Murder in Moscow (20 page)

It’s been said of me by friends that I can find something positive in even the most unpleasant situations. I experienced one of those moments as we exited Josef’s office through a back door, ran down a narrow alley, climbed over a three-foot-high brick wall, and emerged on a street lined with shops and small restaurants.

“Wait,” I said, pausing to allow my breath to catch up with me, and to press my hands against pain in my sides.

“Are you all right?” Alexandra asked.

“No, I’m not,” I said. “Look, you have to explain to me why we’re running away again, and where we’re going.”

“We’re going to Titanic.”

“Why? Are we about to sink?”

“No. It is a nightclub. There are people there who will help us.”

“A nightclub,” I said. “I’ll say one thing for you, Ms. Kozhina.”

“What is that?”

“At least I’m seeing more of Moscow than my friends are.”

She laughed. “I am glad you can see something good in this, Mrs. Fletcher.”

A taxi came around the corner, and Alexandra hailed it. Once inside, she told the young driver, “The Titanic, please. And hurry.”

I wished she hadn’t said that. Russian cab drivers go fast enough without being prompted.

After a fifteen-minute race that brought me close to losing anything I’d eaten that day, we pulled up in front of a building whose flashing neon sign announced TITANIC. A hundred young people milled about outside the entrance, some drinking beer, others openly smoking marijuana cigarettes. Alexandra paid the driver, and we joined the crowd on the sidewalk. Loud music poured through the open front doors. I was aware that I was on the receiving end of some strange looks from the young men and women. Clearly, I was the only person there on the wrong side of forty.

I followed Alexandra past the doors to where two large, scowling men in gray suits stood guard at doors leading to the club itself. The music was now deafening, and we weren’t even inside.

“Alexandra, I really don’t think that—”

She pulled rubles from her jacket pocket and slapped them on the table. “Dva,” she said. I knew from my Russian lessons with Professor Donskoy that it meant two.

One of the men scooped up the money, tore off two tickets from a roll, and handed them to Alexandra. As menacing as he was, at least he was of my generation.

I smiled at him.

He said something in Russian.

“What did he say?” I shouted to Alexandra over the musical din as we were allowed to pass through the interior doors.

“Something dirty. He likes you.”

“Oh.”

Inside, it was a scene from Fellini, blinding strobe lights casting garish images, the incessant beat of the music assaulting the ears, indeed the whole body, as the booming bass notes pulsated from toes to head. What looked like a thousand young men and women gyrated to the beat on a massive dance floor.

I looked at Alexandra and yelled in her ear, “What do we do now?”

“What?”

“Now. What now?”

She motioned with her head to follow her, and we threaded our way through the twisted, tangled knot of dancers until reaching the opposite end of the dance floor. Men who looked like those at the front door ringed the club’s perimeter. Bouncers, I assumed, judging from their size, the hard expression on their faces, and the bulges in their suit jackets. Trouble would not be tolerated in Titanic.

I had the feeling Alexandra wasn’t sure of what to do next. Her eyes swept the club, from dancers to bouncers, up to a booth where a disc jockey plied his musical wares, then back to where we stood.

She stepped up onto a round pedestal on which one of the club’s many speakers sat, affording her a better overview of her surroundings. I watched her intently; her expression shifted from intense scrutiny, to disbelief, then to overt fear. She hopped down, grabbed my hand, and said, “This way,” pulling me toward a door at the comer of the room.

Another back door exit, was all I could think.

Suddenly, we were frozen by the abrupt cessation of the music. I looked to the dance floor, where dancers had frozen, too, players in a game of statues, puzzled expressions creasing their faces.

“Quickly,” Alexandra said.

But before we reached the door, a young man intercepted us.

“Mily,” Alexandra said.

“Come,” the young man said.

We followed him to the opposite corner, where a folding screen concealed yet another door. One of the bouncers, considerably younger than his colleagues, stepped aside as we went behind the screen. Another young man opened the door for us. Alexandra and the two men exchanged words in rapid-fire Russian.

We were in an unlighted hallway. At its end was a heavy metal door, presumably leading to the outside. We were hustled to it, and one of the young men opened it. I was right; we now stood in a small asphalt area between two large Dumpsters. I couldn’t see cars, but I could hear their running engines.

We circumvented the Dumpsters to where two Mercedes sedans idled. The young man opened the door to one and shouted something that sounded urgent. Alexandra leaped into the back of the car, turned, and said, “Now, Mrs. Fletcher. Get in!”

Commotion from the hallway reached my ears—shouting, then a gunshot, and anguished Russian words from someone.

I got in the car. The door was slammed closed behind me. The young man who’d led us there ran off, disappearing into the shadows.

The driver turned on the lights and left rubber behind as he made a tight turn and headed for an exit. The second Mercedes followed.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“To where we will be safe,” she said.

“A few days ago I was very safe in my home, in Cabot Cove, Maine.”

“And you shall be there again soon. Trust me.”

I realized that’s exactly what I’d been doing all along. Trusting her. Don’t ask me why. Based upon everything that had happened, I shouldn’t have trusted anyone. But here I was in another car, being tossed about as the driver made insanely fast turns, on our way to—it almost didn’t matter where we were going anymore. I was drained, numb, like someone who’d given up all control and had come to grips with an inevitable future.

As happened earlier that evening on one of my previous mystery rides, we left the city confines and were on country roads. Now, as the countryside flashed by, I began to sense that we were on the same road we’d taken from the airport to Moscow upon arrival in Russia. That both heartened me and was cause for concern.

Why
were we heading for the airport?

My instincts proved correct when we turned into the entrance for Sheremetyevo II International Airport.

“Are we about to fly somewhere?” I asked Alexandra.

“Yes.”

“Where?” I envisioned getting on a plane and ending up in Siberia, Mongolia, or worse.

“Home.”

“Whose home?”

She turned, grabbed my hand, and said, “Your home, Mrs. Fletcher. And now mine.”

As we approached the main terminal, we were joined by other vehicles with flashing lights, which led us to a dark, remote area of the airport. As I strained to see where we were headed, I saw a small twin-engine jet aircraft bathed in white from powerful searchlights mounted atop trucks. We pulled up next to the plane, on the side where a set of stairs extended down.

“We’re going on this?” I asked.

Alexandra nodded, opened the door on her side, and got out. I followed.

Armed, uniformed Russian soldiers surrounded the jet. The relief I’d felt a few minutes ago was replaced by renewed fear. The scene was garish—the lights, the low whine of the aircraft’s idling engines, the military presence, the uncertainty of it all. I felt like a helpless child, at the mercy of taller, stronger adult strangers.

Alexandra had walked away to speak with a tall, elegant man wearing a suit. I couldn’t see his face because of a shadow created by the plane’s tail assembly. They stepped out of the shadows and approached me. Now I could see his face. He was undoubtedly American, but I hadn’t seen him before. The man smiled and extended his hand. “Harrison Monroe, Mrs. Fletcher. Ready to go?”

“What agency are you with?” I asked, not expecting an answer.

“Plenty of time later to fill you in.”

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“A few stops here and there, but then back to the good ol’ USA.”

“But my clothing and luggage. They’re at the hotel.”

“They’ll be sent. Nothing to worry about. You can pick up something in London.”

“London?”

“Yes. Ever been there?”

“Many times, but never under circumstances like this.”

Another smile from him. “We’ll do everything we can to make the trip comfortable, Mrs. Fletcher. Time to board.”

Alexandra looked up into the sky, where millions of stars sparkled against the black scrim, and said, “Your eyes are like stars in the night,” followed by a rueful laugh.

Monroe guided me to the boarding steps with gentle pressure on my elbow, and held my hand from below as I climbed them. As I stepped on board, a man wearing an open-necked white short-sleeved shirt and dark trousers emerged from the cockpit. “Welcome aboard,” he said.

“Are you the pilot?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

The aircraft’s interior was luxurious. There were two inlaid conference tables with four leather swivel chairs at each, a bar along one wall with gleaming glassware and bottles in wells secured by leather straps, a leather bench seat along the opposite wall, and a lavatory with its door open, revealing the sort of appointments found in the best hotels.

“Please sit here,” the pilot said, indicating a chair at one of the tables. “We’ll be leaving shortly.”

“Am I the only passenger?” I asked.

“Oh, no,” he answered. “The others will be here shortly. Soft drink? Something stronger?”

“Tea?”

“It’ll take a minute.”

“I have a feeling I have nothing but time,” I said, folding myself into the luxurious leather that surrounded me and taking a deep breath.

I looked out the small window next to me. The armed soldiers remained in position. The two Mercedes that had brought us here were gone, although the escort vehicles remained, their lights continuing to flash. Alexandra came into view, still talking with the man who’d introduced himself as Harrison Monroe. Although I hadn’t met him before, there was a familiarity created by his general appearance and demeanor. It seemed every American government official I’d met since embarking on the trade mission was cut from the same cloth.

They shook hands. A moment later Alexandra was in the plane and seated next to me.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“Not sure,” I said. “Who is he?”

“Mr. Monroe?”

“Yes.”

“He works for your government.”

“I surmised that. What does he do for my government?”

“I am not sure.”

“No surprise there,” I said.

“Why do you say that?”

“It seems that no one from my government—at least the ones I’ve dealt with—is comfortable revealing who they work for.”

“Ah, Mrs. Fletcher, I can understand your frustration. For me, it is not surprising. In Russia, being secretive is part of our nature. We are born with it. It is in our genes. For you, America is not supposed to have any secrets. When it does, you are shocked.”

I looked out the window again and thought about what she’d just said. She was right, I suppose, although I wasn’t especially pleased being painted in such a naive light. It really wouldn’t have mattered to me how much secrecy my government indulged in if it hadn’t involved me.

But it had. As I sat there waiting to take off, I pledged to myself that I would get the answers I wanted, no matter how long it took, or how arduous the process.

The pilot served my tea and asked Alexandra whether she wanted anything.

“Vodka, please,” she said. “With ice.”

Not only was secrecy an inherent trait of Russians, I thought, so was vodka. Vlady Staritova came to mind. I wished I’d gotten to know him better. Why had he died? Was Karl Warner right, that Vlady hadn’t keeled over from natural causes?

Reflection upon Vlady and his death was interrupted by the arrival of a long black limousine, which came to a stop directly beneath my window. It was flanked by two other cars, whose occupants immediately piled out and formed a security gantlet between limo and plane. Obviously, someone of considerable importance had arrived.

I watched as Harrison Monroe went to one of the vehicle’s rear doors and spoke to someone inside through a partially open window. He straightened, stepped back, and the door opened.

Vaughan Buckley exited the limo, followed by Olga.

“What’s the matter?” Alexandra asked, reacting to my involuntary gasp.

“It’s my friends, the Buckleys.”

“Good. I was worried about them.”

“You
were worried about them?”

“Yes. We have all been in much danger tonight, Mrs. Fletcher.”

I turned to her. “I suggest that after what we’ve endured together, you call me Jessica.”

“I would be honored ... Jessica.”

I had trouble keeping my excitement in check as I waited for Vaughan and Olga to board. They came directly to me, and we embraced. They took the two chairs on the other side of the table and started asking questions.

I held up my hand. “I don’t have answers to any of your questions. I wish I did. All I can say is—”

“Who is this?” Vaughan asked, referring to Alexandra.

“Oh,” I said, “this is Ms. Alexandra Kozhina.”

“The infamous Alexandra Kozhina?” Olga asked.