“Couldn’t fool you for a second,” Faith said. “But then, it does get a little soft at room temperature. Dry ice kept it hard as a rock, though.”
Zara picked up a plate and scratched off some paint. “I take it this is the C-4?”
“Yes, ma’am. Looks like we have enough to take out a dacha or two, depending on size and construction.”
“Wooden, single-story and not very big. Maybe two hundred, two-twenty-five square meters. I can draw a rough floor plan.”
“So where’re the caps and time fuse?”
“We might have a small problem. I only had that one small strip of time fuse and one blasting cap. I wasn’t exactly expecting to use the stuff. I did the Play-Doh routine to allow me to bargain for safe passage until I turned over the real thing.” Faith handed Summer the Leatherman.
“That’s going to be a problem, but I’m not sure we want to tackle it right now. I’m getting antsy we’re staying here too long,” Summer said as he shoved the multipurpose tool into his pocket.
“You’re right.” Zara got up from the table. “By now they should be questioning Faith’s old friends and acquaintances, and Doctor Gorkovo’s name might be mentioned. We need to remove every obvious sign that we were ever here. If nothing looks unusual, they won’t stay. Don’t worry about fingerprints, because it’s not a crime scene and they’re not interested in proving you were here. All they want to know is where you’re going. Doctor Gorkovo, I suggest you leave town for a few days to avoid any unpleasantness.”
Faith gathered the dishes from the table and repacked the cooler. “I’m either starting to get used to this formaldehyde or the smell’s wearing off.”
“You reek of vet school,” Svetlana said.
“That could be a problem,” Zara said.
“I’ll throw some cabbage on to boil to mask the odor.” Svetlana reached into the cabinet for a pot. “And I’ll fetch you some clothes to change into before you leave.”
“Sveta, you don’t happen to have any fast-acting tranquilizers and one of those dart guns you use on big animals here?” Faith said.
“Faith, this ain’t Wild Kingdom.”
“Humor me. I have a thing against killing, and I want to be convinced it’s the only option.”
“It is,” Zara said. “Tranquilizers take too long to work-plus, we’re dealing with a group of people.”
“So where are we going, comrade? Your place?” Summer said.
“Not advisable. I work for the KGB, so I have a flat in something like your base housing. But I do know one place no one would ever think to look for Faith. We’ll regroup there and plan our assault.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
MOSCOW
6:41 P.M.
Zara’s Zil sedan reminded Faith of a 1950s American gas-guzzler; if it had a pair of tail fins, it would have been an El Dorado-its ancestors certainly were. The spacious backseat gave Faith and Summer room to stay out of sight. Their bodies pressed tightly against each other and a tattered blanket concealed them from the casual viewer. Faith’s face was so close to Summer’s cheek that she couldn’t tell if it was the wool blanket or the stubble from his day-old beard that was scratching her. She comforted herself that it was him and not the filthy blanket. He put his arm around her, and for a few seconds she was back in the Ozarks, secure in her high school sweetheart’s strong arms, dreaming of the day she would escape the vicissitudes of her mother’s fanaticism. She cuddled closer against him and wished she could change history.
“Kind of like old times, isn’t it?” Summer said. “The only difference is that it’s not your mama we’re worried about catching us back here together, but the frickin’ KGB.”
“Frankly, I’m not sure if that’s better or worse.”
“Oh, come on, Faith. I could always handle Mama Whitney and you claim you can handle the KGB, so it’s your turn.”
“I grossly overestimated myself. We’re fucked.”
Zara turned off the engine. “Stay down until I tell you to get up. I’m parking in a courtyard. I’m going inside first.”
“You know, there’s a chance she’s turning us over to the KGB right now,” Summer whispered into Faith’s ear.
“You’re just trying to make me feel good by whispering sweet nothings, aren’t you?”
“If she has, follow my lead. We won’t resist if I don’t see an opening. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“And what about you?”
In a few minutes, the back door clicked open. Cool air rushed inside the stuffy car. Someone flipped back the blanket.
“Oh, my God,” Faith said.
“Lordy, lordy, look at what the cat’s dragged in.”
“Mama Whitney,” Summer said, springing away from Faith like a teenager caught in the act.
Faith pulled the blanket back over her head. “This isn’t going to work.”
“Come on, child. Don’t get testy with me now. I don’t like it, either, but we’ve got to get you hid.”
“Let’s go.” Summer threw the blanket off them and pushed Faith up onto the car seat. “Now.”
Faith slid across the vinyl and crawled from the car feet-first. Zara reached under Faith’s arm and helped her to stand. For a moment, their eyes met. When Summer put his hand on her back to nudge her forward, Faith saw jealousy flash in Zara’s eyes.
“Leave the keys in the front seat. Sasha will hide the car in the carport,” Mama Whitney said.
“Grab the Coleman in the trunk,” Summer said.
They rushed across the muddy courtyard into the orphanage. Cases of infant formula and diapers turned the hallway into a maze. Mama Whitney waddled around the stacks, leaning into each turn as if skiing a slalom course. A young woman in a white smock and cap stepped into the hallway. Mama Whitney shooed her away with a flick of the wrist. The woman jumped backwards and shut the door. Mama Whitney dug into the front pocket of her housedress and pulled out a string of skeleton keys. She opened an aging wooden door.
The spicy smell of mold rose from the basement. Mama Whitney pawed the wall in search of the light switch and then hurried down the steps.
Faith hesitated. She flashed back to the many spring storms when she had followed her mother down the stairs of the root cellar in search of shelter from tornadoes. As a small child, she had felt safe there as her mother comforted her with Bible stories. She grew older and the tales shifted from Noah’s Ark and Jonah and the Whale to threats of fire and brimstone. By her teenage years, Faith chose to stay in the house alone and dare the wrath of the tornado. Since lightning bolts never struck the sinner, nor did the twisters ever blow down the house, maybe the tempest of the coup wouldn’t find her, either, if she again didn’t follow her mother.
Summer nudged her from behind and whispered, “It’s not going to collapse. Go on.”
She gritted her teeth and descended into her mother’s basement. A lone bare lightbulb dangled on a frayed cord. Broken cribs, piles of donated clothes and stacks of wooden crates filled with baby bottles littered the area. A heap of unfinished projects nearly concealed a corner workbench. Mama Whitney plowed a path through the junk like Moses parting the Red Sea. The Israelites followed her into the wilderness.
Mama Whitney approached the workbench and reached for the floor, her arm flailing in the air. She stood back up, panting. “Summer, help me out, son. I can’t bend over as well as I used to. You’ll have to feel around. There’s a panel in the floor that lifts up. When you get it up, reach in underneath on the bottom right-hand side and you’ll find a round light switch. Flip it on. I think you children will understand that I can’t go down there with you, but you’ll be safe enough.”
Faith turned sideways and inhaled to give him a few added inches of clearance as he slipped past her. Summer ran his fingertips along the floor until he found the outline of the panel. He picked it up, set it aside and stood. “Good to see you again, Mama Whitney.” He leaned over and pecked her on the cheek. “I sure do appreciate your hospitality.”