Kholodov's Last Mistress. Кейт Хьюит

luck,’ he said after a moment, and, nodding her own farewell, Hannah turned and started walking across Red Square.

      Now that she was no longer dealing with that man and his forceful presence, the panic lodged icily in the pit of her stomach was becoming heavier. Icier. She swallowed, squared her shoulders—just in case he was watching—and strode towards the other side of the square. She’d look at her map then, and figure out where the American Embassy was.

      Two hours later she’d finally reached the window in the consular department of the American Embassy, only to be rather flatly told that she had to report the theft to the Moscow Police Department, fill out a form, and bring it back to the embassy before she reapplied for a passport.

      ‘Reapply,’ Hannah repeated, not liking the word. She’d been hoping—praying—that they could just give her some sort of stamped form, like a get-out-of-jail-free card that would let her on the aeroplane. Get her home.

      The woman behind the window looked at her without a flicker of sympathy or interest. To be fair, Hannah told herself, she probably heard this kind of sob story all the time. And it wasn’t her job to help Hannah, just give the information. Still, Hannah had to swallow past the lump in her throat as she explained, ‘But my flight leaves tonight.’

      ‘Reschedule,’ the woman said. ‘It will take days to get a passport, and after that you have to reapply for your entry visa.’

      An entry visa? ‘But I’m leaving.’

      She shrugged. ‘Your Russian contact will have to vouch for you.’ She passed a paper under the window and Hannah stared at it, saw the hundred-dollar fee for a passport application.

      ‘My contact is just a hotel,’ Hannah said, desperation now edging her voice. ‘I don’t think—’

      ‘Talk to the police,’ the woman advised. ‘You must do that first.’ Already she was looking over Hannah’s shoulder, indicating that the next person should come forward.

      ‘But—’ Hannah leaned forward, flushing as she spoke in a whisper ‘—I don’t have any money.’

      Still no sympathy. ‘Use the ATM. Or a credit card.’

      Of course. That was the normal, expected thing to do. Except she didn’t have that much money in the bank to withdraw, and she’d cut up her credit cards after seeing the bills her parents had racked up before their deaths. Maybe not the wisest decision, but now that she’d finally paid the bills off she’d been determined never to be in debt again. The woman must have seen something of this in her face for she said, a touch impatiently, ‘Call someone, then. In America. They can wire you money.’

      ‘Right.’ It was finally sinking in just what kind of trouble she was in. ‘Thank you for your time,’ she said, and fortunately her voice didn’t wobble.

      ‘Any time,’ the woman said in a bored voice, and the next person started forward.

      Hannah walked slowly outside; there was a chill to the spring air now, and the sky had darkened to a steely grey.

      She was really trying hard not to panic. She normally wasn’t a panicker, tried to see the best in everything and everyone.

      Only now it was getting dark and she had no money, no passport, no options. She could call a friend, as the woman had advised, but Hannah resisted that option. She’d have to reverse the charges of the telephone call, and then explain her awful predicament, and then whomever she called—and no names sprang readily to mind—would have to drive fifty miles to Albany to wire the money, and that money would have to be hundreds of dollars at the very least. Passport fees, hotel stays, food, perhaps even another plane ticket. It could be thousands of dollars.

      She didn’t have friends with that kind of money, and she didn’t have that kind of money either. She’d used the last of her own savings to fund this trip, knowing it was foolish, impulsive, everything she never was. Except maybe she was foolish, and stupid even, as that man in Red Square had so obviously thought, because if she had any sense at all she wouldn’t be standing on the steps of the American Embassy, people and traffic streaming indifferently, impatiently all around her, with no place to go, no idea what she could do. Nothing.

      She swallowed the panic that had started in her stomach and was now steadily working its way up her throat. She wasn’t completely lost. She had a little money in the bank, enough to give her some time—

       And then?

      ‘There you are.’

      Hannah blinked, focused in the oncoming dusk, and then stared in surprise as the man from Red Square strode towards her, his leather coat billowing blackly out behind him, a scowl on his face. He looked like an avenging angel, his blue eyes blazing determination and maybe a little irritation as well. Still, she could not stem the unreasonable tide of relief and gratitude that washed over her at the sight of him. A familiar face.

      ‘What are you doing here?’

      ‘I wanted to make sure you’d sorted out your papers.’

      ‘That was very kind of you,’ she said, cautiously, because three months of travel had taught her to be, if not cynical, then at least sensible. ‘And unnecessary.’

      ‘I know.’ The corner of his mouth quirked very slightly, so slightly that it couldn’t be called a smile in the least. Yet still the sight of it made Hannah feel safer, and stronger, even as she felt a shiver of awareness. He was, she acknowledged, a very attractive man. ‘Did you get your passport sorted?’ he asked and she shook her head.

      ‘No. I got a form.’ She waved the paper half-heartedly. ‘Apparently I’m to go to the police department and file a report there.’

      ‘They’re all disorganised.’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘Or corrupt. Usually both. It could take hours.’

      ‘Wonderful.’ Her plane left in three hours. Clearly she wasn’t going to be on it.

      ‘Do you have any money at all?’ the man asked abruptly and Hannah shrugged, not wanting to admit just how much trouble she was in. ‘A little,’ she said. ‘In the bank.’ But not enough to pay the passport fee, and a hotel, and meals and other expenses besides. Not nearly enough.

      ‘A credit card?’

      He must have been speaking to the woman in the embassy. Or maybe he just knew everything. ‘Um … no.’

      He shook his head with that rather contemptuous incredulity she was coming to know so well. ‘You embark on international travel, to Russia of all places, without even a credit card, and clearly no savings?’

      ‘Put like that, it does sound pretty stupid, doesn’t it?’ Hannah agreed. She wasn’t about to explain how she hadn’t wanted this trip to send her into debt, or why she was wary of credit cards. ‘It was just,’ she explained quietly, ‘this trip was kind of a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.’

      He looked sceptical. Of course. ‘Really.’

      ‘Yes, really. You have that disdain thing down pat, by the way. I don’t think I’ve been lectured to so much since I was in elementary school.’

      He let out a little bark of laughter that surprised her, it was so unexpected. She smiled, glad that he seemed to possess a sense of humour after all. ‘I am simply surprised,’ he said, his expression turning stern once more. ‘Have you been travelling long?’

      ‘Three months.’

      ‘And you have not encountered problems before this?’

      ‘Not as big as this. I was charged double at a restaurant in Italy, and a train conductor was really rude—’

      ‘That is all?’

      ‘I guess I’m lucky. Or at least I was.’

      ‘I suppose,’ the man said, ‘I shouldn’t even ask if you have