Murder in Moscow Page 6

  “I don’t know the source, but someone at the paper told me that. Since you knew him, I thought you might have been together last night.”

  “Well, I certainly wasn’t,” I said, now regretting I’d been so quick to invite him to join us.

  “Mr. Ward Wenington was with the Defense Intelligence Agency,” Woodstein said matter-of-factly, continuing to write.

  “I thought he was with the State Department,” I said.

  “There’s some debate about that,” the reporter said. He stopped writing and looked up. “I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee.”

  Vaughan sighed and summoned the waiter.

  “You say there’s some debate about where Mr. Wenington worked. Why would that be?” I asked. “Wouldn’t it be common knowledge? Public record?”

  Bob Woodstein hadn’t smiled since arriving at our table, but my question elicited a tiny movement of his lips into what might be considered a smirk. “This is Washington, D.C., Mrs. Fletcher. Things aren’t as clear-cut as they might be where you come from. Where do you come from?”

  “Cabot Cove, Maine.”

  He wrote it down.

  “Mr. Woodstein, may I ask you a few questions?”

  “Sure.”

  “How did you know to find me in this restaurant this morning?”

  “I knew you were part of the trade delegation to Russia. I checked with Commerce, and they told me just about everybody in the group was staying here at the Madison. I went to the desk and asked them to ring your room. When there was no answer, I figured you might be having breakfast. I know what you look like because I’ve read a couple of your books, saw your photo on the cover.”

  “Next question,” I said. “Why are you bothering to interview me? What I’ve told you is exactly what I’ve told the detectives who were on the scene last night.”

  “Just hoping, I suppose, that you could tell me something you didn’t say to them. Murder isn’t unusual here in Washington, but it is when you have a world-famous writer—especially a murder mystery writer—be the one discovering the body.”

  “As I said, I actually didn’t discover the body. It was—”

  “What was the woman’s name who screamed?” Woodstein asked, not looking up from his pad.

  “I have no idea,” I answered. “You can get that from the police.”

  “I suppose I should be a little more honest with you Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “The police aren’t being very cooperative. Not that that’s unique, but in this case there seems to be a real clamp on things. No one will talk about it. Wenington’s connection with the Defense Intelligence Agency—”

  “Or the State Department,” I said.

  “Yes, or the State Department, adds a certain mystery to all of this. What’s really strange is that nobody seems to know what killed him.”

  Vaughan, who’d said nothing as he listened to my conversation with Woodstein, now injected himself. “Does that mean he might have died of natural causes?” he asked.

  A shrug from the reporter. “I suppose so,” he said. “By the way, who are you?”

  He’d put the question bluntly, which visibly annoyed Vaughan. Still, my friend and publisher did not vent his pique. He simply answered, “Vaughan Buckley, of Buckley House in New York. I’m Mrs. Fletcher’s American publisher.”

  Woodstein dutifully noted that in his pad, and again turned to me. “What did you and Mr. Wenington talk about at lunch?”

  “I’m afraid that is none of your business, Mr. Woodstein.” I didn’t want to sound too harsh, but at the same time wanted to get across that I was not about to have my privacy invaded by him, or anyone else.

  He held up his hand. “No offense, Mrs. Fletcher, but it’s my job. You had lunch with someone from the Defense Intelligence Agency—”

  “Or the State Department,” I said.

  “Yes, or the State Department. You had lunch with this person. You’re part of a trade mission on your way to Russia. You have lunch with this man from the Defense Intelligence—or State Department—and then you stumble over his body by the Jefferson Memorial that same night. Please don’t misunderstand. I’m not trying to make anything of this. But you have to admit, especially because you create plots and stories for your novels, that it does seem sort of ... well, sort of mysterious.”

  Vaughan said, “Let’s get back to what you said about the cause of death not being determined. There was nothing obvious? No bullet hole, or knife sticking out of his back?”

  “I don’t have the official report,” Woodstein said. “As I told you, there’s been a lid put on this story. But I have a source over at the ME’s office who told me this morning that there is no visible sign of injury to Wenington. I suppose an autopsy will determine cause of death, but that hasn’t been done yet.”

  “I must admit I feel better knowing he hadn’t been murdered,” I said.

  “I didn’t tell you that he hadn’t been murdered,” Woodstein said.

  “I realize that, Mr. Woodstein,” I said, “but since there was no visible sign of injury, it’s fairly safe to assume that he died naturally. He was a relatively young man.”

  The three of us looked at each other. As we did, I realized that the conclusion I’d reached didn’t have a rational foundation.

  “About your lunch with Mr. Wenington,” Woodstein said.

  “I think this session has lasted long enough,” Vaughan said. “Mrs. Fletcher’s English muffin is now cold. She obviously has nothing else to offer you. I don’t wish to be rude, but we have things to talk about. Privately.”

  Woodstein closed the cover on his notebook and slipped it back into his pocket. “Sure, I understand,” he said. “I really appreciate your inviting me to sit down with you this morning. If I have more questions, where can I reach you today?”

  I started to answer, but Vaughan interrupted. “Our schedule is determined by the Commerce Department. You can check with them.”

  “Okay. Will you be at the news conference this afternoon at the Russian Embassy?”

  I looked to Vaughan, who answered, “That hasn’t been determined. Have a good day, Mr. Woodstein.”

  We watched the young reporter walk from the room. When he was gone, Vaughan waved to the waiter and asked for fresh English muffins.

  “That’s all right,” I said, picking up a cold half and taking a bite.

  “Nonsense,” Vaughan said. After telling the waiter what we wanted, he asked, “Mind a suggestion?”

  “Of course not.”

  “If I were you—and, of course, I am not you—if I were you, Jess, I would avoid the press in this city like the plague. Remember, this is Washington, a lovely city and our nation’s capital, but also the world’s center of intrigue and gossip and grand plots. Obviously, the press wants to make something of your having had lunch with Wenington, turn it into a conspiracy theory. Don’t feed it. We only have today and a portion of this evening to get through before leaving for Moscow. Why don’t you and I and Olga stick close together for the rest of the day? If other members of the press want to talk to you, I’ll run interference, act as your spokesman, your public relations counsel.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” I said. “I invited him to join us because it seemed there was absolutely nothing of interest to tell him. But then when he mentioned that he knew I’d had lunch with Wenington... It wasn’t a planned lunch. I was taking a walk in Lafayette Park. He came up to me, admitted he’d followed me there, and took me for a quick, unplanned luncheon. How would a reporter from the Washington Post know that?”

  Vaughan signed the check, looked up at me, and said, “Just remember what I said, Jessica. This is Washington. This is where intelligence is a major industry. Buy my suggestion that I take care of any press queries?”

  “Absolutely. I won’t stray from your side until we get on that plane tonight for Moscow.”

  “Good.”

  We stood together in the lobby.

  “We have until ten,” he said, “before we
get picked up to go to the briefing at Commerce. What do you intend to do until then?”

  “Hole up in my room, I suppose. I’d take a walk but ...”

  “Just as well you stay incognito. I’ll call you when Olga and I are ready to come downstairs. That way we’ll arrive together.”

  He went off to buy a couple of magazines, and I pushed the button for the elevator. When the door opened, I stepped inside. I was the only person in it. I turned and looked back to the lobby. Seated in the same chair where Ward Wenington had sat two nights earlier was a young man in a suit. He didn’t look like Wenington, but he was cut from the same mold. Although he held up a newspaper, I had a feeling he wasn’t reading it. He was looking over it at me.

  The doors slid shut, and I rode up to my floor. I entered my room and noticed that the telephone message light was flashing. I picked up the receiver and punched in the number to access my messages. There were three, two from members of the press. The third was from a man who said his name was Karl Warner. His message was brief. He said he was calling on behalf of the Commerce Department in regard to the briefing that morning, and would I please return his call. He left a number.

  I started to dial, but stopped midway and hung up. I didn’t know any Karl Warner. If he was from the Commerce Department, I’d undoubtedly meet him at the briefing.

  But the truth was that I was reluctant to call him back because the aura of intrigue that seemed to shroud Washington was beginning to get to me. I made a decision on the spot to follow Vaughan’s advice and talk to no one without him being present. I didn’t like functioning that way. I’ve always been an open person, quick to give people the benefit of the doubt.

  This was different.

  As everyone was quick to point out, this was, after all, Washington, D.C.

  Chapter Seven

  The phone rang a half-dozen times while I waited in my room to rendezvous with Vaughan and Olga. I didn’t pick up; I decided to let the voice-mail screen my calls, and to check them just before leaving the room. Above all, I wanted to avoid speaking with the media.

  Besides the initial three messages—two from reporters, one from the gentleman who said his name was Karl Wamer—the next six were equally split between the press and friends. Vaughan Buckley had called just to see how I was doing and said that since I didn’t answer, he assumed I was doing precisely what I was—using the voice-mail system to avoid unwanted conversations.

  Seth Hazlitt called from Cabot Cove to wish me bon voyage for my flight to Moscow. And Larry Benoit, administrative assistant to Maine Congressman Baldacci, called on behalf of the congressman to offer his services if they were needed at any time during the remainder of my stay in Washington.

  I didn’t return any of them because I had only a few minutes before I was due in the lobby. I’d return Seth’s call later in the day, when I found a few free minutes.

  “What a horrible experience you’ve been through,” Olga said after we’d settled in the back of the limousine for the short trip to the Commerce Department, on Fourteenth Street, between Constitution Avenue and E Street.

  “It was upsetting,” I said, aware that I made it sound as though it was nothing.

  “Is the press on your trail?” Vaughan asked.

  “Yes. I had a number of messages from reporters. I didn’t return any of them.”

  “Good for you,” Vaughan said.

  “What time is our flight tonight?” Olga asked as the limousine pulled up in front of the Department of Commerce.

  “Eleven,” her husband replied. “From Dulles.”

  “I’m looking forward to getting on that plane,” I said. “Somehow, Washington doesn’t have the same appeal it had for me yesterday.”

  “I wonder why,” Vaughan said, laughing and patting my arm.

  The Americans in the trade mission had gathered together in a room used by the agency’s spokes-people for news conferences. As we stood chatting and waiting for the briefing to begin, Sam Roberts, our official host, came up to where I was talking with Marge Fargo, the only female publishing executive in the group. “Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “Can I steal you away for a moment?”

  “Of course.”

  I followed him to a smaller room. The only other person in it was a young woman dressed stylishly in a blue suit with gold buttons, and white blouse. Roberts closed the door and said to her, “Is Karl waiting?”

  “Yes, sir, he is.”

  “Give me five minutes with Mrs. Fletcher, and then ask him to come in.”

  The moment she was gone, Roberts said, “Sorry about what you had to endure last night, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Just bad timing, I suppose. I hope it doesn’t interfere with our plans.”

  “No reason it should.”

  “Mr. Wenington was part of this group. I’ve seen him at just about every event.”

  “Yes. A very nice guy. Tragic to lose one’s life at such a young age.”

  “I understand the cause of death hasn’t been determined.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” said Roberts. “I’m told you and Ward had lunch yesterday.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. “Word certainly does get around this town, doesn’t it?”

  “Washington, D.C., has the most efficient grapevine in the world, I’m afraid. I suppose Ward mentioned to you that you’d be debriefed upon returning from Moscow.”

  “He was more subtle than that,” I said. “He asked me if I would agree to be debriefed.”

  “And what was your reaction?”

  “I don’t think I had one, although I didn’t debate it with him. I understand it’s a fairly routine thing, to talk to American citizens after they return from a place like Russia to see whether they can provide information that would be useful.”

  “Exactly. Because of your stature and fame, it’s likely you’ll be sought out by Russian officials. That’s why we think you could be an especially good source of information.”

  “I must admit I have trouble with the concept,” I said. “I thought the purpose of this trade mission was to foster better relations between the publishing industries in both countries, and to help the Russians adjust to their new form of government.”

  “Oh, but that’s exactly the purpose of the mission,” said Roberts. “It’s just that other ... how shall I say it? ... other auxiliary uses can be made of it.”

  “Like reporting on private conversations? To me, that represents a distasteful breach of confidence.”

  Roberts’s laugh was gentle, and meant to be reassuring. “You don’t have to tell us everything you discuss with the Russians while you’re in Moscow, Mrs. Fletcher. Just what you’re comfortable with.”

  The door opened, and the young woman stepped into the room, followed by a tall, slightly stooped man with heavy black eyebrows and hair that matched in color. Because of his posture, his nondescript gray suit hung awkwardly from him. He wore large, cumbersome molded black shoes that needed a shine.

  The young woman left. Sam Roberts said, “Mrs. Fletcher, this is Karl Warner.”

  The big man extended his hand; my hand was lost in his.

  “You left a message at my hotel,” I said, somewhat defensive at not having returned it. People who don’t return phone calls have always ranked high on my list of annoyances. “Yes, I did,” Warner said. His voice, low and gruff, matched his appearance.

  “Sorry I didn’t return your call. I was running late and—”

  “No need to apologize, Mrs. Fletcher. I just thought I would touch base with you before this morning’s briefing.”

  I hesitated, then asked, “Why did you call me?”

  “As I said, just to touch base, to introduce myself before we met in person.”

  I looked to Sam Roberts, whose furrowed brow and narrowed eyes said he was sizing up the exchange. Realizing I was seeking a comment from him, he said, “Karl worked closely with Ward Wenington.”

  I quickly asked, “At the State Department? Or
is it the Defense Intelligence Agency?”

  Roberts and Warner exchanged a quick glance.

  “I’ll be going with you to Moscow,” Warner said, ignoring my question. Evidently, that’s the way things are done in Washington, I decided. Tell people only what you wish to tell them, regardless of what you’ve been asked.

  “Are you involved with the Commerce Department’s division that deals with publishing and other creative areas?” I asked.

  “We work closely with Commerce on such trade missions,” Warner answered.

  Another evasion.

  The question that naturally came to my mind was why I’d been singled out from the rest of the Americans to have this one-on-one chat. As far as I knew, the others were all still in the briefing room. I was about to ask when Warner said, “You’ll have to excuse me. I have to be at another meeting.”

  Another meeting? I didn’t realize I’d been summoned to a meeting.

  “A pleasure, Mrs. Fletcher,” Warner said, again taking my hand in his large, hairy mitt. “I’m sure we’ll have an opportunity to have many good conversations over the next week.”

  “Yes, I’m sure we will.”

  Warner left. Sam Roberts said to me, “Karl will pick up where Ward Wenington left off, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Meaning what? That he’ll be ‘debriefing’ me after we return?”

  “Something like that. In a sense, hell be assigned to you for the duration of the trip. There are others in similar capacities who’ll be staying close to your American colleagues.”

  “I get the feeling, Mr. Roberts, that people like Ward Wenington, and now this Mr. Warner, play a role quite apart from people on your staff.”

  “Well, I suppose I’d better get this briefing over with. Thanks for giving me a few minutes of your time. If you need anything, just holler.”

  With that, he opened the door and stood aside for me to rejoin the others. No doubt about it. I was becoming increasingly annoyed at the refusal of people to answer simple, direct questions. I suppose it has to do with my Maine heritage. In Cabot Cove questions are answered, usually with honesty and directness. But this wasn’t Cabot Cove. This was Washington, D.C., the center of power for the most powerful and influential nation in the world, the United States of America, of which I was a proud citizen.