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‘I’d just been to the bank,’ she said, her tone one of explanation rather than defence. ‘I hadn’t had time to put it away—’
She’d been standing staring at St Basil’s with a map dangling forgotten from her hand. She’d had plenty of time. But why should he care? Sergei asked himself. Why should he bother even having this conversation? She was just another American tourist. He’d seen plenty of those over the years, from the first ones who goggled at the pathetic obscurity of an actual Russian orphan to the ones who judged with an assessing eye and brought in an army of therapists and psychologists to make sure no child was too damaged. As if they had any idea. And then of course tourists like this woman, who swarmed Red Square and gazed at the Kremlin and the GUM department store and all the rest as if everything were no more than a bizarre and rather quaint antiquity, rather than a lasting witness to his country’s heart-wrenching history. He had no time for any of them, and certainly not for her. He’d already half turned away when he heard her soft little exhalation of dismay, no more than a breath, as if she wouldn’t allow herself any more.
Sergei turned back. ‘What?’
‘My passport …’
‘You kept your passport in your coat pocket?’
‘I told you, I’d just been to the bank …’
‘Your passport,’ Sergei repeated, because he honestly couldn’t believe someone would actually keep their cash and passport in an unzipped coat pocket while they walked across Red Square.
She smiled ruefully now, acknowledging his incredulity, accepting it even. ‘I know, I know. But I was cashing my traveller’s cheques and they needed ID—’
‘Traveller’s cheques,’ Sergei repeated. This got better and better. Or worse and worse, depending how you looked at it. He’d thought with the advent of computer banking those cheques had become obsolete. ‘Why on earth were you using traveller’s cheques? Why not an ATM card?’ Much simpler. Less chance of being stolen. Unless, of course, you kept the card in your coat pocket, with the pin number kindly attached with Sellotape to the back, as this woman probably would. Just to help a thief out.
She lifted her chin, and he saw that flare of indigo again. ‘I prefer traveller’s cheques.’
Now he was the one to shrug. ‘Fine.’ And he would have turned away, he would have turned away so quickly and easily, if not for the way her smile faltered, her lips trembling, and he saw desolation cloud her eyes to a grey-violet, the long lashes sweeping downwards to hide the sorrow he’d already seen there. He felt a painful twist in the region of his heart, a kind of raw emotion he didn’t like feeling, hadn’t let himself feel in years. Yet somehow with one sorrowful look she hadn’t even wanted him to see, he felt it. And it made him furious.
Ha
And now this Russian … assassin was looking at her with daggers in his ice-blue eyes. Ha
And now this … the last of her money gone. Her passport gone. And her flight back to New York left in five hours.
‘What?’ the man asked brusquely. He’d turned back to her, impatience and irritation evident in every taut line of his well-muscled body. The man radiated lethal, barely leashed power. Yet still he’d turned back, even it seemed as if he’d done so against his will, or at least his better judgment. ‘You know you’ll need to go to your embassy, don’t you?’
‘Yes …’
‘They’ll help you,’ he explained to her, slowly, as if she had trouble understanding her own language. ‘They can issue you a new passport.’
‘Right.’ She swallowed. ‘How long does that usually take, do you know?’
‘A few hours to fill out the paperwork, I should think.’ He arched an eyebrow. ‘Does that inconvenience you?’
‘It does, actually,’ she informed him, managing a wry smile despite the panic plunging icily in her stomach. She was starting to realise how awful this really was. No passport. No money. Missing her flight. In Moscow.
All bad.
‘Perhaps you should have thought of that when you wandered around Red Square,’ the man returned. ‘You might as well have hung a placard around your neck declaring you were a tourist, ripe for the taking.’
‘I am a tourist,’ Ha
The man stared at her, his expression turning from fierce to something close to bewildered. ‘You’re right,’ he said after a moment. ‘There’s no reason for me to be worked up at all.’ Yet he didn’t turn away as she’d half expected him to, just kept staring at her as if she were a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve.
‘In any case,’ Ha
She lifted her chin, staring the man down. Sort of. ‘They need it more than I do, and at least now they can buy food—’
‘You think they’re going to buy food?’
She shook her head. ‘Don’t tell me they must be buying drugs or something awful like that. Even children who live on the street need to eat, and they couldn’t have been more than twelve—’
‘Twelve is plenty old on the street,’ the man informed her. ‘And food is easy enough to score, just steal from a fruit and vegetable stall or wait out in the back of a restaurant. You don’t use money to buy food. Not unless you have to.’
Ha
The man jerked his head in a semblance of a nod. ‘You’ll go to your embassy?’ he asked, sounding almost as if the words—the concern—were forced from him. ‘You know where it is?’
‘Yes.’ She didn’t, but she wasn’t going to give this man any more reasons to think her an idiot. ‘Thank you for helping me out.’
‘Good luck,’ he said after a moment, and, nodding her own farewell, Ha
Now that she was no longer dealing with that man and his forceful presence, the panic lodged icily in the pit of her stomach was becoming heavier. Icier. She swallowed, squared her shoulders—just in case he was watching—and strode towards the other side of the square. She’d look at her map then, and figure out where the American Embassy was.
Two hours later she’d finally reached the window in the consular department of the American Embassy, only to be rather flatly told that she had to report the theft to the Moscow Police Department, fill out a form, and bring it back to the embassy before she reapplied for a passport.
‘Reapply,’ Ha