Sands of Time (7 page)

“I’m driving, so hop in.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You promise you won’t leave me in the parking lot?”

She pulled out the keys, not looking at him. “Get in.”

He crossed around to the passenger side, his hazel eyes on her as she opened her door. She reached across and let him in, arguing with herself for keeping her unspoken word.

They drove in clenched silence to her apartment. An early winter wind picked up litter and dirty snow and tossed it down the street. Her flat, located in a four story Khrushchev-designed brick building, had four entrances. Outside, it looked like it had been recently bombed, bricks littered the foundation, doors hung on one hinge, the garbage Dumpster overflowed with debris. Two stray dogs
lifted their heads from their huddle under a broken merry-go-round in the snowy yard. Sarai parked, put a steering wheel club on the car and locked the vehicle.

The western cities of Russia had adapted quickly to European standards—remodeled flats and standards of cleanliness and repair. But in the villages, she felt lucky to find a flat with running water and electricity, let alone indoor plumbing.

“I’m on the third floor,” she said as she pushed open her entrance door and in the darkness climbed from memory the chipped stairs. “Watch your step—the third step is out.”

Roman followed her in silence. She reached her apartment, opened the outer steel door, then the inner one.

“I’m glad to see you’ve taken security precautions,” Roman said quietly.

“I’m not stupid, Roma. I told you I was safe.”

He sighed. “That’s your opinion.”

She closed both doors, locked them. Roman stood in the narrow hallway of her apartment. “I like it.”

She shrugged out of her coat, hung it on a hook near the door. “Yeah, well, I don’t spend a lot of time here.” She slipped out of her boots and grabbed a pair of slippers.

“I was serious.” He, too, slipped off his coat, then toed off his shoes. “Reminds me of my place. Only neater.”

“Oh.” Somehow that only hurt. More evidence that he’d become the man she feared…one-dimensional. Hard. Barren.

Then again, what did that say about her life? Homey
didn’t exactly define her life—or her flat. Not with her two hard-as-stone sofas, a tiny Formica-topped table shoved into the corner and a black-and-white television with aluminum foil wrapped around the antennas for reception. Her kitchen had enough room for a sink and a stove. She kept her refrigerator in the family room.

“Help yourself to something to eat. You might find some bread in the fridge, or maybe some apples. Sorry. I haven’t cooked here lately.”

She strode over to her bedroom door and closed it before he could see inside.

Roman headed to the television. Crouching before it, he turned it on, playing with the reception. She couldn’t help but notice his wide back, the muscles in his arms that tightened the sleeves of his thermal shirt. He’d gone from a boy to a man since she’d seen him last…no, he’d gone from boy to soldier.

She stifled a small shudder. She felt like she might be staring at a stranger. A strange man, in her apartment.

“On second thought, I eat at a café in town. Let’s catch some breakfast.”

He turned, and for a second, she glimpsed a tiny smile. “Perfect. Let me find the news while you change.”

He turned back to the television, and she shut herself into her bedroom, cleaning up, then changing into a flannel shirt and clean jeans.

On the other side of the door, she could hear the television, the chatter of fast Russian. She hardly ever watched the news…or television for that matter. It wasn’t only that
she didn’t have time, but after a day trying to decipher the language, she couldn’t bear to have it seep into her down-time.

The sun had risen and light now pooled on her green down comforter, a luxury from home. She sat on the bed to pull on her socks, and her gaze fell on the picture of Roman.

“Let’s get our photo taken.”

It had been one of their first dates—a real date, without David tagging along as chaperone. She’d been in the city less than two weeks, and somehow Roman found her free moments and filled them with his smile, his magnetic charm. He took her to Red Square, explained the monuments of the Fearless Leaders. He translated for her as they toured the Museum of Military History. He bought her ice cream and flowers and made her feel…respected. Even special.

She’d turned into a pile of besotted mush around him.

At Gorky Park, she rode the Ferris wheel, gazing upon the Kremlin and the Volga River from her perch. A slight sweat lined her palms from the height and when Roman put his arm around her, she leaned into it. For safety.

He felt so strong next to her. Like he’d never let anything happen to her.

If only she’d seen through her romantic idealism to the truth—Roman might be charm and charisma, but he also embodied danger, recklessness and heartache.

The more she let him into her heart, the more she knew she’d never be safe.

Denial became her friend until the day of the coup. When
Roman appeared, bloodied and angry, ready to fight for his country and freedom. She knew he’d never change his mind.

He just wasn’t sold out for God like she’d hoped.

At least that was what she told herself as she fled back to the States, to medical school and her goals.

Lord, I don’t know what you’ve done in his life over the past decade. I mean, I know from David that Roman still seeks you. But, you brought him back here for a reason, and I pray you make that clear to me. Help me be a vessel for good and growth in his life. Even if he does drive me crazy.

She wiped away a tear as she reached out and turned his picture down.

In the family room, Roman lay on the sofa, his hair wet, watching the news. “I took the liberty of using your sink. Hope that was okay.”

And he smelled good, too—a little bit of soap, a little leftover perspiration and way too much Eau de Roma. Drive her crazy was right.

She sat on one of her straight chairs. “So?”

“Evidently, Governor-elect Bednov has taken over in Governor Kazlov’s absence. They think he might have been kidnapped, but no one has made any demands.”

Sarai shook her head. “I can’t believe it. I thought Russia was past all this.”

Roman harrumphed. “Don’t believe everything you read in the news. Russia still has old Communists at the helm. And they’d like nothing more than a reversal to the old ways.”

“Bednov’s a good man.”

Roman gave her a look that made her feel like a kindergartener. “Hardly. He’s a Party man. I know. He was a friend of my father’s.”

“Your father was in the Communist Party?”

“Yes. Until he realized he’d been a fool. And then they took everything from him.” Roman tightened his jaw. “Just trust me. When Bednov says he’s going to do something. It gets done.”

“But he campaigned for peace.”

Roman tucked his arms behind his head. “He campaigned for a strong Russia. You need to learn to read between the lines.”

The newscaster came on with an update of the violence in Irkutsk. Tanks patrolled the city and a building burned, black smoke darkening the morning sky. Sarai listened with bated breath at the casualty toll.

“Seven dead, including one of Kazlov’s assistants.” She shook her head in disbelief. “That’s horrible, Roman, but I still don’t hear anything about your so-called foreigner evacuation. I know a plot by my brother when I see it.” The telephone rang.

Roman sat up.

Sarai reached for the receiver. “It’s my phone. I’ll get it.”

He pursed his lips and leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees.

“Sarai, it’s Anya.” The sound of Anya’s voice, so in control, yet so concerned radiated through Sarai. “We just got a call from Khanda. There’s a boy there showing the same symptoms as Sasha. They need you.”

Sarai nodded, glanced at Roman. “Okay. Can you and Genye pick me up? I’ll be downstairs waiting.”

“No.” Roman pounced to his feet and, before Sarai could react, snatched the telephone from her grip.

“Hey!”

“This is Roman Novik. I’m with the FSB and Sarai’s leaving with me this morning.”

Sarai didn’t wait for Roman to get a response. She leaped at him, grabbing at the telephone. “You can’t do this!”

He held her away from him with one arm, almost laughingly as she fought for the phone. “No. I’m sorry, she can’t meet you.”

Fine then. Sarai turned and bolted for the door. Rage filled her steps as she grabbed her keys and her jacket, and flung the door open. She opened the second metal door and slammed it behind her.

Locked it.

Roman burst from the apartment and nearly impaled himself on the door. “Have you totally lost it? What are you doing?”

“My job!” Sarai stepped back, away from his reach as he pushed his arm through the slats and made a grab for her. “I came here, Roma, to help save lives and I’m not letting you or David or my parents keep me from doing it. I don’t know why you seem so set against me, or my work here, but you’d better be gone when I get back.”

Then she turned and raced down the stairs in her slippers.

“W
e have a problem, Governor.”

Light from the hallway seeped into his darkened office, only seconds in advance of the voice. Alexei Bednov opened his eyes and leaned up from his desk chair. His headache hadn’t eased, even with a couple shots of vodka, a few pain relievers and an hour of shut-eye.

From the look on Fyodor’s face, his headache just might get worse.

“Shto?”

Fyodor came in, shut the door. His drawn expression could barely be seen in the dim light, despite the press of early morning against the curtains. Outside, Bednov could still hear the occasional siren. “Riddle is dead. He was supposed to check in yesterday from Khabarovsk.”

Bednov stifled a curse. “He had a shipment with him.”

Fyodor said nothing, and this time Bednov let the curse out, a long hiss in the darkness. “Where is he now?”

“In the ME’s office in Khabarovsk. The local FSB found him and called Alexander Oil.”

“Gregori Smirnov sparked the curiosity of an agent in Khabarovsk, and I’ll lay odds that agent will pick up Riddle’s scent.” Bednov shook his head, leaned over and turned on a desk lamp. “Have you sent anyone to pick him up?”

“Not yet.”

“Good. Don’t. Wait a few days, and then you go. See what they know and bring Riddle back. The last thing we need is Khabarovsk sending someone out here to sniff around. A dead agent on our soil would be hard to explain, even now.”

Fyodor nodded. A thin man, he looked sickly in the light. “Um, Comrade Bednov, I wanted to tell you how sorry I was about your son.”

Bednov nodded, but said nothing. Sasha served at least one purpose—he earned Bednov the sympathy of his province—probably the nation. It served as a sufficient alibi. If anyone ever figured out he’d planned the so-called coup to divert Kazlov’s kidnapping and keep Kazlov from contesting the election results, or worse—arresting Bednov if the unthinkable happened and Kazlov won. Not that he would, after the incentive Bednov had given the vote counters. But now, he could grab power without so much as a frown from Moscow. Public sentiment would sweep away accusations and only confirm his denials, and soon he’d have everything in place to broaden his scope of power.
Sasha’s timing couldn’t have been more convenient if he’d planned it that way. Stupid, useful kid.

“How’s our guest?”

“He’s angry. And demanding his freedom.”

Bednov snorted. “Take him to Chuya. And make sure he’s in solitary confinement.”

“Why don’t we kill him?”

Bednov switched off the light. Yes, that was much better. Now, perhaps, his headache might ease enough for him to untangle his next step. “For the same reason they didn’t kill the Czar and his family when they first took him. Because he still had information that they needed. If we want to pull this off, we must run our government as smoothly as possible. The last thing we need is to attract Moscow’s concern.”

Fyodor nodded, turned as if to leave.

“One last thing, Fyodor. Have you found the doctor yet?”

Fyodor stopped with his hand on the door handle. “I’m working with the embassy to put out pictures of all the foreigners. They are eager to help. Meanwhile, we’ve sent agents to Smolsk.”

“Fyodor, you told them that it must be an accident, correct?”

Fyodor nodded. “Yes, I did, Governor Bednov.”

“Your sister is the most infuriating—don’t laugh, David, it’s not funny. She locked me in her apartment.” Roman held his sat phone to his ear as he paced Sarai’s flat. He’d watched her drive away from his perch on her third-floor balcony
just off her bedroom. Of course, she had to be the ultra-safe girl and install a balcony grate—effectively trapping him inside the flat. “I can’t believe you talked me into this!”

David sounded like Roman had ripped him from something—raucous music blared in the background and although David wasn’t shouting, Roman had to in order for David to hear him. “Do you have any idea where she might hide an extra key?”

“Don’t give up, Roman. There’s news on my end that Bednov has already arrested two oil execs who were trying to depart on their private jets. Says he’s holding them under suspicion of kidnapping. But the chatter on this side of the ocean is that Bednov might be behind Kazlov’s disappearance. Keep your head down.”

“I’m not going anywhere unless I can find a key.” He paced through her bedroom, aware that it smelled like her—fresh soap, a hint of lilac. She might have some sort of body lotion or something… Yes, there it was on the nightstand. Along with…

He flipped up a picture frame and time stopped.

She still had this? Right here, where she could look at it every morning, every night? He felt just a little light-headed and sat down on the bed.

The day of their first kiss.

Why did she so easily find the cracks in his heart? He still remembered holding her face in his hands, the way her eyes widened as he searched for permission in her expression and then—

“Roman, try in the kitchen. In a decoy sugar bowl. That’s where my mother always kept one.”

Roman turned the picture back down and stalked out of the bedroom. “She’s got quite the setup here, Preach. She’s worked hard at this clinic. I feel sick to make her leave it.”

“I know. I’ll do all I can from here to get her back as soon as possible. But my sources say that Bednov’s serious. I know Sarai can take care of herself, but she has tunnel vision when it comes to a project. She’d rather sacrifice her skin than quit.”

Or my skin.
Roman walked out into the family room. Stopped.

On the television screen, framed neatly with the words “Foreigner at Large” flashed a fairly awful picture of Sarai Curtiss. It held for a moment, then flipped to another equally horrendous picture of a Frenchman.

“I can’t believe this,” Roman said almost inaudibly.

“What?” David yelled. Roman held the phone away from his ear, wincing.

“I just saw Sarai’s picture on the television. Like…Russia’s most wanted or something. What’s going on?”

“I dunno. Maybe the embassies are trying to rope in their registered expats.”

“I have to find her.” Roman stalked to the kitchen and opened the kitchen cupboard. Inside, a number of containers hinted at success. He opened three before he hit the jackpot.

“I found the key. I’ll e-mail you when I get back to Khabarovsk.”

“Redman, thanks. May God give you wisdom. And providence.”

Roman clicked off and pocketed his sat phone as he pulled on his jacket. He needed a truckload of divine wisdom if he hoped to find Sarai and get her out in—he checked his watch—sixty hours and counting. He opened the door, took the stairs two at a time, despite the shadows, vaulted the third step and slammed out into the street.

Thankfully, the town wasn’t so large he couldn’t sprint back to the clinic parking lot and pick up his smashed jeep in ten minutes or less.

Yes, yes! the clinic lights were on. And Sarai’s Camry sat in the lot.
Gotcha!

He burst through the doors, took a right and slammed open her office door.

Empty.

Breathing hard, Roman grabbed at his knees. His head felt woozy and he took a step forward, hoping he didn’t go down. He needed to eat.

“You okay?”

Roman turned at the voice. A familiar voice. Tall, with bobbed blond hair, lines around her icy blue eyes and a look that made him feel like he’d traveled back in time to sixth form. Anya—as Sarai had called her—didn’t smile. “
Da.
I’m looking for Dr. Curtiss.”

“You’re that FSB agent Sarai told us about.”

She’d gotten to them first. “Yeah. And she’s in big trouble. I need to find her. Now.”

Anya raised her eyebrows. “Why?”

“I told you. She’s in trouble. Your new governor, Bednov, is kicking out all foreigners, and if she doesn’t leave in the next two days, she’ll be arrested.”

“By whom, you?”

Maybe.
But he said nothing. Suddenly the room seemed to swirl, and he reached out for the wall.

“Sit down. I’ll get you some tea.” Anya disappeared as Roman cleared his head.

“No. I don’t have time for tea.” He followed her out into the hall. “Just tell me where she went.”

Only, maybe he did need something, because another wave of dizziness washed over him. What was wrong with him? What if… Oh please, no. What if it was the effects of radiation poisoning? Finally?

He felt a cold sweat prickle his body.

He angled for an exam room. Okay, so maybe just two minutes, while Anya fetched Sarai. And some tea.

He sat on the table, rested his head on his hands. He knew he’d pay for Smirnov’s crimes. Somehow. Regret lined his throat. It wasn’t fair. Not after all he’d worked for.

“Here’s your tea, young man.” Anya came in, holding a cup, with a piece of black bread balanced on the rim. She watched him as he drank.

“You’re not really going to arrest Sarai, are you.”

It was more of a statement than a question. He glanced at Anya. “I’m with the FSB. I might not have any choice.”

She sighed, crossed her arms. “If she needs to leave, why isn’t her embassy calling?”

“They probably did. But she doesn’t really stick around, does she?”

He got a hint of a smile.

“Her brother called me. He asked me to come get her.” Roman wasn’t sure why he might be passing this tidbit of covert information to Anya, but she hardly looked like a FSB spy. Besides, in the new era, even cops could have some American friends if they were careful. “Sarai and I knew each other years ago. I’m just trying to help her.”

Anya made a silent O with her mouth, then pursed her lips and nodded. “I see.”

Now what did that mean? “I’m just a friend.”

“Then why did she run away from you?”

Good question. One he’d been trying to figure out for more than a decade. “She doesn’t want to leave. But she has no choice. I just saw her picture on television, and soon they’ll be offering rewards for information leading to her whereabouts.”

Anya narrowed her eyes. “I don’t know why, but I believe you. So you’d better be telling the truth.” She pulled a piece of paper from her pocket. “She went to Khanda about two hours north of here.” She handed him the paper, then, from the other pocket, Sarai’s car keys. “Don’t make me regret this.”

Was Russia experiencing some sort of epidemic? Sarai could hardly believe her own diagnosis as she stared at ten-year-old Maxim Gordov. The village doctor, a young man who himself looked to be about twelve, stood at the foot
of a double bed in the one-bedroom house. Under the green woolen blankets, and propped up by a homemade feather pillow, Maxim was shockingly yellow, his breathing shallow and giving off a sickly sweet scent. “I didn’t know what else to do. It came on so fast. I just got the tests back this morning.”

Sarai nodded, said nothing. Without the tests, for all Dr. Valya knew, little Maxim may have had the flu. But he should have been able to detect the renal failure in time to transport him to…where? Smolsk didn’t have a dialysis machine. Maybe in Irkutsk… But if Maxim’s case progressed like Sasha Bednov’s, hope had died in the early morning when Max slipped into a coma.

His mother, Galina, stood in the doorway, her work-worn hands covering her mouth, as if she couldn’t bear to let out the groan that certainly formed in her throat. Her attire—wool
valenki
boots, a housecoat and a buttoned sweater over her thin body—identified her as a simple woman.

Maxim’s father sat in the next room, head in his hands, moaning.

The weather mirrored their despair. The wind had begun to pick up, and Sarai had seen a wall of low-hanging gray clouds on her drive. This area of Irkutia province already bore the marks of winter—gray black snow along the roads, a blanket of pristine white over the fields, marred only by the occasional deer print. Ice dangled from the eaves over the door of Gordovs’ wooden, blue-painted house like spears. Inside, the smell of coal smoke embedded the rug-
covered walls, yet a layer of frost outlined the wooden window casing and a chill hung in the air. Sarai had kept on the
valenki
she’d taken from her office in the clinic. All the same, the home seemed a warm place, a cheery place.

So what did a ten-year-old village boy have to do with a rich governor’s son?

She put her hand on Maxim’s head, and frustration knotted in her throat. Perhaps she was just tired but she felt overwhelmed, helpless. She wanted to curl into a ball and sob.

Or maybe just surrender to Roman…and leave. Just run from the realities, the failures, the challenges.

Even if they got him on a plane to Moscow, Maxim probably wouldn’t live out the day.

“Has he been sick?” She turned to Galina, who stepped into the room and crouched beside the bed, pushing back her son’s hair.

“No. He’s been fine. Maybe a bit tired lately. And he was sick a few days ago with the stomach flu, but that’s all.”

“No strep throat?” Sarai opened his mouth, flashed her penlight inside. Nothing to indicate an infection. “I’m going to set up an IV. Maybe I can flush whatever is causing his shutdown out of his system.”

She didn’t look at Galina as she prepped him and inserted an IV. She hung the bag from a chair. He didn’t make a sound, didn’t move.

“When did he lapse into a coma?” Sarai asked, checking his pulse. It was slow and thready.

“He had a seizure this morning when I woke him for
school.” Galina’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I was so afraid.”

Sarai’s throat felt thick. She looked at Valya. “Could I talk to you…privately?”

They stepped out into the street and, while the wind dug under her hat and a light dusting of snow floated from a steel gray sky, she told him the prognosis.

She stayed outside in the cold, her hands dug into her pockets while Valya returned inside. Even with two doors between her and the Gordovs, it didn’t muffle the pain that radiated out, nor the effect it had on Sarai’s spirit. Her throat burned.

Sarai pushed a hand into her stomach as she walked down the street, passing ramshackle houses fortified for winter. The smell of a storm hung in the air and snow fell thicker, accumulating beneath her boots. This area of northern Irkutia, smack in the middle of Siberia, wore snow cover from mid-October to May. The small town of Khanda had been formed during Khrushchev’s reign as a labor pool to serve a local nuclear plant. Since the mid-nineties, however, when the reactor shut down, population sloughed off toward the larger cities, leaving the village hollow, devoid of life. Families like the Gordovs subsisted on tiny vegetable plots, and the lucky few found work at the various oil refineries that owned millions of
sotoks
of Siberian steppes. The Gordovs were lucky. Galina worked as a chef for one of the local oil companies.