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folded his arms on his chest, and waited in the shadows, craning his ear.
    “Miss Moore!”
    Vadeem grimaced as the young lady actually looked happy to see the international thug.
    Grazovich sat down. Miss Moore smiled, a pitiful one, but still, the smuggler was on the receiving end, and it seemed as if the world had tilted toward evil.
    Vadeem clenched his jaw as she shook her head, those pretty, deceptive eyes tearing up. She pulled up something from under her shirt, a brass key on a shoelace. Grazovich touched her arm. She looked grateful. The smuggler ordered a Pepsi.
    Vadeem fought a sneer, knowing the man had already consumed half a bottle of vodka.
    Then she laughed, and the sound of it speared Vadeem’s bones. He felt sick and wanted to hit something, hard, when the grin that followed looked genuine. Vadeem considered his options. Could he arrest the team yet, or did he have to wait until they actually committed the crime?
    They’d already amassed enough evidence to satisfy his suspicions.
    The pair stood, and Grazovich picked up her bill. Vadeem followed them like a hungry dog as they strolled back to the hotel, she with an obviously lighter step.
    They said good-bye for a long time, while Vadeem was stuck examining a display of Matroshka dolls in the lobby gift shop. Grazovich left first, taking the elevator.
    Vadeem turned to follow.
    Miss Moore walked into the bookstore, nearly smack into him.
    “Excuse me!”
    Vadeem blinked, suddenly at a loss for words. Those eyes were honey to his reflexes. He turned away, his head down, his adrenaline spiking. “No, excuse. . .me,” he stuttered. He picked up a porcelain Gel vase, examining it. Although he’d traded the militia jacket for his brown leather coat and wore a pair of sunglasses on his head, one lingering look and his surveillance gig would combust on the spot.
    She said nothing and moved past him. The perfume stayed.
    While she examined a scarf, he made a quick exit, scooting out into the lobby and hiding behind his favorite hibiscus. The desk clerk gave him a look. He frowned at her and shook his head. The last thing he needed was an untimely update from his cohort in crime.
    He was back at the ATM machine when Miss Moore exited the shop and headed up the elevator.
    He took the stairs.
    She was collecting her key from the floor monitor when he reached the landing. He backed down a step and flattened himself against the wall. He just wanted to get a layout of where she was, what side of the hotel, what room. He’d find a perch in the grocery store across the street and make sure she was tucked in before he trained his binoculars on Grazovich’s room for the night.
    He was on the landing when he heard a scream. Fifteen strides later, he stood in her doorway, his pulse roaring.
    She was on her knees, holding a green sweatshirt in one hand, and a wool sock in the other. Her body shook.
    He heard feet thumping down the hall behind him. She turned, looked at him, and went white.
    “Calm down. I’m not going to hurt you.”
    She put down the sock and held the sweatshirt to her chest, her eyes wide. Recognition washed over her face. “Get away!”
    What game was she playing? She’d spoken perfect Russian before, had been rather stubborn about it, to boot. “ Nyet . What happened here?” Either she was an extremely messy unpacker or someone had done the honors for her. He averted his eyes from a slip draped over the television set and a pair of pink silky pajamas that had landed on the desk lamp, and instead took a survey of the toiletries bag that had been emptied onto her bed. “Thorough, huh?” He picked up a gooey bottle of shampoo with two fingers, wondering what the thief was looking for inside the bottle.
    She looked at him, half-horror, half-confusion, her knuckles white against her sweatshirt. “What are you doing here?” Her Russian, although stuttered, had returned.
    He crouched before her, a little shocked at her fraying composure. “Did