Page 19 of The Case of the Missing Dancer
As Viktor moved toward me, I backed against one of the massive stone pillars that supported the church's vaulted ceiling. My hand found the small whistle in my coat pocket, but Viktor was too close for me to use it without being caught.
Then I heard it—the softest scrape of a shoe against stone, coming from somewhere behind the altar. Robert and his men were already inside.
"You know," I said loudly, hoping to mask any sounds they might make, "Anya was right to hide the evidence. After what you did to those other Russian exiles, she knew you'd kill her regardless of whether she cooperated."
Volkov's eyes narrowed. "Those men were traitors to the old regime. They deserved their fate."
"They were innocent people trying to build new lives."
"They were in possession of information that could have compromised legitimate business interests. I simply resolved potential conflicts."
Keep him talking, I told myself. Give Robert time to get into position.
"Business interests? You mean your blackmail and murder operation?"
"I mean the recovery of property that rightfully belongs to the Imperial Family and their loyal servants." His voice grew colder. "Property that was stolen during the revolution and smuggled out of Russia by fleeing criminals."
"So you became a criminal yourself to get it back?"
"I became a patriot, Miss Worthington. Something your English sensibilities could never understand."
Viktor was now close enough to grab me, but I noticed his attention kept flicking toward the shadows behind the altar. He could sense something was wrong, even if he couldn't identify the threat.
"Where exactly did you hide Anya?" I asked. "I heard her cry out, but I don't see her."
"She's quite safe, I assure you. Hidden in a place where she can contemplate the wisdom of family loyalty." Volkov tucked the envelope inside his coat. "And now, Miss Worthington, I'm afraid our business relationship must come to an end."
He nodded to Viktor, who raised his revolver.
"Armed police!" Robert's voice rang out from behind the iconostasis. "Drop your weapons!"
The church exploded into chaos. Viktor spun toward the sound, giving me the chance I needed to pull out my whistle and blow the signal for the officers outside. Volkov dove for cover behind the altar as constables poured through every entrance.
But in the confusion, I realized something terrible—if Anya was hidden somewhere in this church, she was now trapped in the middle of a gun battle.
And Volkov, cornered and desperate, would have nothing left to lose.
CHAPTER 10
DEADLY PERFORMANCE
The gun battle in the Russian Orthodox Church lasted only minutes, but the aftermath took hours to sort through. Viktor had been captured alive but wounded, while Volkov's second associate had been killed in the exchange of gunfire. Most importantly, Volkov himself had vanished. Again.
"He knows this church better than we do," Robert said grimly as we stood in the parish hall at dawn, surrounded by evidence markers and the debris of the night's confrontation. "There must be passages or hiding places we haven't found."
But our most devastating discovery was that Anya wasn't there. Despite the cry I'd heard, despite Volkov's claims, we found no trace of her anywhere in the building.
"He was lying," I said, exhaustion and frustration making my voice sharp. "She was never here. That sound I heard—it could have been anything."
"Or she was here and he moved her before the confrontation," Sergeant Mills suggested. "Viktor isn't talking, but we found evidence that someone had been held in the basement recently—rope marks on the pipes, signs of a struggle."
The basement search had revealed a makeshift prison: a small room with a barred window, recently used bedding, and most chillingly, strands of dark hair that matched Anya's color. But whoever had been held there was long gone.
Thursday and Fridaypassed in a blur of frantic investigation. Robert's men searched every known Russian gathering place in London. We interviewed dozens of émigrés, checked shipping manifests, and followed up on every possible lead. The newspapers had picked up the story by Thursday afternoon—"BALLET STAR MISSING AS OPENING NIGHT APPROACHES.” But even the publicity failed to produce useful information.
The pressure was mounting on all sides. The King’s Theatre was facing the prospect of canceling their most important production of the season. Vivienne Marsh had been rehearsing frantically to take over the lead role, but everyone knew it wouldn't be the same without their star.
"We're running out of time," I told Robert on Friday evening as we sat in his office, surrounded by case files and cold cups of tea. "If Volkov has taken her out of London . . .”
