Hotel Moscow (30 page)

S
VETLANA SWAM UP
from the depths of sleep, bolting upright in bed. With the bare walls, everything packed into her cardboard suitcase and a canvas bag, her room suddenly seemed alien. But then it all flooded back. She was leaving today with Natasha for Frankfurt—and a new life!

As much as she had fantasized about this moment while reading magazines, collecting tea bags, saving postcards, listening to Radio Free Europe, and obtaining a passport, now that it was upon her she felt woefully unprepared. She took out her collection of teas, no longer needed to bring the flavors of the world into her dingy room. Waiting for the water to boil in her electric kettle, she stared out the window at the wall of the neighboring building, imagining what uncertainties she would face in a foreign country, alone with Natasha, not knowing a soul.

She selected an exotic tea bag. Darjeeling. Or maybe she’d have the Orange Spice? English Breakfast tea was the fanciest name, redolent with the aura of British royalty. In a curious way,
life had been easier with no such choices, when the hardships had been a cruel monotony. In its predictability, that life had been more secure than the one she was facing, brimming with changes.

She crouched on Natasha’s mattress and moved a tendril of hair stuck on her daughter’s lip. “Wake up, little lamb. We’re leaving today. We’ll be flying in an airplane. In Frankfurt we’ll have a nice apartment and good food. We’ll even buy you sneakers.”

Natasha’s eyes popped open, and she squealed with joy. “I want to tell Lyalya.”

“She’s sleeping.” The young woman probably had just returned from her night of entertaining men. Anyway, Svetlana could not take leave from her neighbor. If she didn’t need to keep her departure quiet, she could have sold her furniture and kitchenware, even extricated some money from Zoya for her room. She regretted not calling Katerina to say good-bye, but with money from her first paycheck, she would buy her friend a new silk blouse. If anyone spotted her and Natasha with the luggage, she’d say they were going to visit her sick mother in St. Petersburg.

“You must be a good student in Germany,” Svetlana said. “When you grow up, you will be a Western woman.”

“Half-Russian, half-Western.”

Outside the building, Svetlana put down the suitcase. Beside her, Natasha stopped dragging the heavy canvas bag. Svetlana pulled her closer and together they took in the red glow of the leaves on the old oak tree. Regardless of what awaited them, it was hard to leave Moscow. Her gloomy city with its defiant
spirit, so intemperate and uncaring, permeated with pungent smells and downtrodden people, still had, perversely, a comforting presence.

“
Proshchaniye.
Farewell,” she whispered. “
Auf wiedersehen,
” she added in German.

O
LGA PULLED DOWN
her straw hat to protect her face even though the sun had just risen above the forest. The early morning was unusually warm for this time of year; just two nights ago, the clean scent of snow had whirled in the Moscow wind. Now, merely two hours south of Moscow, it felt like late summer again.

She knelt in the soil of her vegetable garden and groaned as sharp pain shot up from her knee. The cigar burn on her leg ached, and her temples still throbbed from whatever concoction Sidorov’s man had poured down her throat less than twenty hours before. Her aging body could tolerate just so much. But she had missed her garden, and there was so much to do there. . . .

She took in a lungful of the rich, pungent smell of the moist earth. Her fingers buried in the soil, slipping below the surface where it was warmer. Tranquility settled over her. Her garden had been neglected, and brazen weeds had reappeared among her red cabbages. In the next bed, crowns of carrots and radishes already peeked out, almost ready for picking if she needed to move on as soon as the rest of her family joined her.

From behind the small dacha, she could hear Galina singing, her voice like little bells. Galina loved the rope swing that hung from the old chestnut tree. As soon as she was done gardening, Olga decided, she would go inside and peel an orange for them to share. Once, when she herself was a child, her mother had
bought one slice of an orange for her birthday, but now she had the luxury of buying a whole fruit for her granddaughter.

On the other side of the fence, cars and trucks roared past. Two generations before, the dacha had been built at the edge of a forest. Then, twelve years ago, a new highway had been carved around the hill to the east and slashed through the forest. Luckily, their dacha hadn’t been confiscated to make room as others had, though the shoulder of the highway swerved by their property line. Viktor prophesized that one day a drunk driver might crash right into their kitchen.

At first, Olga had missed the noises of the woods, the rustling, crackling, twittering, swishing sounds of dry leaves made by small animals, birds, and wind. Eventually, though, she had become accustomed to the hum of engines. Instead, she had trained her ears to hear the cooing of the pigeons that nested in her attic and flew in and out through the small window Viktor had cut. Some winters, Viktor killed pigeons for meat, and she cooked them with carrots and preserved grapes. The trick was not to get too attached to the birds; she had stopped giving them names.

Ignoring stabs of pain, she moved on to fertilizing each furrow with crushed eggshells she had collected. She paid no attention to the car that swerved off the road as it neared her small cabin. Only when it skipped over the bumpy shoulder and tore through the hedge did she lift her head.

A shield on the driver’s cap reflected the sun. Was that a police officer behind the wheel? Why didn’t he even try to stop?

T
HE CONCIERGE AT
the hotel arranged for a private car to drive Brooke to the airport, where she would meet Svetlana. Judd would be there too, as he had to make last-minute arrangements to get on the flight to Frankfurt connecting to New York.

Brooke stood at the window of her hotel room. In the courtyard below, three women sat on stools, their aprons sagging with the weight of potatoes and carrots, which they peeled into bowls, their quick chattering sounding like an argument. A boy ambled about, banging a stick on iron grates and low windowsills, ignoring the women’s admonitions.

During the night Brooke had heard gunfire. Now everything looked so normal. Moscow. What a city of extremes, she thought, combining the shortages of a nation stuck in the hunting and gathering stage with the technological sophistication of a superpower; a city with political chaos equal to an underdeveloped
African nation’s, yet whose people were educated and possessed a vision for the future.

An hour later, at the Sheremetyevo Airport bar, Brooke glanced around. What if Sidorov or his minions showed up? Beside her, Svetlana sliced a huge sandwich into bite-size pieces and fed them to Natasha. Brooke was afraid the little girl might get sick from too much food, as she herself had in her youth.

“We must head for passport control,” Brooke told Svetlana. She downed the last drop of her cappuccino, the sweet taste of home in her mouth. She hoped that the area beyond the lobby would offer protection from Sidorov, yet knew that she and Svetlana would be safe only once the plane took off. “Ready?” Brooke rose to her feet and took hold of her rolling case.

To her surprise, Svetlana grabbed her hand and kissed it, tears streaking down her cheeks. “Before, I cried because of my troubles, now I cry because I’m so happy. There is a word in German,
Weltschmerz.
It means world-weary. For the first time, I don’t feel that way.”

“You’ll have a good new life. You deserve it.” Brooke took out a tissue and dabbed Svetlana’s cheeks. “NHB is lucky to have you. Now let’s go.”

Svetlana touched her “Attitude Is Everything” button, prominently displayed on her lapel. “I will do anything they ask me. And even though I will be so honored to work at a German company, I will always admire Jews. Because of you, I’ll tell everybody that Jews have good hearts.”

Svetlana’s continuing awe at discovering that Jews weren’t the conniving, devious people she had been indoctrinated to believe annoyed Brooke. She would deal with it another time,
after they had passed customs and she had located a working pay phone to call Norcress to find out the status of the negotiations with Olga. As she bent to pick up one of Svetlana’s bags to help move her along, something Olga had said came back to her. “By the way, how long have you known Aleksandr?” Brooke asked.

“A few years, maybe. I met him when he worked at the Economic Authority where my friend Katerina works.”

“When did he leave?”

“A year and a half ago he received an offer from EuroTours.” Svetlana pulled out a Ziploc bag from her purse and slipped the remainder of the sandwich inside. “He’s a good man. Doesn’t drink. You saw that he wears good leather shoes and a leather coat? It means that he makes good money.”

Brooke shook her head in amazement. The connections were so simple, so predictable. If only it had occurred to her to ask earlier. “What did he do while at the Economic Authority?”

“Special projects for Sidorov. Once Sidorov even took him on a trip to America.”

“Yes, he showed me photographs of a supermarket.”

Natasha pulled on her mother’s skirt, then whispered something, causing Svetlana to blush. “Natasha says you are more beautiful than Cinderella.”

“Thanks.” Brooke kissed Natasha’s head. “Let’s go to customs.”

“We want to go to the toilet. It’s clean here.”

Brooke sighed and put down her bags again, watching the ladies’ room door as if she could protect Svetlana and Natasha. She was relieved to spot Judd approaching.

He looked sprightly and fresh, and gave Brooke a big smile. “Got my ticket.”

She spoke in a low voice. “We’re not safe here—not even on the tarmac—until the plane takes off. What if Sidorov’s thugs show up? It’s easy to check the flight manifest and find that we’re on it.”

“With any luck, Sidorov himself will show up.”

“What?”

“Last night, he tried to get you into a corner, but you disappeared from under Aleksandr’s nose.”

Brooke glared at Judd. “I’ve just learned from Svetlana that Aleksandr has been in Sidorov’s service all along. When did you figure out the relationship?”

“Not soon enough, I’m sorry to say, because you hadn’t clued me in on your investigation.”

“Was the militia working for Sidorov too?” Brooke asked. “Was the threat of my arrest a hoax orchestrated by him?”

“The militia search for parliament rebels and sympathizers was for real. But it’s likely that once they were in the hotel, Aleksandr enlisted them for a little freelance job.”

Brooke was surprised that she was still capable of being surprised.

“Being a woman with star credentials, you must have been Sidorov’s best candidate for recruitment. That’s why Aleksandr kept notes on you. But you got away.” Judd regarded her, his head tilted. “His interest in you began even before Olga and you launched your investigation.”

“He’s the one who had arranged my visa in less than a day.”

“Here you go, then. He’s been trying from the start to find a
way to enlist you into his service. That’s why he’s been following your movements.”

“Why, then, do you hope he’ll show up here personally?”

“Your findings about him have become my business because his international dealings must be watched. I’d like to hear what he’d want with you.”

Soon, everyone would know the truth about her. She might as well tell Judd now. “Sidorov has something over me,” she said, her voice cracking. “There are—there were—things in my life I believed had been buried.” Her hand reached to her Star of David. “Twenty years ago I posed for
Penthouse
in order to pay for college. Sidorov got the photos.”

Judd’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “I’m sorry. It is a shocker, but I understand.” He looked away, then back at her, and his eyes behind the rimless glasses reddened. “God knows I did things in Vietnam that are far worse. Survival, or the perception of what we need to do to survive, can make us jump out of character, but it doesn’t change who we are.”

This was so much easier than she had feared. Relieved, Brooke studied his face, but then her eyes caught past him a small man in an Italian-cut suit entering the cafeteria. His graying hair was brushed back from a peaked hairline. It took Brooke a few seconds to place him. “Roman Belgorov? What are you doing here?”

As he had done at Zagorsk two days earlier, the Russian took her hand and kissed it. When he raised his eyes, his expression was grave. His dark gaze shifted from her to Judd, assessing him.

A sense of foreboding enveloped Brooke. “You can speak freely.”

“I’m afraid I have bad news. Dr. Olga Rozanova is dead.”

Brooke’s skin went cold. She smelled the sting of the detergent used on the linoleum floor, felt the burning of a hangnail, heard the distant, irregular crackle of a P.A. system.

“This morning, a car crashed into the garden at her dacha while she was tending her vegetables,” Belgorov continued. “
Looks
like an accident.”

The words echoed in Brooke’s head. Her body went slack and heavy, and she staggered to the nearby chair. Suddenly, it was twenty years ago. She was lying in a bed in a white room, panting, exhausted, her life slipping away with the distant wail of the baby she would never see. Nothing left but searing loneliness and hopelessness. Judd crouched by her chair and placed an arm around her shoulders. “Brooke, I’m so sorry.”

She raised her eyes toward Belgorov. “How did you find out?”

“I was the one negotiating with Sidorov on her behalf,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know her personally before Monday, when you told me what was going on. I immediately contacted her through a mutual friend. As I told you, I work closely with Gaidar. I had hoped to begin a chain of releases from the mafia, which would maybe also uncover what happened to Yuri.” His voice wobbled. “And I would have, if only that American journalist had not released the article in spite of—”

She bolted upright. “What?”

“The
Los Angeles Record
transmitted the article over the newswire before dawn.”

The words hit her like a blow. Norcress. “I should never have trusted him!” she cried. “Olga’s death is my fault.”

“You took an enormous risk yourself. It could have been you,” Belgorov said.

A sob broke from her lips, and she pressed her temples. “Olga said that she would rest in her grave,” she murmured. “She never expected to get there so soon.”

Judd must have signaled the bar because a small glass of vodka materialized. “Drink,” he ordered.

“It’s only ten o’clock in the morning.” But she reached for the glass, noticing as she did how tightly her fists were clenched. She released them. Tiny crescent-shaped marks were etched into her palms. The sip of vodka she managed burned her tongue, throat, and stomach.

Belgorov pulled over a chair and sat down. “I want you to know that this chap, Norcress, called me. Apparently you had given him my number for Yuri’s story. Thanks. He asked me to tell you that his editor had published the story against their prior agreement, that he was very upset and wanted you to know that he had kept his end of the bargain with you.”

“What good does that do? Olga is dead.”

“For whatever comfort you may derive from it, you’d be glad to hear that your investigation with Olga and the exposure were not in vain. As soon as the newswire story came through, Sidorov was arrested.”

“But not before ordering Olga killed.” Her throat felt scratchy. She took another sip of the vodka. “Since he operated with direct authorization from the Kremlin, his arrest might very well be a token gesture. Yeltsin will release him within the hour, I’m sure.”

“One of Yeltsin’s less endearing traits is his disloyalty to his friends and backers,” Judd said. “People fall out of his favor as quickly as they come into it.”

Belgorov added, “Right now, there’s no one of authority between Yeltsin and Gaidar to countermand Gaidar’s arrest of Sidorov.”

“Is there any evidence to connect Sidorov to Olga’s death?” Judd asked Belgorov.

The Russian shook his head. “It would be safe to assume that the car’s owner won’t be associated with him. In fact, his car was driven by a local policeman.” He clasped his hands together on the table. “But thanks to you, Brooke, there’s plenty to connect Sidorov to the terrorizing of women’s cooperatives in the Moscow region.”

“Even if he does jail time,” Brooke said, “he’s accumulated more dollars, yen, and deutschemarks than he knows what to do with. He’ll resurface as an oligarch.” Her voice gathered rage. “His political connections will still be around, and with so many power axes crossing, Gaidar will soon fall out of favor.”

“Even in Russia it might be difficult for Sidorov to run for mayor of Moscow,” Judd said.

“I must call Viktor.”

Judd waved to Svetlana, who came out of the bathroom with Natasha, and pointed to the gate sign. “After we clear passport control and customs. I don’t relish the idea of missing our flight.” He picked up Brooke’s and Svetlana’s bags.

“Before you leave,” Belgorov told Brooke, “I have something for you.” His hand reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. Brooke’s heart skipped a beat as she recognized the neat
typing of her name and saw the red “Personal and Confidential” stamp. “It was on Sidorov when he was arrested. It’s addressed to you.”

Her tongue thick in her mouth, Brooke took the envelope and turned it over. The Scotch tape had left fraying marks, the tin clasp was broken. Sidorov must have had a laugh, and God knew who else had seen her naked body. “Thanks,” she said with a tight smile. Whatever Belgorov might have seen of her younger bare thighs and breasts, neither his face nor his demeanor showed it. She tucked the letter into her purse and clutched it to her chest.