Sands of Time (15 page)

All the same, being in his wavelength again had scraped away the denial.

She still loved him. Heartbreakingly so.

“Roman.” She pulled away, her gaze on his mouth. He stilled, and she met his eyes.

“I’m sorry. I…should have asked.” He wore apology in his frown. “I just… I missed you.”

Her chest knotted, words that she longed to say, should have said ages ago, filling her throat. She’d always operated on the belief that he wanted to go out a hero, in a blaze of glory. In a shootout, taking down the outlaws in the world.

But he’d been willing to sacrifice his life in the middle of Siberia, with no one watching so she might escape.

The man shivering in her arms was exactly the man she’d once loved—a man of principle, of passion.

A man who wanted to save lives, just like she did. Maybe he had become exactly the man God wanted him to be. Not Paul the Missionary, but David the Warrior.

She should give him more credit for working out God’s call on his life.

“Roman, I saw something upstairs…something strange.”

“A whirlpool tub with a—”

“No.” She gave him a playful smack, and he smiled as he closed his eyes.

“A picture of Julia Bednov. The governor’s wife.”

Roman frowned, still not opening his eyes. “Bednov owns shares in Alexander Oil. I’ll bet this place is on their property.”

“Their son died of renal failure, remember?”

Roman opened his eyes. Stared at her.

“And Maxim, from the village, his mother was a cook in a local factory.”

“Like a nuclear plant? Did she do some extra cooking for a certain governor-to-be and his wife?”

Sarai glanced at the door, lowered her voice. “She might have even brought Maxim along, maybe to work, or even play with Sasha.”

“So, how would they both get infected with nuclear waste? The plant is far enough away that—”

“The lake.”

His mouth opened, but no words came out. Then he closed it. And if he’d been white already, he paled even fur
ther. “Of course. It’s probably fed by underground streams. Russia’s standard practice is to submerge its used nuclear fuel in a pond to cool, but if any of the containers leaked, the waste would have been absorbed into the sand around the pond, and then into the underground streams and fed into the lake.”

“Roman, I’m sure that you weren’t in there long enough—” She put a hand over her mouth to stop herself, but tears came again.

Roman brushed one away with his thumb. “Don’t cry,
Sarichka.
I’ll be okay. I’m in God’s hands, remember?”

At the moment, she didn’t want to go there. Didn’t want to talk about being in God’s hands. Although God had saved Roman this time, she didn’t know what was going to happen in the next hour, and she wasn’t putting her hopes up too far. A person could get skewered believing too much.

Maybe, in fact, Roman had nailed the truth. She didn’t trust God. Not at all.

“I always knew you’d die in the line of duty.”

“That’s the risk of my job, Sarai. I’m a cop. That’s what I do. I always thought that’s what Jesus meant when he said to ‘take up our cross and follow Him.’ To accept our mission in life wherever it leads, even if it leads to death.”

He gave her a sad smile.

“I’ll get you home. Get you tested. You’ll be fine.” Her voice sounded like it had come through a vise.

“Of course I will,” he said softly and ran his hand down her hair. He’d stopped trembling, but she felt a tremor start in her soul.

“I always thought that taking up our cross meant that if we were going to die for something, let it be worthwhile,” she said.

He leaned his forehead to hers. “Saving the world from nuclear terrorists seems pretty worthwhile.”

Not if it meant she had to watch him die.

“I don’t know what that verse means, Roman. I just know that I—”

The door slammed open. Mafia One filled the door frame, and he didn’t look happy.
“Gotov?”
he asked.

Ready? For what?

H
e might actually get some sleep this night. Alexei Bednov replaced the receiver and stood up from his desk. Stretched. Julia was in the next room, sprawled on the sofa, watching television. Sauced to the gills. He’d found her in a slump on the floor in the kitchen an hour ago, and it had taken his last shred of kindness not to leave her there.

I’ll get you, Alexei.
Julia’s voice rung in Bednov’s ears.

Sure you will, sweetie, the governor thought. He smiled and poured himself a snifter of brandy. Now that the militia and FSB had restored order to the city, this day had been calmer. Curfew, certainly. But in time, he’d lift that. Restore government. Provisionally, of course.

This could work. He’d seen it in the cards years ago, knew that one day he’d be poised to reclaim all Russia had lost. Disillusionment with the capitalist way caused society
to demand change, just as he knew it would. A person couldn’t eat freedom. Of course, he understood the benefits of capitalism, and could live with the negatives, like Barry Riddle, and his two incarcerated investors.

He’d try them for murder. And then execute them.

If he could not execute them, he’d let them languish in a Siberian prison for a few years. That would keep their mouths closed.

He sipped the brandy. It coated his throat with heat, loosening the knot of tension in his chest. He smiled at the image of one FSB agent being wrung out by Fyodor. He’d wanted Novik in his custody for too long now—from the first day the agent had met Gregori Smirnov. It wasn’t easy to find a courier who not only believed, but was willing to risk his health for the good of Mother Russia.

Fyodor would know what to do to make him talk. Especially since Novik—and the American girl—had broken into the Khandaski nuclear plant. By morning, Bednov would know just how much Captain Novik and his girlfriend knew. Little, probably. But enough to raise noses in other parts of the country.

Not everyone believed in a strong Russia. At least not in
his
definition of strong.

But here, in the province of Irkutia, they did. Because Alexander Evgeyovich Bednov was their leader.

He poured himself another snifter of brandy. His men had pulled the two from the ice. They could return them there when they finished. He smiled at that.

How convenient. He wouldn’t ever swim in that lake anyway.

Roman decided he had to still be in shock, or partially frozen because that last shot to his gut should have hurt more than it did. As it was, his brain felt fuzzy, his eyesight cutting in and out.

Sadly, his eyesight cleared enough to see a guy who probably played the underground fight-club circuit backing up and rubbing his fist. Roman felt profoundly grateful that he’d kept his jeans on—even if they were heavy and cold on his legs. Imagine how fun it would be to be interrogated, his hands tied behind him as he sat in a chair in his skivvies. That thought followed with profound gratefulness that he could feel his legs, that he was alive.

At least, for now.

He blinked, trying to clear his vision, and got a fix on the tall, scar-faced, bald interrogator who seemed to be getting a second wind.

Joy to the world.

Roman licked his lip, tasted blood and sensed that it might be thick, although that, too, had gone numb. Fight Club circled him like a hyena.

“Irkutia is now under martial law. Your rights no longer apply, Mr. FSB. And—” he jerked his head toward the other room “—neither do hers.” Fight Club leaned close, breathed fish into Roman’s face. “We only want to know what you were looking for.”

A hot sauna, some smoked salmon and some alone time with the girl in the next room.

Roman said nothing. The longer he held out, the more time Sarai had for Vicktor to show up in Smolsk, get worried and come looking for them.

Roman hung on to the hope that Vicktor had the sleuthing skills to guess Roman had paid a visit to the reactor. Too bad he’d lost his sat phone on the bottom of the lake. Or should he say, toxic pool?

“You know we’ll ask her next. And believe me, she may be a doctor, but nothing is going to heal what we do to her.”

Roman tried not to let the reaction out, past his gut, but he inadvertently clenched his jaw.

Fight Club grabbed him by the hair. “I’m not kidding. It’s been a long time since I’ve been up close and personal with an American girl. Are they all the same?”

Roman shook his head out of the man’s grip. “Leave her alone. And listen up. I’m an FSB agent, and if I don’t check in you can bet they’ll come looking for me.” He’d been repeating the same information for nearly an hour—was it an hour? It could be ten minutes and his befuddled brain wouldn’t know the difference.

He heard a growl behind him. Braced himself. But the man only grabbed him by the hair again and hauled him to his feet. “Maybe you should rethink your answer while we talk to your girlfriend.”

Panic spiked through him, conjuring up images. “Leave her alone. She doesn’t know anything. She’s a doctor—I kidnapped her.”

Mr. Fight Club chuckled, as if amused. Roman jerked his head and realized that maybe he wasn’t as numb as he’d hoped. He surrendered as the man led him back to the family room. Fight Club opened the door, made to push Roman to the floor.

Roman heard a scream and saw feet rushing at him. He flinched, ducked and rolled as Sarai launched herself at his interrogator.

What was she doing? Trying to get herself killed? Obviously, Fight Club and his pal had underestimated her when they left her untied in the room. “Sarai!”

He rolled onto his back, saw Fight Club wrestling a poker out of her hands. Blood trickled down his temple, but he had fury in his eyes as he gave the poker a vicious twist. Sarai cried out.

Fight Club raised the poker above his head. Sarai covered her head with her hands just as Roman kicked the man in the gut.

He bent over, and a whoosh of air escaped his lungs. Roman kicked him again across the face.

They’d attracted attention. Mafia Two appeared—the dark-haired one with the cell phone, and a gun. He held it on Roman. “Stop,” he said calmly.

Fight Club stood up, flicked a glance at Sarai, who had backed up against the wall with her hands still curled over her head. Then he kicked Roman hard, right above the kidneys.

Roman stifled a scream, but pain exploded in his entire body and for a second he thought he might throw up.

“Leave him alone!” Sarai’s voice cut through the blinding pain. Through his blurred vision he saw her leap to her feet. “He’s ill and still suffering from hypothermia.” He recognized her doctor’s voice, despite a quavering around the edges. “If you let him rest, he’ll be in better shape to talk to you.”

No, Sarai. I’ll just feel the pain again when I don’t talk.
Only, he couldn’t seem to form words with his stiff lips.

“Please. Listen, I’ll tell you what I know. Leave him alone.”

No!

To reinforce her words, Mafia Two grabbed Sarai and pressed the pistol against her throat.

She went white.

Roman stopped breathing. Fight Club straddled him, hit him again.

“Stop, please,” Sarai said in a voice barely audible.

As he watched, they pulled Sarai out into the hall. A sacrificial offering.

He lay in a ball as the door clicked shut and wanted to cry.

“What are you going to do to me?” Her voice sounded tinny.

The man she’d hit held his hand to his head and glared at her. Her stomach felt floppy and weak, her legs trembled.

He reached for her.

“Stop.” The command came from the other man. He lowered his gun away from Sarai. “We’re to keep them alive until Fyodor gets here.”

Keep them alive?

Her head started a slow spin. She reached out for the wall. Keep them alive. Yes, that’s what she had to do.

Sarai took a deep breath. Years of muscling past bullies who wanted to scalp her or steal her medicines had taught her to sort out her thoughts, think through each breath. She latched on to her anger, separating it from fear and steeled her voice. “I’m a doctor and he needs something hot to drink, or he’ll die. I’m going to make him tea.”

Bleeding Mafia stared at her. Her pounding heart filled the gap of time. Then, he pushed her toward the kitchen and let her go. “In there.”

She ignored the frowns of the two men, especially the one she’d hoped to skewer, and prayed that she had the strength to walk past them, to enact her plan without crumpling into a ball.

Again.

She should have been quicker, braver. As it was, she’d only worked her courage to half the needed strength, despite being crouched beside the door for nearly a half hour. Who did she think she was—a super hero? They probably doubted she had it in her to pounce, but she’d had her ear to the wall, and every time Roman made a noise—a noise that ripped her heart a little further from its moorings—her resolve hardened.

She had to get him out of here before they killed him. She’d just have to resort to plan B.

Whatever that might be.

Lord, give me wisdom! Help me save us.
How had she gone
from life securely in her grip to fraying fast and well into desperation? She had to admit, she never felt more abandoned by God than now. After all she’d done for Him, she thought He’d certainly step in. Hadn’t she earned at least that? In fact, she had to wonder if she wasn’t somehow being punished. Only, for what? Loving Roman?

No, that came with its own inherent punishment. A girl should have to sign a disclaimer, or waiver of damages when she got near him.

She should have read the clause about how he’d grind her heart into little bitty pieces of sorrow. She’d heard that last little groan he made and wanted to wail.

Trust in the Lord with all your heart.

The verse from her childhood made her pause right inside the kitchen. Mafia One nearly stomped over her.

“Sorry,” she said, meekly.

Buy time.

Her heart filled her throat, and she struggled to swallow it back into place. She went to the stove and grabbed a pot of water.

“No tricks. Or your boyfriend gets hurt.” Mafia One sat, grabbed a napkin and put it to his head. Sarai saw the action and winced.

Be apologetic.

The thought arrowed into her head as she filled the pot with water. Hopefully it wasn’t ground water. As in
toxic
ground water. She put it on the electric stove to boil.

“I’m a doctor. Maybe I should look at that.” She turned and advanced toward him. He raised his pistol. “Get back.”

Sarai raised her hands, saw that they shook. Probably a good thing, because then neither of them harbored any illusions. She felt her heartbeat as a pulse at the base of her neck.

She turned, opened up a cabinet and began to search for tea. Mafia One still had the napkin—now dotted with blood—pressed to his head. Some doctor she was—first do no harm. See the things Roman made her do?

She found tea boxes—Indian tea, and green tea. English breakfast tea. And, wedged into another box, right behind the teas…
Moscovskaya yspokaivayushee sredstva.

Sedatives.

Of course. Julia Bednov probably had them stashed throughout the house.

She grabbed the box and did a quick count. The size of sugar packets, the sedatives dissolved in water. She’d used them on a few occasions for grieving parents, or even agitated patients. For that matter, she’d even given a mild dosage to Julia.

Apparently, the woman needed the stuff more than Sarai realized.

With the right dosage, the mafia brothers would drop like stones and wake up with nothing more than a couple head knockers.

She took down a box of green tea and opened it.

Be friendly.

She turned and held up the box. “Want some tea?”

Mafia One narrowed his beady dark eyes. Then, praise God! He nodded.

Sarai smiled.

She found teacups and ladled in tea bags. And then, one eye on her captor, she ripped open a handful of packets and poured in the white powder. She shoved the wrappers up her sleeve, then poured the water into the cups.

Stirred.

“I’m taking this into Roman. I made one for your…friend, too. They’re on the counter.” She picked up a cup and saucer, turning to leave.

Mafia One stood, and stopped her with a grip on her arm.

“Try again, Americanka.” He reached out, took the cup from her hand. “Take one of those.”

Sarai looked at the cup in his hand, then shrugged and turned. “Suit yourself. They’re all alike.”

Then she walked past him, thankful that her hand didn’t tremble.

But, inside she was doing a wild rumba. He’d taken the bait.

She heard him grunt at Mafia Two as she stopped by Roman’s door and nudged it open.

She closed it behind her, praying.

Roman writhed on the floor, his hands behind his back, working at his bonds. He looked up and the relief on his face took her breath away. “Please, tell me you’re okay. That they didn’t hurt you.”

“I made tea.”

He blinked at her. Frowned. Stared at the tea. “I’m sorry, I have no idea what you just said.”

“I made tea.” She crouched next to him. “I’ll untie you.”

She fought her shaking hands, feeling his gaze on her.

“Did you just say you made tea?”

“I did. I…well—” she lowered her voice “—I put sedatives in it. So don’t drink any.”

He raised his eyebrows and then grinned. It felt like one-hundred-thousand watts of sunshine to her heart.

His hands came free. He rolled over and reached for her. In the brief moment before he slid his hand around her neck and pulled her to him, she saw a sheen in his hot eyes.

As if he’d been…crying?

He kissed her hard, an almost desperate release of emotions. Nothing gentle there. Pure fear and heartache rolled into his kiss. The intensity rushed through her, caught her unaware and left her unhinged.

Roman was afraid. That, she never, ever expected.

He pushed her away, holding her at arm’s length. “How long before it takes effect?”

She glanced at the door. “I don’t know. They’re waiting for someone.”