Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy by Judith Gould Page B
Authors: Judith Gould
Tags: Action, hollywood, New York, israel, Marriage, Terrorism, Actresses, Palestine, movie star, Actress, arab, hollywood bombshell
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prison, a self-imposed prison for the rich. It not only locked undesirables out, it locked the Danilovs in. He wondered if they ever gave that any thought.
He glanced up and down the street, his eyes wary. Few pedestrians were about, as it was not a night for idle strollers. The weather was working in his favour.
Satisfied that he hadn't been followed, he started walking, remembering what his revolutionary 'brother' in Kiev had shared with him: the secret St. Petersburg address was engraved in his memory forever.
'They're our kind of people, Schmarya,' Sasha Sergeyevich Kraminsky had whispered to him. 'Working with them, we can achieve wonders. Give them this dynamite . . .'
Well, he hadn't brought it with him. It was still hidden safely among the props and costumes. Before he handed it over, he had to see if Sasha's friends were as motivated as he. If they deserved the explosives, or if they would waste them. Soon he would find out. But first, he had to find his way to their house. Find out if they were still together as a group. Find out. . . Butterflies stirred in his stomach. He would have to be careful. They might have been discovered and arrested already. The house could be under surveillance.
At last he came to a streetcar stop. He waited for nearly half an hour for the electric trolley, but it never came. An old woman, head hunched down against the relentless blasts of stinging sleet, finally passed, mumbling about it snowing too hard for the trolleys to run.
He asked her for directions, and she pulled back away from the smells emanating from his filthy clothes. She pointed in the opposite direction and shuffled off.
Thanking her, Schmarya made his way on foot. It was when he had nearly reached the street he was looking for that he felt the hairs at the nape of his neck stirring. For an instant he froze. This instinctive reaction had served him well in the past, and he had learned to rely on it.
So he was being shadowed after all.
Or . . . was he simply imagining it?
Sneaking a glance over his shoulder, he saw that he was not alone on the sidewalk. Half a block behind, two men, one burly and one slightly built, were pale shadows in the sleet coming towards him. As he turned, they seemed to . . . slow down? Engage in conversation? Or was he imagining that too? They did seem to be hurrying in his footsteps. But their strides . . .
Although they seemed to be walking casually, their strides were long. Very long. If he didn't hurry, they would gain on him.
He walked on, his footsteps faster, and turned left suddenly at an intersection. He found himself on a smaller, more deserted street. He chanced a backward glance again and saw that the two men had turned at the same intersection and were gaining on him.
His immediate reaction was to run, but he knew he must conserve his energies for later. Besides, he didn't want them to know he was onto them. His heart racing, he broke into a graceful ballet of a speedwalk. Behind him, he could hear the staccato echo of footsteps speeding up. So they were pursuing him, and no longer disguised the fact. He smiled grimly, his lips twisting savagely under his scarf. All pretense was aban doned. They were the wolves, and he their quarry.
Fear and instinct were a potent mixture: fists clenched, he began racing as fast as he could now, his eyes glued straight ahead on a well-lit intersection which seemed dismayingly distant. Still the footsteps sounded ever closer behind him. Gaining rapidly on him. Panic-stricken, he wondered if he could take both men on should the need arise. He heard a sudden yelp of surprise followed by a dull thud and a bellowed curse. Obviously one of the men had slipped and fallen on the ice. Schmarya's heart leapt and he felt a new surge of determination.
The well-lit street grew in size as he summoned up all his reserves and hurtled forward with a final burst of speed. Another twenty metres, he estimated ... just fifteen more . . . ten . . . nine . .
He glanced up and down the street, his eyes wary. Few pedestrians were about, as it was not a night for idle strollers. The weather was working in his favour.
Satisfied that he hadn't been followed, he started walking, remembering what his revolutionary 'brother' in Kiev had shared with him: the secret St. Petersburg address was engraved in his memory forever.
'They're our kind of people, Schmarya,' Sasha Sergeyevich Kraminsky had whispered to him. 'Working with them, we can achieve wonders. Give them this dynamite . . .'
Well, he hadn't brought it with him. It was still hidden safely among the props and costumes. Before he handed it over, he had to see if Sasha's friends were as motivated as he. If they deserved the explosives, or if they would waste them. Soon he would find out. But first, he had to find his way to their house. Find out if they were still together as a group. Find out. . . Butterflies stirred in his stomach. He would have to be careful. They might have been discovered and arrested already. The house could be under surveillance.
At last he came to a streetcar stop. He waited for nearly half an hour for the electric trolley, but it never came. An old woman, head hunched down against the relentless blasts of stinging sleet, finally passed, mumbling about it snowing too hard for the trolleys to run.
He asked her for directions, and she pulled back away from the smells emanating from his filthy clothes. She pointed in the opposite direction and shuffled off.
Thanking her, Schmarya made his way on foot. It was when he had nearly reached the street he was looking for that he felt the hairs at the nape of his neck stirring. For an instant he froze. This instinctive reaction had served him well in the past, and he had learned to rely on it.
So he was being shadowed after all.
Or . . . was he simply imagining it?
Sneaking a glance over his shoulder, he saw that he was not alone on the sidewalk. Half a block behind, two men, one burly and one slightly built, were pale shadows in the sleet coming towards him. As he turned, they seemed to . . . slow down? Engage in conversation? Or was he imagining that too? They did seem to be hurrying in his footsteps. But their strides . . .
Although they seemed to be walking casually, their strides were long. Very long. If he didn't hurry, they would gain on him.
He walked on, his footsteps faster, and turned left suddenly at an intersection. He found himself on a smaller, more deserted street. He chanced a backward glance again and saw that the two men had turned at the same intersection and were gaining on him.
His immediate reaction was to run, but he knew he must conserve his energies for later. Besides, he didn't want them to know he was onto them. His heart racing, he broke into a graceful ballet of a speedwalk. Behind him, he could hear the staccato echo of footsteps speeding up. So they were pursuing him, and no longer disguised the fact. He smiled grimly, his lips twisting savagely under his scarf. All pretense was aban doned. They were the wolves, and he their quarry.
Fear and instinct were a potent mixture: fists clenched, he began racing as fast as he could now, his eyes glued straight ahead on a well-lit intersection which seemed dismayingly distant. Still the footsteps sounded ever closer behind him. Gaining rapidly on him. Panic-stricken, he wondered if he could take both men on should the need arise. He heard a sudden yelp of surprise followed by a dull thud and a bellowed curse. Obviously one of the men had slipped and fallen on the ice. Schmarya's heart leapt and he felt a new surge of determination.
The well-lit street grew in size as he summoned up all his reserves and hurtled forward with a final burst of speed. Another twenty metres, he estimated ... just fifteen more . . . ten . . . nine . .
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