Smoke and Mirrors (17 page)

****

Walking down the village main street, Nell breathed in the cold, fresh air with something like relief. She felt as if she’d come off worse in a boxing match and then been laid out to dry. And yet she was excited, eager, looking forward to bedtime, although with Raissa’s instructions ringing in her head, nighttime preparation was going to take a little longer than a quick brush of the teeth and a five-minute read.

The village’s one café had a solitary table outside it. A hardy group of young people sat there in the blink of cool spring sunshine. They stared at the stranger quite openly, so Nell nodded and greeted them politely in their own language.
My
own language, she thought with surprise as she walked inside. She was so used to thinking of English as her native tongue that this was a novel concept.

Pyotr had made himself comfortable with a glass of beer at the table nearest the counter, from where he was conversing with the proprietor. They ordered some food from the simple menu, to get their strength up for the long drive back to Zavrek. While they were eating, people came and went, some to eat or drink, some just to chat to the proprietor, others, Nell was sure, to gawp at the strangers.

One man, a farmer by the look of his muddy boots and rough, warm clothes, came directly up to them. “Mind if I join you for a moment?”

Although Pyotr looked slightly irritated, he indicated the spare chair with characteristic civility. The farmer, a young, dark-haired man with weather-beaten skin and laughter lines around his eyes, thanked Pyotr politely, sat, and turned to Nell.

“You’re the dreamer,” he said.

“I might be,” Nell said, unreasonably alarmed. Full of Raissa’s warnings, she wondered if this man was one of the Guardian’s mysterious secret council. “I’m still learning about this stuff—it’s pretty alien to me.”

“Raissa Ivanova says you’re strong. She says you know Rodion.”

Bloody hell, word got around fast in this village. “I’ve met him,” she said cautiously.

“You know about his brother and sister?”

She only nodded to that one. God knew what Pyotr was making of all this. The man passed her a plastic bag. It felt soft, like a small cushion or soft toy. He said, “This is Liza’s. If you can use it to dream of the children, do it.”

He stood abruptly, with no further farewell than a nod, and went over to the counter. Nell dragged her gaze from him to her uncle, who shrugged eloquently.

“Shall we go?” he suggested.

“Yes,” Nell said decisively. And yet, following her uncle from the café, she hesitated and turned back to the young man who’d given her the toy. “Why doesn’t Raissa Ivanova use it herself?”

“It does no good,” the man said. “Raissa hasn’t dreamed since the Russian war. She just teaches others now, and there are precious few of those.”

She looked into his eyes.
“She says you know Rodion.”
Those were his words. Not
she says you
knew
Rodion.

She drew in her breath. “If you were being hunted by everyone, including the police and the bad guys and all sorts of other scary people, where would you hide?”

For the first time, the hint of a smile touched his dark eyes. “Hey, Rodion’s the ducker and diver. I’m the stay-at-home farm boy.”

“But you’re his friend.” He had to be; there was no other explanation. “You must know things like that.”

The smile touched his lips as well. “I know there are such places all over Russia and the republics. I don’t know where Rodion is.”

“And wouldn’t tell me if you did?”

The smile broadened. “I might.” He might also have been flirting by this stage. Nell definitely picked up the danger signal.

So she kept it brisk. “Where is the nearest, or the most likely, of those hiding places?”

He considered. “Probably just the other side of the Russian border.”

“Does it have a name?”

“No, and it’s not marked on a map. It’s only an inn, no village. The authorities are embarrassed by it, and everyone else has an interest in keeping it quiet.”

Nell pulled a map out of her bag and placed it flat on the counter. She handed the man a pencil. For a moment longer, he met her demanding gaze, not intimidated but not quite amused either. Then he looked at the map and brought the pencil down to mark a cross.

“And if Rodion’s dead,” he said as she stuffed map and pencil into her bag again, “come back and see me.”

“You’re a sick bastard,” she told him.

“He’s a married bastard,” the proprietor said dryly.

Nell couldn’t help it. She laughed.

****

Anna wandered into his damp, draughty bedroom—which was reputedly the inn’s finest—and closed the door behind her.

“Ready?” Rodion said. He slung the rucksack over his shoulder without pain and saw Anna’s face soften with relief before she thrust her phone at him.

“Text from Alexei. For you, I can only assume.”

Rodion took the phone and read, “
Girl coming your way sexy sweet dreams
.” He couldn’t stop the slow smile forming on his lips.

“It’s her, isn’t it?” Anna said. “Nell Black.”

“A sexy girl with the gift of dreaming. It could be.”

“Why would she come after you?”

“Curiosity, unfinished business.”

“Can’t she get laid in Scotland?”

“How did any sister of mine grow so coarse?”

But Anna
was
his sister. She could neither be fooled nor distracted. “Do you think she’s dreamed of the treasure?”

He nodded. He hoped so. He hoped very badly. There weren’t many reasons for making such a journey.
Sweet dreams
, Alexei had said.

“Do we wait for her?” Anna asked.

“Not here. She’ll light up the inn like a beacon for the Guardian and never even know it. Stick to Plan A—we’ll go to Zavrek. Nikolai can fill her in.”

****

Nell went to sleep with Liza’s cuddly wolf under her cheek, after a rigid rehearsal of Raissa’s concentration techniques to focus her mind on the children. And she dreamed of Rodion.

Tears streaming down her face, she pointed a gun at him. Behind them raged a fire, massive and out of control. She was afraid, although he didn’t attack her, just stood looking at her. And she wanted to die.

She woke with a start, stared up at the dark ceiling for several moments before she remembered to reach for the bedside lamp and grab up the notebook she’d bought specially, and began to write it all down. I can’t do this, she thought in anguish. I really can’t do this…

But she could. Of course she could. Tomorrow, she’d hire a car, take her passport and visa, and cross the border into Russia. The need to find him was like a pain, urgent, constant, nagging, debilitating. Sometimes she imagined walking to meet him, leading his siblings in either hand, and how amazed and grateful he’d be. The trouble was, she couldn’t be sure which she wanted more: the safety of the children or his notice. Hell, right now she’d settle for the certainty of his existence…

When she woke again, it was morning, and her heart was beating fast.

She’d been dreaming of the children. Hastily, she sat up and seized the notebook and pen, remembering what Pyotr and Raissa had told her. General description, details, senses.

Two children asleep on dirty cushions in an attic. The attic was big, full of dark spaces and shadows from tiny glimmers of light coming under a door. There was a window too, but it was tiny and seemed to let in very little moonlight or streetlight. The children were a boy and girl, side by side, thin, unkempt, but at least no bruises or other obvious injuries that she could recall.

She tried to remember sounds. Had either of them snored, talked in their sleep? She didn’t think so. But there had been music, constant but relentless. At least it had been distant. Smell… The musty smell of old attics. And a very faint whiff of something man-made. Aftershave. As if someone had been in the attic with them at some recent point.

This was good, she thought in excitement. Not good enough to find them, but enough to start looking. And next time she dreamed, she knew to direct herself to the window and look out. If she could. Raissa had told her how difficult such direction was even for the most experienced dreamer. But she’d try.

And in the meantime, she’d a thieves’ inn to visit.

****

If only, she thought nervously, as she walked into the public bar of the isolated inn, it was only thieves who frequented the place. She had the feeling most people in here would happily murder, beat, or torture anyone or anything if it suited their ends. The bar room was awash with hardness, cruelty, brutality. And she knew she stood out like the proverbial sore thumb.

Stupidly, she’d imagined she could blend in, as she could with most gatherings. But this was way out of her league. She’d never felt so threatened in her life. It was in all the watching eyes, even the ones that pretended to look the other way. Even the bar staff were suspicious and unfriendly. She’d no business here, and they all knew it.

Tough. With every nerve screaming in outrage, she lifted her chin and marched up to the bar. A large, muscled arm resting next to her on the counter moved closer. “Vladimir. A vodka for the lady,” said a hoarse voice, and she looked quickly up at the owner of the muscular arm. A huge, shaven-headed man with blue tattoos, ear piercings, and alligator eyes. His aura was so dark it didn’t even shimmer.

Fuck. I can’t believe I’m depending on that shit for my life!
It wasn’t important. Aura or not, the man had the kind of face that said he’d rape you, rob you, and murder you without a qualm. He didn’t even need the vodka to get her drunk first. As the barman set down a full glass of vodka—these people could teach even the Scots about drinking—on the bar in front of her, she realised everyone was watching her. And it came to her, the big bald man was staking his claim. Buy the prey with a vodka.

So what was she supposed to do? Drink it? Say prissily,
No, thank you
? Worse than anything was that they all saw her dilemma. They knew she was way out of her depth, a ripe plum for somebody’s picking. And the bald man’s smile said he knew exactly whose pickings she’d be.

She lifted the glass and set it down firmly in front of the bald man. “Thanks. I’ll buy my own. Beer, please,” she said to the watching barman and didn’t drop her gaze when he laughed.

He shrugged and reached for a glass. Too early to feel out of the woods, but she’d just about coped. Then she heard the sound of a glass moving on the bar top, and when she glanced down, the bald man was pushing the vodka back in front of her.

“Drink it,” he said.

He should be locked up. Shit, he probably had been until he bent the bars of his cell and battered his way out.

“Thanks,” said a voice beside her. Another hand picked up the vodka and tossed it down in three sizable, audible gulps.

Bemused, Nell glanced round at a youngish man with a scarred face and long, dark hair. Without looking at her, he shoved a banknote at the barman. “Here, Vladimir. And whatever Yegor wants.”

He picked up her beer almost before the barman had laid it in front of her, and took her by the arm to march her across the room.

Out of the frying pan, into the fire. Except if she had to choose between the shaven-headed man and the long-haired one, she felt marginally safer with the latter. She went with it, even sat beside him.

He had sparkling dark eyes—which may have been down to the vodka—but at least he smiled at her. His words, however, were not comforting.

“Ah, fresh meat,” he said appreciatively. “How the dogs love it. What were you going to do? Ask everyone in the inn if they’d seen Rodion Kosar?”

“Who?” she said innocently, even though that had been more or less exactly what she’d planned to do. At least before she’d walked in.

Her new friend grinned. “It doesn’t really matter who. No one here ever sees anything or anyone.”

“So when I was robbed and murdered and thrown in a pit, no one would have said a word?”

“Got it at last. So, this is what we’ll do. You finish your beer—or at least as much of as it as you can stomach—and I’ll put you in your car so that you can drive straight back to Zavrek.”

Her eyes narrowed. “How do I know your plans aren’t similar to those of my bald friend at the bar?”

“You don’t. Which is why you shouldn’t be here. Rodion’s a lucky bastard, but you’ll draw attention to him chasing round several countries after him. Stay put, and he’ll find you when he’s ready.”

So he was alive. He was definitely alive. She felt dizzy with relief. Or it might have been the dreadful beer. She laid it down on the table. “You’re a friend of his,” she said cautiously.

“Oh, Rodion and I go way back. We pulled the noses of the Russians and the Zavrekestan government together, stole from the rich and gave to beautiful girls… Though none, I confess, as beautiful as you.”

His hand landed on her thigh, warm and suggestive. She removed it without difficulty.

“It’s like being pawed by some lecherous alternative Jesus Christ.” His eyes laughed at her, reminding her of Rodion, much as the man in the village had. On impulse, she said, “Tell him I’m dreaming of his treasure.”

And to her surprise, he said, “Good girl. Let’s go.”

Annoyingly, he dropped his arm around her shoulders to usher her across the room and out of the bar. Her nerves screamed, tensing her body. But as she realised everyone was watching them go, she understood it was a rough form of protection. They’d assume he was her lover and leave her alone. She hoped. And in fact, considering she’d only just met him, his touch wasn’t so bad.

“Keep driving,” he said. “Don’t stop until you’re across the border.”

He didn’t have to ask which car was hers, and when she slid into the driver’s seat, he closed the door like a gentleman. Then, he paused, and reopened it. “You’ve got the right instincts, you know. With a bit of practice, you’ll be able to wipe the floor with those bastards.” He grinned and shut the door on her.

As she drove off, she wondered if that had become her ambition. After all those years of despising her father’s past and his more recent lapse from grace, why should it now be so important to mix on terms of equality with the most dangerous criminal scum of the earth?