Susan Warren - In Sheep's Clothing

“Did you see your neighbor come home—an American lady?” Vicktor asked.

The babushka ran a wary gaze over him. She shook her head. Vicktor leaned close and lowered his voice. “Did you hear anything?”

“Nyet.” The woman slammed her door. Vicktor tried not to kick it and sucked in a hot breath.

Think, Vicktor. Preferably like an American.

Vicktor ran down the stairs two at a time to his car. What would an American do when faced with the murder of a friend? What would David do?

Call the cops. Americans believed in their judicial system and their police force. In the absence of cops, she would call soldiers, or maybe American friends in town.

Or the U.S. embassy.

Vicktor climbed into his car and slammed the accelerator to the floorboard. The Zhiguli screeched out of the courtyard, scattering a flock of pigeons.

The nearest American consulate was in Vladivostok. She’d have to take the Okean train. Vicktor checked his watch. He had forty minutes before the next train left.

The voxhal teemed with travelers toting children and suitcases. The Trans-Siberian Railroad remained Russia’s best and most efficient method of transportation, especially after the fall of communism when the ruble plummeted to new, despairing depths. People could barely afford bread, let alone an airline ticket. The train, however, could transport a person to Vladivostok and back for the price of a McDonald’s Happy Meal.

Vicktor flashed his ID and hustled past vendors hawking wares in the dank underground passageway that burrowed under the train tracks. Ascending to the platform for the Okean train, he squeezed past a soldier holding an AK-47 and surveyed the crowd.

No blond American. He fought frustration and strode through the crowd. She had to be here. The train had rolled in and layered the air with diesel fumes. Vicktor wrinkled his nose and tried not to sneeze. A baby began to wail. The crowd murmured as it shifted toward the tracks. Vicktor backed away, took a deep breath and stared at their shoes.

Americans could always be identified by their footwear—sensible, low, padded and expensive. Russians wore black—black heels, black loafers, black sandals, black boots.

He spotted a pair of brown hiking boots and trailed his gaze up. Smart girl. The American had wrapped her head in a fuzzy brown shawl like a babushka and now clutched it as if a hurricane were headed in her direction. She held a nylon bag in the other hand, a black satchel peeking through a tattered corner.

She joined the throng and shuffled toward a passenger car. He clenched his jaw—he had to get her before she boarded that train. Pushing through the crowd, he worked toward her, but the passengers tightened and packed him in. He felt an elbow in his side, didn’t search for the owner, and plowed forward. The crowd split into two lines and he suddenly found himself propelled toward a car entrance. He scanned the other queue and glimpsed the American handing over her ticket.

Gotcha!

Stepping up to the conductor, he flipped open his identification, weathered her annoyed expression, and took the train steps in two strides. Taking a left, he edged into the car and peeked over the tops of embarking passengers until he saw Miss Benson’s fuzzy, shawl-covered head duck into a compartment.

Vicktor pushed past a family stowing suitcases and reached the Americanka’s door just as it was sliding shut. He rammed his foot in the gap and curled a hand around the door, intending to slam it back.

Her boot crunched his loafer. “No!”

Pain speared up his leg. He yanked his foot back, unable to stifle a grunt.

“Get away!” she yelled, and started to yank the door shut.

He wedged his arm into the crack, banged it open and plowed into her compartment. She stumbled back, clutching her bag.

“Get out!”

Her startled, fearful look stopped him cold. Rattled him.

She flung her satchel at him. He caught it. What was her problem?

She gasped and scurried back into the corner, looking as if he were going to eat her alive. “Get out!”

Okay, he could concede he might be a bit scary—big man, no identification. He reached into his pocket, scrambling for English.

She nailed him in the shin with her boot.

He winced and couldn’t keep frustration from contorting his face. “Calm down!” he ordered. Yes! His language skills hadn’t defected.

Only… “Get away from me!” she shrieked. Her face blanched, as if his English had stunned her.

Shoot. He didn’t want to scare her, but most of all he wanted to get off the train before it started rolling.

“Are you Grace Benson?”

Her eyes went wide.

Bull’s-eye. He smiled at his sleuth work. “I’ll take your silence as a ‘yes.’”

Fury filled her green eyes. She glanced past him, into the hall, as if hoping for reinforcement.

He had to make her understand. “I’ve been searching all over for you.”

Oh joy, she went white.

He turned and slammed the door shut behind him. He didn’t need an audience, and he had a feeling she wasn’t going to go quietly. Sighing, he weighed his options as he ran a hand through his hair. Now what? An ugly picture of him throwing her over his shoulder, fireman style, and hauling her from the train filled his mind. No, bad idea.

Turning back, he caught the warning expression on her face a millisecond before she went berserk. She pounced on him, clawing at his face.

What was wrong with her? He grabbed her forearms. “Stop it! Please. I’m not going to hurt you, trust me.”

She ripped her arms from his grip and sat down, hard. Her breath came in gusts.

“Perestan!” he hissed, both to her and his thundering heartbeat. “My name’s Vicktor. I’m with the KGB and I’m trying to help you!”

Shock turned her numb. Gracie drew her legs into a ball and stared at the officer. He blinked at her and smiled, as if suddenly he’d solved her every problem. He was a KGB officer?

“Is that supposed to inspire confidence?”

His smile dimmed.

“I mean, the KGB isn’t exactly a foreigner’s best friend. So, excuse me for my hesitation.”

His eyes darkened, and she called herself a fool for her sassiness.

“Actually, it’s the FSB now,” he said, “and you’d better start to trust me. I am trying to save your skin. You’re not leaving Khabarovsk until you answer some questions.”

“Spit it out—the train has already whistled,” she retorted with false bravado. Behind her sassy mouth lived a coward whose brain was screaming, Run!

His jaw dropped like he’d been slapped. She saw shock flicker in his blue eyes, then he stepped up to her and held out a hand. She stared as if it were a bomb.

“C’mon. We’re not having our chat here.”

“I—I’m an American citizen,” she stammered. “I want a lawyer.”

“Why? Do you need one?”

Gracie’s heart slammed into her ribs. “No,” she squeaked, swallowing hard. His hand remained outstretched.

“I could stay on the train. You can’t make me get off.”

A muscle tensed in his jaw. His presence filled the compartment—wide shoulders, thick arms that strained the material of his jacket. He was tall enough to scrub his head on the door frame, and he looked as fit as a soldier and in no mood to argue. His eyes latched on to hers and sent a streak of fear into her bones. She raised her chin, hoping to appear strong and defiant.

“I could make you get off, but I won’t.” His tone was low, calm. “If this train moves, however, I stay here, in this berth with you all night until we get to Vladivostok.” He paused. “Your choice.”

Gracie ignored his outstretched paw, stood, grabbed her bag and brushed past him just as the train lurched. She felt his presence closing behind her as they wobbled down the corridor. The train had already begun easing forward. She paused at the door, watching pavement glide by.