Limbo Man (27 page)

From the way he looked at her from time to time, Vee could only hope he kept his family firmly fixed in his mind.

“It is a good life. But Seryozha . . . he is our Quixote, perhaps even our black sheep. He is independent, wants help only when he asks for it. Very prickly, I believe you say. We were relieved when he went off to America and went undercover with the
Organizatsiya
. Much easier to deal with such a burr under the skin when he is five thousand miles away, no?”

Vee scowled. Darkly.

“We thank you for your care of him”—the major offered a wry smile—“even though your motives may have been far from altruistic.”

“I assure you
,
his doctors saw him as a human being,” Vee countered swiftly. “As did I.”

The major nodded, seemingly satisfied. But the silence grew heavy before he finally began to talk. “Sergei finds bombs. We make them go away. Final take-down, disassembly, that is all he wants from us. And now, I think, he is using your people in the same way. Except”—the major lowered his steepled fingers and gave her what could only be described as the
once-over
—he has let someone inside. Taken a companion for the first time. We are intrigued.”

“He was very badly hurt, perhaps more than you realize. His amnesia was genuine. The hospital used every test in existence, including drugs and hypnosis. Until about a week ago, he remembered nothing. He needed an . . . advocate, if you will. Someone to stand by his side.” Vee gave a deprecating shrug. “I was the chosen one.”

“Lucky Sergei,” the major murmured from behind a gaze as innocent as a newborn’s.

Damn
. Vee’s head whirled, making major readjustments. Seryozha was Russian. Not Russian-American, but a flat-out, natural-born son of Mother Russia. The GRU knew him well, obviously much better than she did. Which meant there was little risk in disclosing most of what she knew.

Ignoring the major’s most recent insinuating remark, Vee told her tale, beginning with Sergei being found half-alive on the bank of the East River and being identified through fingerprints on file with Interpol. “Homeland Security heard rumors that led them to believe Sergei Tokarev had vital information about a terrorist plot, but at the time I met him there was nothing in his head at all. For the first three or four days in the hospital, no one even knew he spoke English, including himself. He told me the English alphabet was a complete mystery to him.” Which she should have remembered when trying to figure out his nationality.

The major frowned. “Your description of that time is more thorough than his.”

“Well, of course. He nearly died. And then a few days later, on the flight to a mountain retreat not so different from this
dacha
, he suffered a complete switch, although he wouldn’t admit it at the time. Who could blame him for trusting no one? After the switch,” Vee continued, “he recalled being Sergei Tokarev, but he’d forgotten the hospital, our escape from New York, our time at . . . Never mind, it’s enough to know that his mind has been very erratic, with several crucial blank spots remaining.”

“He told me you saved his life in New York, something about a smoke bomb?”

Vee nodded. “Events have been coming back gradually, or he may have heard the guards talking. I really don’t know.”

The major drummed his fingers on the table; the tea glasses clinked in their holders. “And when did he tell you about the bombs?”

Chapter 19

Vee remembered the moment of her father’s briefing on the island with vivid clarity. Until then she had assumed Homeland Security was trying to rein in the
Organisatsiya
, particularly its arms-
smuggling branch. But the possibility of an attack worse than 9/11? Her stomach
had
roiled. Was she up to the challenge? Could she really do this?

But looking back . . . there had been something more. With so much going on, she’d only caught a vague sense of it at the time, but now she began to realize how much worse her father’s revelations must have been for Seryozha. He was physically weak and suffering from the shock of loss of self. Adrift in limbo with the inevitable devastating loss of confidence that had to go with no recollection of who or what he was.

Now, suddenly, a Deputy Chief of Homeland Security was telling him thousands of people could die unless he shaped up. Fast.
Here, man. Take this blank slate and go out and save the world
. Seryozha had somehow survived the blow and now, only a week later, they were half-way round the world on an honest-to-God bomb hunt.

“Jack Frost briefed us in person,” Vee told the major. “We were in an improvised safe house after our escape from New York. Seryozha was just out of the hospital, barely able to walk, but he sat there and took it as if somehow he’d known all along it was his job to save the world.”

“Ah,
da
.” The major nodded. “That is Seryozha. A dog who holds a bone firm in his teeth even when he has forgotten it is there. A man who will continue to clench his jaws around the bone long after it has turned to dust.”

Vee clutched her tea glass, the filigreed design biting into her fingers. “Major . . . why do you trivialize what Sergei does? His mission is vital . . .noble—”

The major arrested his flying fist an inch short of rattling the teacups. “Because—
govnó
!—until now, there was no threat! Just ancient bombs of no tactical importance. Yet he insisted on chasing these phantoms of the Cold War. It has obsessed him, kept him from any kind of normal life. Holidays, birthdays, anniversaries.
Too bad poor Seryozha couldn’t come. He is still off chasing his bombs.
”

“Then you
are
related?”

The major unfolded from his chair, holding himself to stiff attention. “I am Major Mikhail Ivanovich Zhukov. You may call me Misha. Seryozha is my little brother.”

Vee laughed, she couldn’t help it. “Please sit, major. Misha. I am not laughing at you, only at the thought of Seryozha as a younger brother. An only child, an eldest child”—Vee shook her head—“but a younger son, I just can’t see it. He is too independent.”

The major responded with a rather charming, if chagrined, smile of his own. “You are correct that we have grown too accustomed to thinking of him as our Don Quixote, giving little serious consideration to his crusade. But now that his phantoms have developed teeth, we have been forced to make the intercept. Independence only goes so far. We needed to know what was going on.”

Vee could relate to that. “So what happens next?  I’m ninety-nine percent convinced you don’t want to see any bombs go off. Sergei seems to be the only person who can stop this madness, yet here we are, having tea before a roaring fire while a major city or two are on the brink of annihilation.”

Major Zhukov crossed the room to what appeared to be a hand-carved wooden cabinet. “Scotch?” he asked, as he opened the door to reveal a fine variety of international labels. “Or has Seryozha not converted you to his favorite drink?”

“I’ve been drinking scotch since before I came of age, but I must admit I’d never discovered the delights of single malt ’til I met your brother.”

A soft smile flitted across the major’s face . “Water, soda, or straight?”

“Is there any possibility of ice?” Vee asked with the wistful, deprecating note of someone who knows her request is hopeless.

“We are not the English,” Misha informed her, straight-faced, as he opened a door on what appeared to be a freezer . . . with an ice-making machine. With the dramatic hand-waving technique of a magician, he added i
ce cubes to both their glasses.

Vee dropped her fascinated gaze, smiling at the silver samovar. The Zhukov brothers were a matched set. A class act. Intelligent and charming, with a ready dry humor that survived, however dire the problems thrown their way.

The major handed Vee her drink, then sat back down at the tea table. “You ask what happens next,” he said, “and a very good question it is. Certainly, we must take the situation seriously. You and Sergei have told us the same story, and intelligence from other sources confirms it. The threat appears to be real, and I agree that my brother is the best person to put a stop to it. He has spent the last twelve years of his life getting close to these people. So . . . in the morning we will send you on your way, anywhere Seryozha wishes to go. And we, like your own people, will stand ready to help when the need arises.”

Relief was so powerful Vee choked up, unable to say a word. Obstacles removed, they were back to the hunt. Hope surged.

She hid her emotion behind a long swallow of scotch. “Tell me, major,” she said at last, “where did you and Sergei learn such perfect English?”

His green eyes regarded her from under sinfully long lashes. “It is Misha, Valentina. And I do not speak English, I speak American.”

Chuckling, Vee shook her head. “Clever, but that doesn’t answer my question.”

“My apologies, but you must ask Seryozha.”

“Why?”

Misha leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the black void outside the window. “Because he must decide if he wishes to share this history. It is . . . complicated, and something you may not like. I understand his caution.”

“Caution? He’s a clam!”

Misha laughed. “Ah,
da
. A good description, clam. I did not know this idiom.”

Great, Vee grumbled to herself. She needed information, and the slippery GRU major seemed to be caught up in savoring the word
clam
as applied to his baby brother. Truth was, he might not have answered her question, but so far she’d gleaned far more from him than she ever had from Seryozha.

She might as well make another stab at it.

“Misha,” Vee said, slipping into coaxing feminine mode, “Seryozha had to be a child when these bombs went missing. Why on earth would he hare off on a will-o-the-wisp chase of obsolete bombs? It doesn’t make sense.”

Abruptly, Misha pushed back his chair and strode to the drinks cabinet. Ice chinked, scotch gurgled. He gulped it down—no water, no soda—before slowly walking back to the table. He slumped sideways into his chair, long legs stretched out in front of him.

Vee waited, hoping . . .

“That, too, you must ask Seryozha,” he said. “Some of the story brings shame, so it is not easy to admit to ourselves, let alone someone else. Sergei must tell you, if and when he wishes.”

She’d hit a nerve, a more sensitive one than she’d anticipated. And now, when she and Seryozha needed to get out of this place, was not the time to provoke the Russian bear into an argument. “Of course,” Vee murmured. “I understand.” Even though she didn’t.

In an obvious effort to lighten the somber mood, Misha suddenly scorched Vee with one of his salacious appraisals, even as his eyes danced with amusement. “I am delighted to discover my brother has developed a taste for something more than hunting bombs.”

“I swear you are worse than he is,” Vee muttered.

“But of course. I am older. I have had more practice.” Misha picked up a brass-handled bell, etched in an oriental design, and rang it. “And besides,” he added more softly, “though I am married and four times a father, I can still enjoy the sight of a beautiful blonde American. I would have to be dead, Ms Frost, not to appreciate my brother’s companion.”

“And you
will
be dead if you take this conversation one step farther,” rumbled a voice from the doorway.

“Seryozha!” Vee held out her hand. Was it the dim light, or was she suddenly seeing what she should have seen before? Sergei was nearly healed, his resemblance to the major remarkably clear. The bandages were gone, his hair coming in, the scar on his cheek not so livid. The contours of his face, the curve of his lips unmarred by cuts or swelling. Rough-cut, not as strikingly handsome as his brother Mikhail, but close enough.

Or was she simply unable to see him as a monster any more?

They ate a long, leisurely, perfectly cooked meal at a table set up by the windows overlooking the lake. Below, moonlight skittered over gentle waves and a scattering of lights marked the shore, outlining the curved southern end of the world’s largest and deepest lake. Sergei rested his fork on his plate, appreciating the surreal moment. There had been a lot of them lately. Waking up in the hospital in New York. The sight of Vee in that hooker outfit she was wearing the day they met. His memory somersault on the plane to Wyoming. Sitting in the cave-like cocktail bar with Uncle Arkadi, who might or might not have been among those who wanted to kill him.

Sex with Vee.

Making love with Vee. A moment out of time with no encore. Robey’s bullet to the brain, traveling half-way round the world only to end up in the hands of the GRU left no time for romance. Nor room for distractions. He’d found the old man, but his mind echoed,
Too late, too late, too late
. He’d never find the bomb before it could spread a poison even worse than its radioactive cloud. Before it could destroy the precarious peace between Russia and the U.S. Before it set off a world-wide holocaust from which there was no return.