the corridor, and both groups were armed.
The immigration officers formed up around them and marched them off down the hall to curious stares from their former fellow passengers. They were led to a small windowless room that contained a table and four chairs, two on either side. Annja had seen her share of interrogation rooms. She glanced around, trying to spot the security cameras, to no avail. She knew they were there, somewhere, and had no doubt that the room was also bugged. She hoped Gianni was smart enough to figure it out for himself, because there was no way of warning him without giving away that they had something to hide.
Just going to have to play it by ear and hope for the best.
Their guide asked them to take a seat, said something about getting them water and closed the door behind her on the way out.
Annja didn’t even try the knob; she knew it would be locked.
Not that a locked door would have stopped her. She could have called her sword to her at any moment and made short work of both the lock and the door. But that wouldn’t get them to the bottom of what was happening and would only serve to cement their guilt in the minds of their captors.
They could always use the sword to free themselves if it proved necessary later.
They sat there, staring at the four walls, for what felt like hours. Twice Gianni tried to engage her in conversation, to get her to discuss their situation and why she thought they might be in here, but she shushed him both times.
She didn’t want to give them any more ammunition than they already had. Whatever that might be.
Ten minutes passed, then fifteen, before the door opened and the biggest man Annja had ever seen stepped inside the room. She and Gianni immediately got to their feet. He was so tall that he had to duck to get through the doorway and his wide shoulders filled his jacket near to bursting. His sheer presence was intimidating, never mind his scowling expression. Annja found herself subconsciously shifting her feet into a wider defensive stance, preparing for a confrontation. She needn’t have worried, though, for the man’s bulldog face split into an equally wide grin when he caught sight of her.
“Rasputin’s ghost!” he exclaimed. “It is you.”
The man’s reaction was so unexpected that Annja could only stand there and stare.
The newcomer crossed the room, one enormous paw extended, and took Annja’s hand in his own and shook.
“Welcome. Welcome to Moscow. I am Yuri Basilovich and, I assure you, I am your biggest fan in all of Russia.”
“Fan?” Annja asked, still trying to make sense of what was happening.
“Yes. Yes, of course! I have seen all of your episodes at least twice, sometimes more. If there is anything you need, anything at all, you let me know, da?”
Annja blinked and finally understood that she was standing in a Russian interrogation room talking to this giant of a man because he was a fan of her show. All the tension and anxiety slipped from her system in a rush, leaving her light-headed. When she found her voice, she said, “I’m very pleased to meet you, Yuri, but I must admit to being confused. My colleague and I have been held here as if we were criminals. Would it have not been easier if you’d simply said hello to us when we were in the immigration line?”
The big man’s expression went from enthusiasm to abject horror. He turned to the immigration officer behind him, one of the men who had escorted them here in the first place, and fired off a rapid stream of Russian. Annja didn’t speak the language, but judging from his tone, Yuri wasn’t happy. He must not have appreciated the answer he received, either, for it elicited another blast from him.
After dressing down his subordinate, Yuri turned back to face Annja.
“I must beg your forgiveness, Miss Creed,” he said, the embarrassment plain on his face. “I had not wanted to miss a chance to meet you in the unlikely event that you came through our facility, so I had placed an alert in the system keyed to your name. When my subordinates saw that, they wrongly assumed you had done something illegal and detained you. Unfortunately, I was not on the premises at the time.”
Annja was flattered but also annoyed. To think that a man would go to so much trouble on the slim chance that she might one day come through his airport was one thing, but being kept locked in a small room for more than an hour was something else entirely. It was not an auspicious beginning to their trip.
We’ve wasted enough time, she thought. We need to get out of here and back on schedule.
Annja smiled at the big Russian. “I understand completely, Yuri. I’m always happy to meet a fan of Chasing History’s Monsters and so I say we chalk this up to an unfortunate miscommunication and leave it at that. What do you say?”
Yuri’s head bobbed up and down. “I couldn’t agree more, Miss Creed. And if I may, perhaps you’ll let me provide an escort to your hotel to make up for the time that you have lost?”
“That’s not necessary, Yuri… .”
“No, I insist,” he replied, and wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Under Yuri’s direction they were hustled through the airport and out through a special VIP door away from the general traffic. A black Mercedes limousine pulled into view just as they came out of the building.
“Where are you staying?” Yuri asked.
“The Marriott Grand Hotel on Tverskaya Street.”
“Of course.”
Yuri placed their roller bags in the trunk, opened the door of the Mercedes, waiting for Gianni and Annja to climb into the backseat before saying a few words to the driver. Turning back to Annja, he handed her his card. “The driver will take you directly to your hotel, Miss Creed, and the fare is taken care of, courtesy of the Federal Migration Service. If there is anything else I can do to make your stay more comfortable, you need only call.”
Annja thanked him and, as the driver pulled away from the curb, slipped Yuri’s card into her pocket.
You never knew when having a friend in the Russian immigration service could come in handy.
Chapter 7
The hotel was located on legendary Tverskaya Street in the heart of Moscow, within walking distance of Red Square. The driver took them there without delay and with a minimum of fuss. Upon checking in, they discovered that Sir Charles had reserved two adjoining executive-level rooms for them on the ninth floor, away from the hotel traffic.
The rooms were well appointed and spacious. From Annja’s window she could see the colorful spires of Saint Basil’s Cathedral and the long wall of the Kremlin itself. They wouldn’t have any trouble getting there in the morning. Annja quickly stowed the one bag she’d brought with her and then knocked on the door connecting her room to Gianni’s.
“It’s open,” he called.
Annja stepped inside to find him staring out the window at the Kremlin a few blocks away.
“I never thought I’d get this far,” he said wistfully, without taking his eyes off what was perhaps Russia’s most iconic building. Annja knew just how he felt. She’d been there herself, more times than she could count, when all the hard work had come together and she stood before the object of her search, wondering just how it was all going to turn out. She knew the mix of eagerness and doubt he had to be feeling because she was experiencing it, too. Tomorrow was going to be an important day for both of them.
“Shall we give Charles a call and let him know we’ve arrived?” she asked.
Gianni handed over the satellite phone Charles had given them. Annja made sure the speakerphone was activated and then placed the call.
“Any difficulties?” Charles asked, after they had exchanged pleasantries.
“No, no trouble here,” Annja told him, deciding that the