fought hard to keep them hidden. But once again she had a frightening sense of urgency, that time was running out. Now, she thought. I’ve got to do something now.
HE HAD SPENT five weeks living in a flat, featureless wasteland of ice, taking pictures of nomads and reindeer and a way of life that was probably doomed.
He had slept in his clothes on pine boughs, bark and reindeer skins in a tent made of felt and hides. He’d kept from freezing at night with a portable stove that burned peat and pine branches. He stank of smoke and he hadn’t bathed or shaved for over a month.
Now he was in Moscow, with what felt like a permanent chill in his bones. He stood in the lobby of one of the city’s finest hotels, looking like a cross between the abominable snowman, an escaped prisoner and a bag of rags.
Other patrons looked at him as if he exquisitely pained their senses of sight and smell. From across the lobby, the pretty desk clerk shot him furtive glances of positive alarm. Josh Morris didn’t care.
He’d picked the Hotel Kampinski because after five weeks in Siberia, he wanted every luxury in the world, and the Kampinski had them all. It lavished its guests with saunas and masseuses, a gourmet restaurant and fine rooms. It had phones and computers, fax machines and color television.
He wanted to get in his room, unlock the private bar and open a bottle of real American whiskey. Then he’d climb into the marble bathtub and stay there all night, soaking and sipping and feeling his blood start to circulate.
Tomorrow he’d put on the Turkish robe the hotel provided, send his clothes out with orders to burn them and have new ones brought from the American store on Arbat Street.
And then, as the grand finale, he would call his delightful daughter and talk to her for an hour, maybe more. To hell with the long-distance rates.
Josh wanted to phone her tonight—he hadn’t even stopped over in the village of Kazym to clean up and rest. He’d promised Nealie he’d get through tonight if it was possible, but it was ten o’clock in Missouri now—past her bedtime.
After he talked to her tomorrow, he’d go shopping and stock up on Russian souvenirs for her. The nesting Matryoshka dolls, a set of Mishka bears, a small—but real— Fabergé pendant. Nothing but the best for his kid.
Briana wouldn’t let Nealie wear the pendant yet—she’d say the girl was too young and make her put it away. But Nealie would have it and plenty else, besides.
He thought of buying Briana something—Baltic amber or Siberian cashmere—but she didn’t like him to give her gifts. Still, she would look beautiful in white cashmere with her dark, dark hair and eyes….
A pang of bitter yearning struck him. He’d lost Briana. But he still had Nealie, and Nealie he would spoil to his heart’s content.
He reached the registration desk, set down his camera bags and gave the clerk his name and affiliation. “Josh I. Morris. Smithsonian magazine, Washington, D.C., U.S.A.”
“Ooh, Mr. Morris,” said the desk clerk in her lovely accent. “Oh, yes. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you.”
He probably wouldn’t recognize himself, he thought.
“I made reservations for two nights,” he said. He usually booked himself into the more downscale Mezhudunarodnaya, but he needed serious de-Siberiazation.
“Your magazine extend it to four nights,” she told him. “They send message that you are to stay and rest a few days.”
He shrugged. It was a bonus, like battle pay. Besides, they probably expected him to pick up some file shots of Moscow while he was here.
She frowned slightly. “You have many messages—many, many.”
He frowned. From the Smithsonian? Did they have another assignment for him already? Was that why he was getting the royal treatment? Good Lord, he thought, were they plotting to send him somewhere even worse? What was worse in winter? The South Pole?
Visions of emperor penguins danced unpleasantly in his head. He didn’t want another cold-weather assignment. He wanted to get back to the States and see Nealie.
He shoved the faxed messages unread into his camera case, took his key and headed for the bank of elevators. His room was on the fourth floor, overlooking the Raushskaya Embankment and the Moscow River. Beyond the river were the lights of the Kremlin.
He took the faxes from the case and laid them on the gilt and glass table next to the phone. The parka, his hat, gloves and boots he put into the laundry bag he found in the closet.
He stripped down to his skivvies and began running his bath. His underwear would soon join his other clothes in the trash. He unlatched the bar, opened a bottle of whiskey and filled a crystal tumbler.
Then he carried his messages and his glass into the bathroom. While he ran the bath, he yanked off his underwear and kicked it under the sink. At last he settled naked and belly deep in the hot water.
He read the first fax. It was from his agent.
“Morris, Adventure magazine says the Pitcairn Island assignment may be shaping up. Be prepared to move fast if it does. Remember you’re contractually obligated. You’ve owed them an article since hell was a pup. Best, Carson.”
Josh snorted, crumpled the fax paper and flung it into the gilt wastebasket beside the sink. Adventure had been trying to put that freakish assignment together for years. It was never going to happen. He wished he’d never signed the damned contract. Adventure’s editors were crazy, and their assignments bizarre.
He settled more luxuriantly into the water and read the next message. It was also from his agent.
“Morris, Know you’re coming off a tough assignment, but would you consider shooting a piece on Greater Abaco for Islands? Would not take more than a few days. Writer is Stacy Leverett. Would start in two weeks—Feb. 15. Short notice, but Gullickson caught bad bug in Dominica. Best, Carson.”
For Josh, this was a no-brainer. Abaco with Stacy Leverett? Go to a Caribbean island with a statuesque blonde who looked great in cargo shorts and had a taste for short-term relationships? Just what the doctor ordered for a poor frostbitten man.
The third fax was yet another from the agent. Carson curtly reminded Josh that he was still on call for another Adventure assignment, Burma. His permission from the Ministry of Tourism might come through within four weeks, and he needed to be ready. But, cautioned the message, remember that if the Pitcairn assignment jelled, it was the magazine’s top priority.
Josh gritted his teeth. Burma would be a rough assignment and dangerous—typical for Adventure. At the moment, he would rather think of the Bahamas and getting Stacy Leverett out of her cargo shorts.
He’d go to Missouri for a week and see his daughter, then the Bahamas, then, if need be, Burma. At least Burma would cancel out Pitcairn.
He sipped his whiskey and looked at the next fax. It, too, was from his agent. Good Lord, didn’t anyone else in the world write to him?
“Morris, Your ex-wife called from Missouri at ten o’clock this morning, New York time. She says please get in touch immediately. It’s crucial. Best, Carson.”
Briana?
