Sands of Time (3 page)

What are you trying to prove?
Roman flinched as the voice swept into his brain.

“You okay?” Vicktor gave him a one-eyed frown.

“Da.”
Roman stepped away from Vicktor with an uncharacteristic sigh. After a decade, he thought he’d be free of Sarai’s indictment. Or the effect of her memory on his pulse.

“No witnesses, although I’ll bet if we apply pressure to the hotel staff and the casino guests, we might find a few locals who aren’t on the payroll.” Vicktor stood and glanced at Roman. “I’m going upstairs to check out his hotel room.”

Vicktor snapped on a pair of rubber gloves when they reached the third floor. “I called the forensic team. Utuzh
should be here soon.” He used the maid’s key to enter the room.

Roman didn’t comment. Vladimir Utuzh, the city medical examiner, had a way of making a man check his pulse and be grateful he still had one. The size of a small grizzly, Utuzh also looked and smelled like one, and Roman secretly thanked God for putting him on the side of tracking down the living instead of examining the dead.

The latest turn of events, however, namely, the arrest and so-called suicide of super-smuggler Gregori Smirnov, had Roman rethinking his career—a career that, until three months ago, seemed fast-tracked to glory. Instead, he’d made a laughingstock of his country in front of the world by clearing out Disney World’s Epcot Center for a soggy sandwich and a warm soda.

He’d be lucky if his pal David ever talked to him again, especially since Roman had been shipped out of the country faster than they could say “false alarm.” Moscow didn’t think it was funny, either, despite Roman’s reminder that they had nabbed Smirnov.

It only made things worse that, while locked up in Lubyanka prison in Moscow, the smuggler had conveniently hanged himself.

Like Roman believed
that…
He still wanted to hit something, like a deadweight, or maybe a puck, really,
really
hard every time he thought of it.

They’d gotten nothing out of Smirnov and deep in his gut Roman knew Smirnov’s supplier was still in business, still smuggling nuclear fuel out of the country. And, until
Roman tracked him down, he saw behind every suspect the bleeding eyes and decaying flesh of radiation poisoning, courtesy of the International Atomic Energy Agency—IAEA—training video he and the other mafia-fighting COBRAs had been forced to watch last spring.

Those were visuals Roman didn’t need, especially late at night as he lay alone in his flat, perspiration beading on his temples.

Thankfully, he hadn’t been exposed to the uranium last spring. He heard those words, clung to them, watching for nausea, or open sores. Highly enriched uranium wasn’t toxic unless it was ingested.

Or, spent, as in used in a nuclear reactor. Which would classify it as nuclear waste, and make it much less marketable. Unfortunately, the HEU Smirnov had been transporting, which Roman confiscated after Smirnov conveniently left it like a gift, or a bomb, in the boat, hadn’t yet been used. Which meant that it had come from a weapon.

Or a decommissioned nuclear reactor.

Tracking down trace amounts of HEU from the hundred or so reactors scattered about Russia felt a little like looking for someone during the reign of Stalin who wasn’t afraid of the KGB.

Yeah, right.

“He smelled like he downed a couple pints of vodka,” Vicktor said as he searched the dead man’s suitcase for identification.

“
Nyet.
Too sweet.” Roman didn’t meet Vicktor’s gaze as he surveyed the hotel room, taking in the three empty pints
of vodka in the garbage can, a down parka tossed on the single bed and a metal briefcase tucked under a straight-back chair. He knew, painfully well, just how three pints of vodka might smell on a man. Exactly what the term, “deadweight” meant. Roman shoved the memory back into his past. “He hadn’t been here long enough to drink that much, or even get comfortable. Probably went right down to the tables.” Roman nodded to a pair of slippers tucked under the vanity by the door. While Russian hotels didn’t have the plush carpets, cable televisions and king-size beds indicative of Western culture, hotels often provided a pair of complimentary slippers. This guy hadn’t even taken them out of the wrapper.

“What do you suppose he was doing here?” Roman asked as he reached for a fanny pack laying on the night table. Vicktor grabbed his wrist.

“Gloves, Roma.”

Roman took one, snapped it on his right hand, using the other to hold the pack while he zipped it open: passport, a used train ticket, a boarding pass, an airplane ticket, breath mints and a taster of vodka, the kind they handed out in Aeroflot’s first class on the Trans-Siberian line, or from hotel room bars. Roman read the label and didn’t recognize the brand. He put it back, fished through the pack and found a Nokia cell phone, iPod and a pocket PC. He picked up the passport and read the name.

“Barry Riddle. Born in Chicago, Illinois.”

“Now residing in Fargo, North Dakota.” Vicktor held up his driver’s license. “What’s he doing in Far East Russia?”

Roman pulled out the visa. “Tourist class. With a stamp to Buryatia, Chelyabinsk, Irkutsk and Moscow. Not in that order.” He pulled out the boarding pass. “Irkutsk, dated six days ago, and it looks like, from his plane ticket, he’s on his way to Sakhalin Island via Vladivostok.”

Vicktor opened his cell phone and dialed. “So, is he here on business, or is he a formerly happy tourist, taking the Trans-Siberian train to Vladivostok?”

Roman picked up the victim’s cell phone. No signal, power off. He tried to click it on, but it died. “This thing’s drained.”

“Hand me his passport.” Vicktor reached out for the identification as he spoke into the phone. “Yanna, it’s me. I need information for Barry Riddle, Fargo, North Dakota.” He read off the social security number and outlined the victim’s travel information. “Thanks. Yeah, I got back Thursday.” He paused. “Sure, see you tonight.” He snapped the phone shut. “I think she’s still mad at me for not going to her volleyball finals. Wants me to meet her for dinner.”

Roman looked up from playing with the iPod. The man had an interesting selection of music—hip-hop to Styx. Roman still had a Styx album tucked away in a box somewhere, postmarked from Irkutsk after his father passed. The fact Barry Riddle knew the same songs felt creepy. “Yanna and her team worked hard to get into the finals, and we’re her only family. She saw you missing it for a trip to the States as a personal snub. You owe her dinner, and probably first shot at your new American videos.”

“I might remind you that not only hadn’t I seen Gracie
in nearly six months, nowadays getting a two-week tourist visa is almost as rare as winning the green card lottery. I had to use it when I got it. Besides, I missed Gracie.”

Roman hid the smile. He’d been the one who suggested that Vicktor needed the love of a good woman—and Gracie was off the charts. Who would have thought Vicktor would break his own rules and fall for a woman under his protection? Then again, Gracie had done some protecting of her own—protecting Vicktor from a life of bitterness. Roman had to admit he enjoyed seeing his steel-hearted pal turn to
kasha
over a lady. “How is that going, by the way?” Roman put the iPod back into the pouch, picked up the PC.

“What, Gracie, or the green card?”

Roman’s breath sucked out of him. “You’re applying for a green card?” Okay, that wasn’t fair. Yes, he’d been glad when his buddy found the woman of his dreams, and because of it became a Christian. But move to America?

Vicktor smirked. “Don’t panic, Redman. I’m not moving. Yet. Besides, I’m thinking my status as an FSB agent just might raise a few flags. But I want to know my optioins about our future country of residence.”

Roman gave him a sad smile. Okay, so maybe he shouldn’t jump to conclusions, nor rib his pal about his long-distance romance. It couldn’t be easy to fall for a woman who lived a billion miles across the ocean and had a stubborn streak to make even a Russian scream. Besides, even if Vicktor left, it wasn’t as if he wouldn’t see him again.

Who was he kidding? Just like he saw his best friend,
David Curtiss? Or even the woman who he thought he couldn’t live without, Sarai Curtiss?

Vicktor would walk out of his life, and it would just be Roman and his take-no-prisoners career, trying to find a place of peace inside the chaos of his life.

Roman’s chest tightened.

“What’s in the case?” Vicktor strode over to the metal briefcase, picked it up, put it on the chair. “Looks like a computer case. And it’s unlocked.” He started to open it.

Roman touched his arm. “Why would a guy who has a pocket PC in his fanny pack have a computer case?”

Vicktor glanced at him, set the case down. Stared at it.

Roman’s stomach coiled, and he felt strangely light-headed. Probably too many wide-eyed nightmares playing in his head. Scenarios he prayed would never see the light of day. “Just…be careful.”

Vicktor blew out a long breath, crouched and slowly opened the case.

Roman felt his breath reel out in a long, slow hiss.

Inside, cushioned in eggshell foam, lay a long cylindrical container.

Vicktor reached for it.

Roman clamped him on the shoulder. “Don’t touch it.”

Vicktor frowned at him. “What, do you think it’ll blow up?”

“I’m not kidding, Stripes. Close it. Now.” Despite his use of his friend’s nickname, Roman heard the edge in his voice even as he stepped outside the room, nausea rolling over him.

So much for his feeble hope that Smirnov’s radioactive cargo had been a one-time fluke.

“What do we do with it?” Vicktor asked in a whisper as he joined him in the hall.

Roman swallowed, words not forming. Run? Wish that he might turn back the sands of time and rethink his life’s choices? Starting with the day he let Sarai Curtiss walk out of his life. He’d return to a time when life seemed simpler, filled with promise, when he had a good reason to face the chaos.

“I dunno.”

As if reacting to the desperation of their moment, Roman’s cell phone trilled. Once. Twice.

Roman stared at the metal case as he pulled the cell phone out of his pocket.

“Slyshaio.”

The connection crackled and the sound made Roman lean into the phone, his attention now at least half-arrested. “Hello?”

“Roman?”

“David?”

Vicktor shot him a frown. Roman could count on one hand the number of times David had used Roman’s cell phone to contact him. And, even if the call was scrambled, and probably came through a couple dozen satellites, every time it had one simple subject.

“Shto Snachet?”
Roman asked, bracing himself for David’s answer to his casual, “What’s up?” question.

“It’s Sarai. I need you, Roma. She’s in trouble.”

“W
here did you learn to fight like that, Sarai?” Genye gripped the steering wheel with whitened fists as he maneuvered around traffic. They were nearing the edge of town, and true to his Russian—and probably soldier—heritage, he was employing any means possible to put distance between them and the guy he and Sarai had left, crumpled, outside Julia’s apartment.

Which meant driving on sidewalks, the wrong side of the road and, right now, down the center line.

Good thing she had a seat belt. Still, Sarai flinched as they nearly peeled paint off a rusty Toyota sedan. Anya sat with one hand braced on the roof, the other on the dash as they whizzed into the oncoming traffic lane to pass a Kamaz truck full of soldiers. Sarai ducked her head, feeling instinc
tively like she might be some sort red, neon light. The thug’s words still sizzled in her brain.
American, go home.

Sadly, she
was
home. Rather, she had considered this home for the past two years. For the first time she felt like she might be making a difference. And some hooligan’s sneer wasn’t going to drive her from the people she’d come to love like family.

Maybe even more than family. Because, unlike
her
family, the Russians in Smolsk paid attention when she walked into a room. Thought she was capable. Smart. Special. Not that her brother David didn’t, but still, she’d always be Sarey Beary to him, and frankly, she’d been trying to shed that image pretty much since the third grade.

For a Delta Force captain, he didn’t catch on real quick.

As for her parents, well, she couldn’t hope to compete for significance against a couple who had pioneered missions in the rural Philippines. That was all about to change, however. The Savior’s Hands Medical Clinic would change the landscape of medicine and missions in Siberia. A beacon of light and hope.

“My brother is a special ops soldier in America,” she said to Genye. “He likes to teach me stuff when we get together for Christmas.”

Genye glanced in the rearview mirror. Sarai tried not to flinch at the dribble of now dried blood at the corner of his mouth—her assailant’s reply to Genye’s not-so-gentle hello.

Then again, she’d already rung the thug’s bell with her medical bag and followed with a knee to his midsection that at least released the hold on her hair. She was silently tak
ing back all those times she rolled her eyes at David’s passion to teach her self-defense.

But she wouldn’t have escaped without Genye’s take-down. They’d disarmed the kid—and it
was
a kid, no older than twenty, with skinny arms and zeal for brains—and left him on the sidewalk scraping up his pride while they piled into Genye’s vehicle.

Another explosion had rocked the van onto its front wheels as they floored it out of the complex and northwest, toward Smolsk.

“Turn on the radio,” Sarai said, and reached forward between the bucket seats to do it herself.

The station was already tuned to Irkutsk, and the rushed, staticky Russian was almost too fast for her to catch. Something about the election. And the governor having been kidnapped?

“I can’t catch it, Genye. What are they staying?”

Genye pulled the van into the right lane, put it into fifth gear. Sarai had to admit, having Genye at the helm pumped calm into her veins. The fifty-something former-soldier, former-pilot, now-pastor had courage, as well as savvy behind his gentle brown eyes, and more than once he’d stepped between her and trouble from the locals. Not that trouble brewed thick in their tiny village. Smolsk had a total population of three thousand, including the outlying hunters and farmers. Still, the gangs had their own toehold, and like to play their version of mafia extortion. The cute, freckled American with an optimistic smile seemed to be their favorite target.

Too bad for them that, long ago, she’d made friends with the local militia, mostly by treating their chief for a long-time gastric disorder. Something that netted her a standing smile and unquestioned protection. And one shouldn’t put too much trust in freckles. Behind those sun kisses was a woman who might be tiny, but who paid attention when David tried to teach her tae kwon do, as evidenced by her on-her-feet thinking outside the Bednov’s apartment.

And Genye was always there backing her up, and watching her “six,” as David would say.

Not that she especially needed a hero, however. Sarai had learned over the past three years how to maneuver through Russia on her own. She even had a Russian driver’s license. She learned long ago that any sort of help she might need came with strings…and concerns attached.

Probably why she avoided heroes—real ones, with hazel-green eyes and sandy brown hair and enough muscles stacked in his arms to make a girl want to hang on forever.

Oops.
There she went again, dreaming of Roman Novik. She should have thought of those arms before she slammed the door on Roman’s beautiful smile and gone chasing after her noble ambitions. Or had she been simply running from her darkest fears?

Whatever.

The Irkutsk skyline flickered with flames against the encroaching night. The air smelled of burning oil, and she could still hear the occasional pop of gunfire.

Genye reached over, turned down the chatter on the radio. “Governor Kazlov is dead. Or at least, that’s what
they’re saying. He’s disappeared. In the meantime, Governor-elect Bednov has taken control.”

“It’s a coup!” Sarai sat back in the seat, feeling a tremor work its way through her. “I can’t believe it.” It was Moscow, August 1991 all over again. The rumble of tanks into Red Square. She felt the old panic rise from the hidden places and claw at her calm.

“The
Underground Pravda
has rumored that Bednov’s been assembling his own army for some time. I can’t believe they elected him,” Genye continued.

Anya spoke, her voice tight. “I can’t believe you’ve been reading that rag, again.”

“It’s the only truly free press, even in today’s Russia.” Genye swerved around an open manhole.

Anya yelped. “Evgeny Pomochnov! Slow down.”

Genye glanced at his wife, but Sarai saw no movement to heed her command. A small smile touched Sarai’s lips. These two might be her right and left hands, but the power struggle between them made for lively discussions around a
perog
and a carafe of hot chai, and she often wondered who, exactly, was in charge.

“Besides, Bednov is a good man,” Anya continued after a moment. Sarai heard the clenched jaw stance in Anya’s words. “It’s the conservatives with the armies—old hard-liners who think we’d be better off turning around and heading back into the age of Stalin. They’re behind this.”

“No. Listen to me, Anya. Bednov is a former Communist. Don’t believe a word he says. The
UP
says he’s going to tighten borders, kick out the foreign investors, clamp down
on smuggling and black market crime, and destroy the mafia.”

“There’s no black market anymore, Genye. We live in a free economy. But as for mafia, well it might be nice to feel safe again. Besides, we elected him—why would he stage a coup? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Don’t be naive.” Genye’s hands whitened on the wheel.

Sarai felt her heart thump against her chest, their conversation drilling into her. Maybe they’d all been naive to think that Russia might be free, a true democracy. Anya wanted to see a safe Russia.
Safe
used to mean anyone who was arrested got sent north, to the gulags of Yakutia, without so much as a trial. Safe, as in suspected murderers were executed days after their arrest, and petty thieves beaten in their cells as they awaited release.
Safe
in pre-free Russia meant fear. And persecution.

And no foreigners. If they wanted “safe” she might as well bid farewell to The Savior’s Hands Medical Clinic, and all the hopes she had of saving lives like Sasha’s. But, if she left, who would be there to administer vaccinations, petition the government for insulin, dress and stitch the wounds? Who would do the emergency appendectomies, set the broken bones, give first aid?

They needed her. And she’d stay because, well, that was what she’d been training for. To see people healed and suffering eased.

There were times, however, when she thought that she might be making a deeper etching in the world if she’d
joined the army, became a special forces soldier and hunted down terrorists for a living, like her big brother.

She heard about David’s exploits often enough to recite them in her sleep.

Except…that last one hadn’t gone too well. She still chuckled, thinking of him emptying out the Epcot Center, based on Roman’s panic. Although, to be honest, she did feel a twinge of pain for the dynamic duo at the thought of finding their criminal’s slimy gyro sandwich in the dregs of his dropped backpack.

Still, Roman’s intentions had been noble. She could never fault him for that. Like the time he’d followed her for a week around Moscow while she handed out Bibles for the International Bible League. She’d known he was shadowing her. Still, it had been…sweet. And, at the time, she’d thought he’d wanted to hand out Bibles with her.

No, he wasn’t nearly as interested in sowing the seeds of faith as he was sowing the seeds of romance.

She’d been so,
so
foolish.

Genye and Anya were arguing in the front seat in fast Russian. She tried to keep up, but her brain felt like stewed prunes. She leaned back on the seat, letting her head bounce, closed her eyes.

Yes, leaving Roman had cut deep wounds in her heart.

But, a village deep inside Siberia seemed exactly the place to finally let them scar over, deaden the nerve endings and forget the memory of his hands in her hair, pulling her face close, kissing her in a way that still made her stomach warm.

Oh, brother.

Anya and Genye’s argument ceased as Genye turned up the radio. Eyes closed, Sarai listened. Now out of the range of the city, the nerve-crackling gunfire and the smell of flames, she dissected the words.

“Governor Bednov will be sworn in later tomorrow, after the funeral of his only son, Sasha.”

Tears flooded Sarai’s eyes and she let them burn a trail down her cheeks.

So much for saving lives.

“You’re not going to Irkutsk, Captain Novik, so drive that thought from your brain.”

Major Evgeny Malenkov stood from behind his desk at FSB headquarters, putting his six-foot-two, hundred-plus kilo bulk behind his words. Roman tried a deep, calming breath. Okay, this didn’t have to get ugly. Nor did Malenkov have to know about David’s request.

“The victim had a visa from Irkutsk—”

“Along with stamps from Moscow, Chelyabinsk and Buryatia. This is why we have departments in other regions. You’re not the only one with a yen to nail down Smirnov’s supplier. E-mail them the information. They’ll do the leg-work.”

Sure they would. Sometime in the next millennium. Sorry, but this felt too personal to hand it off to some
blini
-eating comrade five time zones away.

“Sir, Irkutsk has three known decommissioned reactors. I just want to sniff around—”

“Not with Irkutsk in flames.” Malenkov gestured past Roman, through his open door to the office area where Channel 13 played gruesome pictures of the chaos in Irkutsk. Roman felt oddly nauseated as the reporter listed off the casualties. Seven. And a missing Governor Kazlov.

Please don’t let one of those casualties be Sarai.

“Novik, you’ve torn so many holes in our reputation out here, Moscow has me filing reports every time anyone even breathes. Which means that if you so much as sneeze wrong, I’m up to my armpits in whys. It’ll take me a year to unravel the snafu you made in America, and it’s been suggested you might do some sitting time in Bekin. And I don’t mean as a prison guard.” He shook his head. “If you show up on the wrong radar, I’m going to be cleaning toilets with my toothbrush. So, not only are you
not
going to Irkutsk, I want you in this office, every morning, with a smile on your clean-shaven face.” He leaned forward on his desk, years of experience in the KGB in his say-so expression. “And don’t think I won’t know if you jump the next plane for Irkutsk—I’m not that stupid.”

Roman coiled his response into a small, tight voice. “And, just what am I going to do from here? I thought we were about nabbing these guys. And don’t tell me Moscow wouldn’t smile at that.”

“Last time I looked, we had most of the gadgets they do back in America—a telephone, a fax machine, even e-mail. Amazing, no?” Malenkov sat, picked up the telephone. “Dig up everything you can find on where this guy has been, and why. Then, when you come back to me with
substantial leads, in
written
form, I might consider a trip to Irkutsk,
with a babysitter.
”

He turned his attention to the victim at the other end of the telephone, dismissing Roman with a nod. Roman rose, frustration biting at the back of his neck. Probably, David was just jumping to conclusions about Sarai.

Right?

I can’t get her on her satellite phone. And it’s only going to get tighter over there. Roman, I’m asking you as a friend…

Roman strode out of the office, leaned against the wall, arms akimbo, watching the fires crackle behind the news reporter on screen. “Governor-elect Bednov, while still mourning the death of his son, Sasha, has initiated martial law procedures for the region…”

Martial law? And, more importantly, how did David Curtiss know about it before the FSB did?

Roman didn’t want an answer to that question. Not really. He was just happy that David was speaking to him.

Sorta.

Staring at the images on the screen, Roman felt his chest tighten.
Please, God, don’t let Sarai be in the middle of that mess.

“He’s in the morgue,” a voice said behind him. Roman turned to see Vicktor striding up. “Utuzh has scheduled him for a mandatory autopsy in the morning. He has no next of kin, and his emergency contact was listed at Alexander Oil. They’re sending a man over later to ID him.” Vicktor had his hands shoved into his leather jacket, and fatigue weighed on his face.