Zaragova sized her up quickly. “Your accent sounds Spanish. And you look like a Spaniard.”
“You are correct, Miss Zaragova.” Adriana bowed low. “My name is Adriana Villa.”
During her quick research of the woman, she’d learned Sonya Zaragova had never married. She’d been courted by several men who believed her to be a wealthy heiress, but when they found out she wasn’t rich, they’d conveniently made their way out of the relationship. Some of the other stories claimed that she’d been a little too intrusive into their past, or sometimes secret, lives. Her actions, one way or the other, always drove men away.
“I do not usually receive many visitors out here,” the older woman said. “I wonder…what is a Spaniard like yourself doing out here? Perhaps you are on some silly quest?”
Adriana nodded. “I am on a mission of sorts, yes. Though not by choice.”
“Oh?” Zaragova seemed genuinely curious at the last remark. “I see no one here with a gun to your head.”
“The gun isn’t pointed at me.”
The old woman’s eyes widened. Adriana knew she didn’t have to say anything else. She’d already decided the Russian was savvy, quick with her wits, and extremely intelligent. She could translate the meaning immediately, maybe not all the details, but enough to know the general idea.
“I see.” She looked around the forest for a second as if she’d heard something unusual, but the birds continued singing and the wind was blowing harder. When her gaze returned to Adriana, it was as sympathetic as the hardened woman could make it. “Come in. Looks like a storm is coming.”
The home’s interior was a smorgasbord of clutter and junk. Cardboard boxes towered over the worn hardwood floor in nearly every room. Knickknacks, trinkets, souvenirs, and items from all over the world poured out of every nook and cranny. Heavy curtains hung over the windows, keeping out most of the natural light. A few lamps burned here and there, casting a dingy yellow glow into the rooms. Adriana’s nose was overcome by a toxic combination of dust and mold. She wondered how anyone could live in such conditions, yet the woman seemed to be in somewhat decent health, considering.
From the looks of it, Zaragova had been hoarding for decades. Adriana wanted to ask what was in some of the boxes, but her host beat her to it.
“I do not get many visitors here. The few that do come wonder why I keep all these things. I tell them it is none of their business what I keep and what I do not keep.” She waved a finger around at all the clutter then took another sip of the clear liquid. She swallowed and raised the glass. “Would you like some vodka? It is good stuff. Better than what they sell outside of Russia.”
“No, thank you. I appreciate the offer, but I have to drive and need to keep my wits about me.”
“Ah, yes. The gun pointed at someone you care about. Who is it? Lover? Friend?”
“My father.” Adriana cut her off.
The older woman nodded slowly with eyebrows raised. “Yes. I could see how that would trouble you.” She spun around dramatically, her robe whirling a little as she did so. “Someone is holding your father hostage, and they sent you here to see if I could tell you where the missing Bellini is.” She spoke to Adriana as she set the drink down on an end table. When she turned back around, Zaragova straightened her robe and stared intensely at her guest.
Adriana fought off the onslaught of emotions just as she’d done her whole life whenever they tried to force their way onto her exterior. “Yes. From the sound of it, I’m not the first person to come asking for that information.”
Zaragova’s eyes narrowed, and she nodded approvingly. She changed the subject momentarily, still sizing up the younger woman. “If I had to guess, I would say you are from Madrid, yes? Or perhaps around that area?”
The question threw Adriana off guard, but she nodded. “Si. I grew up there. My father was a businessman.”
“And your mother?”
Adriana gnashed her teeth. What was this woman’s deal? Why the strange line of questioning? She reminded herself that she was the guest and acquiesced. “My mother died several years ago.”
“I see.” No apology. No sympathy. Just a curt and understanding comment. It was the way many older Russians interacted, so Adriana didn’t take it personally. “Your father is all you have left.”
“I also have some friends I can count on.”
“No need to get defensive. It was not an insult. The point remains, you are desperate to find the Bellini to save your father’s life. That is a far better reason than anyone else has ever given me.”
Adriana rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. The dust was getting to her, but she stayed on task. “How many people have been to see you about it?”
Zaragova laughed. “Since my father died in the 1980s? More than I can count. Hundreds. Maybe more. Each one of them looking to solve the mystery of the missing painting. Treasure hunters.” She spat the word out. “All they care about is riches and taking things that never belonged to them. They are no better than vagrants begging for scraps.”
She twisted around and grabbed a pack of cigarettes from the end table. She tapped the package, releasing one of the white paper cylinders into her fingertips, and then offered one to Adriana.
The guest shook her head. “Thank you, no.”
“I figured you did not smoke.” Zaragova placed the pack back next to her vodka and fished a lighter out of her robe. She flicked it to life and touched the flame to the end, drawing in a few puffs until the tip glowed a fiery orange.
“I don’t mean to be blunt, Miss Zaragova, but if I don’t find that painting within the next four and a half days, the men who took my father are going to kill him.”
The host took a long, dramatic drag and then let out a spew of smoke through her puckered lips. She shrugged, putting her hands out wide. “The painting is not here. Like I said, many have come here seeking it.”
“Did your father have it at one point?”
Zaragova stuck a finger at Adriana. “Yes. He most definitely did.”
“You’re sure?”
The older woman raised an eyebrow. “Of course, I am sure.” She faked being insulted.
“Did he still have it when you were a child?” Adriana crossed her arms. It was time for her to go on the offensive. Whoever Zaragova was, she clearly enjoyed playing games from a position of power, and that simply didn’t suit Adriana’s style.
“I do not believe so. But I have seen pictures of him with it.”
It was Adriana’s turn to raise an eyebrow.
Zaragova waited a moment before continuing. She took another puff before saying, “I have still got the pictures if you would like to take a look.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Of course not. Unless you are lying to me.” She reached into one of the robe’s pockets and withdrew a small pistol, aiming it at the Spaniard’s chest. It looked old but was smaller than most weapons Adriana had seen from that era. Still, with the right placement, a shot from nearly any gun would be fatal. “Are you lying to me?”
Adriana shook her head evenly, but her face remained statuesque, never giving way to panic. “No. I am not lying. I am who I said I am. I’m only here to try to get some answers so I can find my father. I’m no treasure hunter, but I am a thief.”
The answer stunned the Russian woman. Her wrinkled face curled into a frown. “A thief?”
“Yes,” Adriana nodded. “Normally, I steal from those who have stolen and return the property to the rightful owners. I’m not here to steal anything from you. Like I said, I’m just here for information.”
Zaragova pondered the response for ten seconds, still analyzing whether or not the younger woman was telling the truth. Finally, she said, “So it is information you want? Then I will tell you something I have never told anyone else.”