In Sheep's Clothing (5 page)

Gracie’s plea lodged in her dry throat and surfaced in a ragged whisper. “Don’t hang up.” The dead tone buzzed in her ear.
Oh please, Lord, no. Please don’t leave me here all alone.
She pushed the phone receiver into her cheek and blew out, fighting the panic clogging her mind.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.”

Gracie curled into a ball, ignoring the comfort that could be hers, covered her hands with her face, and wept. Her sobs echoed through the flat and drowned the rasp of the steel door as it eased open.

T
he Wolf had grown to like the alias. He liked to think of himself as a hunter. “Where is it?” He slammed his hands down on his desk and leaned forward in his rickety chair. The flimsy piece of laminate trembled, as did the weakling sitting in the straight chair across from him.

“I don’t know.” The man’s face paled. He turned up his fraying collar.

The Wolf saw the quiver in his hands, and rolled his gaze up to the ceiling. The ceiling fan swirled the stale air through the tiny office. Dust rose from the matted red rug and mixed with the sour smell of mold clinging to the walls of the cement and log building. The place should have been destroyed years ago. Someday it was going to come down, but he hoped to be long gone before then.

He rose, rounded his desk and leaned against it, folding his hands on his lap. His stress was beginning to manifest itself in the flesh of his knuckles. His fingers screamed as dry skin cracked and bled. He needed a bottle of Smirnoff and a good
massage. But not here, not now. Pleasure would have to wait until he’d finished what he’d started. That’s what commitment meant. Putting off ’til tomorrow the delights of the flesh, staying the course until the job was complete.

That much he’d learned over the thirty years of his virtual imprisonment.

He watched the man fidget, play with his leather key chain. Idiot. The man had all the markings of a new Russian—cocky on the outside, kasha for stuffing. Flighty. Uncommitted. Men like the one before him made the Wolf physically ill. They had no idea what it meant to sacrifice for the
Rodina
, the Motherland. Men like him were like a virus, infecting the motherland with greediness and a lust for westernism. He despised the leather jacket, the black shoes, the clink of keys to a fancy Japanese sedan.

He despised the next generation. Their idealism, their selfish dreams. The Wolf smiled. He’d shattered some of those illusions today.

He let the kid sit in silence, watched a line of sweat drip down the angular face.

“It’s your own fault.”

The younger man looked up, eyes lined with red. “How’s that?” The tough tone was belied by an edge of horror.

“If you’d dug deeper, none of this would have happened.”

“He didn’t have it. He knew nothing!”

Weakling.
“He knew.”

“He died rather than tell you?”

“Yes.”

The man rose and went to the window. “I feel sick.”

The Wolf knew just how the kid felt. He remembered the day not so long ago, when everything he built his life on dissolved like salt in water.

He’d been left to drown.

The Wolf clamped a fat hand on the chauffeur’s shoulder. The younger man jumped. Outside the grimy window, a group of blue-gray pigeons wandered through the garbage of an over-
flowing Dumpster, picking at juice cans and hard bread. The wind blew a plastic bag through the rutted dirt yard. It caught in the branches of a budding lilac.

“Find what I need and you’ll feel much better. I promise.”

In the wake of Gracie’s sobs, the whine of the steel door on its hinges ignited her adrenaline like tinder.

Someone was here.

Gracie held still, letting the saliva pool in her mouth. She heard nothing but the whistle of a draft from the outside hall, yet she felt a presence slink toward the bedroom. Gracie drew in a slow, noiseless breath, trying to ignore the sound of her pounding heartbeat. The presence edged closer. Clamping down on her trembling lower lip, she moved the telephone to the floor. It jangled.

Gracie froze.

Glancing around the room for a weapon, her heart sank. The Youngs had nothing more dangerous than a couple of oversize pillows in their room. Her slaughtered body would be found clutching a feather pillow like a shield. Revulsion sent an unexpected streak of courage into her veins. She wasn’t going to let Evelyn’s murderer kill her without a fight.

Her eyes fell on the crystal vase Dr. Willie had given his wife for Christmas. Gracie eased to her feet and grabbed the vase. The faux flowers went airborne, scattering the potpourri Evelyn had tucked inside.

Gracie heard a brushing sound, as if the intruder had skimmed his jacket along the wallpaper. She gritted her teeth, willed her pulse quiet, raised the vase.

The door cracked open.

Gracie wound up.

A fuzzy white paw clawed at the invisible.

The vase crashed.

Gracie’s heart nearly rocketed out of her open mouth. Shaking, she sank onto Dr. Willie and Evelyn’s double bed and wheezed deep breaths.

She’d nearly killed a cat. What if it
had
been the killer? What was she supposed to do, bean him with a pot of flowers? The absurdity of her defense sent heat into her face. She was a fool. And she might be in danger.

Glancing at Evelyn’s butchered body, she pushed a hand against her pitching stomach and released a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry, Evelyn. I have to get out of here.”

Gracie grabbed her satchel from its landing place near the door and stepped out into the hallway. Nothing but shadow and the
plink
of water from the kitchen sink. On noodle legs, she ran to the door, just daring someone to leap from the kitchen or the living room. She’d send him out of the window and into the next country.

She stepped into the hallway, strode to the landing and started down the stairs. One step at a time, skipping two, then three, feeling the hem of her dress catch as she hung on to the rail and flung herself down every flight until she stumbled, breathless through the entrance and out into the clear, blue-skied day.

Her gaze landed on a babushka, still attired for January, sitting on a bench near the door. The old woman scrutinized her with a slit-eyed stare. Gracie stalked away, her strides not nearly long enough for the speed she needed. The cacophony of sirens, horns and car engines on the street played her tension like a drum.

Footfalls streaked up behind her. She ducked her head. Panic made her stiffen, yet she glanced up.

A teenager ran past, his backpack slapping against his hip. He frowned at her as he whizzed by. She lowered her eyes and repositioned her satchel on her shoulder, increasing her stride.

Color caught her eye. Dark red. She slowed and examined her hands.

Blood.
Her breath stuck in her throat. Blood welled in the creases of her palms, smeared her hands, stained her shirt-sleeves. It saturated her denim skirt, lined the hem of her trench coat.

She’d held her head in her hands, wiped her tears…
Evelyn’s blood streaked her face.

Gracie felt another howl begin in her gut and fought it. She wanted to retch on the sidewalk.

Run.

Light-headed, she stumbled to an alleyway. Threading between metal garages, she found a niche between two blue, peeling units and sank down next to a pile of vodka bottles.

Hiccuping in horror, she wrapped her arms around her body and rocked as Evelyn’s pale face ravaged her memory. And Gracie was covered in her blood. The world spun; she forced herself to breathe. Battling for sanity, she spoke aloud.

“Get home. Get clean. Get out of Russia.”

Yes, get out of Russia.
Now.
Gracie climbed to her feet. Bracing an arm on the garage, she forced herself to formulate a path home.

She’d cut through the garages, around the park, along the alley and behind the bread kiosk, then make a frenzied dash to the front door.

Ducking her chin, she raced toward her apartment.

“We’re not as free as you think, Vita, that’s all.” Yanna didn’t look at Vicktor. She stirred her cold tea, pushing the tea bag into a wad at the bottom of her cup. The beverage had long since sent off its last wisp of steam. Vicktor’s stomach churned as he watched her twirl her spoon. Something was eating at her, something bigger than tonight’s tournament.

Vicktor kept his voice low. “Could you be more clear?”

Yanna sighed, dropped the spoon and flicked her hair back. It shone rich mahogany in the well-lit cafe. She crossed her arms over her chest, wrinkling leather and appearing exasperated. “
Nyet.
Just keep our little online friends a secret. Don’t breathe names, or even connections. Chat rooms are not private, even encrypted ones like ours.
Ponyatna?
”

“Yeah, I got it.” Annoyance plucked his nerves and he felt a faint ripple of fear. He wasn’t under any illusions that the In
ternet, and even his e-mail, couldn’t be monitored. That was why they used nicknames and chatted in English, why Preach had set up their private, encrypted chat room. Vicktor rubbed his thumb along the handle of his coffee cup. Post-Communism residue soured his stomach.

“Is it lunchtime yet?”

Yanna’s face lit up. “Roma!”

Vicktor stood and locked hands with Roman, who grinned. “I got a tidbit for you that will make your day.”

“You’re on Evgeny’s case,” Vicktor guessed. It gave him pleasure to see his friend’s smile droop.

“How did you know?”

“Malenkov. Chewed my ear off this morning for not calling him on his day off.”

Roman turned a chair around and straddled it, joining them at the round table. He eyed Vicktor’s beverage with a grimace. “Vicktor, why can’t you drink tea like every other Russian?”

Vicktor ignored his sour stomach and took a long, loud sip of his coffee.

Roman put two hands to his neck and squeezed, mimicking choking. Vicktor nearly choked for real with laughter when a waitress hustled up, and looked at the COBRA captain like he had a disease.

Yanna shook her head.

Roman cleared his throat, becoming, instantly, the counter-terrorist Red Beret who knew how to defuse a tense situation. He smiled, nicely. “Got any borscht?”

“I’ll see,” the waitress snapped. She whirled and headed for the kitchen.

Roman gave an exaggerated shiver. “Oh, how I love Russian service.”

Vicktor gulped his laughter. Roman didn’t need any outside encouragement.

“So, you already know my big news.” Roman crossed his arms and waggled his eyebrows. “Well, I’ll bet you don’t know this…”

Vicktor gave him a mock glare.

Roman glanced at Yanna. “He’s grumpy, huh?”

She smirked.

“Roman,” Vicktor warned.

“Keep your shirt on, Vita. Some of us got to asking how the comrade major found out about Evgeny. I mean, Arkady certainly didn’t roust him out of bed with the news, did he?”

Vicktor leaned forward, his heart missing a beat. “Who told him?”

“Actually, we’re not sure.”

Vicktor’s eyes narrowed.

“But we do know the call came in early this morning on one of Major Malenkov’s private lines, right after he came in to work.”

Disbelief almost stole Vicktor’s voice but he forced out the words, “The comrade major’s phone is tapped?” He glanced at Yanna, whose eyes were wider than her teacup.

Roman held a finger to his lips.

Vicktor gasped. “Why?”

Roman’s smile vanished. “Listen to me, Vita. Everybody’s phone is tapped at HQ. Fourth Department knows all.”

The Fourth Department. Internal Affairs. Shock turned him cold. Why would the Fourth be investigating Comrade Malenkov?

“The call came in on an ancient number we’ve been monitoring for years.” Roman leaned forward for emphasis. “It’s been out of use for a decade, but the comrade major himself requested the tap.”

Vicktor’s mind reeled. Why would the major ask to have one of his lines tapped?

“Why hasn’t the number been used for so long?” Yanna rested her elbows on the table. “Shouldn’t it have been reassigned?”

“It used to be Comrade Major Ishkov’s line. I guess they thought leaving it open might lead to his murderer.”

“Murderer?” Vicktor said, and three heads turned from a nearby table.

Roman shot him a cross look.

“Sorry,” Vicktor mumbled. He schooled his volume. “Ishkov was one of the heavyweights, mentored under Khrushchev. I didn’t know he was murdered.” He pushed his coffee away, his appetite gone. “I thought he had a heart attack. I remember him. He was a legend. I never did figure out why he didn’t retire.”

“They needed him around to keep the old spies in line. Ten years ago, the plants from the old KGB were still working the system. Ishkov was assigned to reel them in and send them to pasture. He bought it before he could finish the job.”

“So Malenkov kept Ishkov’s number open to see if he could tempt some of the old goats in from the cold, in case they called to report?”

“Maybe.” Roman fingered his soup spoon.

Yanna steepled her fingers and rested her chin on them. “So, you’re saying an old agent, or an informant, called in on Ishkov’s old number, got Malenkov, and reported Evgeny’s murder?”

Roman pointed at her.
“Tochna.”

“Who would know enough about Evgeny’s murder to call Malenkov, and why?” Vicktor asked.

Roman gave Vicktor a steely look. “One of Arkady’s boys? Disgruntled?”

Vicktor scowled. “Hardly. His men are more loyal to him than their own wives.” Still, the image of a scaly-skinned tech at Evgeny’s clinic flashed through his memory. He pressed his thumb and forefinger to his eyes and pinched the image away. “I don’t know.”

“Food for thought,” Roman commented, and crossed his arms over his chest.

Vicktor chuckled to himself, spying Roman’s captain bars glinting gold on the collar of his COBRA uniform. Although clad in black jeans, boots and a black leather jacket, Roman never could stray far from the reminder of his rank. Roman had fought for his bars—Vicktor didn’t blame the guy for wearing
them every waking moment. He supposed it kept Roman focused on his end goals, and his mind off his losses.

“Ah, food for the famished!” Roman smiled broadly at the waitress skulking back to them. She balanced a bowl of borscht on her tray.

Ignoring him, she plunked the borscht down on the table. “Twenty rubles.”

Roman peeled a bill off a wad from his pocket. She snatched it from his grip and marched back to the kitchen.

A tendril of steam curled from the borscht like a ribbon and Roman made a show of sniffing. The smell of dill clawed at Vicktor’s taste buds, but he doubted he’d ever have an appetite again after Roman’s news.