Chapter One

The Cruel Countess

My boots crunched through the snow frozen on the ground, now mostly a white mantle of ice left over from a freak snowstorm in northeast Siberia during November 2007. Despite the bitter cold, the low precipitation that time of year usually produced no more than flurries. The wind whipped through my clothes, numbing my senses with even more frigid air. My hands and feet turned into popsicles before the big freeze glazed my face and shaved head, penetrating my arms and legs, branching into my torso.

Maybe this time I’d reach the next village, or the big city of Khabarovsk itself, and find sanctuary, warmth, and safety—if the local Russian police overlooked my undeniably Western features. They’d peg me as an American right away. The best I could hope for was that they’d slam me in jail.

But knowing my luck, they’d drag me back to my cruel Mistress, Natasha Vronsky, Countess of Russleder. Never mind that Russleder, pronounced ‘ROOS-lay-der,’ doesn’t exist on any map. Local authorities eagerly turned a blind eye to Countess Vronsky’s sadistic but harmless (to them!) despotism whenever she settled the issue using Russia’s one reliable currency: bribery.

My best hope lay with the locals helping me escape. If I could stay out of the clutches of the authorities, I believed the ordinary citizens would sympathize with me. Russians like Americans, even if they dislike our leaders—mirroring our sentiments toward Russians. Perhaps some Slavic saint, curious to learn about my country, would harbor me from the authorities. If I could trudge through another mile or two of frozen snow, freedom would await me over the next hill.

Even in my misery the sun, intermittently beaming over the horizon to my left, painting the fleecy clouds in beautiful pastels, dazzled me. The morning hour, the humidity, and the tilt of the earth’s axis in November dusted the eastern horizon with soft red, pink, lavender, and mauve. I longed for a sheet of Bristol board and artist’s crayons to record the burst of hues. I could dash off a striking sketch or an elegant painting for Nicole, who lovingly collected every picture I painted during her lifetime. What she did with them, I had no earthly idea.

O, Nicole! I wouldn’t be in this predicament if she were alive. Someone stole her heart, but I knew I’d win her back. Nicole embodied the classic Big Blonde, whom I called Ms. Carrington when she acted bossy, although she was only five years my senior. When she acted wild and frisky, I called her Nikki. But she became a casualty of our open marriage.

My mind turned to a perilous escape option. Rumors persisted that a mysterious figure who called himself Yury Strelnikov gave sanctuary to Countess Vronsky’s ex-slaves—the escapees and those she ruthlessly dumped. Some of the Countess’s current Slaves swore that Strelnikov planned to overthrow the Countess. But anyone who joined his band would become an outlaw. Strelnikov reputedly killed for hire, dealt drugs, and committed grand theft for fun and profit. But no one had solid information. He may have wounded a Russian police officer at the Khabarovsk train station when I arrived, or a copycat may have shot the Russian. Everyone embroidered this psycho’s legend.

No, I couldn’t cast my lot with Strelnikov.

So, I resumed my search for a kindly Siberian to shelter me. Thank goodness it was November; winter weather would’ve frozen me to death already. But with all possible landmarks covered in white, how close was I to escaping?

The distance became a moot point.

Over my shoulder I spotted a troika barreling toward me with amazing speed. Countes