In Sheep's Clothing. Susan Warren MayЧитать онлайн книгу.
weren’t just any murders—these were Wolf attacks.
“Please, anything,” he said, flinching at the earnestness in his voice.
“Well, maybe,” Gracie replied.
He raised his eyebrows, fighting hope.
“My driver, Leonid, didn’t show up today, and I thought maybe he would come here.” She scowled and shook her head. “But probably not. His car wasn’t here, and he hasn’t been very dependable lately.”
“This Leonid…what’s his full name?”
She gave him a pitiful look. “I don’t know. We call him Leonid the Red.”
Vicktor frowned.
“His hair. It’s red.”
Gracie’s wretched answer sounded hollow even to herself. She was useless. She turned back to the window before the captain could see her crumple.
It didn’t help that the other cop studied her as if she were evidence. She crossed her arms and glowered at him over her shoulder. Let him try to push her into a corner. She might be a foreigner, but she was still an American citizen. She knew her rights. She watched him wrap his fat lips around his foul-smelling cigarette, and she wrinkled her nose in disgust. The cop glared back at her as if she had the answers and was hiding them.
If it hadn’t been for Captain Shubnikov’s presence, she would have been afraid. The captain’s voice bolstered her courage. She had the oddest feeling she was safe with him in the room.
Behind her the two cops argued in Russian, probably about her. Then, strangely, they left her alone in the kitchen with only a cloud of smoke as a reminder of her showdown with the KGB. That and the quiver she’d somehow managed to hide. But she hadn’t collapsed. That counted.
Where were Andrei and Larissa? Four hours had passed since her phone call. A horrifying thought struck her—what if the murderer had already pounced? How much danger were they in? She shuddered, remembering the eerie phone call unanswered in her flat. Five days left on her visa suddenly seemed like an eternity.
Gracie rubbed her eyes with her thumb and forefinger and scanned her memory for anything that might help Captain Shubnikov find the Youngs’ killer. It was doubtful that anything she learned in Russia would be valuable to anyone with an appetite for murder. Her memories were of sweet children singing praise songs, the weird advice of well-meaning babushkas and friends laughing over tea. Nothing in that batch seemed suspect.
She heard a knock at the door. More cops, then a Russian voice calling her name. She turned, and in strode Andrei. Worry knotted his face.
“Gracie?”
He hesitated before her, as if suddenly unsure what to do. Tears rimmed his eyes.
Then, wordlessly, he held out his arms.
“Oh, Andrei, it was just so awful,” she whispered, and walked into his embrace. She rested her head on his shoulder, wrapped her arms around his waist and let herself cry.
His arms tightened around her. She’d never been so grateful for his friendship.
After a few moments, he put her away from him, scanned her from head to toe. “Are you okay?”
Gracie managed a shaky smile, not sure how to answer.
“Kto eta?”
Blue-eyed Captain Shubnikov stood in the doorway.
Andrei answered in English. “Andrei Feodorvich Tallin.” He hesitated, then stepped forward and extended his hand, eyes wary. “I’m a friend of Gracie’s.”
Shubnikov fired off a question in rapid Russian.
“Speak English, please,” Gracie muttered.
The investigator ignored her.
Andrei looked at Gracie as if confused. Then he replied in an even quicker staccato.
What was Shubnikov’s problem? The shift in his demeanor astounded her. Only moments before, he’d seemed a friend. Now she’d been sucked back to the Cold War.
“What does he want?” Gracie asked, and frowned at him. He met her gaze with cold eyes that felt like a slap.
She’d been duped by the KGB. She should have kicked him harder.
From this angle, he looked every inch KGB menace. His neatly clipped army-style haircut did nothing to soften high cheekbones that slanted to his square, pure tough-guy jaw. A hint of dark stubble punctuated otherwise smooth skin and he had folded his arms across a sturdy-looking chest, rumpling his sports coat. Arrogance in his dark blue eyes gave him a dangerous look. He started to drum his fingers on his arm, as if waiting for an answer.
Andrei leaned over and translated. “He says he has to ask you more questions.”
“What? We’ve already talked. You tell him whatever he has to ask, he’ll ask it now.” Wait, who was she kidding? Mr. Games knew how to speak English. She glowered at him.
Andrei closed his eyes and grimaced. She waited for him to translate, but instead he breathed wisdom into her ear.
“Gracie, he’s with the FSB. They don’t understand the word no. They’re like your FBI—above the law.”
“The FBI is not above the law.”
Andrei shrugged. “Believe what you like, but here the FSB doesn’t answer to anyone.”
Gracie dug her fingers into Andrei’s arm. “Don’t you dare tell him where I live.”
“He probably already knows.”
Gracie felt like a child with a giant name tag around her neck, the type they gave her in kindergarten to help her find her school bus. She had absolutely no control over her own life.
Acting like she didn’t exist, Andrei and Investigator Shubnikov talked a moment longer. Gracie turned away and sulked.
Andrei finally settled a hand on her shoulder. “He’ll call you if he needs anything. You’re supposed to stay in town. I think we can leave now.”
She shrugged off his touch. Oh, sure, she’d stay. Long enough to pack a carry-on for her trip south. “I need to get Dr. Willie’s computer.” She whirled and leveled a piercing glare at the two-faced captain. He blinked as if shocked, but she jutted her chin and brushed past him, hoping her cold shoulder sent him frostbite.
Gracie bumped past the cops dusting the room, kept her gaze off the sheet-draped body and walked over to the coffee table where the black laptop hummed. With a jerk, Gracie unplugged the computer from the wall. It died with a gasp. She was putting her hand on the cover to push down the screen when a hand clamped her wrist.
“Let me go!”
“That’s evidence, we need it.” Shubnikov’s English seemed fine now.
Games, games, Mr. KGB. So very typical of all men.
“I need it. I have to write to America, tell them what’s happened.”
“Call them.”
Gracie snatched her arm out of his grasp. She tugged her coat around her and knotted the sash. “When can I have it?”
His gaze roamed over her face. She felt it burn, but kept her expression neutral. He turned and barked at one of the techs, who mumbled something in return.
“Tomorrow.”
The air puffed out of her. “What?” She licked her lips and scrambled for an answer. “Well. Fine. Tomorrow, then.”
For the briefest moment she thought she saw him smile. Arrogant jerk. Brushing past him, she joined Andrei standing by the door. Her satchel dangled from his hand.
“Take me home, please.”
Andrei hung the satchel over her shoulder, then