Murder in Moscow Read online

  Better get used to it, I silently reminded myself as we took seats.

  Sam Roberts stepped to a podium with a microphone.

  Vaughan Buckley leaned over to me and said, “What was that all about?”

  “I have no idea,” I whispered back. “He said he was sorry for what I experienced last night.”

  Our hushed conversation ended as Roberts began his briefing, which consisted primarily of comments on Russian etiquette, the sort of meetings and social events we would be attending once we got to Moscow, and a warning about not going off on our own there. He ended with, “I’m sure you’re all aware of the death of a government official here in Washington last night. Many of you met Ward Wenington at various functions. As tragic as his death is, it’s at least comforting to know that he died of natural causes.”

  I sat up straight. Roberts had indicated to me in the other room that he knew nothing of how Wenington died.

  “You probably know by reading the papers that we have a significant crime problem here in the District of Columbia. But it pales in comparison to the problems the Russians are having with crime in their major cities. My point is that we’re asking you to stay together, even when you have free time. We’ve worked closely with the Russians to make sure that any sightseeing and shopping excursions will be done as a group. Other than that, I again thank you for lending your valuable expertise and time to this very important trade mission. You’re providing a significant service to your country.”

  He started to move away from the podium, stopped, returned, and said, “Oh, one other thing. The cold war may be over, but our two countries are still in a very competitive posture. Unfortunately, the old Soviet spying apparatus is still in place, and used in virtually every circumstance. The point is, your hotel rooms, conference facilities, and even the restaurants you’ll enjoy will probably be bugged. Keep that in mind whenever you decide to say something to a colleague you’d just as soon not have the Russians know.”

  I looked at Vaughan. “He makes it sound as though only the Russians are still spying. But he wants us to—”

  I was interrupted by an announcement that we were to leave the room. As we stepped out onto the street, the young Washington Post reporter, Bob Woodstein, stood near where our limousines lined up. Two Washington MPD squad cars had now joined the entourage, one at the rear of the limo line, the other at the front. Eight uniformed officers were spread out along the sidewalk. Woodstein tried to approach me, but an officer kept him from doing so. I looked in the other direction to where a mobile television transmission truck was parked, a long telescoping antenna protruding from the roof, a video camera trained on the scene as we exited the building.

  Across the street stood Karl Warner. He was with two other men in suits.

  Amazing, I thought. The day before it was Ward Wenington. Now it was someone named Karl Warner. Interchangeable suits. But with the same mission?

  What was that mission?

  That was uppermost in my mind as we climbed into the limos and headed for the bridge that would take us across the river into Rosslyn, Virginia, for lunch with top executives of the newspaper USA Today.

  I started to comment to Vaughan again about my reaction to what Sam Roberts had said about Russian spying, and that our hotel rooms and restaurants might be bugged. But I stopped myself and looked about the limousine’s passenger compartment. Was there a hidden microphone in it? Was a secret video camera recording everything we said and did?

  “Upsetting, what Mr. Roberts had to say about being careful what we say when in Russia,” Olga said.

  “Traditions die hard,” Vaughan said.

  “Thank God we live here,” Olga said. She leaned forward and looked at me. “Know what I mean, Jess?”

  I nodded. But I was really thinking that the old adage, “Silence is Golden,” should be our rule—no matter where we were.

  Chapter Eight

  Lunch with executives of USA Today was pleasant, although I was asked by a top editor to comment on the death of Ward Wenington because of my having been there. Vaughan answered for me. “Mrs. Fletcher said everything there is to say to the police.”

  I managed to add, “Naturally, although I didn’t know him, I extend my sympathy to his family.”

  “But it came over the wire just before you arrived that you’d had lunch with him yesterday in the English Grill at the Hay-Adams.”

  “I meant to say I didn’t know him well.”

  “The purpose of the lunch was—?”

  “Nice meeting you,” Vaughan told the editor, placing his hand on my elbow and moving me to another group of people standing near a portable bar, including my Russian publisher, Vladislav Staritova.

  “Ah, my dear Jessica,” he said, extending his arms to embrace me. I kept my distance.

  “Life imitates art, huh?” he said. “You are supposed to write about finding bodies, not trip over them yourself.”

  “Jess would just as soon not talk about it, Vlady,” Vaughan said.

  “I understand. Better to forget it, huh? You need some vodka, Jessica. Vodka helps to forget.”

  “Thank you, no, Vlady,” I said.

  “I insist.”

  He handed me a glass filled with vodka and held up his replenished glass in a toast. “To you, Jessica Fletcher, and a hope there are no bodies for you to find in Moscow.” He laughed heartily at what he’d said, and downed the contents of his glass. I discreetly placed my glass on the end of the bar and said I needed to find the ladies’ room.

  “Enjoying lunch, Mrs. Fletcher?” Karl Warner asked as I passed him.

  “Very much so.”

  “Need anything, let me know.”

  “Thank you. I will.”

  Following lunch, we were given a one-hour VIP tour of the Air and Space Museum before heading to the famed Four Seasons Hotel on the edge of Georgetown for yet another social gathering, this hosted by the nonprofit group whose mission was to foster American-Russian relations. By the time we were ready to leave, Vlady Staritova, along with other Russians in the delegation, were in a raucous, expansive mood, thanks to the vodka that had been flowing freely all day. I was beginning to worry what the long flight to Moscow would be like.

  “They’ll probably sleep all the way,” Vaughan said when I expressed this to him.

  I hoped he was right.

  We were on our own for dinner; the limousines would pick us up at the hotel at nine for the trip to Dulles Airport and our Delta Airlines flight to Moscow. Vaughan made reservations for six at the bustling Old Ebbitt Grill, a venerable Washington restaurant that’s always been a favorite of his. Service was swift, the simple food excellent.

  Appetites sated, and after what seemed an interminable drive, we found ourselves buckling seat belts in a Delta wide-body aircraft and roaring into the black night sky—destination, Moscow.

  Within minutes, Washington was but a vague memory. The only thing on my mind was the anticipation of visiting a place I’d never been before. After so many years of reading about the Soviet Union and its secretive, brutal society, to be able to see it in-person was exhilarating. Forgotten was finding Ward Wenington’s body at the Jefferson Memorial, men in suits watching our every move, the round of parties and dinners, and Vladislav Staritova’s drunken, often humorous behavior.

  I sat next to the only other unaccompanied person on the trip, a lovely older gentleman, Marshall Tracy, who published travel guides. He was a widower, he’d told me, and possessed the sort of charm and manners we seem to have lost in today’s society. “Well, we’re off,” he said after the captain announced we’d reached cruising altitude and that he expected a smooth and uneventful flight.

  “Yes, we are,” I said. “Have you ever been to Russia?”

  “Many times. An intriguing country. It’s going through very hard times, trying to adjust to democracy. But I think it will succeed—eventually.”

  I suddenly remembered I’d never returned Seth Hazlitt’s call, and mentioned that
to Tracy.

  “You can call from the plane,” he said.

  I sneezed.

  “Tissue?” he asked.

  “I have some, I said,” opening my carry-on bag and extracting my purse, which I rummaged through until coming up with a small pack of Kleenex. As I removed it, another item came with it, falling on my lap. It was the small pink envelope and slip of paper given to me by the Russian writer, Dimitri Rublev, at the National Gallery dinner. I’d forgotten about it. I showed the paper to my seatmate. “Know where this address is in Moscow?” I asked.

  He adjusted half-glasses and read it. “Kitay Gorod. Very near the Kremlin.”

  “I’m supposed to deliver this envelope to someone at this address.”

  “Ah. A friend?”

  “No. It was given me by a Russian writer at the National Gallery dinner. Mr. Rublev.”

  “I didn’t meet him.”

  I laughed. “I think it’s a lady friend of his.”

  “And you are the courier of romance.”

  “I didn’t think about it in those terms, Mr. Tracy. “What a nice thought”

  I replaced the envelope and address in my purse, reclined my seat back, and closed my eyes.

  Courier of romance.

  Sometimes life can be so good.

  Chapter Nine

  Moscow

  “I can’t believe this,” I said to the person in front of me.

  “Maybe it was better under communism,” she said.

  We’d arrived at Sheremetyevo II International Airport on time. But now, after standing in line for almost an hour to reach Passport Control, we’d gotten on another line to have our luggage inspected by Russian Customs. When the Russian contingent arrived in Washington, they’d been whisked through the process by officials from the Commerce Department. Evidently, our Russian hosts either hadn’t thought that far ahead, or had run into an unbending bureaucracy.

  “I am so sorry for this delay,” Vlady Staritova said as we stepped through doors to the street where dozens of men shouted “Taksi! Taksi!”

  “This way,” one of a half-dozen men who’d met the plane said, leading us to a fleet of gleaming black Mercedes limousines. Dusk was approaching as the cars roared away from the curb and sped us in the direction of Moscow. My limo was shared by Vaughan and Olga Buckley and Mr. and Mrs. Staritova. I couldn’t see myself, but judging from the fatigue on their faces, I could only imagine what I looked like.

  We eventually reached our hotel, the Savoy, on a street called Rozhdestvenka. When I learned we’d be staying at the Savoy, I immediately wondered whether it was a sister hotel to London’s famed Savoy, one of my favorites. It wasn’t. The literature said it had been built in 1912 to commemorate the 300th anniversary of the Romanov dynasty, and was known as the Hotel Berlin for a period of time until the demise of the Soviet Union. It’s now a joint venture of a Finnish-Russian consortium, completely renovated and competing for Moscow’s growing number of visitors, mostly businesspeople.

  We tumbled out of the limousines and followed our hosts inside to a lobby of lavish ceiling paintings, glittering gilded chandeliers, and redwood paneling polished to a burnished glow. As at the airport, checking in took some time. But we were eventually assigned uniformed bellhops who led us to our respective rooms. Before splitting up, we were informed that our best bet for dinner was to order room service, and that breakfast was at seven, to be served in a private conference room.

  “Seven?” It was a chorus.

  “Da!” one of the Russians said. “Seven! There is much to be accomplished.”

  The hallways were poorly lighted, giving the long walk from the elevator a sense of gloom. But the young man who escorted me was friendly, and spoke excellent English. When he opened the door to my room, light poured out, creating a golden pattern of welcome on the hall carpeting.

  “This is mine?” I said, stepping into the foyer of an immense, lavishly furnished and decorated suite. In the center of the expansive living room was a grand piano. I went to it and touched the raised top.

  “Purchased especially for Luciano Pavarotti when he performed at the Bolshoi Theater.”

  “My goodness, I can’t imagine why I’d be given this beautiful suite.”

  “Enjoy it, please. Your luggage will be delivered shortly. My name is Grenedy. Call me if you need anything.” He bowed and backed out the door.

  I couldn’t help but smile at the opulence in which I’d found myself. I had this vision of hotel accommodations in Moscow being depressing and generally unpleasant. That certainly wasn’t the case in this instance. Was everyone in our group assigned to such a suite? I doubted it; how many suites would feature a grand piano?

  I pulled out the piano bench, sat, and touched a key. It was a C—it rang out. I’d had piano lessons as a child, although I hadn’t stuck with it. But I believe that musical training makes better writers. Nothing more disconcerting than a sentence or paragraph, especially dialogue, whose rhythm isn’t right.

  I tried to play a simple piece from my childhood—Chopin—but although I remembered it, my fingers just wouldn’t cooperate. Still, there was something magical about sitting at the same piano as the great tenor Pavarotti and pretending to be in Carnegie Hall, about to finish my concert to a standing ovation.

  That little fantasy eventually wore thin. Where was my luggage? I’d been in the suite for almost forty-five minutes. I scrutinized the phone in the living room, figured out how to ring the front desk, and did. A woman answered. I asked about my luggage. She replied in English that there were many guests, and that my bags would arrive shortly.

  Fortunately, I’d carried necessities in a carry-on bag, as I always do when traveling, and used toiletries to freshen up. I opened the heavy drapes and looked out over Moscow, now shrouded in darkness. There wasn’t much to see. The Savoy is located on a side street; no majestic view of the Kremlin or Moscow River.

  I called the desk again twenty minutes later, after my bags still hadn’t arrived. “Be patient,” I was told.

  “I would like to order room service,” I said.

  My call was transferred.

  “Room service,” a man said in English, with a heavy accent.

  “I would like to order something brought to my room ... suite. Something light. Appetizers, perhaps.”

  “Ah, of course. Zakuski.”

  “Pardon?”

  “The appetizers. An assortment?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Vodichka, or the Champagne?”

  “Ah, mineral water.”

  “Of course.”

  “How long will it be?” I asked.

  “Very fast. Soon.”

  Like my luggage, I thought, hanging up.

  I sat at the piano again, but before I could try to pick out another tune, the phone rang.

  “Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am sorry to intrude upon you like this.”

  “Whom am I speaking with?”

  “My name is Alexandra Kozhina,” the woman said.

  “Yes?”

  “I am with a Russian writers’ society.”

  “Oh?”

  “Murder mysteries,” she said, speaking slowly, forming her words with care.

  “And?”

  “You were told, yes?—that you would speak to us?”

  “No, I don’t think I was,” I said.

  “Da. I mean yes. You are the famous American mystery writer.”

  “Well, I do write murder mysteries.”

  “The government—it brings you to Russia? Da?”

  “That’s right. I’m on a trade mission.”

  “And you will ... speak ... address us.”

  “If I’m told to,” I said. “I’ll check with my host tomorrow. If I’m to meet with your group—which, by the way, I’d be delighted to do—I’m sure they’ll make the necessary arrangements.”

  “Yes. That would be good. Thank you.”

  “Your name again?�
��

  “Alexandra Kozhina.”

  “Well, I—”

  Alexandra Kozhina, the name of the woman the Russian writer, Dimitri Rublev, wanted me to look up when in Moscow, and to whom I was to deliver his envelope.

  “Ms. Kozhina,” I said into the phone.

  e line was dead.

  Someone knocked at my door. I opened it. A young man with a rolling cart stood in the hall.

  “Please, come in,” I said.

  I’d no sooner closed the door behind him when someone else knocked. It was my luggage.

  I fumbled in my purse for tips. We weren’t allowed to bring any Russian rubles into the country with us, so all I had were American bills. I held up a few. The smiles on their faces said they didn’t have any problem accepting American currency.

  Before they left, the young man who’d delivered room service identified each item on the cart. “Zhulienn ,” he said.

  “Ya nye gavaryu parusski,” I said, indicating I didn’t speak the language.

  He grinned. “Mushroom,” he managed. “Sauce. Cream. Sour.”

  “Ah, yes,” I said.

  “Krabi.”

  I laughed. “Crab.”

  He, too, laughed, and went on to point to dishes containing sturgeon, sausage, and caviar, along with a small salad he called travi, which I looked up later and learned literally meant “grass.”

  They left, allowing me to sample what was on the cart. It was all tasty, although the sausage was too fatty for my palate. When I poured from a pitcher I assumed contained mineral water, my breath was taken away. It was vodka. I knew the term vodichka meant “darling little water” in Russian, which might have confused the kitchen. Maybe the safe approach was to always order a Coke.

  Generally, I like to immediately unpack everything and put it away, but a wave of fatigue washed over me after I’d eaten. I pulled out a nightgown, robe, and slippers from one of my bags, changed into them, and climbed into the king-sized bed in the adjoining bedroom. My thoughts went to the phone call I’d received from the young woman writer, Alexandra Kozhina. Obviously, Dimitri Rublev had told her when I’d be arriving, and where I’d be staying. But I had trouble squaring that with the circumstances. He’d told me to look her up, not the other way around. And why would he be privy to our travel schedule?