Sands of Time (20 page)

Vicktor said nothing, looked out the window.

Sarai unbuckled, got up and sat next to him. “Vicktor,” she said softly, her voice tremulous. “What are they going to do to Roman?”

Vicktor sighed, closed his eyes. “I don’t know.”

Fear speared through Sarai, separating her feelings, crystallizing them into one clear truth. She loved Roman. Always had. Always would.

“Please, Vicktor, don’t let them hurt him.”

Vicktor opened his eyes, said nothing and stared out the window.

S
o much for staying out of the gulag.

Roman had been inside a few government correctional facilities over the years. He felt pretty sure this one was off the map. Way, way off the map, maybe even into Mongolia. Or it could be in northern Siberia for all he knew because he’d worn a blindfold since they’d tackled him—what, a day ago? Or two days?

Sensory deprivation had loosened his hold on time and space. When they untied the blindfold, he’d found himself standing in the middle of a concrete-block room, thin milky light shafting from a square window near the top of the wall. A forlorn chill emanated from the walls and found Roman’s soul.

Two men faced him, and he didn’t recognize either,
which was probably good, because hopefully they didn’t have any ancient grievances against him.

One held a billy club. Roman tried not to focus on that as he stood and took a personal assessment, a sort of starting point. His eye still felt bloated, and his lip fat from Fight Club and his friends’ less-than-compassionate take down. He’d surrendered easily, trying not to anger them, but Russian mafiosi weren’t terror artists for their tendency toward mercy.

Probably, he had a cracked rib, too, because it hurt every time he breathed deeply.

Like, when he sighed over his nonexistent future.

Billy Club man stood silent as the other, a man the size and menace of a professional wrestler, took a step toward him. “Strip,” he said. It sounded more like a grunt and had the same effect as a punch.

Roman swallowed. “Hard to do when I’m still cuffed.”

From behind, he heard movement and in a moment, his hands came free. Oh, joy.

He could do this. Not think of the moment, or the shattered pieces of his life. He could go back to that place where he’d last felt peace, praying that God would use him, surrendering his future into God’s hands.

He’d focus on God’s voice, the one that reminded him that the Almighty had hope and a future for him.

Roman submitted silently to the customary search, gritting his teeth against humiliation, even as they marched him down the hall in his bare feet and scanty prison clothes. Somehow, he felt like they’d skipped something…like a trial?

However, he’d surrendered to Bednov’s hands. And he, better than anyone, knew the legal loopholes in Russia.

It was quite possible that even Yanna, a genius hacker who knew how to find the blueprints of Putin’s private bomb shelter, would never find
him.

The prison reeked with the smell of urine and sweat. Fractured shadows from dingy bulbs lit the long concrete corridors. Solid black doors drilled into the walls evidenced habitation, but Roman didn’t want to imagine who might be encased inside.

Billy Club walked him past the doors, and Roman felt slight relief in that. They stopped as the other guard unlocked a set of barred doors, and when they opened it, relief turned to a cold sweat.

General population. Inside the room, he saw row after row of thin mattresses, some with bedding, others bare. Sitting on them, in various degrees of repose, were prisoners.

Eyes riveted on him and he took a deep breath. Winced.

“Take good care of him, boys. He’s FSB.” Billy Club turned and winked.

Roman flashed him a smile. What would David call this? A witnessing opportunity? Roman walked into the room.

The lock turned behind him, and he steeled himself.

No wonder they hadn’t bothered to torture him. A FSB agent in general population hadn’t a prayer of survival. And, probably, that was Bednov’s plan. By the time Vicktor got home and activated his release, or at least a transfer, Roman would be a bloody—and dead—pulp.

Roman didn’t move, but did a quick and silent count.
Thirty men, at the least. And it looked like they didn’t do a housecleaning very often, because he saw at least one man in the corner, unmoving. Hopefully he wasn’t dead.

Roman backed up, eliminating a surprise attack from behind.

The men were bored. He was entertainment as well as fresh meat.

It happened fast. Two came at him in a tackle, and Roman kneed one, met the other with an uppercut. They grunted and went down, but another two jumped him.

He knew he’d go down, he just hadn’t expected the ferocity of their attack. Nor the fact that he had it in him to fight back. He fought like he had as a kid, ferociously, with the edge of desperation. He swung, rarely missed and endured punishment as he struggled to stay alert.

I hate you, Roman.

Sarai’s cold voice, zeroed in and centered him. He fought with the grief of knowing what he’d done to Sarai, to his future. He fought because he hadn’t anything else left in him.

He fell to the floor, tasting his own tinny blood in his mouth. Faces blurred as he covered his head. Pain wrapped itself around his brain. Then sweet darkness closed in on him.

He awoke sprawled facedown on what he supposed might be a mattress. The redolence of unwashed bodies and sweat filled his nose and he coughed.

Everything hurt. He forced his eyes open and wasn’t sure if they worked because he saw only darkness, as thick as pitch. He moved his hand, found his face, and it felt slick.

He groaned, then reached out and found a wall. Sitting up, he scooted back until his back hit the cool concrete. It went to the hot and painful places and balmed his aches.

“Who are you?”

The voice came out of the darkness, a gravelly voice, although strident, with the lacing of suspicion.

“Roman. Novik. I’m a…” Last time, his profession had gotten the tar beaten out of him. “Patriot.”

The voice on the other side of the room harrumphed. “
Konyeshna.
Me, too.”

A political prisoner? Roman touched his nose, winced. Could be broken. “Who are you?”

“Dmitri Vasilovyech Kazlov. Governor of Irkutia.”

Roman blinked, scraping up an image from his memories. Gray hair, wide face, deep-set eyes. “Governor?”

“The rightful governor. And Alexander Bednov knows it.”

Roman heard anger, despite the weariness in his tone. He searched it for deceit, aware that they could plant anyone here in the darkness. On the other hand, he could be alone, completely, for the rest of his days. Roman wasn’t sure what emotion he should hang on to—suspicion or gratitude.

“I’ve been in here for nearly a week,” Kazlov said. “Tell me, what’s happening out there.”

“We thought you were dead.”

“I probably will be soon. Bednov needed me for strategic information.” He sighed. “What’s happened?”

Roman tested a rib and winced. “There was an ‘at
tempted’ coup—probably planned by Bednov to divert suspicion—but he stopped it and took control. He’s ousted all foreigners and has declared martial law. He says you were kidnapped, presumed dead.”

Kazlov turned quiet.

Roman debated his words, not sure if he might be digging his own grave. Especially if the man in the darkness was a plant, and not the former governor at all. Then again, he’d never see sunlight again. Maybe by handing out information, he’d shake Bednov’s confidence, force him to make a mistake, even pack up shop. And, hopefully, Vicktor would be watching. “Did you know about his smuggling operation? The HEU, from the inactive nuclear plant in Khandaski near his Alexander Oil property? I have my suspicions he was smuggling it out.”

Kazlov was silent. Then, “Yes. How did you know?”

“One of his couriers turned up dead in Khabarovsk with a container of HEU.”

Kazlov said nothing for a long time. “We’ve been watching him for a while. But because of the campaign, we couldn’t arrest him unless we had proof—”

“Otherwise it would look like you were setting him up to lose.”

“Moscow, and the world, has us on a tight leash, watching. Too bad they were looking in the wrong direction.”

Roman didn’t comment.

“Bednov discovered that we knew and decided to take
us all out. From the enormity of his ploy, he must have had a small army working for him,” Kazlov continued.

“Mercenaries, sir, for sure. He has the money to pay for help.” Roman pressed the soft tissue under his swollen eye. “I met a couple of his men when I broke into Khandaski. Found the HEU that was supposedly shipped to a commissioned reactor.”

“Which I’m sure is why you ended up here.”

“Bednov knew I’d catch up to him. His son died of radiation poisoning, something he got from their dacha near the plant.”

Roman heard Kazlov shift.

“How did you find that out?”

“A friend. A doctor who treated him.”

“Where’s your friend now?” Kazlov asked, his voice low.

Roman closed his eyes, seeing Sarai’s tortured expression.
I really hate you.
“I arrested her, put her into FSB custody and sent her out of Irkutsk with a fellow agent. The FSB in Khabarovsk will protect her. And, I’m hoping they’ll figure out Bednov’s plan.”

“You
arrested
her?” Kazlov’s shock sounded authentic.

Roman winced, feeling freshly shamed. “She had the same reaction. Told me she hated me.”

“Who are you?”

Oh, yeah. “I’m FSB.”

“Oh. That explains the visit to general population. They worked you over pretty good. You were groaning.”

Roman leaned his head back against the wall. “I’m surprised I’m still alive. And, I think I have all my teeth.”

He heard a snort from out of the darkness. “Welcome to cell block 16.”

“What do you mean you can’t find him?” Sarai paced Vicktor’s tiny apartment, amazed that a person could share such a tiny space with an animal the size of an Asian elephant, namely Alfred, Vicktor’s Great Dane. She gave Alfred’s rump a whack, hoping to rouse him from the sofa where he sprawled. He only opened an eye. She sat on the arm and refused to give into frustration. “Please, Yanna, keep looking.”

Seven days she’d been in Khabarovsk while Yanna and Vicktor searched for Roman in the gulag archipelago. Seven days of hearing her voice echo, “I hate you.” Seven days of waking sick to her stomach with worry, wishing she could rewind time, go back to that moment in her apartment and tell him she loved him.

He was the hero she didn’t think she needed. But, oh, did she need him. She needed his smile, his friendship, even his irritating protection. Somehow, with him believing in her, she felt like the person she’d been trying to be for over a decade. Brave. Strong. Someone who saved lives.

Please, Lord, show us how to save his life.

“He’s dropped off the grid, Sarai.” Yanna stood at the window, her long brown hair silky in the evening glow. She wore workout clothes, but Sarai knew she hadn’t been to volleyball practice other than to check in for nearly a week. The clothes were a decoy for anyone tailing her.

“Bednov has everyone under his thumb. No official contact to any of the agents working in the region until the government simmers down. And Moscow is backing him because he was ‘legitimately’ elected.”

Vicktor came into the room, wiping his hands on a towel. He’d made them Plov for dinner, one of Sarai’s favorite Russian rice dishes, but she couldn’t eat it. Not when she thought of Roman cold, lonely…bleeding? Please, please not dead.

Sarai rubbed her hands on one of Vicktor’s oversized sweatshirts. Thankfully, Yanna had turned out to be about her size, although the tight low-rise jeans definitely looked better on the exotic brunette with a taste for French fashions than a blond crunchy granola pioneer from Siberia. Sarai felt rough-edged and overwrought with each passing day.

Thankfully, her brother, David, would arrive tomorrow. He’d pulled in favors that rivaled a head of state to get an emergency visa to see Sarai. “Roman told me he thought Bednov had ulterior motives, that he was the head of some big smuggling ring—”

“He’s probably right. But, without proof, it’s only here-say. We can’t nail him.”

“What kind of proof do you need?” Sarai ran her hand absently along Alfred’s nose. The dog belonged to Vicktor’s father, but had taken a liking to Vicktor’s sofa while his father was in long-term physical therapy. Sarai was thankful to see that the old cop, who’d been shot in the line of duty nearly two years ago, working his way back to the world.

“We need testimony. Documents proving Bednov’s connection to the smuggling. A money trail.” Vicktor leaned against the door frame. Out of his dark and cold cop uniform, and wearing a pair of faded jeans and a Seattle Seahawks sweatshirt, Vicktor looked less imposing, in fact, she’d even say handsome, in a steel-edged, danger-lurking kind of way. No, he wasn’t Roman, with tousled brown hair, and hazel eyes that could find all her vulnerable places. He didn’t have Roman’s ruddy five-o’clock shadow, or his charming catch-a-girl’s breath kind of smile. But the two cops had a similar build, one that made a girl feel safe. And one, she hoped, that would help Roman stay alive.

Wherever he was.
Please, please, Lord, look after him.

Sarai stood up, paced in a small circle. Darkness pressed against the windows, and outside she heard the wind blow. Thanksgiving was two days away. Sarai knew she should be feeling grateful, thankful for so much. But she hadn’t been able to contact Genye and Anya, hadn’t the faintest idea if there were more children suffering from renal failure…

“Testimony?” Sarai stopped, stared at Vicktor. “I have an idea.” She gave him a wry smile. “But you have to get me back into Irkutsk.”

Vicktor narrowed his eyes and even Yanna laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”

Sarai’s enthusiasm felt hot and sweet in her veins. “No. I’m not. I know how to find Roman. You’ll just have to trust me.”

Vicktor quirked one eyebrow, his smile vanished. “Like you trusted Roman?”

Ouch. “Okay, I deserved that. But, give me the credit for wanting to save his life. I love him. I don’t want anything to happen to him.”

Yanna turned from the window, stared at her. “What did you say?”

Sarai met her dark eyes. “I love Roman. I should have seen that years ago. But I know it now and I’ll do anything to make sure he’s okay. Please, just listen to me.”

Yanna crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m listening.”