Hotel Moscow (29 page)

T
HEY DROVE A
few blocks past a boulevard edging a wide lawn, behind which stood an imposing building. Though its facade was illuminated, its windows were dark.

“Moscow University,” Judd said.

“There’s no one here,” Brooke said. “In my Berkeley days, students demonstrated against Vietnam. You’d think that with all that’s going on, students would raise their collective indignation.”

“Not if they stand to lose their spots. No freedom of expression here, remember?”

Judd slowed down by a plaza with scattered ornate lampposts, all lit. A stone balustrade was bathed in milky reflection. “Moskva River,” he said, circling close to the railing.

Rolling down the window, Brooke breathed in the cool fall air. Everything was eerily quiet. She eyed an old couple huddled on a bench, then the panoramic view of Moscow past the balustrade. “It looks so normal. Is it safe to stop?”

“Sure.”

A sense of freedom ran through Brooke as she yawned and stretched outside the car. Just minutes earlier, she had believed she was escaping for her life. She wrapped her coat over her arm. Judd followed her as they walked the few yards to the marble parapet and leaned on it, keeping the car and her luggage in sight.

“That long line of lights is the Kremlin wall.” Judd’s finger moved to the left. “We could see the parliament building if they had electricity.”

A couple of late-pecking pigeons flitted nearby, hoping for a handout. A young man ambled past, settled on a bench under a lamppost, and retrieved a book out of his khaki canvas bag. An occasional Volga or Zhiguli passed by. It was strange to be so close to the threat at Hotel Moscow, yet so remote.

A gunshot brought Brooke out of her lull. She straightened.

“It’s at least a mile away,” Judd said calmly. “The water surface carried the sound. We’re overlooking downtown.” He looked at her. “Want to leave?”

Brooke shook her head. In the black ink of the river, the city lights flickered and danced. Her hand traced the lines of the marble balustrade. It was smooth and cold, richer than stone.

She straightened and put on her coat. “Talk.”

He broke a twig off a nearby bush. “What about?”

“There’s some explanation you need to give me. You’ve already admitted to being involved in some big mysterious scheme. Why don’t you start by telling me how keeping your knowledge of Russian secret serves you.”

“I give up.” He raised his hands in resignation. “This is about to become public soon anyway.”

“What is?”

“Brooke, I’m here on a project for the F.B.I.”

“F.B.I.? You mean the C.I.A.?”

“F.B.I.”

“That can’t be. The C.I.A covers international matters.”

“Let me backtrack. I’m sure you’ve heard some mutterings about lost nuclear warheads in K.G.B. suitcases.” He stripped the twig slowly. “What’s especially alarming about that is that the Russian mafia has gotten into the act. Its activities now extend around the globe. Mafia dons from Italy and Brazil, who already were in cahoots with one another to pool resources, are now embracing the Russians.”

“So?”

“The F.B.I. handles the mafia at home. Russian godfathers—here they’re called
krestniy otets
—are throwing a very long shadow abroad. Some have settled in the U.S., from Brooklyn to Miami. They’re setting up drug-smuggling, forgery, and prostitution rings. Their money-laundering operations are of proportions we’ve never seen before. But most disturbing is the danger of the huge amount of radioactive material all over Russia. Combine it with military personnel whose salaries haven’t been paid in months. Do I need to say more?” Judd tossed away the stripped twig. “Officers on the loose are a dangerous bunch. When Russia ceased to be a world superpower, these men lost their status and dignity. Many of them now sell nuclear material to the highest bidder, from plutonium stored in bomb-ready form to enriched, weapons-grade uranium. It’s confirmed that the mafia, in turn, has already sold it to unfriendly countries such as Iraq, North Korea, and Libya.”

“I counseled a woman, Irina, who had a business idea based on using stolen military supplies,” Brooke said. “Speaking with her, it occurred to me that there are scores of radioactive sources in Russia—in shipyards, labs, reprocessing plants, and power stations. Is our government planning to monitor them all?”

“It’s only a matter of time before these materials fall into the hands of terrorist groups.”

“And the F.B.I., which has no experience operating outside the U.S., will beat the mafia on its own turf?”

“We’re working with Yeltsin’s government, which has been outmaneuvered at every turn, and therefore has accepted our help. In a couple of months, the F.B.I. will open an office in Moscow, and the Russian government guarantees to cooperate.”

“Wow.”

He smiled. “Luckily, Yeltsin has quelled the uprising, and he’s still the president.”

“What if he’d failed?”

Judd shifted from one foot to the other. “I would have had to operate undercover, which is why I’ve had to keep my identity secret until now.”

Brooke’s hair, swaying in the breeze, tickled her cheeks. She tucked it behind her ears.

Judd looked out across the river. His hand rested near hers, and she could feel its heat. She pulled her hand away.

“Is that where your ‘mingling with the peasants’ fits in?”

“I don’t usually let people know about my grandparents. You’ve figured out that thanks to them I am fluent in Russian. I did a graduate degree in Russian Studies. I’m keeping my eye on some seedy characters who might be tempted to support their
political causes by selling nukes from military bases located in their regions.”

Sidorov,
she thought. “Even with Yeltsin’s blessings, you can’t control activities in the far Soviet Republics—not even those still within the Russian borders.”

“We can’t sit back either.” A frown crinkled Judd’s forehead. “But as it turns out, I must return home immediately to deal with a personal situation there.” His eyes hooked into hers. “Before I go, will you let me in on the real pickle you’ve gotten yourself into?”

Brooke put her hands in her coat pocket and felt the tiny plastic bag with the manufacturer’s extra button. She fingered it, thinking. Could she believe that Judd wasn’t one of the opportunists jumping on the mafia’s bandwagon? She mulled over the information she possessed that didn’t come directly from his words, but rather from his actions. “You wanted to tell me something about home,” she finally said. “’Fess up.”

Judd paused, then looked toward the city line across the river. “My wife has left. Took off. Some old film job contacts called from California—they had a crisis in the middle of shooting. She decided that this was her break to get back to her career ‘when all she did at home was carpooling.’”

“Maybe she has a point in wanting the satisfaction of working.” Brooke looked for the pigeons, but they had vanished. “You don’t sound overjoyed by her departure. Do you want it both ways?”

“I never held her back.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “It’s about responsibility. In what universe is it okay for a parent to abandon
her or his children without making any arrangements? While I’m away? They’re devastated.”

“She left them alone?”

“The cleaning woman is supposedly staying over. She speaks only Spanish and they don’t know her because until now she came only in the mornings, when they were in school.”

“Your turn for ‘Nutritious Meals 101’ at Adult Ed?”

He smiled. “I’ll be leaving on the first flight.”

“You’ve just told me about the new Moscow office.”

“I’ll be working mostly in the States.” He moved his hand, the tips of his fingers lightly making contact with the back of her hand. “It will be a very hectic time, but not enough to stop me from getting on with my life.”

“It can’t be this simple. And I’m not referring just to the physical demands of managing a home. It must be an emotionally difficult time.”

“For my boys, yes. For me? It’s inconvenient, but a relief. I stopped mourning the death of this marriage long ago.”

The old couple that had huddled on the bench shuffled by, curled within their long gray coats. With their arms linked and heads bent close together, it was hard to tell where one person ended and the other began. Marriage and age welded into one.

Brooke couldn’t meet Judd’s eyes. His timing was still too inopportune—and not in sync with hers. Too many unresolved issues in her life needed to be untangled, mistakes that could neither be erased nor retracted. She pulled her hand away.

If she could only get that envelope back from Sidorov.

O
UTSIDE OLGA’S BUILDING,
Brooke told Judd that her visit would last only twenty minutes, and he agreed to wait in his car. Anyway, he said, her luggage must be watched.

Olga’s leg was propped on a small pillow. An ice pack rested on her knee, and an unlit cigarette dangled from the corner of her mouth. Brooke couldn’t see the burn under the brown skirt. Without lipstick or blush, Olga looked exhausted.

“I’m sorry about everything,” Brooke said as she bent to kiss both of her friend’s cheeks, Russian-style.

“You and I did what we had to do—when we could do it,” Olga said. “There’s a Russian saying, ‘Walk fast and you’ll overtake misfortune; walk slowly and it will overtake you.’ We couldn’t have moved faster.”

Viktor served tea, and Brooke breathed in its aroma, trying to drown her misery. “Any progress regarding the negotiation with Sidorov?”

“A comrade who’s close to Prime Minister Yegor Gaidar
is contacting Sidorov directly. Gaidar is the man pushing for drastic economic reforms with tough legislation and enforcement, and the case we’ve uncovered is exactly the type Gaidar wants to crack down on, especially when it involves a man of great influence.”

“If Sidorov agrees to secrecy in exchange for your life, you won’t involve Gaidar, right?”

Olga nodded sadly.

“Will you still run for the Duma?”

“Of course. I will give my last breath for the future of my country. As soon as I settle with Sidorov, I’ll make my announcement.”

Brooke sipped her tea. “When will you know if he agrees?”

“In a couple of hours someone will drive me to my dacha with Galina, my granddaughter. They will contact me there.”

“What about Viktor? And your son and daughter-in-law?”

“It’s a workday. They will join us in the evening by train.”

“Sidorov must be able to find out where your dacha is. You need a safe hiding place.”

“If the negotiation fails, we’ll move elsewhere.”

Will Olga hide in the village of her youth, among the old anti-Semites? Brooke took in a deep breath. “Why not go there directly? You need to rest your leg—”

“I’ll rest in my grave.”

Brooke fidgeted in her seat. Not knowing the geography of the region, she must trust Olga’s perception of her own safety. “I’m leaving in the morning. Finally. We had a weird situation in the hotel tonight.” She described the chain of events. “Can you make any sense of it?”

“Five hundred dollars?” Viktor exchanged a look with Olga. “It’s a lot! The militia wasn’t searching for your kind, so why were you threatened with arrest?”

“Could it be a simple case of extortion?” Brooke asked.

“If that were so,” Olga said, “then after you paid, you could have either stayed put or moved freely to another hotel. Aleksandr said you couldn’t, right?”

Viktor tapped the ashes off his cigarette into the ashtray. “Whoever is behind it is monitoring your movements.”

“I imagine that it can only be Sidorov,” Brooke said. But it had been Aleksandr who had behaved strangely. He had never shown eagerness for any task, yet tonight he had insisted on negotiating for her, then driving her. She had assumed that his offer stemmed from guilt over his failure to do better by her. But guilt about fellow humans had been conditioned out of too many Russians. And what did the militia have to do with any of it?

Brooke rose to her feet. Thankfully, unlike Delta, Lufthansa had a late-morning flight. There was nothing more she could do in Russia.

“Even if Norcress’s article never gets published, Sidorov will know his machinations have been exposed.” Olga’s eyes twinkled for the first time since the day before. “Things have a strange way of leaking. Gaidar might force him to curtail his activities.”

“Leave this one alone. Please,” Brooke said. “You’ll have other battles in the Duma.”

“Freeing women’s cooperatives from the mafia clutches is a very important battle. Thanks for showing us the way.”

Viktor cackled. “Olga says that you’re the Lawrence of Arabia for our women.”

“I’ll appreciate the compliment better in the desert of Manhattan.”

“We’ll find a way to keep in touch,” Olga said. “Not by phone or mail.”

“You must let me know the results of your negotiation with Sidorov,” Brooke said. “Could you get word from wherever you are to my Frankfurt office? I’ll be there for a couple of days.” She pulled her notepad from her purse and scribbled the address.

“I will.”

At the door, Olga hugged her. “When you return, I’ll show you the beautiful side of Russia.”

If there was one thing Brooke was certain of, it was that she would never return. “I cherish that matryoshka you gave me. It reminds me of you. Strong, nurturing, traditional. Women as the keepers of old values.” With mist in her eyes, she added, “Feminine.”

H
ALF AN HOUR
later, Brooke entered the elegant lobby of the Radisson Slavyanskaya , with its polished marble floors inlaid in a sunburst design. In this oasis she was a refugee no more. The dread she had been carrying lifted from her shoulders and chest.

Judd said he’d wait at the bar while she went upstairs to freshen up. If it were up to her, she would have just ordered room service and hit the sack. But he’d saved her, and she had promised to share the rest of the story.

After days of mayonnaise-dipped and oil-soaked food, Brooke craved a plain pasta dish. As soon as the waiter walked away
with their orders Judd asked, “What would it take for you to let me in on the mystery of what happened to Olga?”

Brooke summarized the reports she had shared with Belgorov and Norcress. Unlike in her accounts to them, she told Judd about the bomb and the crater in the street. “For the rest of my life I will carry with me the picture of that boy’s torn flesh and bones.”

He reached across the table and touched her neck, sending ripples through her. “That explains these little scratches,” he said. “But where does Aleksandr figure in all of this?”

“Aleksandr? He has nothing to do with it.”

“Don’t be so sure.” Judd’s tone was reflective. “Remember those faxes he didn’t send?”

“I thought he was just being lazy. What about them?”

“The cover page was in Russian. Since the very first morning, he’d been writing down his observations of you. Why? You weren’t investigating anything yet.” He smiled. “I don’t think he was just a secret admirer.”

“What did his notes say?”

“They recapped the business and finance topics you discussed. Your home phone number was there, which you noticed, too. Also, I wasn’t sure of the context, but did he manage to get his hands on some letter addressed to you?”

The roots on Brooke’s scalp contracted. “Oh, God.” She clasped her hand to her mouth. “I thought I lost it at the customs office! But it was him! He stole it from my bag!”