By Dawn's Early Light Page 14

  “Very good.” Romulus answered without looking at Vladimir. His eyes, alive with calculation, watched the others mingling throughout the room.

  Vladimir waited in the silence, gathering his courage for a question. “Are you certain, Mr. President, that the American ambassador to the United Nations will support our resolution?”

  One of Romulus’s dark brows arched mischievously. “Do not worry about the Americans, General. The coming election has thoroughly tied President Stedman’s hands. I have invested a great deal in his opponent, and even if Blackstone does not win the election, he will prevent the Americans from interfering. You could bomb Tel Aviv tomorrow, and the Americans would do nothing more than waggle a scolding finger at you.”

  Romulus’s grin flashed briefly, dazzling against his olive skin, and Vladimir smiled back, feeling obscurely comforted. “Now go and enjoy yourself. This is a time for celebration.” Romulus placed his hand on Vladimir’s shoulder and gently prodded him toward the center of the room. “Tell them that the Russian fleet will depart for the Mediterranean in nine weeks.”

  Buoyed by Romulus’s confidence, Vladimir marched into the room and greeted his new allies.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Moscow

  1642 hours

  ALANNA SAT ON THE SOFA AND LIFTED THE CIGARETTE SLOWLY TO HER LIPS. SHE drew heavily on it, making the tip glow, then flicked the ashes into a teacup and slowly exhaled.

  She hated smoking. She gave it up years before coming to Russia, but last night she had thought she’d go mad, so she slipped the butler an extra hundred rubles for a pack of foul-tasting Russian cigarettes. The lighting, the smoking, the flicking gave her something to do, a means of discharging the anxiety that had been building ever since yesterday’s disastrous dinner.

  She stood and crossed one arm across her waist, then tasted her cigarette again. Daniel had warned her that Gogol was anti-Semitic, and he’d also warned her not to take her relationship with Gogol too far. She had ignored both warnings, and now she felt as though the slightest breath of wind would bring this fragile house of cards down upon her head.

  She turned and paced back the way she’d come, then glanced at the wall separating the living room from the kitchen. The laptop was hidden there, but the maid was still cleaning up after yesterday’s festive gathering. She desperately needed to talk to Daniel, to share her panic with someone, but she couldn’t do anything until the maid finished her work and left the suite.

  “Madame Ivanova?” The maid stood in the doorway now, her head bowed, her shoulders slumped. She extended a hand dotted with age spots toward the windows. “You want I should clean the windows?”

  “No, no, you’ve done enough.” Alanna ground the foul cigarette into the teacup and forced a smile. “Why don’t you go home now?”

  The wizened maid nodded, then reached for the teacup, the skin hanging loosely from her arm.

  That’s me in thirty years if I don’t get out of this place. The thought skittered across Alanna’s mind like a panicked mouse. If Vladimir finds out I’m Jewish, if he finds out about Daniel, I’ll be sent to some Siberian prison and I’ll never see home again.

  On an impulse born of mindless terror, she took the teacup from the maid’s hand, replaced it with a fistful of rubles, and sent the woman out the door.

  Five minutes later, she stood at the kitchen counter, typing a hurried message to Daniel:

  D:

  I think I need help. Last night, for the first time, I saw Gogol’s anti-Semitism, and it wasn’t a pretty sight. I’m frightened, and I don’t know what to do. I was so terrified yesterday that I wept purely out of terror, but he thought my tears were due to the fact that he was leaving . . . he thought I would miss him. He’s in Paris today, at a meeting with Romulus, and I’m not sure when he’ll return.

  Help me, Daniel. He likes me a lot, but I don’t think he cares enough to overlook the fact that my mother was Jewish.

  A.

  She clicked Send and waited for the modem to dial out, then lit another cigarette and blew a long stream of smoke toward the ceiling. She’d have to stop smoking by the end of the day. Gogol would have a fit if he came back and found her reeking of smoke and nicotine.

  Fortunately, Daniel replied almost immediately.

  A:

  Get out now. Take the laptop and pack a bag, then take a taxi to the nearest Metro station. Ride the subway to Planernaya, the end of the northwest line. Get off and walk to the train station one block north. I will have a first-class ticket for you reserved in the name of Laura Ivanova.

  It’s a quiet, three-day journey to London, and you can contact me from there. We will fly you home from Heathrow.

  D.

  Alanna studied the message and immediately saw the wisdom in Daniel’s plan. If she left Moscow by plane, Gogol would check the airports and find her trail. He would never dream she had fled by rail, safely tucked into a private first-class sleeping car.

  She committed the details to memory, then wrapped up the laptop and lay it in the bottom of a shopping bag. Moving with the swift, jerky movements of a panicked animal, she thrust all the cleaning supplies back into the sink cabinet and closed the doors, then went to her bedroom and pulled out two changes of clothing. These went into the shopping bag, too, covering the computer. From the bathroom she grabbed a toiletries case and filled it with her toothbrush, hairbrush, and toothpaste.

  Whirling in confusion, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were wide, her skin pale, and golden strands of hair were flying around her head as if a bolt of electricity had zapped her. Muttering under her breath, she dropped the shopping bag and unpinned the knot that held her hair, then brushed it and smoothed every strand back into place.

  Satisfied that she looked like any other privileged Russian woman out for a shopping excursion, she pulled her coat from the hall closet, picked up her shopping bag, and opened the front door.

  Her heart congealed into a small lump of terror when she saw the two guards. She stared at them, sheer black fright sweeping through her, and managed to utter the only phrase that came to mind: “Dobry den, good afternoon.”

  The guards turned. “Good afternoon, Madame Ivanova,” one of them answered, his smile not at all unpleasant.

  Alanna nodded numbly, then closed the door and stood in the silence. What had happened? Had Gogol discovered the secret phone line? The computer? Her heritage?

  Her legs broke free of their nightmare paralysis, and she moved across the foyer, the heels of her boots clapping against the marble like gunshots. Lowering her shopping bag to the glass-topped table in the living room, she sank into the chair and tried to corral her racing thoughts.

  Gogol hadn’t mentioned the guards, but he had never left her alone in Moscow before, either. Perhaps this was just a precaution, another manifestation of his overprotective nature. After all, the guard had looked at her with friendliness, not hostility. So either he was trying to charm her, or he knew she was the general’s woman.

  She lowered her head into her hands and kneaded her temples. Why had she stopped at the threshold? She had been surprised, of course, but they might interpret her action as guilt. They might even tell Gogol that she had been about to run away, but they prevented it. If they were just here to guard the hotel suite, they might have let her go without saying a word.

  She pounded the chair cushion, overcome with frustration and regret. Had she blown her one chance to leave?

  No. Surely not. All she had to do was go out there and act like she knew what she was doing. Long ago she had learned that confidence, or at least the appearance of confidence, could cover a swarm of insecurities.

  Gripping her shopping bag, she stood, buttoned the top button on her coat, and approached the door again. This time she stepped out, locked the door behind her, and gave the guards a determined smile. “Dos vidaniya,” she said, taking a step down the carpeted hall. “I will see you later.”

  One of the guards
snapped to attention beside her door; the other took a step forward. “Excuse me, Madame.” He nodded decisively. “I am to go with you whenever you go out. It is the general’s wish.”

  “It is?” Smiling, Alanna reached up and touched her hair. “The general said nothing to me of this, and I happen to know he is out of the country. So who gave you this order?”

  “Colonel Petrov, Madame.” The guard stared at her with deadly concentration. “He is carrying out the general’s orders.”

  “I see.” Alanna hesitated, then gave the guard a wintry smile. “Well, I was going out for a few personal things, but I think I would rather shop for those things with the general. But if you have a telephone number for Colonel Petrov, I would like to have it.”

  A deep line of worry appeared between the guard’s eyes, but he produced a slip of paper and proceeded to print a number upon it. When he had finished, he handed it to Alanna, who slipped it into her pocket. Her fingers trembled as she struggled to slip her key into the lock. The guard who had spoken stepped forward to help and opened the door with a flourish.

  “Thank you.” Alanna put out her hand and did not smile until she held the key again. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. I shall leave you to your duty.”

  Back inside the suite, Alanna secured the deadbolt, then went to the kitchen and emptied the shopping bag on the floor, tossing her clothing out of the way until she found the laptop. She plugged in the power and crawled beneath the sink to access the hidden phone line, then tapped out a frantic message:

  D:

  Have just discovered that I’m under guard. I can’t leave the hotel without an armed escort, so am in a holding pattern.

  Please advise.

  A.

  While she waited, she found the pack of cigarettes and lit another one as the laptop went through its paces. She had smoked three before Daniel responded.

  Hang in there, Texas. We’ll leave the ticket for you at the train station, so get there when you can. We’ll be praying for you.

  D.

  Alanna stared at the message, then managed a choking laugh. They were praying for her? A lot of good that would do! She hadn’t prayed since the night she knelt in her footed jammies and begged God to bring her daddy back.

  No—if she found her way out of this gilded cage, it would be by her own wiles and subterfuge. She’d used feminine charms to get into Gogol’s world, so she’d use the same weapons to get out.

  Sighing with weariness, she unplugged the computer, tucked it back in its hiding place, then carried the shopping bag and her clothing to the bedroom. She’d keep a few clothes in the bag, just in case, and if Vladimir remarked upon them, she’d make up some excuse about having to return a few items at the GUM.

  She’d find a way out of this . . . and she’d keep her cool. If Gogol hadn’t discovered her heritage by now, he likely never would.

  Alanna woke the next morning to the sound of silence. The clock on the nightstand told her that she had slept past ten, so she wrapped her robe about her and walked to the window. There was no sound from outside the hotel, but the air had the peculiar muffled quality that came with snow—and nearly a foot of the stuff covered the ledge outside her window.

  She shivered slightly and moved to the kitchen, then flipped the switch for the electric coffeemaker. A small television sat in a corner of the counter, another gift from Gogol, and she turned it on merely to hear the sound of another human voice. As the coffeemaker gurgled and spat, she poured herself a glass of juice and leaned against the counter, her gaze drifting to the television screen.

  A puzzling assortment of images flashed on the screen while a newscaster spoke in tense, clipped tones. Alanna saw the exterior of a hospital, then a long corridor, where several nurses embraced and sobbed quietly. The camera cut away to a shot of an elderly woman in a hospital bed, her glazed eyes open and her mouth slack, then the camera focused on a man in a suit who explained something in a weary, resigned voice. Another man’s head abruptly filled the screen, his eyes blazing with anger as he shouted at the cameraman.

  Perplexed, she moved closer, leaning on the counter as she watched. The camera switched to a reporter, who stood in the snow and spoke into a microphone, then gestured over his shoulder toward a Moscow bank. Alanna leaned closer, recognizing the building. That bank was right around the block! What in the world had happened?

  The sound of sirens bled into the air around the newscaster, then the camera wavered as if the cameraman were running. Alanna saw uniformed policemen, armed with clubs and rifles, and a group of people whom they herded like cattle. A man, woman, and child walked at the back of the group, and as the woman slipped on the ice-covered road her face turned toward the camera.

  It was Rochel Benjamin.

  Alanna stared wordlessly at the camera, her heart pounding. The man bent to help Rochel, and Alanna recognized Ari’s sharp features. The little boy, then, had to be sweet Ethan.

  Alanna pressed her hand over her mouth, muting a scream of frustration. What had happened? What was this roundup, and what could the Benjamin family possibly have to do with those people in the hospital?

  She sat for a long moment and stared at the television, waiting for some clue that would help her put the pieces together, but she couldn’t make sense of the newscaster’s fluent explanation. Feeling anxious and irritable, she moved to the coffeepot, poured herself a cup, and suddenly realized she knew someone who could provide her with an answer.

  Petrov. She had intended to call him today anyway, to ask about the guards at her door.

  Without wasting a moment, she went to the foyer and pulled the slip of paper with his phone number from her coat pocket, then picked up the kitchen phone and punched in the number. The number must have rung in some military installation, for Alanna spoke to several people before she could make herself clear. Finally she heard the colonel’s smooth voice on the other end of the line.

  “Colonel Petrov, I am so glad to finally reach you.”

  “It is my pleasure to speak with you, Madame Ivanova,” he said, his voice courteous but slightly patronizing. “Is there a problem?”

  “I just wanted to ask,” Alanna curled the phone cord around her wrist, “about the guards at my door. Was that your idea?”

  His laughter had a sharp edge. “Mine? No, Madame. The general insisted that we protect you. He was most concerned when he heard about the criminals in the hotel.”

  Anxiety spurted through her. “Criminals? At the Hotel Metropol?”

  “Yes, Madame. There is no need to worry; we have arrested them. But the general insisted that you be kept safe.”

  Alanna’s gaze darted toward the television. “I hope you will forgive me for taking up so much of your time, but there was something on television this morning I could not understand. Something about a hospital and people being taken away in trucks—”

  “Yes, I know. All of Moscow has been shocked by the sad story. We discovered that a group of businessmen owned a power company that serviced the Ustinsky Hospital. Because the hospital fell behind in its utility payments, the company shut off the hospital’s electricity. Forty minutes later, three patients were dead, and the hospital staff could do nothing.”

  Alanna’s throat ached with sorrow. “That’s terrible. Such things would never happen in—well, I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “Such greed and callousness is uncommon even in Russia.”

  “Did they turn the power back on?”

  “Yes, but only after we arrested the company owners. As I suspected, most of them were Jews.”

  Alanna opened her mouth, but could not speak. She felt as though she had swallowed a large, cold object that pressed uncomfortably against her breastbone.

  “Madame?” Petrov paused. “Is there anything else?”

  “Just this,” she gasped, finding her breath. “Do you know when Vladimir will return? I would like to prepare something special for him.”

  “Tomorrow morning, I should think.
” He hesitated, then added in a lower tone, “If you need anything, you have but to call. I would come immediately.”

  “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.” Alanna hung up, realizing that her voice, like her nerves, was in tatters.

  Thirty minutes later, she was dressed and on her way out the door. Two different guards stood in the hall, and as she sailed away one of them automatically followed her. She said nothing when he entered the elevator with her, and they rode down together, each of them staring at the other’s reflection in the polished brass doors.

  Go ahead, follow me and see what I do. Her eyes, cold and distant in the brass, challenged his. At this moment, I don’t care.

  When the brass doors opened, she braced her shoulders and moved away, zigzagging between noisy tourists in the lobby. She found the curved corridor and followed it without hesitation, then paused at the threshold of the bookstore.

  The store was open. She drew a deep breath and nearly laughed in relief. She must have been mistaken, or the grainy television had distorted the images of the people getting into the truck.

  “Ethan,” she called, moving quietly through the book tables. She glanced over her shoulder. The guard still followed, but at a discreet distance. “Ethan.” She lifted her voice, calling the boy as she had earlier this week, when she had stopped in to buy Uncle Tom’s Cabin. They had played a quick game of hide-and-seek among the bookstacks, and the little fellow had charmed her into buying him a sweet. She bent down, peering beneath the tables to see if he was hiding from her now.

  “Can I help you, Madame?”

  A pair of thick, stocking-covered legs intersected Alanna’s path. She straightened and stared into the iron face of a Russian woman she had never seen before.

  “I was, ah, looking for the little boy who works here.” Alanna glanced toward the cashier’s table. Two strangers stood there, boxing a mountain of books.