Sands of Time
Authors: Susan May Warren
®
Award finalist Susan May Warren and her novels
“Susie writes a delightful story… A few hours of reading doesn’t get better.”
—Dee Henderson, #1 CBA bestselling author of the O’Malley series
“Susan Warren is definitely a writer to watch!”
—Deborah Raney, award-winning author of
A Vow to Cherish
and
Over the Waters
“Warren’s characters are well-developed, and she knows how to create a first rate contemporary romance.”
—Library Journal
on
Tying the Knot
“Susan May Warren is an exciting…writer whose delightful stories weave the joy of romantic devotion together with the truth of God’s love.”
—Catherine Palmer, bestselling author of
Leaves of Hope
“Susan’s characters deliver love and laughter and a solid story with every book…a great read!”
—Lori Copeland, bestselling author of the Brides of the West series on
The Perfect Match
“…authentic detail…plunked me into Russian life. The result was a dynamic read!”
—Colleen Coble, bestselling author of
Dangerous Depths
on
Nadia
“…a nail-biting, fast-paced chase through the wilds of Russia. A deft combination of action and romance provides superb balance. Spectacular descriptions place the reader in the center of the intriguing setting.”
—Romantic Times BOOKclub
on
In Sheep’s Clothing
“
In Sheep’s Clothing
is an excellent novel that will keep you guessing until the very end.”
—FaithfulReader.com
SANDS OF TIME
For Your glory, Lord
“Don’t go out for the next few days.” The e-mail from the U.S. Consulate sent a chill through me. At the time, America had dropped bombs on Yugoslavia, and tensions in Russia toward Americans were high. Demonstrations in capital cities threatened consulates and embassies, and Americans lay low. Not only that, we were advised to pack bags in the event we had to hightail it out of the country.
I remember thinking…what if I lived not in a big city, but out in one of the tiny villages in remote Siberia? What if I didn’t get e-mail and didn’t know what was happening in the world? Worse, what if we
were
ordered out of the country…and didn’t know it? Would we be arrested? There and then the idea for
Sands of Time
was born. Fast-forward five years. My husband and I were wrestling with the hard decision to return to the States. Andrew loved what we did as missionaries. But our children needed some time in America, and I was exhausted and burned out. More than that, God was closing the door to ministry in Russia. Andrew felt as if God was asking him to make the ultimate surrender—his life goals for the good of others. But he’d trained and worked with excellent Russian brothers who could fill in the gap created by his leaving. And, after he left, he realized that God would continue the work He’d started with Andrew.
I respect my husband for the sacrifice he made. And in many ways, Sarai and Roman embody Andrew’s struggle. We both learned that we are not indispensable. More than that, we learned that surrender opens new doors to God’s provision and God’s blessings.
My deepest gratitude goes to Krista and Joan and Steeple Hill for believing in
Sands of Time,
and allowing me to write about Russia and my mixed bag of heroes and heroines. And thank you to Andrew, who every day teaches me about sacrificial love, and keeping an eternal perspective. I do need a hero.
“Y
ou always have to be a hero, don’t you?”
It seemed unfair that, at the most inopportune of moments, Sarai Curtiss’s accusations could split Roman’s mind like lightning, cutting right to the fears that lurked in the darkest corners of his heart. And his raw and bleeding bare feet churning up the pavement drilled that question into his soul.
No, he didn’t have to be a hero—just the guy who got it right, who went the distance, especially when it had to do with issues like world peace and international freedom. And nabbing a six-foot-two, sweaty Russian smuggler named Gregori Smirnov.
At least, Roman
hoped
the guy he was chasing was Gregori. The man, dressed in typical Russian-on-holiday attire—a striped dress shirt, cutoff Bermudas, dark socks and tennis shoes and carrying a backpack—had taken one look
at Roman, innocently slurping the ear off a Mickey Mouse ice cream stick, and bolted through the crowd.
Now, wasn’t that interesting?
Roman had no choice but to ditch the ice cream and his flip-flops, take off in hot pursuit and pray he wasn’t going to take down a day trader from Jersey.
Still, it wasn’t every day he, a Russian FSB captain who hunted mafia smugglers for a living spotted what looked like one of Russia’s most wanted strolling out of the Reflections of China exhibit at Disney’s Epcot Center. He wasn’t about to lose the little rat in the beer halls of Germany, the pagodas of Japan or even the pines of Canada.
Except Roman had a sick feeling in his gut that Slime-ball Smirnov was heading for the American exhibit.
Deep inside, Russians possessed a keen sense of irony.
Roman dodged a family of four pushing a rented double stroller and barely missed being speared by a replica of the Eiffel Tower. Shocked play-by-plays littered his wake as he zagged through the crowd, leaped a planter, and nearly took out a slushy stand.
“Perestan Smirnov! Stop!”
Gregori didn’t even slow.
Roman shot a look behind him. Yes,
thank you,
his pal David was on his tail. Except the vacationing Delta Force captain didn’t look happy. In fact, if Roman didn’t know better, he would have thought David might be ticked at him.
He’d explain his actions later.
Five months ago, Roman had gone fist-to-fist with Smirnov on his home turf, Khabarovsk, Far East Russia.
And, after Roman had been dragged through the icy
Amur river, and had wrestled the pirate on the bottom of a fishing skiff, Smirnov had jumped ship, leaving behind his baggage—a silver canister. A
heavy
silver canister. Twenty kilos, without a doubt. As Roman screwed off the lid, internal warnings had buzzed. Warnings that seeded his nightmares—nightmares fertilized by Roman’s day job hunting the terrorists who made a living parceling out Russia’s only remaining commodities, namely weapons, for cold Western cash—aka
Bucksov
.
For a second, as Roman stared inside the container, time had stopped. Saliva pooled in his throat, and his hands felt clammy.
Paste. Or what looked like it. Odorless. Silvery white.
Probably radioactive, even in minimal doses.
Twenty-five kilos of Highly Enriched Uranium (HEU). The fuel for a nuclear bomb. Another Russian commodity for sale.
He’d put the lid back on the canister, feeling painfully light-headed.
Thankfully, all his tests for infection had come back negative…so far.
Since then, Roman had dedicated his life to not only finding Smirnov, but unearthing his source. Roman had a sick feeling he’d find answers buried deep inside the former Soviet Union, namely at one of the untended, decommissioned reactors. But the source wasn’t the biggest problem.
It was the supplier. And how did said supplier get his
mitts on the nearly eight hundred kilos of still lethal
HEU
stockpiled in the former Soviet Union?
However, for the past week, Roman had left his questions happily, blissfully, behind as he vacationed in Orlando with his Moscow University pal, American David Curtiss. They both knew their friendship wasn’t easily stomached by the powers that be, and they’d had to submit to more than thorough scrutiny. Still, to Roman it was worth the at-a-distance surveillance and guarded conversations to hang out with a guy who still felt like a brother at arms. The fact that David shared, no
mentored,
Roman’s Christian walk, made the vacation more than relaxing.
Roman might even call it rejuvenating. A guy who spent most of his time tracking mafia barons and weapons pirates needed a dose of eternal perspective to keep him on task. Thus, it seemed divinely appointed that Roman might spot his nemesis from across the ocean—Smirnov—right under his nose. Too bad Roman was dressed in cargo shorts and a muscle shirt. With no weapon save the neon necklace he’d purchased for the laser light show that evening.
Thankfully, Disney had some of the best security in the world.
As Roman dodged another yuppie couple and leaped over the leash tethering their children to their wrists, he could hear said security gathering momentum behind him. He’d consider them backup. As long as they remembered he was one of the good guys.
Don’t lose Smirnov.
He saw the guy whiz into the American exhibit, a replica of an old town courthouse.
Tochna!
How he hated when he was right. Kind of.
Roman sped into the courtyard, nearly taking out a woman with a tray of milk shakes and hot dogs, and flew into the building.
Cool air. It raised gooseflesh on his skin as he stared in horror at the packed lines leading to the food counter. The smell of French fries and the buzz of excited children echoed off the white tile. Roman’s panic filled his chest as he scanned the lines.
No Smirnov. Roman beelined to the far door.
Smirnov could be bellying up for a double cheeseburger, O-rings and a chocolate shake, and Roman wouldn’t have a hope of spotting him.
Roman scrambled through the crowd and out into the foyer, gripped his knees and hauled in searing breaths.
He saw David enter the building. His dark gaze caught Roman’s and he stalked his direction. His expression didn’t bode well for the rest of their vacation. Or Roman’s future tourist visa applications. He mentally braced himself as he stood and scanned the tourists. Smirnov had to be in that crowd.
Or…Roman saw the end of a tour line disappear into a movie theater. He whirled and scooted into the darkened room.
A 360-degree domed screen, trapped air and a blanket of darkness descended over him. The crowd was hushed, many lined up against walls, most clumped in the middle.
Roman walked through them, glancing up at faces, then staring at shoes, socks.
A family of six sat on the floor right in front of him. He nearly tripped over them, mumbled his apologies, stood and turned slowly as the screen lit up.
“I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t—”
Spotting a far door closing, Roman heard the click and the soft whoosh of sprung-loaded hinges. He sprinted toward it, ignoring the attendant, and caught Smirnov racing along the back hallway.
“Perestan!”
Smirnov glanced over his shoulder. Smirked.
It was the smirk that Roman remembered later as he tackled the guy into the World Showcase Lagoon.
Kicking to the surface, Smirnov landed a blow to his adversary’s jaw that made Roman’s head spin. Two-hundred-and-fifty pounds of “wanna-get-away,” Smirnov put up a fight that left Roman just a little glad that David hadn’t asked questions and simply dove in after them.
Smirnov roared as David and Roman hauled him ashore. Roman threw him on the deck, kneed him in the back and twisted his hand back in a submission hold.
Breathing hard, David sat down next to him. “I’m assuming you have a really good reason for tackling this tourist. One that isn’t going to land us both in lockup for the duration of your vacation. Or worse, deport you in your shorts and bare feet.”
Roman tightened his hold on Smirnov and patted him down. “Trust me.”
He unearthed a soggy Epcot ticket, a disposable camera and a now out-of-commission cell phone.
“What are you looking for?” David asked as he climbed to his feet and wrung out his T-shirt. “Did he take your five-day pass?” He looked down at Roman and grinned.
And just like that, Smirnov’s smirk filled Roman’s mind.
The backpack.
A shiver of fear crept down Roman’s body. He leaned close to Smirnov, who curled his lip in disgust.
“Where is it?” Roman asked in Russian.
David’s smile vanished. He went very still.
Smirnov laughed.
“Where is it, Smirnov?” Roman asked again, this time adding some oomph to his question by digging Smirnov’s jaw into the pavement. David moved closer. Roman wasn’t sure if that was for his own protection—or Smirnov’s.
Back off, David.
Roman might not be wearing his black-and-gold FSB Cobra patch, but he was in charge of this interrogation.
Roman tightened his grip on Smirnov’s hand and was rewarded with a pain-filled grunt. “You’d better hope that backpack only has souvenirs and a bottle of juice, pal, or I swear, I’ll turn you over to the Americans. And I’m telling you, they’re taking this war on terror thing seriously.”
David stared at him. “What’s in the bag, Roma?”
In his mind’s eye, right behind the reality of happy families watching the Tapestry of Dreams nightly parade, Roman heard screams, saw charred bodies and fire spitting out the remains of the Universe of Energy building and sparking the
fireworks now floating in the center of the Lagoon. He could see the headlines—Epcot Bombed, Hundreds Killed—and the resulting investigation that led right back to the shores of Khabarovsk and a botched arrest, one with his name attached.
For a moment, he felt the spur of bittersweet thankfulness that Sarai Curtiss was safely tucked away on the other side of the planet, in a village on the backside of Russia.
Even if he’d never see her again.
He shook away the thought, frustrated that she so easily slid into his brain. Just because he was wet, angry and facing the brutal realities of terrorist new millennium tactics didn’t mean he had to surrender to the realm of what-ifs.
Sarai wasn’t going to be more than a blip on his radar. Ever. Again.
Then again, he’d clung to that blip like a sailor might a light across a black sea.
Because, while he didn’t always have to be the world’s hero, he longed to be Sarai’s—a woman who had once changed his world with her smile. And while the reasons he dove headfirst into trouble sometimes seemed fuzzy, he knew he had his eyes fixed on one hope—that someday God would intersect their paths. And this time, Roman wouldn’t let her walk away. Not, at least, until he knew why she wanted him out of her world.
Roman resisted the urge to wipe the smirk off Smirnov’s face with his knuckles and swallowed against a wall of frustration. “Cuff him,” he said to the round of security guards
now huffing their way toward the spectacle. “If you do an Interpol search, you’ll find a warrant already posted for his arrest.”
Roman let the Disney guards take Smirnov and turned to David. “Who do we need to call to evacuate Epcot Center?”
For a sunny day, and despite the tan David had cultivated standing in the Tower of Terror line, he turned a fine shade of chalky white.