Authors: Jessica Fletcher
Murder in Moscow (15 page)
“Where are the police?” Vaughan muttered.
As he said it, a car with red lights flashing and two-tone siren blaring screeched around the comer and came to a halt.
“Let’s get out of here,” Olga said, tugging my arm.
“Don’t we have an obligation to—?”
“Olga’s right,” Vaughan said. “It’s some sort of mob rub-out. Not our concern.”
“You!” an officer said, approaching us.
“Yes?” Vaughan said.
“Americans?”
“Yes,” I said.
“You were here?”
“Here?” Olga said. “Where?”
“Here.” He pointed to the corner, where other officers leaned over the bodies.
“No,” Olga said. “We were ... we just got here ... we ...”
“If you’re asking if we were here when it happened, we were,” Vaughan said.
“Are they both dead?” I asked.
“Da.
Come with me.”
Come with me.”
“We have nothing to offer,” Vaughan said. “We might have been here, but we ducked into that doorway and didn’t see the actual shooting.”
Vaughan’s protest fell on deaf bureaucratic Russian ears. The officer, a tall, stem man wearing the same uniform as Captain Kazakov, said, “You will come with me. Now!”
“Hold on.”
We turned to see a man approaching, walking at a fast clip.
“I know him,” I said. “He—”
The man came up to the police officer and said something to him.
“Who is he?” Olga whispered in my ear.
“He sat next to me at dinner.”
“Yes,” Vaughan said. “That’s right.”
“Name is Lomonosov. Something like that.”
“Why would
he
just happen to show up?” Vaughan asked.
he
just happen to show up?” Vaughan asked.
Lomonosov came to where we stood. “Good evening,” he said.
“Hello,” I said.
“I did not expect to see you again so soon,” he said. “Peter Lomonosov.”
“Yes, I know,” I said.
“I am afraid you will have to go with him for questioning,” he said, pointing to the uniformed officer. “But I will go with you. Just a formality, I assure you.”
The officer waved for us to join him on the corner.
“I really don’t want to look at the bodies,” Olga said.
“I agree,” I said.
“Please,” Lomonosov said, stepping back and gesturing with his hand that we should follow the officer.
“You will get in the car, please,” the officer said.
“Hold on a second,” Vaughan said. “You have no right to take us anywhere. We’re Americans on an important trade mission to your country.”
“You will please not make argument with me,” the officer said.
Lomonosov interjected, “There is no sense in debating it. You go with him, answer a few questions, then we leave.”
The officer-in-charge’s tone was not nearly as conciliatory. “You will get into car now!”
Another squad car arrived. “Mr. Lomonosov is right,” I offered. “Debating it with the officer isn’t going to get us anywhere. If we run into a problem at police headquarters, we can call the embassy from there.”
Fifteen minutes later, we were seated at a scarred wooden table in a stark room I assumed was used for interrogation of prisoners. A female officer with a boxlike body and hair pulled back in a bun so tight it must have been painful, served us tepid tea in paper cups.
“I still don’t understand why we’re here,” Olga said. “They could have taken our statements at the scene.”
“We’ll give it another ten minutes,” Vaughan said. “If they don’t release us by then, I’ll call the embassy.”
“Where did Mr. Lomonosov go?” I asked.
The door opened and the officer who’d taken us to police headquarters entered the room. He was less stern now, apologizing for detaining us and asking if we wanted more tea.
“What we’d like is to leave,” Vaughan said.
“Of course,” said the officer. “Now, just a few questions. Tell me what you saw this evening.”
“As I told you, we saw nothing,” Vaughan replied. “We ducked into the doorway and looked away. We didn’t venture back out until the cars were gone.”
“Ah, the cars,” the officer said. “You will tell me what sort of automobiles they were.”
We looked at each other. I said, “I don’t think any of us can tell you that. All I know is that one of the vehicles was long and black. I think it was black.” To Vaughan: “Was it black?”
“It was a dark color,” he said. To Olga: “Did you catch the color?”
She shook her head.
“The men,” said the officer. “You will describe them for me?”
“The men on the corner?” Olga said.
“Nyet.
We know them. They are in the morgue. The men in the cars, with the weapons.”
We know them. They are in the morgue. The men in the cars, with the weapons.”
The three of us agreed we didn’t have a chance to see any of their faces.
“I told you we saw nothing,” Vaughan said. “Bringing us here was a waste of time—
our
time.”
our
time.”
The officer shrugged. “It was necessary. It is the way we do things.”
“I assume we’re free to leave now,” I said, standing and straightening my skirt.
“Of course,” the officer said, also standing. “I will have someone take you to the Savoy.”
“You know where we’re staying?” I asked.
“Da.”
Interesting, I thought. I hadn’t mentioned it to him, nor had I heard Vaughan or Olga say it.
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.
“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.
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.”
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.
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.”
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