Murder in Moscow (12 page)

“Well?” I said to all three of them. “Will one of you please explain why the death of a publisher, obviously by natural causes, has resulted in my being raced away from the scene and secluded in my hotel room?”

Sergius removed a cigarette from a thin silver case, held it to his mouth, glanced at me, and asked, “May I?”

“If you insist,” I said. I’m very much against smoking, although it has never become a
cause celebre
for me as it has for millions of others. Besides, I learned from the first day in Washington with my Russian publishing counterparts that smoking was an integral part of their lives. They all smoked. When in Rome ... or Moscow ...

He lit the cigarette, took a satisfied drag, waved his hand at Warner, and said, “Please, Karl, explain things to the lovely lady.”

Warner appeared to be unsure whether he wanted to be thrust into that role. But he pushed himself away from the sill, took a stuffed chair across the coffee table from me, and said, “I know this must be puzzling to you, Mrs. Fletcher, and I apologize for that. But that’s the way it had to be.”

“That’s the way
what
had to be?”

“The secrecy. I had to keep you in the dark until things were in place.”

I couldn’t help but smile as I said, “You’re still keeping me in the dark. I’d really appreciate being told in simple terms what it is that’s going on. My Maine heritage coming through, I suppose.”

“All right,” said Warner. “Mr. Staritova’s sudden death this evening wasn’t the result of natural causes.”

I leaned forward. “It wasn’t? How do you know?”

Warner looked at Sergius before continuing. “There’s more to this trade mission, Mrs. Fletcher, than you might know.”

“I’m listening,” I said.

“It didn’t start out that way. I mean, I don’t want you to think we knew from the beginning that we’d be ... deviating from its stated purpose.”

“Has it?” I asked. “Deviated?”

“There are forces at work in Russia, Mrs. Fletcher, that would like to see the new democracy fail.”

“Such as?”

“The Communists, for one. Organized crime, for another.”

I sat back and collected my thoughts. When I had, I said, “I asked how you knew that Mr. Staritova didn’t die of natural causes. As usual, you didn’t answer my question. I would appreciate it if you would.”

Warner’s eyes met mine. He didn’t flinch from my comment. Instead, he gave out what would pass as a smile, hunched his shoulders as though against a pain in his back or neck, grimaced, and said, “There are things I just can’t reveal at this stage.”

I stood, went to the door, and said, “Then I suggest you leave immediately. And tell those men out in the hall to leave, too. I would not have volunteered myself for what I thought was a worthwhile mission for my country and profession, to be treated this way.”

They didn’t move.

“Mrs. Fletcher,” Sergius said, “your feelings are understandable.” Before I could add to his understandingof my feelings, he said, “You will meet with Ms. Kozhina? Yes?”

“Meet with—”

“Please, sit down,” Captain Kazakov said, his first words since entering the suite. His deep voice carried the authority of his position. His smile was broad and genuine.
“Pazhalsta,”
he said, repeating his “please” in Russian. He indicated with his hand that I should return to where I’d been sitting before. I reluctantly did.

“Ms. Kozhina,” Sergius repeated flatly.

“What about her?” I asked. “No, more important, how do you even
know
about her?”

“That isn’t important,” Warner said. “What is important is that you obviously have a connection with her.”

“Connection? With her? You’re wrong. She called me here in my room and—”

“We know that, Mrs. Fletcher,” said Sergius.

No one said anything else for a moment During that period of silence the admonition given us by Sam Roberts in Washington—that we should be careful about what we say because of the possibility of being overheard by electronic devices—came back to me. Of course My phone was probably bugged. The whole suite, maybe. Was there a tiny microphone inside the grand piano that picked up every note of my feeble attempts to create music? The clock radio next to my bed? The lamps, heating and air-conditioning systems, even beneath the carpeting?

Warner seemed to know what I was thinking. He broke the quiet by saying, “The point is, Mrs. Fletcher, we’d like you to go through with your meeting with Ms. Kozhina.”

“I don’t have a meeting scheduled with her.”

“We know,” said Warner. “Make one.”

“I don’t know how to reach her,” I said.

I said it based upon not having a phone number for her. But I did have her address. Did they know that? Did they know about the note from Dimitri Rublev that I was to deliver to her? Had I mentioned Rublev and the note to Ms. Kozhina during our two telephone conversations? I couldn’t remember for the moment.

I made a decision on the spot to not mention the note unless they brought it up. I also told myself that there was nothing to be gained by continuing to confront them. After all, they were asking me to do nothing more than to call a young female Russian writer, who I intended to meet up with anyway. By morning, I’d be back in the secure comfort of my American friends and could discuss the situation with them, benefit from their sage advice.

“She’ll undoubtedly call again,” Warner said, confirming that they knew of the two previous calls from her.

“Why is it so important that I meet with her?” I asked. “Who is she? Why are you so interested in her?”

“All you have to do, Mrs. Fletcher, is meet with her, see what she has to say, and remember it.”

“Remember what she says?”

“Right,” said Wamer.

I thought of Ward Wenington’s asking me to agree to be “debriefed” upon my return from Russia. But he hadn’t said I’d be asked to engage selected, specific Russians in conversation. This was different.

“I ask again,” I said. “Why is Ms. Kozhina so important to you? As far as I know, she’s just a young mystery writer.”

Warner stood, and said, “You’ve been very cooperative, Mrs. Fletcher, very patient. I assure you it’s appreciated.”

The Russian
militsia
captain, Kazakov, and Mr. Sergius also stood. Kazakov clicked his heels and bowed slightly. Sergius came to me and extended his hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher, for allowing us to intrude on your privacy and your evening. I look forward to meeting with you again.”

I turned to Karl Warner. “What if I don’t wish to meet with Ms. Kozhina? I don’t have to, you know. I’m here as part of a trade delegation, not as a set of ears for whatever agency you work for.”

His little smile was annoying. He said, “You’re absolutely right, Mrs. Fletcher. You have no obligation to do anything beyond meeting with Russian publishers. Of course, your Russian publisher isn’t alive anymore, not as of tonight. A good friend of mine, Ward Wenington, is also dead. I’d like to see that no one else dies. Thanks again, Mrs. Fletcher. Oh, I’d appreciate it if you’d not mention any of this to the others. Wouldn’t accomplish anything. Good night.”

I called Vaughan Buckley a few minutes after the others departed my suite. He was upbeat; he’d just gotten off the phone with not only our Russian host, Mr. Belopolsky, but with an official at the American Embassy. In both cases, Vaughan assured me, immediate action would be taken to ensure that I was not harassed or bothered by individuals who weren’t directly involved with the trade mission.

“That’s a relief,” I said.

“I made a date tomorrow morning for us at the embassy.”

“Oh
^?
Is that necessary?”

“It wasn’t my idea. The official I spoke with there—his name’s Tom Mulligan—is in the economic development office. He asked that we stop by to meet him. Actually, he wants to meet you. He’s a fan of your books.”

“That’s good to hear. What time?”

“Eleven. We have that nine o’clock breakfast meeting with the Russian Publishers’ Association. Lunch at one with the editors from Ogonyok. A good magazine, Jess. There’s a copy in your room. You might want to browse it before tomorrow’s lunch. Three million circulation, and v-e-r-y literary. We’ll have plenty of time between the morning meeting and lunch to swing by the embassy.”

“All this going on despite what happened tonight to poor Vlady,” I said.

“Life goes on, Jess. A tragedy to be sure, but—”

“I was told that Vlady’s death wasn’t—” I stopped myself in midsentence, my eyes flitting about the room.

“You were saying?” Vaughan said. “About Vlady’s death?”

“Oh, nothing. I’ll tell you in the morning.”

“All right. Feel better?”

“Much, although I’m exhausted.”

“Belopolsky offers his apologies for our missing the theater and the nightclub.”

“That never crossed my mind. Think I’ll get to bed. It’s been a long day, and tomorrow promises more of the same.”

“Sleep tight, Jess. Things will get back to normal in the morning.”

I had a lot of trouble sleeping that night. Despite Vaughan’s reassuring words, the confusion of the evening stayed with me. Before going to bed, I opened my door and peered into the hall. The man who’d been there all day was gone. I was tempted to go to the elevators to see whether the other men Vaughan had mentioned were still on duty, but decided against it. It was over. Vaughan said it was over.

Still, sleep came only in fits and starts. I lay awake a long time after they left, chewing on everything that had been said, analyzing it, trying to identify the meaning of it. Was it that easy? I wondered, for Belopolsky, and a single embassy official, to call off the dogs, as it were.

But even if that was the case, there was still the deeply troubling assertions made by Karl Warner and his two Russian colleagues.

They’d said that there were forces wanting to thwart Russia’s move to democracy, namely the Communists and the mafia. That statement had been uttered in connection with their request that I arrange a meeting with Alexandra Kozhina.

Who was this mysterious young lady? She’d developed, for me, from mystery writer into legitimate mystery woman. What could she possibly have to do with such monumental issues as governments and organized crime?

But what really kept me awake was the comment that Vladislav Staritova, my Russian publisher, hadn’t died at dinner from natural causes. How could that be? How could they know the cause of death so soon after it had happened?

Finally, if Karl Warner was correct—mat Staritova hadn’t died of a coronary or other natural causes—did that have any connection with the death of Ward Wenington?

I didn’t have any answers at the moment and wasn’t sure I wanted any.

My final question as sleep finally embraced me was whether there was a hidden camera somewhere in the suite, videotaping my every move. I shuddered at the contemplation, pulled the covers up tight around my neck, and closed my eyes.

What had Sir Winston Churchill said? “Russia is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.”

He’d receive no argument from me.

The breakfast with the Russian Publishers’ Association was held in a handsome old building near the Kremlin. We joined fifty or more Russian publishing executives in a sprawling, domed room with bloodred wallpaper and gold leaf everywhere one looked.

The president of the association began with an expression of remorse for the unfortunate and sudden demise of Vladislav Saritova, whom he termed “an astute judge of literary properties, a guiding light for all Russian publishers, and a devoted and nurturing husband and father.”

Vaughan Buckley leaned over to me and asked in a whisper, “What did you start to say last night about Vlady’s death?”

I thought back to Sam Roberts’s briefing, in which he said even restaurants might be bugged.

“It was nothing,” I said, holding my index finger to my lips. “I want to hear what he has to say.”

The ensuing breakfast, surprisingly light by Russian culinary standards, was but a backdrop for a succession of speeches, some in English, most in Russian, with a translator helping us understand what was being said.

Karl Warner stood alone in a corner of the room, his eyes on everything and everyone at once. His presence was unnerving, no matter what assurances Vaughan had given me that last night’s situation had been resolved. I decided that I needed to air to Vaughan what had transpired in my suite last night, and hoped we’d have the opportunity to find a few private moments before going to the embassy.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the association’s president said, “it has been a great honor and privilege to be with my American friends and colleagues this morning. As you can see from your daily activity sheet, the next few hours are yours to enjoy on your own before your scheduled luncheon. This afternoon, we will get down to the reason you are here, to discuss how we might forge close working relationships to benefit us all. Thank you for your kind attention, and enjoy what our city has to offer.”

Marge Fargo, the female American publisher, who’d taken on the unofficial role of group leader, stepped to the microphone and said, “We’ll be exploring a section of the city right outside this building. We have an English-speaking guide. The walking tour will last approximately an hour. Please, everyone stay together.”

Vaughan and I approached Ms. Fargo. Vaughan said, “Marge, Jessica and I have an appointment at the American Embassy. We won’t be with you on the tour.”

“We’re supposed to stay together,” she replied. “Remember what Mr. Roberts said at the briefing?”

“Sure,” Vaughan said, “but there won’t be any problem going to the embassy. I’ve arranged for a car and driver. We’ll catch up with you at the Ogonyok lunch.”

“Okay,” Marge said. “Is there a problem? I mean, having to go to the embassy?”