Murder in Moscow (19 page)

Of course. It was one of many terms of endearment written in the note to her from Dimitri Rublev.

I also had the nagging feeling that I recognized the second caller’s voice. But I couldn’t put a name to it. All I knew was that I’d heard it before.

Hearing that second recorded message visibly changed Alexandra Kozhina. Until that moment, she’d been a self-possessed, calm, icy young woman. But those words—“Your eyes are like stars in the night”—unnerved her. It was as though all the air came out of her. She slumped back against the table, closed her eyes, and drew her mouth into a thin, hard line.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

She opened her eyes. “What?” she said.

“Are you all right? That message seemed to have upset you.”

“Yes, I’m fine. Just fine.”

“The second caller said something that was in the note from Mr. Rublev,” I said.

She lowered her head and exhaled loudly. Then, slowly, quietly, she began to weep. I went to her and placed a hand on her slender shoulder. “What is it?” I asked. “What’s going on?”

She looked up at me, fighting against the tears, and said, “There has been a change.”

“A change from what? Please, Ms. Kozhina, I realize I’m not in a position to make demands. But surely, out of simple courtesy—out of compassion—you owe me some sort of explanation.”

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, looked at me, a softer expression on her pretty face, and said, “You are right, of course. I owe you an apology.”

My spirits lifted. Maybe this nightmare was about to end.

“But we must leave—now!”

“You’ll get no argument from me.”

“No, you misunderstand. We must leave before they come.”

“Before
who
come?”

“The men who will kill us.”

My elevated spirits of a moment ago came crashing down.

“Who are these men?” I asked. “Why would they want to kill you? Kill
me?”

“No time to explain. Come!”

I assumed we would return to the front of the building, where Ivan waited with the limo. Instead, we left the apartment—Ms. Kozhina didn’t even bother to close the door behind us—and went up the flight of stairs until reaching a heavy metal door leading to the roof.

“Why are we up here?” I asked, catching my breath as we stepped out onto the flat roof.

Her answer was to place her index finger to her lips and to slip a heavy bar down into a slot to lock the door from the outside.

I looked up into the Moscow sky. The air was heavy, the way it is back home in Cabot Cove when a storm is coming. But the smell was different, very different. I suppose that’s because we were in a city, rather than the open spaces of Maine and its fragrance of pine trees and flowers and the salty sea. There was also the odor of fear.

My fear.

I was more frightened at that moment than I could ever remember being. Nothing made sense to me. I was in a strange country that had been, until only a few years ago, committed to bombing the United States into oblivion. I’d found a body in Washington, a man who’d taken me to lunch that very day and asked me to report back any conversations I had with Russian officials. My Russian publisher dropped dead at a dinner we’d attended. I was told neither death resulted from natural causes.

An official of the American Embassy in Moscow asked me to carry a message to an alleged Communist sympathizer, asking her to become a double agent.

Which I’d done, proudly, and blindly.

And now here I was on a rooftop in Moscow, with a beautiful young woman who bolts at hearing a sloppy, adoring message on her answering machine, and who informs me there are men wanting to kill us.

The next time I’m invited on a trade mission for the United States, I’ll be busy, I decided as I followed her to the edge of the roof.

“What are we doing?” I asked.

“Going down,” she replied, slinging a leg over the edge and planting her foot on the top rung of a metal ladder.

“Not me,” I said.

The hard expression on her face returned. “Don’t be a fool,” she said. “It’s the only way to escape them.”

“Escape
who?”

“Come. It is not far.”

She disappeared.

I peered over the roof’s edge. She was halfway down. She stopped her descent, looked up, and said, “Follow! I will explain when we are safe.”

I turned and looked at the metal door through which we’d come. Did I hear footsteps? The next sound was that of someone trying to open the door from inside.

I looked down again to where Alexandra now stood in an alley behind the building. She waved for me to follow.

The noise from the other side of the door became louder, fists banging on it.

I drew a deep breath, slowly placed one leg over the edge, found the top rung, maneuvered the rest of my body over, and slowly started down, heart pounding, eyes closed. “Just take it slow,” I said aloud to myself, “one step at a time. One foot, then the other. That’s right. Nothing to worry about. You’ll reach the bottom and—”

Men’s voices at the top of the ladder caused me to look up. My foot slipped off the rung, and I slid down the rest of the way, not a great distance, but far enough for me to land feet first with an impact that sent a jolt of pain up my legs.

Ms. Kozhina grabbed my hand and pulled me to where the alley opened on to a street. “Please, faster,” she said, pulling me along with her.

A yellow taxi with a checkered band on the door indicating it was an official cab, and a green light in the corner of the windshield announcing it was available, stood at the curb. Alexandra opened the door, pushed me past it, and scrambled in beside me.

“This is insane,” I managed to say as she shouted something at the driver in Russian. We roared away from the curb.

“I am sorry to be so rough,” Alexandra said, “but it is a matter of life or death.”

“You’d said you’d explain,” I said.

“Yes. Later. When we are safe.”

“We’ll be safe if we go directly to the American Embassy.”

There wasn’t time for her to reply because after traveling only two blocks, the driver brought the taxi to a jarring halt. Alexandra threw rubles at him, opened the door, and dragged me out. A large red neon letter M announced we were at an entrance to the famed, efficient Moscow Metro.

We looked at each other. This was it, I thought, my chance to get away. All I had to do was take off at a run in any direction, hopefully losing myself in the crowds of people on the street.

Alexandra knew what I was thinking. She narrowed her eyes, placed both hands on my arms, and said, “You are not safe, Mrs. Fletcher, unless you come with me. Soon, it will be over. Okay?”

We went down into the underground station and boarded a crowded train that had just pulled in.

“Where are we going?” I asked, adrenaline flowing, a thin film of perspiration on my forehead and upper lip.

“To be with friends,” she said in a stage whisper.

The ride seemed interminable. But we eventually reached our destination, a stop called
Shchkinskaya.
We climbed the stairs to street level. Alexandra paused, as though to get her bearings. A beggar without legs sat on the sidewalk. He held out a plate. A small battery-powered radio was next to him. Although I couldn’t understand what the announcer said, it sounded like a newscast.

“They are looking for you,” Alexandra said.

“Who?”

“The police.”

She started to walk away from the beggar, but I grabbed her arm. “What else are they saying?”

She leaned closer to the radio. “Your friends are safe.”

“Vaughan and Olga?”

“They reported your kidnapping.” She listened for another few seconds. “The police say you were abducted by either Communists or the
mafiya.”

She looked at me.

“Which is it?” I asked.

“Come,” she said, grabbing my hand.

I pulled free and dropped rubles on the beggar’s plate.

“He’ll just buy vodka,” she said, again taking my hand and leading me around the corner in the direction of what looked like an industrial area. The hustle-bustle at the top of the Metro stairs gradually gave way to a dark, narrow street lined with warehouses. We walked quickly, Alexandra setting the pace, and crossed the street to where a single store-front broke up the gray monotony of the industrial buildings. Yellow light from deep inside reached the front window, casting a gentle glow over carved wooden figures.

Alexandra rapped on the door. When no one responded, she knocked again, louder this time. A door to the rear of the shop opened, allowing more light to spill into the shop itself. A man stood in the open doorway. He was small and hunched over. Because the light source was behind him, I saw him only in silhouette.

“Who is he?” I asked.

“Sssssh.”

The man approached the front door with the sort of shuffle common in older people, unsure of his steps and not wanting to fall. As he peered through the door’s glass, I could see that his face was as old as his gait. Errant strands of hair rose straight up from a bald pate. His glasses were thick, magnifying his eyes behind them.

“Alexandra?” he said loud enough for us to hear through the door.

“Da,”
she said. “Open up.”

Unlocking the door and fumbling with interior security chains was a tortuous process. Finally, the door swung open and he stepped outside, looked left and right, then led us inside.

His interest was very much on me.

Alexandra spoke in Russian, then said to me in English, “He wanted to know who you were. I told him you are my friend.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond. I was there only because I’d been duped by her. I’d been thrown into cars, forced to climb down from a roof on a metal ladder, and was told there were men wanting to kill me.
My friend?
If that were true, our friendship was bizarre enough to be worthy of a daytime TV talk show.

He looked at me with cocked head and narrowed eyes behind the twin circles of bottle glass resting on his nose. I understood when he asked Alexandra whether I spoke Russian.

“Nyet,”
she replied.

“No,” I said.

He managed a small smile, pleased that I’d understood his question.

The little old man slowly led us to his office at the rear of the shop. As we moved, we passed framed art on the walls.

“Is this a gallery?” I asked Alexandra in a lowered voice reserved for galleries and museums.

“Yes,” she said.

The office was testimony to chaos and clutter. Narrow aisles between waist-high mounds of books and newspapers afforded the only passage. Two small windows were covered with heavily taped cardboard. The desk was obscured by piles of papers, unframed artwork, and books, many of them very old, judging from the musty odor.

“His name is Josef,” Alexandra said. “He is my friend.”

“Fine,” I said. “But why are we here?”

“To save our lives. You will excuse me, please. Josef and I must discuss things. Be patient.”

They disappeared into the shop area, leaving me alone in the office and again facing the decision whether to attempt to escape, or to trust Alexandra Kozhina. I opted for the latter. I didn’t know where in Moscow I was at the moment. To venture out into the street seemed foolhardy—providing I could. What would I do once I was out? Find a Russian policeman? I didn’t speak the language. Besides, could I trust a Russian policeman? Could I trust anyone?

I’m always disappointed at movies in which the hero or heroine does something dumb, something everyone in the audience wouldn’t do if placed in a similar situation.

If this were a movie, would the audience think I was dumb for not running for my life?

Or would it wince at my stupidity if I found a way out of the shop, and stumbled into a strange street?

A sudden wave of fatigue swept over me. I was drained, mentally and physically. I made my way to a rickety swivel chair behind the desk and dropped onto the seat. The decision had been made. My life was in Alexandra Kozhina’s hands.

 

I had almost nodded off in the chair while waiting for Alexandra and Josef to return to the office. When they did, Alexandra exhibited a rare smile, which picked up my spirits.

“Everything is good now,” she said.

“It is?” I said, standing.

“Yes. Josef has arranged for us to leave.”

“That’s good,” I said. “I assume we’re going back to my hotel, or to the embassy.”

“Embassy?
Nyet!!!”
Josef snarled. “No embassy!!!”

I looked to Alexandra, who gave me a shrug of her shoulders, and what I took as a wink. If, as Winston Churchill said, Russia is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, Alexandra Kozhina was its poster girl. She was so mercurial, cool and calculating one moment, playfully girlish the next.

“Are we leaving?” I asked.

“The car will be here soon,” Alexandra said.

“To take us where?” I asked.

“To take us to—”

Automobile headlights tossing shards of bright white light through the shop’s front window stopped her in midsentence.

“For us?” I said brightly, seeing in those lights a welcome end to the evening.

“Yes,” she said, steel back in her voice, matching the grim expression on her face.

“I’m ready to go,” I said.

Alexandra ignored me, turned to Josef, and said, “The back door. Tell Mily we will be at Titanic.”

“Now wait a minute,” I said. “Who are these people out front?”

“The men who will kill us,” Alexandra said.

“But I thought—”

“Mrs. Fletcher, we do not have a moment to spare. You have a choice. Either come with me and spare your life, or stay here and lose it.”

Some choice.