In Sheep's Clothing

“So, you already know my big news.” Roman crossed his arms and waggled his eyebrows. “Well, I’ll bet you don’t know this…”

Vicktor gave him a mock glare.

Roman glanced at Yanna. “He’s grumpy, huh?”

She smirked.

“Roman,” Vicktor warned.

“Keep your shirt on, Vita. Some of us got to asking how the comrade major found out about Evgeny. I mean, Arkady certainly didn’t roust him out of bed with the news, did he?”

Vicktor leaned forward, his heart missing a beat. “Who told him?”

“Actually, we’re not sure.”

Vicktor’s eyes narrowed.

“But we do know the call came in early this morning on one of Major Malenkov’s private lines, right after he came in to work.”

Disbelief almost stole Vicktor’s voice but he forced out the words, “The comrade major’s phone is tapped?” He glanced at Yanna, whose eyes were wider than her teacup.

Roman held a finger to his lips.

Vicktor gasped. “Why?”

Roman’s smile vanished. “Listen to me, Vita. Everybody’s phone is tapped at HQ. Fourth Department knows all.”

The Fourth Department. Internal Affairs. Shock turned him cold. Why would the Fourth be investigating Comrade Malenkov?

“The call came in on an ancient number we’ve been monitoring for years.” Roman leaned forward for emphasis. “It’s been out of use for a decade, but the comrade major himself requested the tap.”

Vicktor’s mind reeled. Why would the major ask to have one of his lines tapped?

“Why hasn’t the number been used for so long?” Yanna rested her elbows on the table. “Shouldn’t it have been reassigned?”

“It used to be Comrade Major Ishkov’s line. I guess they thought leaving it open might lead to his murderer.”

“Murderer?” Vicktor said, and three heads turned from a nearby table.

Roman shot him a cross look.

“Sorry,” Vicktor mumbled. He schooled his volume. “Ishkov was one of the heavyweights, mentored under Khrushchev. I didn’t know he was murdered.” He pushed his coffee away, his appetite gone. “I thought he had a heart attack. I remember him. He was a legend. I never did figure out why he didn’t retire.”

“They needed him around to keep the old spies in line. Ten years ago, the plants from the old KGB were still working the system. Ishkov was assigned to reel them in and send them to pasture. He bought it before he could finish the job.”

“So Malenkov kept Ishkov’s number open to see if he could tempt some of the old goats in from the cold, in case they called to report?”

“Maybe.” Roman fingered his soup spoon.

Yanna steepled her fingers and rested her chin on them. “So, you’re saying an old agent, or an informant, called in on Ishkov’s old number, got Malenkov, and reported Evgeny’s murder?”

Roman pointed at her. “Tochna.”

“Who would know enough about Evgeny’s murder to call Malenkov, and why?” Vicktor asked.

Roman gave Vicktor a steely look. “One of Arkady’s boys? Disgruntled?”

Vicktor scowled. “Hardly. His men are more loyal to him than their own wives.” Still, the image of a scaly-skinned tech at Evgeny’s clinic flashed through his memory. He pressed his thumb and forefinger to his eyes and pinched the image away. “I don’t know.”

“Food for thought,” Roman commented, and crossed his arms over his chest.

Vicktor chuckled to himself, spying Roman’s captain bars glinting gold on the collar of his COBRA uniform. Although clad in black jeans, boots and a black leather jacket, Roman never could stray far from the reminder of his rank. Roman had fought for his bars—Vicktor didn’t blame the guy for wearing them every waking moment. He supposed it kept Roman focused on his end goals, and his mind off his losses.

“Ah, food for the famished!” Roman smiled broadly at the waitress skulking back to them. She balanced a bowl of borscht on her tray.

Ignoring him, she plunked the borscht down on the table. “Twenty rubles.”

Roman peeled a bill off a wad from his pocket. She snatched it from his grip and marched back to the kitchen.

A tendril of steam curled from the borscht like a ribbon and Roman made a show of sniffing. The smell of dill clawed at Vicktor’s taste buds, but he doubted he’d ever have an appetite again after Roman’s news.

The cell phone trilled in his coat pocket. Vicktor dug it out and flipped open the case. “Shubnikov.”

“Get over here, and don’t ever say I never did you any favors.”

“Arkady?”

“That’s still Chief Arkady to you. I’m at Kim-yu-Chena Street, apartment twenty-three, sixth floor. You’d better hurry if you want to beat the rest of your three-letter cohorts here and get a piece of this.”

“Piece of what?” Vicktor asked, wadding a paper napkin in his fist.

“You’re in luck, hotshot. The Wolf has struck again.”

Chapter Five

Gracie’s keys shook as she fought with the bolts of her steel door. Flinging herself inside her apartment, she slammed the door shut behind her.

Fatigue buckled her knees and she crumpled hard onto the floor. Sweat poured down her face, into her eyes, down her chest and back. Hiccuping breaths, she fought with her buttons, then shrugged out of her coat and left it in a heap.

Get clean. The thought pushed her forward, beyond exhaustion. Toeing off her shoes, she unbuttoned her dress, let it slide off and left it in a ring. Stumbling down the hall, she whipped her turtleneck over her head and pitched it into the corner. She slapped on the bathroom light, then reached for the faucet and cranked the water on full, hoping the city hadn’t turned off the hot water yet. She ripped off her socks and underclothes and shoved her hands under the spray. Dried blood loosened, dripped off her. Evelyn’s blood. She felt her stomach convulse.

Keep it together, Grace. She fought the shakes as she climbed into the tub, unwilling to wait for the water to warm, and grabbed her soap.

The water turned her skin to ice. Blood edged her fingernails, lined the creases in her hands. She scrubbed until her fingers were raw and wrinkled. Her eyes burned as she watched the water pool red at her feet.

Evelyn. Oh, Evelyn.

A howl, hot and painful, began at Gracie’s toes. By the time it had worked into her chest, she was shaking.