Sands of Time (21 page)

B
ednov opened the door and unbuttoned his coat. “Julia?” The flat sounded quiet, but then again, maybe she was passed out. Again.

Although, the past three nights she’d sat in sullen, or furious, grief, watching reruns while he tried to straighten out the mess Captain Novik had concocted. Thankfully, the Khabarovsk FSB hadn’t believed a word the American doctor had told them or they’d be on his doorstep.

He’d talked personally to the head of the FSB in Irkutsk, who’d confirmed it with a call to the head of the Cobra division in Khabarovsk. Captain Novik had become an enemy of the state. And, they’d surrendered him to Irkutia custody.

They’d never see him again.

Bednov yanked off his suit coat and opened his bedroom
door. Froze. Julia’s
schaff
was opened, her clothes—or some of them at least—missing.

He stalked to her bedside stand. Her passport was gone. He slammed the drawer closed and dug his cell phone out of his coat pocket as he stalked through the flat. “Julia!”

The kitchen, the beautiful kitchen he’d made for her, echoed his voice. A bouquet of fresh flowers sat on the middle of the kitchen table, a weekly delivery he thought he’d canceled the previous week.

He stared at it. And went weak. Bracing his hand on the table, he dialed the cell phone. But in his gut, he knew it was too late for security to track her down.

Someone had lied to him. Maybe it was Malenkov, maybe even his own FSB head in Irkutsk.

Probably, however, he’d lied most of all to himself when he thought that Captain Novik wouldn’t cause him more trouble.

Fyodor answered.

“I want him dead,” he said quietly. “Tonight.”

Sarai put down her popcorn, clapping as the dogs ran out of the center ring. The room darkened and Roman put his arm around her. She settled perfectly into his embrace. Sweetly, sighing softly.

“What are they saying?” she asked as the announcer came on.

“They’re introducing the high-wire walker.” Roman saw himself point to a spotlighted man on a wire high above their heads. The man climbed on the wire, held out his hands
for balance. Even from here, Roman could see him fight for control.

Sarai sucked in her breath. “You’d never get me up there. My hands are slick just thinking about it.”

Roman took her hand and she giggled.

“What if I was up there, carrying you across?” The words seemed not to come from him, but behind him, or through him. But Sarai stared at him, her eyes wide. He swallowed.

She leaned back, pushing away from him. Then, suddenly, she slapped him. “I would never trust you!” Turning, she fled.

Roman stood, “Sarai!”

Laughter around him, at him felt shrill and sharp. He winced.

Suddenly the spotlight turned on him, illumining her escape, his breaking heart—

The door to his cell opened. Light shafted into the room. Roman put up an arm to deflect the light and blinked out of the nightmare, clawing for comprehension.

Not again.
Please, Lord.
He ached to his toes, and yesterday, he’d seen a new guard eyeing him. It made his skin crawl to know he’d become a target of their warped humor.

“Get up.”

Roman started to move, but the guard—the new one, tall, lanky but with determination written in his stride—strode toward Kazlov. “Get up.” He nudged him with the tip of his AK-47. The elderly man grunted, then glared at the guard as he got to his feet.

“Where are you taking him?” Roman pounced to his own feet, hiding a grimace of pain.

“Wanna join him?” The guard’s voice held challenge—and something else. Roman couldn’t decipher it.

Kazlov met Roman’s gaze, and he felt the truth broadside him. His mouth dried.
Is this it, Lord? Is this what you want?

Roman put himself between the guard and the governor. “Enough. This man is a political prisoner. You’re not going to do this.”

Billy Club stood at the door, filling the frame and blocking the light. “Step back, FSB. This isn’t your fight.”

“It is. He’s innocent, and you know it.”

Billy Club shrugged. Roman lowered his voice, speaking to the lanky guard. “You know this is wrong. This is murder. If you truly want Russia to be free, you need to respect life, not take it.”

Something—hesitation?—flickered in the younger guard’s eyes. Roman met his gaze, held it.

And ye shall seek me, and find me, when ye shall search for me with all your heart.
Roman heard the words reverberate deep inside.
I’m trying, Lord.
He didn’t blink but felt his resolve weaken as his choices found his heart.
I’m sorry, Sarai.

The lanky guard turned suddenly. “Take him, too. He’s only going to cause us trouble.”

Billy Club’s gaze fixed on Roman.
“Ladna.”

Roman put his hand under Kazlov’s shoulder, helped him limp out of the cell. Even the dingy hall seemed bright to Roman’s eyes and he blinked, trying to get his bearings. Kazlov stumbled as they walked down the hall, and Roman
heard nothing but their shuffled steps and breathing. So this was the end. He’d spent two weeks, at
least
two, maybe more, breathing in and out, counting his mistakes, recounting stories of FSB exploits to his companion in the dark. Without mentioning her name, he’d told Kazlov about Sarai, about her beautiful eyes, the way she could calm him, save his world with her smile. He’d even confessed his betrayal, and eventually, his faith. After all, he was already in the gulag. And Kazlov had listened. Mostly without comment.

Kazlov had been a Party man. Most politicians were, even in the new regime. But he believed in capitalism, and democracy. He believed in a future for Russia.

And, as the darkness pressed against them, the hours cold and piercing, Kazlov had voiced his own questions of faith for Roman.

Questions that drilled into Roman’s brain as he walked through the prison and out into the snow.

“You say your God loves you. Then why are you here?” Kazlov’s voice had sounded strained in the darkness.

Choices? Crimes? Man’s sinful nature?

“Because God wants me here,” Roman finally answered.

“But why? I don’t understand why you’d follow a God who does bad things.”

Roman saw his own wry smile in the darkness. “God doesn’t do bad things. That’s the paradox. We filter what God does through our understanding of the world, not His. There’s a story of a man in the Bible named Joseph. He was sold into slavery, then spent seven years in prison. In the
end he became head of Egypt, a hero to his people and saved them from destruction. He knew that what Satan meant for evil, God meant for good. He just had to trust God enough to follow him each step of the way. God has a bigger plan than all of this.”

Kazlov fell silent, but Roman’s own words had resonated with him. “I don’t know, Governor, but what if God sent me here just to sit here in the dark with you? Maybe it’s not about me, but about you.”

Roman had leaned his head against the concrete. His wounds were healing. It no longer felt like liquid fire to breathe, which told him that maybe his ribs had only been bruised. And his face—well, the swelling had gone down around his eye and his mouth felt healed, if not still slightly sore. Most of all, the searing pain at his betrayal of Sarai had lessened to one long ache. He prayed every day that God would make something good out of the pieces of his life.

“I’m not a worthy man, Novik,” Kazlov finally said. “Why would your God look in my direction, let alone send you to suffer with me?”

Roman saw himself fifteen years ago, young, baffled at the friendship of an American who might someday be his enemy. “Funny, I asked the same thing about Jesus. Why would he die in my place? I didn’t deserve it. And the answer—because God loved me. A famous martyr—Jim Elliot—once said, ‘He is no fool who gives us what he cannot keep to gain what he cannot lose.’ That’s why I can sit here in the dark with you and know with certainty that if I die tomorrow, I’ll have
no…or few—regrets. I can’t lose what matters most—eternity.

“And maybe God wants you to know that.”

Kazlov said nothing. But later, as Roman lay in the darkness, he heard something that sounded like sobs.

Roman had prayed for him, feeling something heavy unlock from his soul. He had the strangest feeling that perhaps he was cut out to be a missionary, just as Sarai claimed. Except in ways neither had imagined.

Now, he hoped those questions were haunting Kazlov, driving him to consider every step as they stumbled down the corridor. Roman steadied the governor as the guard opened the door to the outside yard. A layer of fresh snowfall licked into the hallway, across the top of his feet. Outside, the sun shone down, but the wind found his bare chest and the line of sweat between his shoulder blades, and froze it to a fine film.

“Outside,” said the skinny guard.

Roman saw more guards. Two of them, standing with their backs to them. His throat dried and he forced his feet forward. “This is illegal,” he said. “Even in Russia. You can’t just shoot us without a trial.”

“Tiha!”

Roman clenched his jaw, tightened his grip on Kazlov. The governor’s face had turned white, his expression stony.

“Go back, son,” the man said. “I’ll not have your blood on my hands.”

Roman glanced at Billy Club. Probably any announcements toward turning back would fall on mute ears. Be
sides, he’d sworn to protect and serve the government of Russia. The people of Russia. He wouldn’t die like his father, a coward, alone in his disgrace. He’d stay the course.

Not only that, but deep in his soul, he knew God wanted him to stand up for righteousness beside Governor Kazlov. He just wished his last moments with Sarai hadn’t been filled with his betrayal. He tried not to let her voice weaken his steps.

Glancing at the guards, he gauged the distance between them and the walls. “You could run for the gate,” he whispered to Kazlov. “I could try and deflect them—”

“No. This is a crime against the freedom of Russia. I’ll not run like a criminal.”

The wind buzzed in Roman’s ears, turning them to ice. He should have guessed they’d send them north, to the gulags of Siberia.

“Stop here,” Billy Club said.

The younger guard stepped away, leaving Roman to stand in the middle of the yard. Roman moved in front of Kazlov, between him and the soldiers with the semiautomatic weapons. The sun shone down on them, and he heard the wind hum as it skimmed the trees beyond the prison walls. He could barely wrap his mind around the truth. He was about to die in the middle of Siberia, barefoot, a prisoner in the gulag. He felt like gagging.

And ye shall seek me, and find me, when ye shall search for me with all your heart.

Lord, how can I seek you in this?
The thought seem ludicrous.
Still. I trust you, even in this death.

Whomever loses his life for my sake will find it…

The executioners turned toward him, heads down, checking their weapons.

Roman’s heart stopped.

They aimed.

Roman lifted his chin. “Be strong,” he said to Kazlov and closed his eyes.

They fired.

Billy Club went down, screaming, a bullet through his leg. The other guard dropped to the snow, hands over his head. “Don’t shoot!”

Kazlov’s knees gave out and Roman fell into the snow beside him. He stared speechless as Genye ran toward him, an ill-fitting
shapka
crammed on his head. He scooped up Kazlov by the armpits. “Run, Roman!”

What—?

Roman glanced back at the guards. Billy Club still squirmed on the ground. The other guard, however, looked up at him, and nodded.

What—?

“Did you hear him, Russki?”

Roman looked up, and words left him as David Curtiss pulled him up.
“Begee!”

How did—Only, he didn’t ask because he was running, and fast toward the end of the yard. And then the humming made sense. A helicopter? A Russian Mi-24 Krokodil. Where had they pulled that out of the ancient arsenal?

It hovered just inches above ground, and Roman shoved
Kazlov into the bed. A hand reached out and Roman grabbed it. Vicktor pulled him aboard.

“Go, go!” David yelled as he followed Genye into the chopper.

Roman sat on the deck, shivering, as the ground dropped out. They soared over the prison gates just as guards streamed out of the building.

Across from him, David, dressed in the getup of a Russian prison guard, including a green woolen
shapka
and matching green uniform, grinned. “Found you.”

Roman shook his head, trying to keep up. Beside him, Genye pulled off his jacket and tucked it over Kazlov. Vicktor, in the front, did the same with his and handed it to Roman.

Roman huddled under it, letting the whir of the blades fill his disbelief, his lack of words.

David, Vicktor and Genye had rescued him?

“How’s our hero doing back there?” He heard a voice yelling over the din. An English-speaking voice. Mae? His pilot friend from Alaska? Oh, the National Guard would be happy with her.

He cut his gaze to David. “I don’t get it!”

David smiled, and Roman recognized mischief in his eyes. “Ask Sarai. She’s waiting for you.”

Sarai? Waiting for him?

He hoped it wasn’t with a right hook.

Sarai paced the military compound, her stomach roiling. Anya sat on the vinyl chair, wringing her hands, shaking her head.

The only one not stressed seemed to be Yanna, who had her ear pressed to a two-way radio. “They’re out!” She ran over to the duo, her dark eyes shining. “They made it!”

“Not yet they haven’t,” said Major Malenkov.

Sarai gave him a dark look. He hadn’t been thrilled with her plan, in fact she had a gut feeling that if he had his way, he’d ship Roman back to Khabarovsk territory and slap him in another gulag.

Only, that would be minus her testimony. And, Julia Bednov’s, now in a safehouse in Khabarovsk. She could hardly believe she’d talked the woman into testifying against her husband.