In Sheep's Clothing (26 page)

His modem connected, then he downloaded the message from Roman in seconds and hung up.

Dear Stripes: I got this from my sister. She says it’s the best she can do under the circumstances. She’s working with an indigenous tribe in Siberia at the moment.

Vicktor felt a shard of pity for Roman. Reading the name of his true love had to twist the knife in his friend’s wounded heart.

Forwarded message from [email protected]

Dear Dave. I don’t know how much I can help you, but this is what I know about cancer vaccines.

A cancer vaccine works much the same way as a smallpox vaccination, or a polio vaccination. It involves the administration of medicine to an individual which will stimulate the immune system to produce antibodies to a particular disease. The idea is that if a person is then exposed to this particular disease, the antibodies will evoke a response to eliminate the disease.

Cancer vaccines have been in the works since 1890, but since there are varied types of cancer cells, not one has been approved for therapy by the FDA. Studies show a significant percentage of success with melanoma (skin cancer), but for all other cancers, they are still under trial.

Vicktor’s letter mentioned a veterinarian. Early rabies and even polio vaccines were made from the cells of animals. They often used a bacteria as a host cell to create these cells. Today, they are using what is called recombinant DNA technology to extract and manipulate cells of animals to form various vaccines. It is possible to use this genetic engineering to transfer a gene from one species into cells of another and let this transformed cell create a corresponding gene product. For example, they do this in the production of insulin.

Dave, scientists have been trying to create a cancer vaccine therapy for nearly a hundred years. If somehow a veterinarian in Siberia stumbled onto a possible therapy, the odds might be slim, but the stakes would be gargantuan. Pharmaceuticals would knock each other off just to get a sniff at the process. Cancer, the leading cause of death in America, could be given a death sentence. Millions of lives saved.

Tell Vita to be very, very careful.

Hello to Mom and Dad.

XOXO Sarai

Vicktor drummed his fingers on his desk and read over the letter again. Gene therapy. Animal antibodies. Could Evgeny have found a vaccine for cancer? And if so, who wanted it? Who wouldn’t want it? The possibilities webbed his brain. Sarai’s last line, however, glared like neon.

He had to get Gracie out of Russia—with the medical notes.

The door to the bathroom creaked open. Vicktor turned.

The sight of her knocked him breathless. Just what he needed. With her hair slicked back, swimming in his black jeans, and blue jean shirt, her tentative smile lit his heart.

“No,” she’d said.

Oh, his world would be black when she left. Somehow she’d brightened his life, and after she left, his soul would be that much darker for the contrast.

Now, he had Andrei’s death to contend with.

Vicktor fled to the kitchen, unable to face the despair he felt.

She padded in behind him.

He grabbed a bowl. “I’ll make us some eggs.”

“I don’t want eggs right now.”

He turned, and she startled him by stepping closer. “I want to know what haunts you.”

A lump lodged in his throat. No, she did not want to know that he woke every night wishing he could rip the heart out of a monster. No, she didn’t want to know he was so desperately lonely that at times he longed to climb inside his computer, or
that his heart was crumbling right here, knowing he was sending out of his life the one person he’d always dreamed about.

Or that he loved her, and it was only going to destroy him.

His heart thudded against his rib cage when she stole closer and hung a hand on his arm.

“Please? I really do care.”

Oh, she had truly magical, heart-stopping, persuasive green eyes. He clenched his jaw. “How about some toast?”

“No. I want the truth.”

He turned away from her and put the bowl back. Bracing his hands on the counter, he hung his head. “No, you don’t.”

Her hand on his back coaxed him. “Trust me, please?”

Trust her. Like she’d trusted him? He closed his eyes. “You might not like me when I’m done.”

Softly, without a pause, she said, “Not a chance, Vicktor.”

He turned and against his will he reached out for her.

She didn’t resist him. Which made him want to cry. She fit so well in his arms. She leaned her cheek against his chest—her fragrance, fresh soap and his shampoo, reaching up like a caress. He felt her damp hair through his cotton shirt and was oddly warmed by it. He closed his eyes.

They stood in a quiet embrace while Vicktor listened to his heartbeat counting down their last moments together.

Vicktor reached down and cupped her chin, raising her face to his. Her eyes were a translucent, sea-green, brimming with something indescribable…something he hoped could be called love. He was afraid to ask, to speculate and let hope drive him insane.

“I—I’m so sorry about Andrei,” he stammered. “I didn’t know…it all happened so quickly…I couldn’t—”

She stopped his words with two soft fingers to his lips. “It’s okay. I know. And…I forgive you. I know it wasn’t your fault, but you think it was…so, I forgive you, in Andrei’s stead.”

He winced and put her away from him. “No, Gracie, you can’t forgive me.” He pushed past her.

“Vicktor…”

He stalked out of the room and stood at the door to his bedroom. She padded up behind him, and he stiffened.

She curled her grip around his arm, pulling gently. No, he wouldn’t look into her eyes and see the tenderness, the forgiveness written there. The back of his throat tightened.

“Vicktor, look at me.”

Her plaintive voice was more than he could take. Reluctantly, he turned to face her. He kept his jaw, his body rigid. She ran her finger along his chin.

“Sometimes it’s easier for people to live with self-punishment than it is to accept forgiveness. But in this case, you don’t get to tear yourself apart with Andrei’s death. It was a horrible, terrible murder, but not at your hands.” Her eyes glistened. “Andrei is in heaven now, and I don’t want you to live in hell, here on earth.”

Heaven? “How can you say that? Andrei betrayed you.” He felt himself loosing his grip, sliding down the slope toward desperation. “He lied, he was even a part of the Youngs’ murder…and you say he’s in heaven?” Vicktor shook his head. “I don’t understand you, or your religion.”

“‘For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only son that whosoever believes in Him shall not die but have eternal life.’ It’s not my religion—it’s God’s grace. And He gives it to whoever asks.”

“No way.” He stepped away from her, into his room. He resisted slamming the door in her face, but every nerve in his body wanted to shake free of her words.

Sadness crept into Gracie’s voice. “I know Andrei was a Christian. I know it in the way he talked, and even in his actions. He may have betrayed me, sinned against me, but Jesus can forgive any sin.”

Vicktor stood straight, his fists in his pockets, and stared out the window. On the street below, a group of birds picked
at the garbage. The pewter sky began to spit on his window.
Any
sin? “A year ago, I was involved in a foot pursuit of the Wolf. Against policy and my better sense, I ran into an abandoned building after the suspect.” He felt her hand on his arm and tensed. “I was overpowered and lost my weapon. The Wolf used it during his escape and shot my father.”

“The Wolf?” she asked softly, and he knew she was connecting the dots.

He didn’t repeat himself.

“So you do have history with him. Painful history.”

He hung his head. “Yeah.”

“This is personal.”

He drew in a deep breath and dared to look at her. Tears hung on her eyelashes.

“Very.”

She didn’t respond. He turned away from the pain in her face. His voice hardened. “I destroyed my father’s career because I was proud and reckless.” He stared out the window, refusing to see the judgment written in her eyes. Shame trapped words in his chest.

“And destroyed any chance of earning his respect,” Gracie said quietly. “I think I finally understand.”

The compassion in her voice made him bury his face in his hands. “Yeah. And now you understand why I can’t go crawling to God for help. I don’t deserve it.”

“No, you don’t.”

He felt gut-punched. “Thanks.”

“Your dad showed me your boyhood pictures.” She put her hand on his cheek, turned his face. Her beautiful eyes searched his. “And now I know what’s haunted you your entire life.”

He looked away, but she moved in front of him, offering him no retreat.

“Your father’s respect. His acceptance. You’re out to prove you’re just as good as your old man, aren’t you.”

He stared at her, unable to find words.

“The sad thing is, you never had to earn your father’s respect.” She paused as emotion filled her voice. “It’s always been there.” She put her hand on his chest, over his pounding heart. “I saw it on his face. The tone he used to describe your boyhood. I can’t speak Russian, but I do understand the language of the heart. Your father is incredibly proud of you.”

“How can he be?” Vicktor said, his voice low.

“Because you’re his son.”

Her words rocked him. He tried to edge away but she grabbed his hand. Her eyes flashed.

“God is like your dad. He wants to love you. But you can’t see it. The only thing holding you back from forgiveness is your own stubborn pride. It kept you from seeing your father’s love. Don’t let it sabotage your salvation.”

She took a breath as if fighting to control her emotions. “You’re right, you know. About deserving forgiveness. You don’t deserve it.”

He flinched, but she touched his cheek. “But that’s the point. You can’t make it better, but God can. Remember what I said about God loving us when we were sinners? We don’t have to prove anything to Him. We just have to
need
Him.”

She moved away from him, took his other hand. He stared at it.

“God wants to forgive you, Vicktor. He wants to free you from grief and guilt. He wants to show you how much He loves you. But you have to ask.”

Vicktor winced. Heaven help him, Gracie was right. He was his own enemy. Only, he’d lived with guilt for so long, how could he cope with freedom?

He sank to the bed and buried his face in his hands. “I…have a hard time…trusting this.”

“You have to choose to trust, to believe. The first step of faith is the hardest. It
does
get easier.”

She crouched before him; he felt her hands on his knees.

“God is trustworthy. He loves you more than you know.” Her voice broke on the last words.

He lowered his hands.

She was crying.

Crying.
For
him.

He traced the tear lines down her face. He ached to believe her words. Wanted to stake his life on it.

And what did he have left? “I want to believe you.” That admission felt…cleansing. It almost overwhelmed him.

Her breath caught. “You do?”

Vicktor dredged up his courage. “Yeah, I guess.” He looked past her. “The fact is, Mae and Roman and David have been preaching to me for years. But, well, I guess I never saw my need for forgiveness.”
Until now. When I want, so badly, to start over. To not wake up each day with hate. To look at the reflection in your eyes and feel clean.

To know, for the first time, hope.

Gracie closed her eyes, tears streaming down her face. “Pray with me,” she whispered.

He closed his eyes. Gracie took his hands and held them tight. “Oh, God, Vicktor here wants to be Your man. Please hear his prayer.”

Strength had to be flowing from her warm hands because suddenly he felt his defenses crack. Everything, the grief, the anger, the hatred, the failure, even the fear spilled out in a voice that seemed somehow not his own, broken as it was. And yet, it was also very much his voice, a voice he’d longed to find. “God, I never thought I would need You. But I guess I do.” He forced the words through the wall of emotions threatening to strangle him. “I have a lot of garbage in my life and I need to be forgiven. I need help.”

He drew a shaky breath. “So, here I am God. Please forgive me for my sins and my unbelief. Please change my life and help me to know You…”

The words lodged in his throat, and he wrenched them free. “And help me to trust You.” He heard a gasp, then realized it was his own. His breath drew with it the shackles
of a thousand mistakes, the mantle of grief, the burden of self-reliance.

His pulse quickened, and in a blink he knew he’d been forgiven.

It sent him to his knees on the floor in front of Gracie. He felt tears on his cheeks. His eyes opened, his chest swelled with joy, and he smiled crazily at the woman kneeling before him.

Gracie’s eyes were wide, sparkling, her mouth agape. She reached out and touched his face. “You wouldn’t believe this—you actually look different! Like a mask has fallen off your face.”

“Oh, Gracie, you didn’t tell me I’d actually feel clean.” He breathed deeply. “This is what it means to be saved?” What a glorious God in heaven who could make a man feel brand-new!

Delight danced in her eyes. “Trust me, it’s just the beginning.”

He put a hand over hers on his cheek. He had so much to be thankful for and much of it was grinning at him.

“What’s all this?”

Vicktor turned and saw Roman leaning against the doorjamb, a curious smile on his face.

T
he elation lighting Roman’s face made Vicktor forgive his friend for breaking and entering.

“Well, your good news tops mine,” Roman said with a twinkle in his eyes.

“Spit it out,” Vicktor demanded impatiently.

“So you were right on your hunch about the thug in Gracie’s flat. Sergei Lasherov. Petty thief, sat some time in the zone two years back for possession of a weapon.”

“And he was Andrei’s boss?” Gracie asked in disbelief.

Vicktor reached out and pulled her close. He could barely think when she looped her arm around his waist. Like she belonged there.

Roman shrugged. “I don’t know that. But I did find something interesting in his file.” His smile dimmed. “He was an official snitch for the KGB.”

Vicktor blinked at him, then groaned. He stalked away from them, wanting to bang his head against the wall. “I knew I’d
seen him before. I arrested him once, only to have him vanish under the wings of the KGB.”

“Right,” Roman acknowledged. “He was one of the leftovers, caught between two systems. He worked undercover on various projects.”

Vicktor glanced at Gracie. “Did one of those projects happen to be the Russian Church?”

Gracie stepped out of the car at the airport into the rain, hoisted a newspaper over her head and made a dash for the front doors. The Youngs’ computer bag slapped against her side. Vicktor splashed one step behind her, nearly running her over. He flung open the door and they scurried inside. Gracie shook out her damp hair.

“Not a great day for flying.”

Vicktor tucked a hair behind her ear and let his hand linger on her cheek. She leaned into it.

“I’m not leaving your side until you’re on the plane.”

She closed her eyes and willed herself to keep it together. So what, she was leaving. Vicktor was saved. And, well, that meant she wasn’t leaving him forever, right?

Except, it felt that way. “So, let’s get this over with.” She fingered the airplane ticket Vicktor had picked up from Yanna. Flipping open the spanking new passport, she grimaced at the picture. “How did you get this in such a hurry?”

Vicktor curled his arm around shoulders. “C’mon, honey, I’m with the FSB, remember?”

“Gracie!”

Gracie whirled and barely caught Larissa as her friend flung herself into her arms.

She squeezed Larissa tight, reality hitting her hard. Her only other friend left in Khabarovsk.

“I was worried about you when Andrei didn’t call me. He said he was going out to the
dacha.
” Larissa’s voice fell and she looked warily at Vicktor. “Did you see him?”

Gracie’s answer caught in her throat. She nodded. How was she going to tell Larissa her cousin had been murdered? Larissa frowned, and looked beyond her.

“Where is he?”

Gracie noticed Vicktor’s dark, warning look and scrambled for an answer. No, now was not the time, but she ached to tell Larissa, gently, instead of letting Vicktor do so. “He’s at home,” she answered truthfully.

Larissa’s eyes narrowed, briefly, then she shrugged. “Well, I hope he doesn’t miss saying goodbye.”

Gracie swallowed a lump in her throat and shook her head. “He already did.” Vicktor was standing behind Larissa, giving her the most compassionate look she’d yet seen on him. Not a trace of anger over Andrei’s betrayal. Truly, a new creation in Christ.

And she’d been there to witness it. Despite Andrei’s death, she felt like breaking out in the “Hallelujah Chorus.” She treasured Vicktor’s prayer in her heart. Wasn’t that what salvation was all about—joy in the midst of sorrow?

Larissa peered at her over her wire-rim glasses. “Are you okay?”

Gracie nodded. “It’s just hard to say goodbye.” She noticed Larissa had worn the cross she gave her. She prayed her friend would never take it off, that somehow the message behind the symbol would sink in with her, just as it had with Vicktor.

Larissa stepped close and wrapped her arm around Gracie. “I have to tell you something. Can you come to the ladies’ room with me?”

Gracie nodded.

Vicktor touched her arm. “Not so fast.”

Gracie raised one eyebrow. “Are you coming with me?”

His expression told her he might.

“I’ll be right out,” she assured him, touched by the worry on his face. She reached over and tugged at his suit coat lapel. “Thanks for caring.”

He pinched his lips together. The haunted look may have evaporated, but the fierce set of his jaw sent a shiver through her.

Oh, he cared. More than he should.

“I’ll wait by the door.”

Gracie strolled away with Larissa, feeling his gaze on her.

“He’s a little protective, don’t you think?” Larissa whispered in her ear. “Who is he?”

Gracie ducked her head, feeling her face heat. “He’s a friend.”

Larissa harrumphed loud enough to make Gracie elaborate, almost.

The rain pattered against the floor-to-ceiling windows facing the parking lot. A steel-gray sky obscured the sun, painting the lobby a dismal hue. Gracie scanned the corridor, fighting the claw of anxiety. Surely the Wolf wouldn’t know to look for her here? With Andrei silenced, there was no one to spy on her. A bittersweet relief filled her. She sighed and felt Larissa’s arm tighten.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

Gracie squinted at her. Larissa’s angular face showed concern. Gracie patted Larissa’s hand at her waist and nodded. She peeked behind her and spied Vicktor prowling ten feet away.

She nearly tumbled over the yellow Yield sign in front of the bathroom.

Larissa caught her. “‘Cleaning,’” she translated, sounding disgusted. She tugged on Gracie’s arm. “Who cares? C’mon.”

Gracie made a face and followed Larissa into the bathroom. The door whisked shut behind her.

“What took you so long?”

Gracie stared gape-mouthed at Pastor Yuri Mikhailovich. Dressed in a crisp black suit and holding a briefcase, he wore an annoyed expression that stalled her heart. “W-what are you doing here?” she stammered.

“Did you get it?” he asked Larissa.

Gracie frowned and looked at Larissa, who loosened her grip on Gracie’s waist and stepped away. Her expression changed, slowly, like all the color draining from a Technicolor movie.
Gracie saw her in planes of black and white, heard her friend answer from another place, distant, as if through a tunnel.

“Nyet.”
Larissa pushed her glasses up on the bridge of her nose.

Gracie blinked, moved her head in jerks between Larissa and Yuri. The dank smell and dirty shadows shifting through the bathroom made her head spin. “Larissa?”

Her friend edged away. “I’m sorry, Gracie.”

“What?” The bottom dropped out of Gracie’s stomach.

“Please, give him what he wants.” Larissa’s voice was hard. “If you don’t, he’ll kill Andrei.” She added a note of pleading to her voice.

Gracie could hardly breathe for the weight that settled in her chest. Larissa? Was she in league with Andrei? Had Gracie not one genuine friend in all of Russia?

Vicktor.

A wail started near her toes but she clamped down on it.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…”

Well, what Larissa didn’t know was that the Wolf had already done Yuri’s job. She pressed a hand to her stomach and turned to Yuri. “What do you want?”

“The notes. Dr. Young’s medical notes on Leonid Krasnov.” A line of sweat trickled down Yuri’s face.

As he took a step toward her, realization washed over her. She stiffened and met Yuri’s dark eyes.
“…I will fear no evil…”

“Over my dead body.”

He laughed. “You have more spunk than Evelyn,” he hissed. “Too bad.”

He dropped the briefcase, caught her wrist in an iron grip and yanked. Pain shot up her arm. She fell toward him, crying out. He released his hold and clamped his hand around her windpipe, forcing her to her feet. His breath streamed across her face. Spittle edged the corners of his mouth.

She felt a burn at the base of her throat and gasped.

Yuri peered over her shoulder and smiled. “Just in time, Captain.”

Vicktor’s heart completely left his chest as he stared at the man squeezing Gracie’s throat, a bowie knife pressed to her jugular. “Let her go,” he demanded in Russian. Vicktor held his pistol in two hands, but with the man using Gracie’s body as a shield, Vicktor couldn’t get a clean shot.

“You don’t remember me? I’m hurt.” The man tightened his grip and Gracie whimpered.

Vicktor’s hands tightened on the gun.

“Gracie, introduce me to your boyfriend.” Yuri turned Gracie to face Vicktor.

Gracie’s white face, the red marks streaming from the man’s grip on her throat and the stain of blood on her collar sent a white-hot fury through him. Then he met her eyes, and turned cold.

No, Gracie, no, no.
She was ready to die for her beliefs. He shook his head, pleading with her.

“You shoot, and I take her head off.”

Vicktor focused on the man. “I know you. We’ve met, haven’t we?”

“A couple times.” Sweat glistened on the man’s forehead, and when he smiled, memory stabbed Vicktor.

“You’re the pastor,” he said starkly. “Yuri Mikhailovich.”

The pastor tipped his head, his eyes never leaving Vicktor’s. “I want Dr. Young’s notes.”

Vicktor squinted at him. “We’ve met a couple times…” he repeated, turning over Mikhailovich’s words.

Mikhailovich looked at him and laughed. “And again, I have bested you.”

Vicktor went weak. That laugh. The laugh that gave sound to his nightmares. The laugh that echoed through the abandoned building.

A predator’s laugh.
The
predator.

“You’ll never get away,” Vicktor growled. “I know who you are.”

The Wolf’s face twisted. “I have spent nearly thirty years in
well-cloaked cover. I will walk out of here and no one will stop me because I am Pastor Yuri Mikhailovich, head of the Russian Church.” He tightened his grip on Gracie, who whimpered. “Besides, I’m on your team. You can’t arrest a fellow KGB officer.”

“The KGB doesn’t have spies in the church anymore.” Vicktor glanced at Gracie’s balled fists, her hand on her satchel. “You were ordered to come in years ago.” If she could just move two centimeters…

“You don’t understand the type of commitment it takes to be an agent,” the Wolf snarled. “A true KGB agent doesn’t abandon his ideas just because the party changes hands in Moscow. I spent three decades listening to idiots babble. I was poor, laughed at…I even had to pay allegiance to the glory-hungry Americans.” Bitterness laced his voice. “I deserve a little payback, don’t you think?”

Vicktor shuffled a step closer. Maybe he could knock her aside…

Gracie gasped.

“Be careful, Captain.”

Vicktor froze. “You worked for Ishkov, didn’t you?”

Yuri shrugged.

“And you killed him and everyone who knew it.” His mind listed the Wolf’s victims, former agents, informants, prostitutes. They suddenly webbed together with stinging clarity.

“I had to keep my cover.”

“Why?”

“Missionaries are worth their weight in gold. They bring in huge amounts of cash and humanitarian aid.” He smiled caustically. “We can’t let them wander freely around the city.”

Vicktor took a calming breath. “You killed Evgeny and the Youngs.”

“And Krasnov. Unfortunately, I didn’t get Andrei, but I heard his death was especially poignant.” He smiled, his head tilting in mock pity.

Gracie’s friend Larissa made a sound like she’d been hit in the gut. Vicktor didn’t spare her a look. Gracie’s eyes filmed, and adrenaline surged through Vicktor’s body.
Patience.

“Let her go, Mikhailovich. She’ll give you the information. Just let her go.” His voice was cool, but inside he was shredding, fast.
No. Not again.
The plea started in his gut and rattled through him.
Please, not Gracie.
He locked her terrified gaze and felt pain sear through him.

“Drop your weapon, kid,” the Wolf said icily.

Gracie’s whimper sent Vicktor’s pistol crashing to the floor.

“I want Young’s notes.”

Vicktor indicated Gracie’s shoulder bag. “Let go of her and I’ll hand them over.”

“I am a fool?” He switched to English. “Drop your bag, Miss Benson.”

Gracie shook her head. A wild look entered her eyes.

“Gracie, drop the bag,” Vicktor said in a low tone.

“Never.”

He wanted to strangle her himself. Eyes on the Wolf, he strapped down every emotion and spoke in a monotone. “If you meant what you said about trusting me, prove it. Drop your bag.”

Her mouth opened, and he knew he’d hit deep and hurt her. Like she hadn’t proven her trust in him over and over and over. Stiffly, Gracie slid the computer bag off her shoulder. It thumped to the floor.

The Wolf kicked it toward Vicktor. “The notes,” he repeated.

With jerky movements, Vicktor grabbed the bag, wrenched open the zipper and yanked out the manila envelope. He held it out to the Wolf.

“Drop it on the floor.”

Vicktor obeyed. At the slapping sound of Dr. Willie’s life work offered as a sacrifice to the Wolf, Gracie flinched.

“Thank you. See that closet behind you?”

Vicktor shot a look over his shoulder. The janitor’s closet.
Oh, God, I was serious about needing You. Now would be a good
time to show up.
He turned back to the Wolf, fresh out of ideas. “Let her go. You got what you wanted.”

“And have you track me across Russia?” The Wolf snorted.

“You could kill me,” Vicktor taunted. “That would keep me out of your hair.” Gracie’s choked sob sent daggers through his heart. But he was serious. He’d go to his grave this second if it meant Gracie might live.

“And let you escape the shame of knowing you failed…again?” Yuri smirked. Sweat glistened on his fat cheeks. “Some punishments are worse than death.”

Vicktor calculated the distance to his pistol. Ten centimeters from the Wolf’s foot, but only a body length if he dove.

“Get in, now, or your girlfriend dies in a Russian bathroom.” He made his point by pressing the knife against Gracie’s flesh. She refused to cry out, but Vicktor wanted to when he saw blood trickle across the blade.