as he prepared to leave Marilee’s room, he had decided there was no need to follow him to the Whites. He could get caught himself, for the trail to their headquarters was heavily guarded. Besides, he felt it much more important to let Gorchakov know he was being deceived—and dangerously.

“So,” Gorchakov said finally, spinning around to face him, this time with a cold smile touching his lips. “My little Natasha is actually the daughter of Drakar Mikhailonov. What a fool she has made of me.”

“Oh, no, sir,” Rudolf hastened to reassure him. “You had no way of knowing. It was only by accident that I discovered her little scheme—
and
Brandt’s,” he added with a vehement grunt.

“You see,” he hurried to explain, “I became suspicious of Brandt when I heard that Marilee had escaped from Daniberry. Then, when my sister betrayed all of us, I knew it had to be because she was angry at him for becoming romantically involved with his hostage. So I started trailing him, spending all my time and energy tracking him down, and it paid off.”

“You did well, Citizen Rudolf,” Gorchakov grunted. “And because you’ve proved yourself to be so competent, I will leave it to you to decide what happens next.”

Rudolf was almost shaking with happiness.
He
would be in control of their fate.

Gorchakov asked, “Shall I send soldiers to arrest her and throw her in jail with her father? Brandt, as well? We could torture them both, or execute them as an example to other spies in Tobolsk.”

“No, no,” Rudolf was quick to disagree. “We don’t want to alert the rest of the Whites as to what’s going on. It has to be done quietly, and quickly, before word leaks out.”

“Go on.”

“When do you see her again?”

“Tonight.”

“Good. Act as though you suspect nothing. We can be sure that Brandt will be watching her like a hawk. We’ll set a trap for him at your place, and then we’ll have them both. We’ll take him off to jail, and her, too…
after
,”
he finished with a suggestive wink, “I get my reward for a job well done.”

Gorchakov grinned, a lascivious gleam in his black eyes. “Ah, yes. You deserve to have your fill of her, and then it will be
my
turn.”

Rudolf kept a smile pasted on his face, but he was actually repulsed by the thought of Gorchakov with Marilee. He would not admit it to anyone, but he realized that he had, somewhere along the way, fallen in love with Marilee Mikhailonov.