Wiser Than Serpents (11 page)

Vicktor dodged a tiny woman wheeling a three-wheel cart loaded with luggage. Incheon Airport always seemed packed. A hub of Korean and Asian airlines, from here, flights arrowed inland across Asia, west to India and Thailand, and south to the Philippines and the Micronesian islands. Vicktor wished he might be on his way to Bali. With Gracie.

In fact, more than once, she’d said her dream vacation would be somewhere warm, with year-round sun and a sandy beach. And if she couldn’t have that, she’d take the mountains, some tiny cabin tucked away. She’d even sent him an online site for a retreat in the shadow of Mount Rainier. It had a crazy name, Paradise or Wonderland or something completely fairy-tale romance. What he did remember was the fishing…something about fresh salmon. It had made him hungry for smoked salmon, which he’d purchased that night at the market and shared with Roman.

See, he could remember the things important to her.

In fact, Gracie hardly left his mind, and not because he worried about her. Or not
only
because he worried about her. He missed her candor, and the way she didn’t pull her punches with him. She wasn’t afraid to stand up to him, from the first moment she’d met him and kicked him in the shins, thinking he might be a murderer. She was honest. And refreshingly hopeful. And faithful.

And beautiful.

Most of all, she loved him.

Or he desperately hoped so.

He fished his cell phone out of his pocket, calculating the time change. According to his math, it would be around dinnertime, the day before. He lifted the phone out, searching for a signal. He got the smallest of blips, and his phone beeped.

He jogged to catch up with Roman. “I have a text message.”

“Maybe it’s from Yanna.” Roman dug into his own pocket for his cell and held it up to catch a signal. “Hmm. Nothing.”

“I’ll bet the message is from Gracie,” Vicktor said, dialing. He waited, holding it to his ear, frowned and looked at the screen. “I lost it.”

“It’s probably because of the airport. It’s hard to get a signal. Taiwan is up on all the latest technology. You can probably find an Internet café and chat with her from there.”

Vicktor pocketed the cell, frustration knotting his chest. He just wanted to hear Gracie’s voice, tell her that whatever he did, he was desperately sorry and that he’d never even think those thoughts—whatever they’d been—again.

“Maybe she just wants to tell me she loves me.”

Roman jumped on a moving walkway. “Yeah. I’m sure that’s it.” He checked his watch. “I should call Sarai. I didn’t tell her I was leaving last night when I said goodbye.”

“Did you two have a date?”

“Took her to see
Sleeping Beauty
at the theater. She cried.”

“I saw it, years ago.”

“I think I’m going to ask her to marry me.” Roman curled his hand onto the railing, not looking at Vicktor.

Vicktor couldn’t suppress a smile. “Every time you go to a theater or a circus you have this urge to propose. You should have done it thirteen years ago in Moscow, when you first wanted to.”

Roman said nothing, probably reliving the moment he’d let the woman he loved walk out of his life. Thankfully, she’d also walked back into it about eight months ago. And it had only cost him a couple of broken ribs and a stint in gulag. But they were making up for lost time in a way that made Vicktor long for Gracie. He held up his phone again.

“Leave it, man. Gracie can take care of herself. She managed to live in Russia for two years and, I might add, also escape a serial killer. I think she can stay safe on the streets of Seattle. Calling her every night is not about letting her know you care. It’s about you wanting to do her thinking for her. About you not letting go and letting God be in charge of your relationship. “

“Ouch. Listen, I worked those streets when I lived in Seattle. This
isn’t
about me losing her. Or even needing her to need me. It’s about me knowing that she is still dealing with post-traumatic stress disorder and wanting her to feel safe.” Vicktor got off the walkway and followed Roman toward the lobby of what looked like a restaurant. Inside, at a counter, Roman stopped. Flashed his FSB credentials.

“I’d like to speak to your manager,” he said.

Vicktor leaned against the wall, arms folded. Maybe Roman was right. Maybe he did need to stop worrying about Gracie. He tapped the cell phone.
I love you, too, Gracie.
Enough to back off and let her decide their future. His words to Roman were honest—he didn’t want her to need him—well, yes he did, but he mostly wanted her to love him as much as he loved her.

He touched his chest where it tightened, right above his heart.

“Can I help you?” The voice came from a slight Asian man, well-groomed in a beige silk suit. Why hadn’t Vicktor grabbed his own suit instead of a pair of faded jeans and an old T-shirt? He leaned up from the wall and tried to look clean.

“We’re looking for a friend of ours, an Olga Rustikoff. She was supposed to check in here two nights ago?” Roman dug “Olga’s” picture from his wallet. “She’s in her late twenties.”

The manager, who introduced himself as Mr. Choi, studied Roman’s and Vicktor’s credentials for a moment, the picture, and then opened his listing of guests.

“She checked in, but never checked out.” Choi wrote down the time. “We book by the six-hour blocks, and she used one block of time. When she didn’t check out, we charged her for another block. Housekeeping notes say they checked in on her room during the third shift, but it was vacant. Did she make her flight to America?”

Roman glanced at Vicktor. “How did you know her destination?”

Choi looked about forty, but with a youthful tan and little facial hair. “We take all the flight and passport information, in case they haven’t checked out an hour before their flight. Sometimes, patrons oversleep.”

“So, you never saw her leave?” Vicktor asked. He wasn’t sure why, but places like this that rented by the hour always made him feel as if he might be walking into a back-alley brothel. Despite the manager’s three-piece suit and the welcome-to-Korea smile.

“Not that I recall. Her account says that she had dinner in the restaurant shortly after she checked in. I’ll ask my staff if they remember seeing her.” He handed Roman a card. “If you will write your phone number, I can call you if I have any further information.”

Roman scribbled down his cell number. “Can I see the room she stayed in?”

“It’s been cleaned numerous times since her visit.”

Roman glanced at Vicktor. “We have a couple hours to kill.”

Vicktor turned to Choi. “I think we’d like to see the room.”

They followed Choi down a long orange-and-lime-green hall, passing through another long corridor until he stopped at a door. He opened it with an access card.

An Asian double-size bed jutted from an alcove beyond the bathroom. Vicktor followed Choi and Roman inside. The room smelled of stale air and artificial room freshener.

“It’s a sleeping room. Most guests use it while waiting for international flights, like your friend Olga.”

“The only way in is with the key card?” Roman asked. He stood at the door, holding it open with his foot.

Vicktor stared at the television, a queasy feeling in his gut. What would he do if it were Gracie who vanished?

She was fine. Hadn’t she texted him? He needed to listen to Roman and trust Gracie. He acted as if she was going to get kidnapped or murdered. He’d clearly let their history with the Wolf go straight to his head.

“I told you there was nothing here,” Choi said. He had turned to go, just as a housekeeper came pushing her cart down the hallway. Roman darted out to catch her.

Vicktor held the door, blocking Choi’s exit.

“Ma’am, do you clean this section of hall?” Roman asked in English.

The woman, a middle-aged Korean, with a wide face and short, dark hair, stared at him. She glanced at Choi. Vicktor followed her gaze and saw nothing written on Choi’s face.

“We’re looking for a friend who stayed in this room. A young Russian woman, long, dark hair, traveling alone. Did you happen to see her?”

The woman glanced again at Vicktor, but he stepped in front of Choi. For a second, she looked surprised. Then, shook her head, frowning.

Probably she didn’t understand a word he’d said.

Then, in a voice barely above a murmur she said, “No see. Sorry.”

Roman frowned, stepped back toward the room. “Thank you.”

The woman continued down the hall. Roman turned back to Choi, still trapped behind Vicktor. But as the woman reached the next hallway, she stopped and looked back at Vicktor. And deliberately pulled something from her pocket.

She let it drop onto the floor. Then she pushed her cart around the corner.

“Let’s go. There’s nothing here,” Roman said, but Vicktor cast him a look.

“Stay here. Be right back.”

Vicktor took off down the hall, but by the time he got to the corner, the woman had vanished. At his feet, however, was a small silver locket.

He picked it up, ran his finger over it. And everything inside him went very, very still.

David lost Yanna in between the fried squid on a stick, the fresh tilapia fish still gasping their last breath, the hedgehog-looking, horrible-smelling durian fruit, a vat of sweet potatoes and a woman making Ba Wan that had him so distracted with the smell, it was no wonder Yanna easily ditched him. And because she was smart, as well as sneaky, the woman had waited until right after he’d purchased her a fresh papaya and a bamboo sack filled with rice.

At least he didn’t have to worry about her starving as Kwan tortured her to death. Super. Could this day get any worse?

He turned, looking for the leggy Russian brunette, but of course every other person in Taiwan also had long dark hair, wore a size four and moved as if they were late for work or, in her case, running from the man who’d saved her life. Thankfully, she also stood about half a foot taller than every woman at the market. However, not a woman Yanna’s height was in sight. He wove past a table of vendors selling fish heads, and toward a booth of sushi. “Yanna!”

Of course, his voice carried about as far as the star fruit vendor’s in the din of the market, and hum of the street traffic. Morning market always reminded him of the Philippines, where he had attended boarding school, while his missionary parents worked in Japan—the din of the crowd, the smells of fresh vegetables brought in from the villages, people on bicycles and scooters weaving through foot traffic.

He stood, surveying the heights of the patrons. Yanna had a good six to eight inches on the average Asian woman. Only he’d also purchased her a pair of flip-flops, which cut his advantage severely. He almost longed for her spike-heel boots.

Clothes. She needed a change of clothes. And it was then he realized she would have also lifted his wallet. He checked his front pocket, where he’d slipped it just as they were walking into the market. Nice, very nice. She’d probably nicked it when he was arguing with the Ba Wan lady about which dumpling he wanted.

So, Yanna had his wallet and his cash, leaving him high and dry while a murderer hunted them down. Apparently she had a short memory when it came to people saving her life.

Then again, when Yanna wanted something, especially something near and dear to her heart, she usually got it. Stubborn. Blunt. Capable. Qualities that had netted her respect in her FSB department but managed to scare off every man on her side of Siberia.

He had to wonder, perhaps, if she did it on purpose.

The only thing that scared him about Yanna was the fact she so easily shrugged off her own safety for the good of the people she loved. Which meant that if she hung around David for any length of time, it meant pain and sacrifice. Because Kwan would find him. And when he did, people would get hurt.

The second he found Yanna he’d handcuff—no,
hot glue—
her to himself until he shoved her on an airplane to Russia. She might hate him when they were finished with this, but he couldn’t look himself in the mirror if he let Kwan hurt her.

Contrary to what Yanna might think, he didn’t intend to leave Elena high and dry, either. But first stubborn Russian woman first.

David turned for a moment in the middle of the market, gathering his bearings. Like a maze intended to trap customers, the tables of food—from nuts in bags, to dried seafood, to raw meat suspended from hooks, to fresh vegetables—stretched as far as he could see under the low-hanging metal roof. Beyond the offerings of food, kiosks filled with kitchen utensils, plastic wear, cheap aluminum pots, rice cookers and woks, and an electronics store ringed the outside entrance to the market.

Which reminded him that he should probably ditch his current cell phone, grab a new one.

Oops, one normally required
money
for that.

He headed out the back entrance, toward the clothes vendors. Styles in Taiwan ranged from skimpy to spandex, with most of the women wearing their size-two crop pants low on their hips, their blouses tight, their skirts avert-his-eyes too high. And the colors—bright and gaudy seemed the fashion of the hour. He should be able to spot Yanna in her boring white blouse, leather skirt. Beyond this alcove of kiosks, the street jagged down along the coast, littered with buildings lit with vertical neon characters in Mandarin, again, in all colors. Exhaust fumes, meat and rice frying in a giant wok and the cloying smell of women soaked in perfume seasoned the too-warm air.

He dodged a man riding a bicycle and ran across the alley to a kiosk filled with women’s lingerie.

“Foreigner?” he asked in Mandarin. An oversize woman sitting on a bench looked at him and shook her head. In the next booth overflowing with shoes, a woman pointed toward the center of town.

“Shei-shei,”
he said, thanking her, dodging marketers and more bicyclists. He clipped a stand of durian fruit, scattering them on the ground. The vendor came screaming out of his booth, but David didn’t slow. Why, Yanna, can’t you just trust me?

I’m here to find my sister. Kwan kidnapped her.
Her quiet words, torn with emotion and spoken as they drifted to shore, replete with images that made him wince, laced his thoughts. What if it were his sister who’d been gulped into Kwan’s world of slavery? They’d have to sedate him probably and even that would only slow him down. In fact, he’d shown up—or asked pals around the globe to show up on her behalf—for nearly a decade, most recently during a coup in the center of Siberia. It wasn’t easy keeping track of a woman who put the welfare of her patients miles ahead of her own.