Red Midnight (10 page)

“Miss McCabe!”

Startled by the sharp call of her escort, Erin hurried along. Mary had told her that an agent from Intourist—the government agency that handled all travel to the Soviet Union—would be there to meet her. She hadn’t thought to inquire at the time how she would actually find her agent, so at the moment she had to be grateful that Jarod obviously knew where to take her.

He stopped so suddenly that she plowed into the expanse of his back, righting herself as he turned to her with a lifted brow and a deep sigh of patience and resignation. “Well, you stopped!” she murmured, only to fall silent as she realized they were before a third party.

“Ivan Shirmanov,” Jarod greeted the young man. He said something in Russian, from which Erin recognized only her own name.

The young man nodded, then turned to Erin. “Welcome to the U.S.S.R., Miss McCabe. If you are ready, I will take you to your hotel.”

“Thank you, and yes, I’m ready,” Erin said, accepting the hand offered her. The Russian’s grip was brisk but firm and warm. His pronunciation was perfect, English-accented rather than American. She would learn later that the King’s English was taught in the majority of the schools.

Jarod was turning Erin’s suitcase over to Ivan. His sharp gaze suddenly turned to her. “Enjoy your stay, Erin,” he said quietly. “The embassy is on Chaikovsky Street should you need anything.”

To Erin’s vast surprise he took her hand in his and lightly touched it to his lips. His eyes, as they rose to meet hers, were more enigmatic than ever. They were crystal, they were ice. They were that incredible and intangible imprisonment of blue fire.

“Thank you,” Erin mumbled, nervously retrieving her hand. She adjusted the shoulder strap of her handbag over her shoulder and fought to dispel the hold of his eyes, then turned to follow Ivan, who was already briskly leaving the station.

“Oh, Miss McCabe?”

Erin turned back. With his customary half grin of irritating amusement, Jarod Steele was reaching out to hand her something. Luckily, she noticed from the corner of her eye that Ivan had paused to wait for her.

Somewhat warily, Erin reapproached Jarod. “Your passport and visa,” he told her wryly. “You’ll need them when you check in at the hotel.”

“Thank you,” Erin said crisply, accepting her papers.

“Not at all,” he murmured dryly. “Do sveedah nyah.”

It was he who turned this time, his long-legged stride quickly taking him into the crowd. Erin watched as the silver-touched jet of his head became distant—its height above the throng of others remaining distinct.

“You are a friend of Mr. Steele?” Ivan broke her mesmerization with the polite question.

Erin chuckled a bit dryly. “Do you know, Ivan, I’m not really sure.”

The young man frowned, apparently worried that his question might have been out of line. Erin quickly gave him a brilliant smile. “This is really marvelous, Ivan, being met like this. I can see where I might have been terribly lost.”

Moments later she was ushered into a small economy car and they were moving into very hectic traffic despite the fact that it had been Erin’s understanding that automobiles were luxuries to the majority of the Soviet people. The car they were in, Ivan explained, belonged to the Intourist agency.

“We really do not need automobiles, Miss McCabe,” Ivan continued cheerily. “Our metro is fabulous. You must see it while you are here!”

“I’ve read about the metro,” Erin said enthusiastically, “and I wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

Ivan glanced at her and then returned his eyes to the road, a smile curving into his lips. “You are a good tourist, Miss McCabe! You seem to know a great deal about us!”

“Not a great deal, I’m afraid,” Erin muttered. “But I am fascinated by the history and the country. It’s all so vast!”

Apparently she had touched him with her enthusiasm. His job, she knew, was simply to see her to her hotel. But Ivan detoured around the city, showing her the world-famous circus, several of the ancient cathedrals, and so many monuments that she lost count. As they approached her hotel, the Rossia, he pointed down the street.

“You’re lucky,” he told her, smiling. “The Rossia sits right off Red Square. You can walk to the Kremlin and St. Basil’s and Lenin’s tomb. You must be sure to see the changing of the guard at the tomb. It is an awesome sight. Do so at midnight, Miss McCabe. It is especially exciting at that time with the lights creating magic on the square.”

“Midnight!” Erin laughed. “I shall be there!”

Uniformed bellboys appeared to take her luggage, and Ivan escorted her into the hotel lobby. He helped her cut through the red tape of registration and then smiled politely to her once more. “I leave you here, Miss McCabe.”

“Will I see you again?”

“It isn’t likely,” Ivan replied, then shrugged. “But then we never know. That is why we always say ‘Do sveedah nyah!’”

Erin laughed and thanked Ivan, but the sound of the phrase had brought her mind back to Jarod Steele. Would she meet him again? Probably not. She hoped not.

What a lie. She did want to see him again, just to figure out what his fascination was. No, no, no, no, Erin thought, clenching her fingers together as she followed the bellboy to her room. She couldn’t handle Jarod Steele. He was a furnace, and she would find herself consumed in flame.

“Oh, how lovely!” She interrupted her own thoughts as the door to her “room” was pushed open. It was actually a suite, a ridiculously large one with a quaint and gracious bedroom, luxurious sitting room complete with piano, and a private office. The feeling of Old World charm was warm and endearing. Erin made a mental note to thank Mary profusely for the deluxe-class accommodations as she thanked the bellboy, who was grinning with pleasure at her obvious endorsement of the premises.

With a few words of spattered English—and a very few words of spattered Russian—Erin and the bellboy managed enough of a conversation for her to ascertain that breakfast would still be served in the dining room for another hour. Erin unpacked a few things, ran a brush through her hair, and started off.

The Rossia was an Intourist hotel and therefore specifically designed to cater to foreigners. Erin didn’t have much difficulty locating the dining room, nor did she have difficulty with the menu, as it was printed in seven languages—English among them. She chose the buffet, and happily dived into ham and eggs and rolls, as well as a number of less familiar dishes, several made with fish and potatoes. Russian coffee, she decided, left quite a lot to be desired, but it would certainly keep her wide awake for the tour of the Kremlin and Red Square which she had elected for the day. Besides, she was still thinking about Jarod Steele. Having known him, she thought dryly, his presence seemed to hover, and she was very determined to keep her mind and appreciation just as Russian as possible.

Why the hell do I keep wondering about that man, she asked herself with irritation as she resolutely sipped a second cup of coffee in hopes that she would acquire a taste for the strong brew. She was reading things that simply weren’t there into his last words. Do sveedah nyah. The phrase was a polite exit line, nothing more. But it was hard not to think about a man when one had spent the night in his couchette … accidentally.

Oh, yeah, of course, accidentally. And platonically. No, nothing about Jarod Steele was platonic. His eyes could caress and sear the flesh like a perceptible touch, strip it, bare it; his voice could do things that were far from decent to the blood. And damn him, the worst thing about him was that he was impossible to forget, even if she wasn’t even sure whether or not she liked the man.

Erin left the open and airy dining room with its attractive display of windows and plants to explore the crimson carpeted and crystal chandeliered elegance of the Russia’s hallways. The hotel was marvelous, but she didn’t dare spend too much time discovering its amenities. She was due to meet her Intourist guide for the day in the lobby at eleven, and she had learned that the Soviets were punctual.

This time she was met by a young woman whom she judged to be about her own age. Tanya, as she introduced herself, immediately aroused Erin’s admiration. She was very attractive, with sable hair and deep, expressive hazel eyes. Her manner was friendly yet assured. There didn’t seem to be such a thing as a cultural gap between the two women. Both seemed aware, as so often happens when people meet for the first time, that they would warm to one another immediately.

As they stood in Red Square and Erin’s eyes wandered from Lenin’s tomb to the thick red walls of the Kremlin to the intricate architecture of St. Basil’s Cathedral, Tanya explained that much of the contemporary life-style of the Soviet peoples stemmed from the thirteenth century, when Russia was invaded by the bloodthirsty Mongol hordes of Genghis Khan. The Mongols left behind them mountains of skulls and miles and miles of smoked-out cities. For the following two centuries the Russian people fought to free themselves from the yoke of the Mongols, thereby missing much of the Renaissance and Reformation that were taking place in Europe. Not until the time of Ivan the Terrible—the first czar—were the Mongols subdued, and then Russia continued under the rule of the czars until 1917.

“In this century we have also been plagued by war,” Tanya continued. “Our own revolution, World War One, and World War Two—to name our main conflicts. “She paused suddenly. “Why are you here, Miss McCabe?”

Erin laughed, thinking she should tape-record her answer to the continually asked question. Yet from Tanya the query didn’t bother her. Erin hesitated, then answered with far more depth than she had given Jarod Steele.

“When I was very young, Tanya, our president Kennedy was in office. I was in grammar school during the Cuban missile crisis, and I can still remember the drills in which we crawled under our desks. I was terrified of war, and as I grew up, I was determined to study Russian history and try to understand our power balance across the world. That, in a nutshell, is why I’m here. I discovered an American could see the U.S.S.R.—and here I am.”

Tanya smiled slowly. “I think I shall truly enjoy taking you through our history, Miss McCabe. I, too, was always terrified of another war,” she murmured. “Many Soviet people are, and you will understand that when you travel to Leningrad. But for now—”

Erin was next taken to St. Basil’s, where she studied the many priceless icons while Tanya colorfully related the history of the cathedral built between 1555 and 1560 by Ivan the Terrible. She shuddered with a true understanding of the “Terrible” in Ivan’s name as she heard how he made certain each of his architects died so that their expertise could not be reproduced.

When they left the cathedral, Tanya pointed out the common grave in the Kremlin wall of the revolutionaries killed in 1917. Then they were just in time to see a changing of the guard at Lenin’s tomb. The ramrod-stiff goose steps of the crisply uniformed military guard sent shivers racing along Erin’s spine.

“You look a little horrified,” Tanya murmured.

“No,” Erin protested. “I heard it was an awesome sight—in fact, I promised the agent who brought me to the hotel that I would be sure to come at midnight.”

Tanya smiled. “You must try to understand, Erin, that we have bred backbone to survive. Many of our leaders have been ruthless men; they have taken the path of heartless purges and rigid isolationism. But we have been burned out and massacred many times. Twenty million Soviet citizens lost their lives in World War Two. I admit, we are a people who often put bullets before bread.” She shrugged eloquently. “We have far to go; perhaps that may soon change.”

So awed had Erin been by the guards, then so touched by Tanya’s speech, that she screamed as a hand descended upon her shoulder.

“I am so sorry, Miss McCabe, I have startled you. It
is
Miss McCabe, is it not?”

The accented query came from a tall man of about fifty, handsome in a tall and austere way, clad in a heavy wool coat and a fur pillbox hat. At Erin’s stunned nod his lined faced creased further into a smile. “Forgive me. I knew you were in the country and I was most eager to make your acquaintance.”

Tanya took that moment to intercede, her voice a bit awed. “Miss Erin McCabe, you will please meet Mr. Sergei Alexandrovich.”

Still bewildered, Erin extended a hand. “Mr. Alexandrovich, how do you do?”

If she had been bewildered, total confusion was to follow. The Russian had barely replied before Erin felt another hand descend upon her shoulder. The vital and masculine scent she had come to know so well told her “do sveedah nyah” had come sooner than she expected from the man who had the uncanny ability to appear in the most absurd places at the most absurd time.

“Erin! How is the sightseeing going? And how on earth did you happen to run into Sergei already?”

Erin turned and discovered Jarod staring at her with crystal eyes alight with good humor. He touched her as if she were a long lost and valued friend.

“Hello, Tanya,” he murmured to her guide. Then he addressed himself to the Russian man. “I’ll be damned, Sergei, you do have a knack for routing out your more beautiful visitors.”

Erin’s eyes darted to the Russian. He was affably grinning as he replied to Jarod. “Ah, but I didn’t seek out Miss McCabe simply because she is beautiful, my friend. I came to find her because I heard news from the border today that
you
were entering the country with a fiancée and I simply had to resolve the curiosity that was plaguing me!”

“Oh, no!” Erin murmured, horrified by the turn of events. Surely Mr. Aloof and Contemptuous Steele was going to be furious that his ruse to help her out had put him in such an embarrassing position with a man who was obviously more than an acquaintance. “But Mr. Alexandrovich—” she began, determined to set the record, straight.

The fingers curling into her shoulder tightened, almost causing her to gasp as Jarod interrupted her. “My Lord, Sergei, I have to hand it to you. You have one hell of a grapevine.”

“Ah, yes,” Sergei replied, still smiling pleasantly and observing well all that he saw. “But then you did come in with a very rare beauty, and you, my friend, are most certainly one of our favorite Americans.”