In Sheep's Clothing (3 page)

“Looks like the remnants of a
tetrad,
the kind professors use to record lab data.”

A notebook. For experiments? Vicktor rubbed his chin and rose. Why would Evgeny burn his lab notes? Turning, he glimpsed another tech slip something into his pocket. “What are you doing?”

The man whirled. Reed thin, with bloodshot eyes and scaly skin, he blanched. Vicktor grabbed him by the collar and shoved the tech against the sticky lab table. Glaring into his eyes an inch from his nose, Vicktor reached into the man’s pocket and pulled out an unbroken vial. Novocain.

“
Zdraztvootya?
I believe that’s called stealing.”

The tech’s Adam’s apple dipped twice in his neck. “He doesn’t need it anymore.”

The room went quiet. Vicktor let the kid go and blew out a hot breath. The tech’s mottled face, glistening with a scrim of sweaty fear, told Vicktor he wore what Roman would call his “tiger” face. Great. Just when he thought he had a clamp on his emotions.

Good thing Roman wasn’t here. Though perhaps, if he were, Vicktor wouldn’t feel like the only uninvited guest at a birthday party. The militia stepped up and took notice whenever a COBRA walked into the room—the training the FSB received to become the special agents who fought the mafia guaranteed respect.

Or better yet, the entrance of David Curtiss, Green Beret and Delta Force captain, would get their attention. Only, he couldn’t shout that little alliance across the room, could he? Sometimes Vicktor felt like David, better known as Preach, was in his head, his little voice of reason, and he would admit, only to himself, that he needed Preach’s words of wisdom way more than he’d thought ten years ago.

Who knew that a pickup game of hockey, a fistfight and an American-style pizza would lead to friendships that felt tethered to Vicktor’s very soul?

Sometimes he wondered if Roman and David had planned it that way.

Vicktor set the vial in a tray on the examining table and shot the tech a scalding look. “Get to work.”

Stepping into the hall, he fielded a frown from the Bulldog.

“
Spequietsye,
Vicktor. This isn’t America. Loosen up.”

Arkady’s voice, although low, tightened Vicktor’s gut. He swallowed a retort, closed his eyes and sighed. “Sorry.”

Arkady was right. He didn’t need a new generation of enemies in the militia, and another stunt like that could route his next urgent phone call straight to the morgue.

Arkady tapped his cigarette. The ash died to gray before it hit the floor. “Your shirt is too tight, Vicktor. You’ve changed. Ever since you got back from that stint in America, nothing is good enough for you. You see everything through American eyes…American
cop
eyes. Black and white. Don’t forget you are Russian. The law has shades of gray here.”

A muscle tensed in Vicktor’s jaw. Arkady was from the old school, the days of propaganda and the Cold War, the easy days when the bad guys were easily identifiable—they wore red, white and blue.

It hadn’t helped his relationship with his former chief when he had accepted the six-month internship in America. The friendship had taken further serious hits when he defected to the FSB, a.k.a. the former KGB, six months ago. The chief just didn’t get it—after the Wolf incident, the blunder of Vicktor’s militia career, Vicktor had to rescue himself from early retirement. Besides, the FSB had been chasing him like a hound since his training in the States, and after Roman had smoothed over the incident, they’d practically thrown him a welcome bash.

“We’re on the same side, you know,” Vicktor said.

Arkady drew on his cigarette as if he didn’t hear him.

Vicktor suddenly wanted to dump this entire thing in Arkady’s lap. A lifetime of chasing the scum of society had left an ugly pit in his stomach. He preferred the intellectual sparring of the international crimes unit where he now worked. But the memory of Evgeny, all smiles and jokes, stripped his anger, leaving only aching.

He needed answers. He wasn’t about to disappoint another person he cared about, especially posthumously. He’d find Evgeny’s killer even if he had to wrestle his pride into hard little knots.

Vicktor dredged up a respectful tone. “Yes, sir.”

V
icktor banged out of his apartment building and spied Roman leaning back against his building, arms akimbo, wearing a stocking cap, a running suit and a smile.

“Missed you last night.”

“I had to work.” The last thing Vicktor wanted to remember was the fact he’d missed out on a group chat. Like he had friends to spare. Vicktor made a face at him and began stretching from side to side. “I found Evgeny Lakarstin dead in his lab yesterday.”

Roman went silent at that, his mouth in an O.

“I was up until midnight answering questions and writing reports.”

“Fun. Well, then I hate to be the one to tell you Mae’s in town. She’s pulling transportation duty for some army brass. She told me to say hi to ‘Stripes.’”

Okay, that hurt more than he would have expected, even with Roman’s warning. “Oh, really?” Just what he needed to make his day—the memory of Mae Lund, her right hook
against his chin, the fact that she was over him enough to say hello, and the knowledge that she probably looked better than he had a right to imagine. Only she knew how much he needed her opinion, how he’d relished the nickname she gave him.

“She made captain, by the way. She’s flying DC-10s.”

Good girl. Mae had earned her stripes through grit and spunk, and in the active,
objective
part of his brain, he couldn’t blame her for not falling for the first Russian to flex his muscles. Even if he had done it saving her life.

“I thought she was on Search and Rescue.”

“Not when she can speak Russian. They have her translating, too. By the way, David was online, as well.”

The rising sun peeked through gaps in the tall buildings. It turned crisp, slightly frozen street puddles bright platinum and hinted at a beautiful spring day.

“Let’s run,” Vicktor snapped. He didn’t know what irritated him more. That he’d been up until all hours describing Evgeny’s death scene for his old militia cohorts, that he’d slept with one-hundred and thirty pounds of Great Dane on his face, or that he’d missed a chance to check in with the only people who knew the nightmares that haunted him.

Especially after a day when those nightmares seemed particularly fresh and brutal.

Roman scrambled to keep up as Vicktor shot down the sidewalk toward the wide greening boulevard between Karl Marx Street and Lenin Street. Roman, of course, wouldn’t think of asking him to slow down, and that fact kept Vicktor at a speed that pushed his heart rate into overdrive.

He didn’t care. Two weeks into his summer running habit, he needed an intense workout to drive Evgeny’s corpse from his mind. Internal snapshots of Evgeny had pushed sleep into the folds of eternity.

He hardly noticed Roman behind him the entire kilometer to the river.

The Amur River pushed yellow foam and brown ice in thick currents north to its Pacific mouth. Vicktor let the snappy
wind comb his hatless head and chill the sweat on his brow. Next to him, Roman gripped his knees and gulped frosty breaths. Remorse speared Vicktor. He shouldn’t wrestle his grief during Roman’s workout time.

“Sorry, Roma,” he muttered, stopping and leaning against a stone wall that separated the beach from the boardwalk.

Roman straightened, his forgiveness written in his signature lopsided grin. “
Kak Dela,
Vita? I’d say from this morning’s sprint we aren’t simply stretching our muscles. You trying to exorcise some personal demons?”

Vicktor looked away from Roman’s intuitive blue eyes. “You’re starting to sound like Preach.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Tell me what’s up.”

Vicktor turned, braced himself on the fence and leaned in, forcing screams up his calf muscles. “It’s nothing. I’m just tired.”

Roman crossed his arms and propped a hip on the stone. Wind whistled down the boardwalk, sifting through Vicktor’s Seattle PD sweatshirt. He shivered.

“Tired?” Roman echoed after a bit. “Tired of what? Grieving your mother? Trying to make things right with your pop?”

Vicktor tossed him a frown. “You are definitely sounding like Preach, or maybe Mae. Stop psychoanalyzing my life. I’m just…tired.” He stared at the dirty Amur. “Sometimes I just wonder if it wouldn’t have been better if it had been me who’d been shot instead of my father.”

“You gotta go forward, pal.”

“Yeah. Well, Evgeny sure isn’t going forward. I’m going to find his killer.”

Roman nodded. “I know. But when you do, you’re still going to be exhausted.”

Vicktor shook his head. “I know where you’re going with this, and I’m telling you before you start, ditch the God-talk. I’m not interested. You know God and I have issues. The bottom line is God isn’t going to solve my problems. Ever.”

“Calm down, Stripes.” Roman held up his hands in surren
der. “As your friend, I get to say that you’re wrong, but I’m on your side anyway.”

“Let’s run.” Vicktor jogged back to the boulevard. He heard Roman fall in beside him and set a reasonable pace. They ran in silence, listening to the wind rustle through the trees and traffic fill the streets.

It was just like Roman to foist his religion into Vicktor’s problems. He and David had been systematically ambushing him for years.

They just didn’t know how it felt to experience God’s cold shoulder. He’d tried the God route, once upon a time, and sorry, no thanks. Not that he’d ever mentioned his trial run with God to Roman or David. He’d rather have his tongue skewered slowly.

He was going to find Evgeny’s killer without God’s help. It just mattered too much to trust to a fickle God who did…or didn’t…come through.

They ran in rhythm, vaulting in one accord the craters in the broken sidewalk and murky puddles of mud. Crumpled paper cups and refuse frozen by winter’s embrace edged the path. Vicktor wondered if their national disregard for cleanliness irked Roman as much as it did him. Roman, too, had been to America, and Europe and even Japan once, and had seen the swept streets, the manicured lawns and the lush gardens. Nevertheless, Roman was forever flinging an easygoing smile into his assessment of life in Russia. Vicktor wondered if anything ever stymied his optimistic friend. Roman and Yanna were always telling Vicktor to loosen up, as if, somehow, that would help him find a new life for his handicapped father. Or help him wrestle the guilt of knowing he’d condemned the man to his threadbare armchair.

So maybe his run was about more than exorcising Evgeny’s ghost from his mind. “Tell me about your latest love, Roma.”

“Oh yeah, it’s hot. I spent yesterday at the gym, arguing with the dead weights, and the night before having a long and personal chat with a bowl of ramen noodles. I’m the man.” He
shook his head. “Sorry. My long run as a single guy is in no imminent danger of ending.”

“You expect too much, Romeo.” Having stood on the sidelines watching Roman trot through numerous short-lived relationships, he knew his friend wouldn’t stay single long. The man was a sponge for women, with his tousled brown hair, thick muscles and easy laughter. It was Roman who couldn’t seem to figure out what he wanted.

“All I expect is a woman who cares about honesty and living a life for God.”

“I’m not sure, but I think there is a rule about nuns getting married.”

Roman elbowed him, and Vicktor dodged a puddle, laughing.

“I’m serious. Those types of women don’t exist. Sure, you might find a Godly woman—look at Mae. How about Sarai? You had a good thing going with her back in college. But even those women have their hidden agendas. In general, women can’t be trusted.”

“Ouch. That’s a pretty cynical statement, considering two of your best friends are women.” Roman veered around a meteorsize crater in the middle of the sidewalk. “Seriously, though, you don’t trust women? Mae, Yanna?”

“I’m not dating Mae or Yanna. Nor will I. I learned from Mae that dating warps friendship. Love is a game for a woman—one designed to confuse and decimate men.” He gave a mock shudder.

Roman didn’t laugh. “Nice. You’re a real walking Don Juan. I’ll bet the ladies love hanging around you.”

Vicktor ignored him and he went on. “Sorry, but that’s the truth. Remember what Sarai did to you? She led you on, then blink, walked out of your life without even a goodbye. I’d think you’d be my champion.”

Roman’s hand clamped on his shoulder, yanking him to a halt. His friend’s eyes sparked, and Vicktor recoiled, suddenly aware he’d pushed Roman too far.

“You couldn’t be more wrong, Vicktor. About God. About women. About Sarai. I regret losing her more than you can guess. But I don’t blame the entire female population for my broken heart.”

“Sorry.” Vicktor shrugged off Roman’s grip, feeling like a jerk for mentioning Roman’s first love.

Roman inhaled an unsteady breath, his blue eyes scrutinizing his friend. “I don’t know what happened to you yesterday, but you need to get a hold of your fear of trusting people. Trust is a choice, pal. No man is an island, and, unless you choose to believe in people, you’re going to live a pretty chilly and barren life.”

Roman’s words felt like a sucker punch. Vicktor already lived a desolate life, his best friends being attached to a modem. Yes, he had Roman and Yanna, but more often than not he poured out his frustration to a dog he didn’t even like. “That’s not fair. I trust
you.
” He broke their gaze.

“And I trust you, my friend. But you need more than me and Yanna, Mae and David. You need the Savior. And you need the love of a good woman.”

“Just like you do?”

Roman smiled. It eased the moment, as well as the band around Vicktor’s chest.
“Da.”

Roman released his grip and they fell into step, cooling down from their run with a brisk walk. The winking sun had skimmed the tops of the apartment buildings and the wind was dissected by the wad of budding trees along the boulevard. The smell of freshly baked bread swirled on the crisp air. Vicktor’s stomach roared.

“That animal sounds hungry.” Roman smirked.

Vicktor ignored him, cut off the path and tramped across the stiff grass toward the Svezhee Bread Factory.

Five minutes later, two loaves of bread tucked under his arm, he rejoined Roman, who waited on the sidewalk, eyebrows high, tapping his foot.

“Gotta feed Alfred,” he mumbled.

Roman laughed. “By the way, I found a woman for you. Someone honest and not confusing in the least.”

“What?” Vicktor frowned.

Roman jerked his head, indicating a blonde heading in their direction. Her hands were fisted in her coat pockets, her legs, pulling against the hem of her denim skirt as she strode. Her vivid scowl and blazing eyes broadcast her fury as she stalked toward them.

“Just your type, Vicktor,” Roman said, voice low, teasing.

Vicktor’s eyes roamed over the lady, for some reason empathizing with the frustration written on her face.

Five steps away, she glanced up and met his eyes. Green. Intense. Vulnerable. His heart caught at that last impression and he barely remembered to stumble backward to let her pass.

“
Da.
Just my type,” he echoed as he watched her march down the sidewalk.

Gracie felt the man’s stare on the back of her neck and picked up her pace.
Way to go, Gracie.
Ex-pat rule number one—don’t make eye contact with a man in Russia. Or anywhere, for that matter.

She distanced herself from the gawker on the sidewalk, her heartbeat slowing. Poor guy did look frayed. His pensive blue eyes, a furrowed brow, his black hair in spikes and perspiration running down his unshaven jaw. Her heart twisted in response. She knew all about feeling frayed, worn down, defeated.

A frosty wind gusted through her thin raincoat and she shivered.

The smell of fresh bread wafted after her as she beelined to the bus stop. She would have dearly loved to pick up a fresh loaf for Evelyn, but thanks to Leonid, her absent chauffeur, she was hoofing it all over Khabarovsk. Leonid had better have a wallop of a reason for being late three times in a row. She once again wished for Andrei, but he was already assigned a new post somewhere. Thank the Lord for Larissa, who had come into
work at Aeroflot Travel early to meet her. Her travel agent friend even bumped her into first class.

“Your flight is at four p.m. Be there by one p.m. and don’t be late,” Larissa had said, melancholy in her eyes. “There’s only one flight a month out of here now, and it’s packed.”

Friends like Larissa, and her cousin, Andrei, would be difficult to replace.

Especially since she was leaving, forever.

Gracie’s throat closed and she didn’t dare look at heaven. She knew she’d blown it. The reality was mortifying—a missionary who had never led someone to the Lord. Why, she couldn’t even convince her best friend, let alone the masses. Larissa’s heart was as hardened to the gospel as a rock on the Lake Superior shoreline.

With five days left, the time bomb of a ticket in Gracie’s pocket ticked away.

She joined a handful of old women waiting for the bus, their wide faces peeking out from fuzzy gray scarves wound twice around their heads. Their desolate eyes matched their headgear. Life took all the guts the elderly could muster, especially on gray spring days.

As a grimy orange bus chugged up to the curb and coughed exhaust, Gracie fished around in her coat pocket and unearthed five rubles for fare. She climbed aboard and squeezed in beside a grizzled old man. The vodka on his breath nearly knocked her to her knees as she snared an overhead bar.

She hoped Evelyn was still home. Her boss wasn’t expecting her, but Gracie dearly needed a fresh e-mail from her mother to ward of the feeling of dread that hovered over the morning. She gritted her teeth against the breath of the toothless rummy, and hung on while the bus lurched toward Victory Square. The bust of Lenin towered over the cobblestone parade grounds, a heap of bouquets wilting at the base. Only four days earlier she had shivered on the balcony of the Youngs’ sixth-floor apartment and watched Russia revel in the old days of the might and power of the Cold War. They’d pushed out
the old arsenal, including tanks and Katusha rocket launchers, and had assembled them in the square, crushing the stones to dirt. She had to admit the sound of a thousand or so male soldiers singing the Russian national anthem had sent pangs of patriotism through her. Indeed, there were times she dearly missed America.