Murder in Moscow Read online

  The door opened again. Peter Lomonosov, accompanied by Captain Kazakov, my visitor to the hotel suite last night, entered. “Dobree vecher, Mrs. Fletcher,” Kazakov said.

  “Good evening to you,” I said. “Is it a coincidence that you just happen to be here?”

  “Yes. Coincidence. But now that we are together once again, I offer my apologies for what you have witnessed tonight.”

  “Who is this?” Olga asked.

  I introduced Kazakov to them.

  “Ah, your publishing colleagues. It is my pleasure. Unfortunately, what you saw tonight is not unusual these days in Moscow. “Before, it was more peaceful, da?” He directed his comment at the other officer.

  “What’s being done about it?” Vaughan asked.

  Kazakov shrugged and displayed a toothy smile. “We try our best but ... well, it is difficult under the current government. Too much room for corruption. But this is not of interest to you.”

  “I’d say it is,” Vaughan said. “We were subjected to a first-hand glimpse of it tonight.”

  “For which I can only extend my sympathy,” said Kazakov.

  “Let’s go,” Vaughan said.

  “A car is waiting outside,” Lomonosov said. “I will personally escort you.”

  A gleaming red unmarked police car stood just outside the front door, its motor running, a young officer at rigid attention by the open rear door.

  Kazakov clicked his heels. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Buckley. I hope the rest of your stay in Moscow proves to be more pleasant that it has been. Spakoyni nochi.”

  “Good night,” we said in English.

  Back at the hotel, Lomonosov offered to buy us a drink. We declined.

  “Well, I wish you then a good evening,” he said. “A word of advice?”

  “Yes?”

  “It is not safe for you to walk alone in Moscow these days. Not safe at all, for all visitors. Please do not do it again.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that,” Olga said.

  The impact of the evening now hit us as we entered the lobby and decided what to do next.

  “This trade mission has turned into a nightmare,” Olga said.

  “Feel up to that talk we were going to have?” I asked Vaughan.

  “Sure. Where?”

  “Sure you want me along?” Olga asked.

  “Absolutely,” I said. “Mr. Mulligan at the embassy asked that Vaughan and I not talk about it with others. But since he chose to include Vaughan, I’m sure it wouldn’t be a surprise that he discussed it with his wife.”

  “Actually, I’d just as soon not know anything,” Olga said.

  “Too late for that,” Vaughan said. “Besides, Jess hasn’t made her decision about whether to go through with it. Maybe among the three of us, we can come to a rational conclusion.”

  The Savoy Hotel has two bars. Although I was reluctant to discuss anything of substance in a public place where we might be electronically overheard, I’d come to the conclusion that there probably wasn’t a safe place anywhere in Moscow. Discussing it while walking in the street was out of the question, considering what we’d just been through.

  “Let’s go in that bar,” Vaughan suggested, pointing.

  “The bar?” I said.

  “I can use a drink,” Vaughan said. “Besides, all the ambient noise will make it difficult for anyone to hear us.”

  The bar was busy, and we had to wait a few minutes for a small table to become available. Once we were seated, a pretty young waitress asked, in perfect English, what we wished to drink.

  “Vodka,” said Vaughan. “Straight.”

  “Vodka,” Olga said. “With tonic.”

  They looked at me.

  “Vodka,” I said. “With tomato juice on the side.”

  Vaughan laughed. “I never thought I’d see the day you’d order a vodka, straight.”

  “I didn’t either. But considering we’re in Russia, and considering what we’ve been through tonight, it seems an appropriate choice.”

  Forty-five minutes later, we left the bar and waited for the elevator. I hadn’t touched my vodka, preferring to sip the tomato juice, which gave Vaughan a second drink without having to order it.

  “I still say you shouldn’t do it,” Olga said as the doors slid open and we stepped inside.

  “You’re probably right,” I said.

  “I agree,” Vaughan said. The doors closed and we rode to our respective floors.

  “Sleep tight,” I said as they stepped out into their hallway.

  “You, too. See you at breakfast.”

  The hall was empty as I approached the door to my suite. I inserted my key, opened it, and stepped inside. The tiny red light on my phone was flashing, indicating I had a message. I picked up the receiver and punched in the number connecting me with the hotel’s message center.

  “You had a call, Mrs. Fletcher, from Ms. Alexandra Kozhina. She called at nine.”

  “Did she leave a number?”

  “No. She said she would call again.”

  “Thank you.”

  As I prepared for bed, I suffered a nagging feeling that something wasn’t right in the suite. I couldn’t identify the source of my unease—just something different.

  I went to the piano. The keyboard cover was open. So was the lid covering the inner mechanism. I was certain they’d been closed when I left the room that evening.

  I looked elsewhere for signs that someone had been there. Whoever it was hadn’t been especially careful, or concerned about covering his, or her, tracks.

  I sat by the window and tried to imagine what whoever had been there was looking for. Nothing seemed to have been missing. It took a few minutes before my thoughts went to the note Dimitri Rubley had given me in Washington to pass on to Alexandra Kozhina.

  I opened the handbag I’d had with me all evening, returned to the chair, and withdrew the note.

  Is this what they were after?

  I fingered the envelope, turning it over and over in my hands. It was still securely sealed.

  Should I open it?

  I hate having to make decisions like that.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I was at breakfast in the hotel dining room with Marge Fargo when the Savoy’s concierge sought me out and handed me a telephone message slip: “Ms. Kozhina called. She will call your room again in a half hour.”

  “A problem?” Marge asked.

  “Oh, no,” I said. “But I do have to get back to my room for a call. Excuse me.”

  “You haven’t eaten your toast.”

  “I know. But it’s an important call. See you at the meeting at ten.”

  The moment I arrived in my room I called Vaughan Buckley. Olga answered.

  “I’m in my room waiting for Ms. Kozhina to call,” I said.

  “You’ve already spoken with her?”

  “No. She left a message that she’d be calling back in a half hour.”

  “Here’s Vaughan.”

  I told him what I’d told Olga.

  “I should be there,” he said.

  “I was hoping you would.”

  “Olga just got out of bed. She’ll join up with us later.”

  Vaughan arrived five minutes later. I’d ordered coffee and toast from room service, enough for both of us.

  “Going through with it?” he asked.

  “Yes. I read the note Dimitri Rublev gave me to give to Ms. Kozhina.”

  His raised eyebrows said precisely what he was thinking.

  “I felt I had to, Vaughan, before deciding what to do. It wasn’t easy, believe me. But I hate making decisions in the dark, without knowing all the facts.”

  “Of course. I wasn’t being critical. Just surprised, that’s all. What did the note say?”

  “Read it yourself. I didn’t even bother trying to reseal it.”

  I handed it to him. He put on half-glasses. A puzzled expression crossed his face as he read the short note. He removed his glasses and
handed the slip of paper back to me.

  I smiled. “Nothing more than a love note,” I said.

  “So it seems. Mr. Rublev writes nicely. Very poetic.”

  “A little mawkish for my taste,” I said. “But yes, well written. I have another reaction, Vaughan.”

  “Which is?”

  “That those lovely words could contain a code of some sort.”

  “A code? Not likely.”

  “Why?”

  “Rublev isn’t a ... a spy. He’s a writer.”

  “Can’t he be both?”

  “I suppose he could.”

  “We know that Ms. Kozhina is more than a writer.”

  “We really don’t, Jess. All we know is what Mulligan and Karl Warner told us at the embassy.”

  This time, it was my turn to adopt a skeptical expression.

  Vaughan held up a hand. “Okay,” he said, “maybe they aren’t being truthful. But I think we don’t have any choice but to believe what they say about her.”

  “And if we do believe them, then there’s every possibility that Rublev, who’s obviously quite close to her, might also be involved in what Mulligan and Warner claim she is.”

  “Still, a code? Let me read it again.”

  Room service arrived while Vaughan carefully studied the note. I poured coffee for us and waited for Vaughan to finish. He gave me the note; I, too, gave it a second read.

  “Well?” I asked.

  “A lover’s note, Jess. Sorry, but I don’t read anything else into it.”

  “You’re probably right. But there’s a look on your face that says you might be thinking what Mulligan thought, that I’ve been reading too many cold war spy stories. Too active an imagination.”

  “I wasn’t thinking that at all.”

  “Good. Because that’s not what’s behind my fast-developing paranoia since this trip began. There’s got to be a link between the sudden deaths of Ward Wenington and Vlady Staritova. In both cases it’s been said that they didn’t die of natural causes. It’s also no coincidence that I was chosen to carry a note from Rublev to Alexandra Kozhina. When I returned here last night, I discovered that someone had searched my suite.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that earlier?”

  “I just thought of it.”

  “I mean, why didn’t you call me last night the minute you realized it? You could have been in danger.”

  “Whoever had been there was long gone by the time I arrived. I think the person was looking for that note.”

  “Makes sense. Nothing missing?”

  “No. I had the note with me last night. It’s always been with me.”

  “Good. Jess, maybe we should—”

  The ringing. phone jarred us.

  “It’s her,” I said.

  He nodded.

  “Use the phone in the bedroom.”

  “All right.”

  “As soon as I pick up, do the same.”

  “Right.”

  Vaughan stood in the door to the bedroom, the phone in his hand. I picked up the receiver. So did he.

  “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “Yes, Ms. Kozhina. They told me you’d be calling again. Glad we finally connected.”

  I glanced at Vaughan, who indicated he was on the line.

  “I am sorry to have been so ... how shall I say? ... so elusive, yes? ... to be difficult to reach.”

  “That’s quite all right,” I said. “I’m glad we finally have this chance to talk. You mentioned you have this mystery writers’ group.”

  “Da. Yes.”

  “And you’d like me to speak to your group.”

  “Yes. Again, yes.”

  “Well, I hadn’t known about that until you mentioned it, but that shouldn’t be a problem. I spoke with an official with our trade mission. He says it will be fine for me to meet with you.”

  “That is good. Very good news.”

  “I’m not sure what our schedule is tomorrow—we’ll be in Moscow only for another two days. When were you thinking of having me?”

  “Tonight? Yes? Once a week we meet. Tonight is our meeting.”

  I looked to Vaughan. He shrugged. “I believe tonight will be all right, Ms. Kozhina, but I’ll have to confirm it. I have your address but not your phone number. I could call you after I clear it and—”

  “My phone does not work, Mrs. Fletcher. The system. Something about a central station. I am sorry. I call from a friend’s flat.”

  “May I call you back there?”

  “Nyet. Perhaps you would be good enough to leave a written message for me.”

  “All right. Where shall I leave it?”

  “At the hotel desk. I will come by at noon. Yes?”

  “I should know by then. I’ll hear from you about the time and where I’m to go?”

  “Yes. I will leave that information at the desk when I find out whether you will come.”

  “That sounds fine, Ms. Kozhina.”

  “Please, call me Alexandra.”

  “And I’m Jessica. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other later. Thank you for calling. Good-bye.”

  Vaughan hung up in the bedroom and joined me in the living room.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “She sounds... well, harmless enough. Hard to believe what Mulligan and Warner say about her.”

  “I suppose we’d better call Mr. Mulligan. Or is it Warner?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I suppose—”

  The phone rang. I picked up. “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Fletcher. Karl Warner.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Warner. I was just about to call you.”

  “Were you? Then I’ve saved you the trouble. Had breakfast yet?”

  I looked at the plate of uneaten toast. “No,” I said.

  “Be my guest?”

  “I—I’m with Mr. Buckley.”

  “He’s invited, too, of course. Say, fifteen minutes. Downstairs? In the restaurant?”

  “I’ll have to ask him.”

  “Mrs. Buckley, too, if she wishes to join us.”

  I held my hand over the mouthpiece and asked Vaughan.

  “Sure,” he said. “I’ll fetch Olga.”

  “We’ll meet you in the restaurant, Mr. Warner. Any special reason for this invitation?”

  He laughed. “Just thought we should go over some things before your meeting tonight with Ms. Kozhina. See you in fifteen.”

  He hung up.

  “Why does he want to have breakfast?” Vaughan asked.

  “To talk things over before I meet tonight with Ms. Kozhina.”

  “To talk things over before—How the hell does he know about it? You just hung up on her.”

  I smiled. “Remember when we were in Washington and you explained all the strange goings-on by saying, ‘This is Washington?”’

  “Yes.”

  “Well, this is Moscow. Enough said?”

  “The phone.”

  “The room.”

  “Everything? Everywhere?”

  “I certainly hope not.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Warner was already seated when we arrived at the restaurant. He sprang to his feet and held out chairs for Olga and me.

  Once we’d placed our orders, I said, “Mr. Warner, I would really appreciate it if we could be totally honest with one another.”

  “I wasn’t aware we hadn’t been, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  I didn’t allow him to get away with that. “You know I’ve made tentative plans to meet with Ms. Kozhina tonight. You also know that I’m to leave a note for her at the desk, and that she’ll leave a note for me with instructions on where and when we’re to meet. It’s obvious that every word I utter in my suite is heard by people, evidently including you. Now, having said that, let’s discuss why you really want me to meet with Alexandra Kozhina, and the result you hope will come from that meeting.”

  Warner listened impassively. When I finished, he said, “Enjoy
your breakfast. Then we’ll go to some place I assure you is secure.”

  Before leaving the hotel for our ten o’clock meeting, I left a note at the front desk for Alexandra Kozhina advising her that I was free that evening to address her writers’ group. I also mentioned that my American publisher, Vaughan Buckley, would accompany me.

  Following the meeting, we attended a luncheon hosted by a relatively new newspaper, Nezavisimaya Gazeta, founded, we were told, by Yeltsin supporters, but becoming more disillusioned with him and the government with each passing day. At least that’s what Pyotr Belopolsky, our Russian host, had said.

  A certain sadness about Russia became increasingly obvious the longer we were there. The country had shucked its oppressive Communist yoke, yet was having so much trouble adjusting to suddenly becoming a democracy and free market. There was constant talk of millions of citizens not being paid for months, primarily because the new government hadn’t instituted an effective, corruption-free tax collection system, or a legal structure through which wrongs could be righted. And always organized crime lurked behind every business deal, every bank, every government agency. I thought of Ivan, our driver the previous day, who said he had to fork over a large percentage of his income to mobsters, or else his car, and undoubtedly himself, was in physical jeopardy. I found myself saying a silent prayer that the people of this vast country would find a way to prosper in peace, not only for their sake, but for the rest of the world as well.

  After lunch Vaughan, Olga, and I swung by the Savoy to check whether Ms. Kozhina had picked up my note and left one for me. She had. Her message said: “I am pleased you will speak to us tonight. The meeting is at eight o’clock. A car and driver will pick you and Mr. Buckley up at quarter before eight at front of hotel. Thank you. A. Kozhina.”

  “I still say there’s something wrong with all of this,” Olga said after reading the note.

  “Maybe there is,” her husband said. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

  “And you’re adamant about my not going with you,” she said.

  “That’s right.”

  “But you didn’t hesitate ringing me in on everything leading up to it.”

  “Because I didn’t think it would amount to anything. Just a fascinating bit of intrigue for us to share,” Vaughan said. “But now that Jess is going through with it, I insist you stay here at the hotel.” His laugh was a little forced. “It will all probably end up a big nothing. All Jess has to do is make an offer to this mysterious Kozhina lady, get her reaction, and report it back to Warner. Hardly the sort of clandestine mission likely to get anyone hurt.”