Take Me for a Ride Page 8

Her bones ached and her teeth rattled and her stomach hurt. The cart smelled of onions and soil, mildew and rot, horse sweat and their own body odor. She’d been dreaming for days now of a lavender-scented hot bath in the deep, iron tub at home. But she was afraid that they’d never go home again.

  Her sister, Svetlana, gave a startled cry at the gunshot, and their father clapped a hand over her mouth. They lay frozen in fear while old Boris, the driver of the cart, spoke with the Nazi officers who’d stopped them.

  “Identification papers!” they demanded.

  Silence ensued as the officers examined them.

  “And your destination?”

  Boris had begun to explain that he was on his way to market when the soldiers probed roughly at the produce with their muskets.

  Tatyana tried not to even breathe as some of the blows struck the bottoms of the crates and echoed off the planks that hid them. She heard a rough noise, a creak and a groan as a crate was lifted, then another.

  The soldiers asked Boris, “What is underneath?”

  “Nothing. Just some straw.”

  “Unload the cart,” one of the Nazis ordered.

  The family clung to one another and prayed silently. Tatyana was still praying when the officers pried up the planks and stared down at them.

  Boris ran. He’d taken three steps when they shot him in the back, once and then twice. She shut her eyes but heard his body collapse to the ground. Poor Boris would never drive anywhere again.

  The officers turned back to the family. “Get out!” ordered one of them. There were two, one middle-aged and one very young, with a baby face and angelic blue eyes. He looked like a choirboy. The name on his uniform jacket said von Bruegel.

  Svetlana made low, keening noises of pure terror, and tears ran down their mother’s cheeks. Tatyana was frozen, half paralyzed. Papa’s face was masklike, showing absolutely no emotion. He sat up and climbed from the cart, despite his war injury. He had lost his right arm from the elbow down.

  Bracing himself, he extended a hand to Tatyana and then to his wife, who pulled Svetlana along with her. Tatyana felt the trembling of his fingers, and it did not reassure her.

  “Who are you?” snapped the cherub-faced young officer.

  “Alexei Malevich of Moscow. This is my wife—”

  “Juden?”

  “No.”

  “Search them,” ordered the older officer. “He’s lying.”

  “Never trust a one-armed man, eh?” The young one seemed to be trying to act older than he was. He winked, shot a contemptuous look at Papa’s empty sleeve, and spat on the ground.

  They found the cash strapped around her father’s waist immediately. They ordered him to take off his jacket and boots. While Papa stood in his stocking feet on the frozen ground, they found the gems sewn into his coat lining and the dagger and pistol concealed in his boots. Still, her father stood stoic.

  But a muscle jumped in his jaw as the officers grabbed Mama by the collar of her coat and yanked her roughly out of it. They pulled off her scarf. And then the young one ripped her dress from the collar to her waist, exposing not only her brassiere but her rope of good pearls and their most valuable family heirloom, the St. George necklace.

  Tatyana’s father lunged forward, but the older officer slammed him in the stomach with his rifle butt, and Papa dropped to his knees, retching.

  “I’ll take the pearls, Weimar. You can have the gaudy one—my wife would never wear it.”

  The young officer, Weimar, lifted the long strand of pearls from around Mama’s neck and handed it to the older Nazi, while she stood shaking from fear, humiliation, and cold. “Unfasten the other necklace,” he ordered.

  When she fumbled with the catch, he yanked it from her neck, and it took some doing. The gold links were heavy, as was the sculptural depiction of St. George on horseback, ramming his lance down a recoiling dragon’s gaping maw.

  Mama cried out, Papa lurched to his feet again to defend her, and the young, angelic-looking blond officer turned, his left hand still clenched around the necklace. He fired the pistol in his right hand, and Tatyana’s father fell to the ground, a bloody hole in his forehead.

  She didn’t even realize that she was screaming until the older officer slapped her face and told her to shut up. He shoved the girls toward another uniformed soldier.

  They left Papa there on the road in his socks and shirt-sleeves and took her mother into a nearby barn. Tatyana would never, ever forget the boy’s angelic blue eyes.

  Now, sixty-five years later, she fiercely blocked out the memory of the concentration camp she and her sister were sent to, where they were separated from their mother; they never saw her again.

  But the words her mother spoke to her one night still lingered with her. “St. George will protect you, Tatyana. The necklace once belonged to Catherine the Great, who founded the order of St. George. The necklace will come back to you or your sister one day. And when it does, you take it to Moscow. You take it to the Cathedral of the Assumption and speak only to the archbishop.”

  “Why, Mama?”

  “Only the archbishop will know to return to you the pieces of our family history. Priceless things that we could not take with us, things that you will treasure.”

  “Why don’t you take it to the church?”

  Mama’s smile was infinitely sad. “I will if I can,” she said, and squeezed her daughter’s hand. “Now, listen to me carefully. Inside the necklace, in the belly of the horse, is a secret compartment . . .”

  “What’s inside?”

  “Something you may need one day. Now, don’t be frightened. Remember, St. George will protect you.”

  Now Tatyana peered down at the blur of gold in her lap and tightened her hand around the little horseman. She’d been unable to find the compartment her mother spoke of, try as she might—and she had, for hours.

  She absently ran her index finger along St. George’s spear. She’d traced it all the way down to the dragon’s mouth when she heard a click, and slowly the entire dragon slid away from the spear. Something fell out of the horse’s hollow body and into her lap.

  Ted looked over as she picked up the object. “Where did that come from?”

  “Out of the necklace,” she said slowly. “It feels like a key of some kind. Is it a key, Ted?”

  “Why, yes. May I see it?”

  “Well, I certainly can’t,” she said wryly, and passed it to him.

  “This looks like a safety-deposit key of some kind. It has the number eleven at the top, and then some letters.” He peered at the engraving in the metal. “It spells out M-o-c-k-b-a.”

  “Moscow,” she said. “So it’s a bank-box key?”

  “I think so. Did your parents store a key inside the necklace?”

  “There was something valuable inside, but I don’t know if it was a key.” She thought for a moment. “Ted, does the key look like an antique?”

  “No. I’d say this is machine cut. Definitely twentieth century.”

  The young Nazi officer had obviously found whatever her mother had hidden in the necklace and confiscated it. Tatyana’s mouth hardened. “It looks as if we have a double mission, then, Colonel.”

  “Let me guess: You want to hunt down the safety-deposit box that matches the key.”

  Tatyana turned her head toward him. Dryly, she asked, “How did you guess?”

  “Male intuition,” he said, his tone equally dry.

  Tatyana took a sip of her drink. “You understand, don’t you, Ted?”

  “Of course. I’m seated next to you on an international flight, am I not? I’ve asked you to marry me, haven’t I?”

  She stared at the blurry rectangle of the seat in front of her. “You don’t want to tie yourself to a blind old bat like me.”

  “I do,” he insisted.

  “Why? Without my vision, I’m nothing but a burden.”

  “Is that right?” Ted asked, an exasperated edge to his voice.

  “Mmmm.”


  “Well, then, Mrs. Burden, I still think you should marry me—if only so that I have something to complain about in my old age. What do you say?”

  Tatyana didn’t answer. She held the necklace in her lap and pretended she’d fallen asleep . . . but she couldn’t completely suppress the smile that played around her mouth.

  Twelve

  Oleg Litsky stood in his apartment with his back to the fireplace in a vain attempt to warm himself. He hadn’t thought about the little girls at the Romanian border in years, but now—in the absence of the necklace—they haunted him, staring at him through the eyes of his own granddaughters. The younger one, the little auburn-haired doll who hadn’t made a noise, reproached him almost more than her sister, the one who’d screamed and screamed until they’d smacked her to shut her up.

  For a few weeks after the incident he’d dreamed of that family, haunted by what he’d done. But frankly, there’d been so many after them that they blended with the others into one miserable openmouthed howl of horror at the things of which he’d grown capable. Sometimes he’d acted on orders; other times he’d needed desperately to wipe out the reproach on the victims’ faces—and the more viciously he banished them, the better.

  Violence was a beast that fed upon itself, and it was never satisfied. Anger and guilt and self-disgust festered into further brutality, until each twisted action and reaction created a monstrous stew that he consumed and then purged, over and over, in an agony of subconscious bulimia.

  Litsky straightened and moved away from the hearth. As his mind wandered, the heat at his backside had grown unbearable, though an icy draft still clutched at his neck. He reached for the decanter of amber liquid on a side table in front of him and poured three inches into a tumbler.

  Good Scotch and the passing of decades had helped, as did his long masquerade as a respectable, retired businessman. And so had the knowledge that the cursed dragon piece, wrapped in old flannel, was shoved to the very back of his safe, the key to his crimes hidden inside its belly.

  But now his explosive secrets were out in the world somewhere, and an accidental brush of the fingers could expose him for what he was. At age seventeen, eighteen, or nineteen who feared death? It seemed such a remote possibility. Who feared the glare of shame? He’d had no concept of it, no real reputation to lose.

  Now, at age eighty-two, Litsky feared both. Shame in this world and terror of the next. For surely a man like him was going straight to hell without appeals or apologies.

  He couldn’t escape the consequences of death, but he could still avoid the scandal of discovery. His hands trembled as he waited for the gentleman named Kelso to return his call to ARTemis.

  He rued the day that he’d gotten into bed with that whoreson Pyotr Suzdal, not comprehending how dangerous he was. Litsky had steered the Russian a few pieces for ready cash—a mistake. Clearly Suzdal had decided there was more for the taking . . . and his men had broken in while Litsky was in Paris.

  ARTemis had to locate the blasted St. George necklace for him before anyone discovered the key inside it. Litsky would pay anything and everything to keep Weimar von Bruegel—and his war crimes—dead and buried.

  He raised the glass to his lips and tossed back a good half inch of Scotch, feeling it burn like desperation down his throat and conflagrate in his sour, turbulent gut. Mein Gott, why would the cursed telephone not ring?

  Litsky lifted the glass to his mouth again and his prayer was answered, startling him so badly that he poured the rest of his drink down his cashmere sweater.

  “Hello?” he managed.

  On the other end of the line, he could have sworn he heard someone snapping chewing gum, of all things. Then a nasal voice said, “Ahtemis heah. Mr. Litsky? Please hold for Mr. Kelso.”

  Thirteen

  Natalie’s building was on West Nineteenth, and it seemed to McDougal that they got there far too soon. He put the SUV in park and shot her a smile that was equal parts regret and relief. “Well, I guess this is it.”

  She smiled back at him and tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear as she gathered her fabric together. “I really can’t thank you enough for driving all the way out there, for the moral support—”

  Immoral support?

  “—and for the ride home again.”

  “You’re very welcome.”

  She pulled the strap of her bag over her shoulder, then hesitated. “Would you like to come up for coffee?”

  Hell, yes. No. Yes.

  He almost banged his forehead on the steering wheel. “Thank you, but no. I’ve got some things I need to do.”

  Disappointment skated over her expression, but she nodded. “Okay, then. Well, see you around. Or not, since Miami’s pretty far away. Call me when you’re in town again.”

  “Will do. You take care of yourself, Natalie.” He leaned over and gave her a quick, hard kiss on those soft, delectable lips.

  She got out of the car blushing and almost tripped over her scarf, which she’d unwound during the ride. She shut the door and lifted a hand to wave good-bye.

  Take care of herself? She wore naïveté like a perfume. And it wasn’t going to keep her warm in Russia.

  McDougal watched her until she’d disappeared into the building before he drove away.

  As he turned down a side street, a flash of color on the floor of the passenger side caught his eye. When he stopped at a light he leaned down and picked up a small sketchbook. A cursory flip through the pages told him it was full of designs and something that Natalie probably needed back as soon as possible.

  With mixed feelings he backtracked to her address and double-parked, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t be ticketed or towed before he got back. Yeah, right.

  He sprinted toward the entrance, noticing that nobody sat behind the reception desk. How was he going to get in?

  Then, lucky break, the elevator opened and a couple got out. They glanced at him briefly; he met their eyes as if he had every right to be there, then caught the edge of the door as they exited. No problem.

  Now, which floor? A list of residents’ last names was posted helpfully next to the elevator, and he saw that Natalie was on six. Up he went.

  There were six doors to choose from, but only one had a hand-woven, artistic-looking rag welcome mat outside. Natalie’s? As he approached he saw the last name woven into the fabric: Rosen. He didn’t need to knock—the door was open.

  The apartment was trashed. Natalie stood looking around her in shock, seeming unable to comprehend what had happened to her home. It was a single room with a divided kitchenette. A narrow hallway probably led to the bathroom. In the living space, a small red sofa had been overturned, its upholstery and pillows slashed. The coffee table in front of it had been stomped into sticks and splinters. The TV screen was smashed, as were all the dishes in the kitchen. Food had been ripped out of the fridge and freezer, packages sliced open. Jars and canisters were overturned and emptied onto the old wooden floor.

  A daybed against the far wall had once been partially hidden from view by a torn shoji screen, and the bed had suffered the same fate as the sofa. The pillows and mattress spilled stuffing and coils—they’d been completely disemboweled.

  A trunk at the end of the bed that Natalie had stored clothing in lay upside down, garments tossed on top of it and strewn around the floor.

  Her small bookshelves had been decimated, many of the titles ripped in half. Natalie’s ideals were revealed in her choices: Shakespeare, Le Mort d’Arthur, Romeo and Juliet, The Three Musketeers, Don Quixote, Tess of the d’Urbervilles, Jane Eyre, The Scarlet Pimpernel, The Last of the Mohicans, To Kill a Mockingbird, A Tale of Two Cities, and several hardcover romance novels.

  In a final insult, her nasty visitors had ripped apart a once-gorgeous quilt that hung on the wall in a simple wood frame.

  “Natalie?” McDougal said. “Are you okay?”

  She jumped, startled, moving her hand from her mouth to her heart. “Oh, my God,” she sai
d. “Oh, my God.”

  “Someone was looking for that necklace,” he said grimly. “And they were not happy that they didn’t find it.” He put an arm around her shoulders and steered her to the corridor. “Let me make sure that they’re not still here.”

  She looked horrified.

  He’d left the Glock in the car, damn it. But chances were they’d gone. McDougal strode down the hallway that led to the apartment’s minuscule bathroom and threw aside the shower curtain. Nothing.

  He took a brief but thorough look around, threw open Natalie’s old oak armoire. Nobody in there. He saw no other place where anyone could hide. There were no cabinets big enough, and he seriously doubted he’d find anyone in the refrigerator.

  “Okay,” he called. “Everything’s clear.”

  She came back into the room, hugging her arms around her body. She stared at the destruction as if she didn’t know where to start and where to end. Her eyes filled as she looked at the remnants of the big quilt in the frame.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, feeling the uselessness of the words.

  “It took me years to finish that,” she said. “I’d been working on it since I was a little girl. Ever since I saw Faith Ringgold’s quilts in a museum exhibition.”

  Eric stood silent.

  “Why?” she asked nobody in particular. “Why would they do this? Destroy everything I own.”

  “Looking for a hiding place, I’d say. They want that necklace.”

  She let go of herself, raised her arms, palms up. Shook her head back and forth. Then, wordlessly, she dropped her hands again.

  “Listen, Natalie. You can’t stay here.”

  She knit her brows and turned to look at him.

  “They might come back. When they know you’re here.”

  “Oh, God,” she whispered.

  “Come on. Let’s get some of your things together. You can stay the night with me at the Waldorf until we get this sorted out.”

  “I can’t impose on you like that—”

  “You’re coming back to the Waldorf with me,” he said firmly. “No argument. Now, do you want to call the police?”