Murder in Moscow (6 page)

His hand went up. “I deserve the gibes, Mrs. Fletcher. No more gray answers.”

“Good.”

Our food arrived, and we started in on it.

“You’ll be meeting with some pretty important people in Moscow, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“I know. I’m looking forward to it.”

“Now that the Soviet Union is a thing of the past, people assume the country has become an overnight democracy.”

“I don’t assume that,” I said. “It will take them many years to be able to shift from the old Communist regime to a free society.”

“Exactly. I don’t know if you’re aware that the Communists are still very powerful in Russia. They constitute the majority of the legislature.”

“I read that.”

“They want their country back, are willing to do anything to achieve that goal.”

“Is it possible that Russia could become a Communist country again?” I asked.

Weninton nodded. “Very possible.”

“Hmmmmm. This salad is good.”

“So’s the pot pie. You know, Mrs. Fletcher, being part of a trade delegation like this offers many opportunities.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Sometimes there’s more to be accomplished than meets the eye.”

“Oh?”

“Having a distinguished group such as yours traveling in Russia means you’ll be meeting with many government higher-ups there.”

“I’m looking forward to that.”

“You’ll probably end up having private conversations with some of those people.”

I waited for him to continue.

“What we ask of our distinguished citizens in that situation is that they remember those conversations, and keep us informed of what transpired.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, sitting back and holding up a hand. “I have the feeling I’m being recruited to ... would it be an overstatement to say recruited as a spy?”

His laugh was pleasant, and slightly condescending. “The cold war is over, Mrs. Fletcher. No more real-life spies. John LeCarre keeps them in business, but—”

“Mr. Wenington, I may not be the most politically astute person on earth, but I know the end of the cold war did not put an end to spying.”

“Of course it didn’t. And no, I’m not asking you to be a spy. I’m only suggesting that when you return from Russia, you make yourself available for a debriefing. You know, what was said during those privileged conversations you had with Russian leaders. By the way, we do this routinely with many Americans traveling abroad.”

“I’ll certainly consider it,” I said. I finished my salad. “Are you asking every American in the group to be debriefed?” I asked.

“Me personally? No. But others will raise the issue with them.”

We stood outside the hotel. The sunny skies had turned overcast. We shook hands.

“Thank you for an unexpected and lovely lunch, Mr. Wenington.”

“My pleasure. We’ll see each other again before you leave for Moscow.”

“I have no doubt of that.”

I watched him return to Lafayette Park before heading back to the Madison. As I walked there, I was aware that despite having sat with him at lunch, I still didn’t know who he worked for.

That was unsettling enough. But what really bothered me was the need I now felt to continually look over my shoulder.

I didn’t like that feeling one bit.

I’d been to the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts on three other occasions when visiting Washington, which didn’t diminish my enthusiasm for this visit. It’s a stunning facility, five performing arts facilities housed under its single sprawling roof—the 2,200-seat Opera House; the Concert Hall, home to the famed National Symphony Orchestra; the intimate Terrace Theater, only five hundred seats and a gift to our country from Japan; the Eisenhower Theater in which dramatic offerings are staged, including the Washington Opera; and Theater Lab Et Al, where experimental productions and children’s shows are enjoyed.

This night we were treated to an elaborate buffet in a private room on the second floor. Joining us were members of the Russian ballet troupe who would perform later in the evening. A festive atmosphere prevailed in the handsome room. Sam Roberts, our official host from Commerce, flitted from person to person, chatting, asking how we’d spent our free afternoon, and getting feedback from having met President Singleton and the First Lady. There was vodka and Champagne and caviar, of which my soon-to-be Russian publisher, Vlady Staritova, took full advantage.

We settled into prime seats for the performance of Stravinsky’s
Jeux de Cartes,
which the program said was written in 1937, and meant The Card Party in English. I enjoy the ballet, although I’m not very well versed in it. The dancers were graceful and lovely, the music typically Stravinsky. But it did run long; by the time the troupe came out for its final bow, I. was happy to stand and arch my back against a dull ache that had set in.

By now, various members of the publishing contingent had forged friendships. I was invited by two such groups to extend the night with them, but declined. I looked forward to getting into bed and picking up where I’d left off in Sharyn McCrumb’s new novel.

Because Vaughan and Olga decided to join others for a little bar-hopping, I found myself alone in a limousine. The driver, a handsome, proper black man, asked me if we were going directly back to the hotel.

“Yes,” I said.

But before I got into the vehicle, I looked up into the black, star-studded sky. The clouds had blown away; it was what Seth Hazlitt would term a “fat night.”

“I wouldn’t mind a half-hour drive,” I said, “before going to the Madison. Would you give me a minitour?”

“It would be my pleasure, Mrs. Fletcher. My name is Fred.”

We shook hands. “Sure this won’t inconvenience you?” I asked.

“My orders are to take you and the others wherever you wish to go, day or night.”

“That sounds excessive,” I said, “but I won’t argue. Where do you suggest we go?”

He frowned and ran his fingertips over his chin. “We could go by the Mall, the Tidal Basin, over to Rosslyn. The view of the capital is nice from that side of the Potomac.”

“I’m in your hands,” I said. “Mind if I ride up front?”

“Not at all, Mrs. Fletcher. Be easier for me to point things out to you.”

Fred drove slowly, identifying various buildings and monuments as we went. We passed the row of imposing museums along Constitution Avenue—the Museum of American History, the Natural History Museum, and the National Gallery, where we’d enjoyed dinner the night before. He circled the Mall and commented on the famed Air and Space Museum, the Hirshhorn, Museum of African Art, and the Sackler Gallery.

“There’s so much culture here,” I said.

“It’s one of the many nice things about Washington, Mrs. Fletcher. The wife and I, and the grandchildren, always have something to do or see on my days off.”

“That’s the Tidal Basin over there,” he said, pointing, and turning the limo in that direction. “The Jefferson Memorial. My favorite.”

He stopped in front of the rotunda dedicated to the third president of the United States, and the author of our Declaration of Independence. It was beautifully lighted, exuding a magnetic pull on me.

“I’d like to see it up close,” I said.

“All right,” Fred said, getting out and coming around to open the door for me.

“Join me?” I asked.

“I can’t leave the car, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Of course. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

I stepped up into the rotunda and paused to admire the huge bronze statue of the great man who meant so much to our country. I wasn’t the only person to admire him at that moment. A half-dozen tourists were also in the rotunda. One took pictures of others in his party standing in front of the statue of Jefferson.

I drew a deep breath and closed my eyes. It was one of those special moments I would always remember.

I opened my eyes, smiled, and slowly headed back in the direction of the limousine. I’d almost reached it when a woman’s voice stopped me in my tracks. It wasn’t very loud. It was what she said that impacted me. “Oh, my God!”

I turned in the direction of her voice, which erupted into a scream that cut through the still night, a prolonged, anguished cry. I saw her. She was fifteen feet from me, looking down into the bushes that ring the monument.

I froze for a moment. But then I slowly approached her. I saw that Fred, my driver, had also responded. He was out of the car and running toward me.

I reached the woman. “What is it?” I asked.

She didn’t have to answer because I saw what she’d seen. It was a man’s body. He was on his side, one arm extended above his head. He wore a suit, shirt, and tie. His feet and legs were partially covered by the underbrush, his face shrouded in shadow.

The woman—she was young—suddenly hugged me. I felt her body shudder. The young man with her, who’d lingered in the rotunda, now joined us. So did Fred. I indicated the body with a downward cast of my eyes. He leaned forward to better see, stood erect again, and said, “I’ll call the police from the car. No sense standing here.”

“You’re right,” I said. To the young woman and her male friend, “Come. We’ll wait for the police over there.”

The police arrived within minutes. After examining the body and securing the scene, a plainclothes detective took statements from me and the young couple.

“You’re the famous mystery writer,” he said when I gave him my name.

“What I am at this moment,” I said, “is a shaken woman. How horrible to have someone killed in such a revered place.”

“Why do you say he was ‘killed?’ ” he asked.

“I just assumed it,” I replied. “It didn’t look to me as though he died of natural causes—heart attack, that sort of thing. He looks as though he’d been dragged into those bushes. Or out of them.”

The detective noted what I’d said. The scene had now expanded to include four or five police cars, their flashing red lights creating a macabre kaleidoscope of color and movement, their squawking radios violating the silent sanctity of the Jefferson Memorial.

“How long were you here at the monument?” the detective asked me.

I looked to Fred.

“Ten minutes tops,” Fred said. “Less.”

“What caused you to see the body, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“This young woman’s scream.”

“You didn’t see anything unusual while you were here? Hear anything? See any suspicious characters who might have done it?”

“No, although I admit I was totally focused on the statue of Mr. Jefferson. Nothing. I heard or saw nothing out of the ordinary. Have you identified him?”

“No, ma’am. Anything else you can add?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“By the way, what are you doing in Washington?”

I explained that I was part of the trade mission.

“Going to Moscow, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Well, careful there, Mrs. Fletcher. D.C. is Disneyland compared to that city.”

Fred drove me away from the Tidal Basin just as the press started to arrive. I sat with him in the car in front of the Madison for a few minutes, neither of us saying anything.

“You’ll be all right?” he asked in his deep voice tinged with his southern heritage.

“Yes. Fortunately, or unfortunately, this isn’t the first time I’ve been in the wrong place when a body’s been discovered. I suppose we’ll read about it in the papers tomorrow.”

“I suppose we will.”

He escorted me into the hotel, shook my hand, and wished me a good night’s sleep—“If that’s possible,” he added.

“I think it is,” I said. “I’m exhausted. Thank you so much, Fred. I’m sorry my little after-hours tour ended up like this for you.”

“Good night, Mrs. Fletcher. Try to enjoy the rest of your trip.”

I got into bed and attempted to sleep, but the vision of the body at the Jefferson Memorial precluded that. I got up and tried to read, but my concentration just wasn’t there.

I finally turned to television, something I seldom do. I flipped through the myriad cable offerings until settling on a twenty-four-hour news channel. I watched it without interest, the events on the screen and the anchor’s voice just a blur. Until—

I became instantly alert and focused.

I turned off the TV, went to the window, looked down at the empty street, then picked up my watch from where I’d placed it on the night table. It was after midnight.

I called the hotel operator. “What room is Mr. and Mrs. Buckley in?” I asked.

I was told.

“Please ring that room for me.”

Vaughan picked up immediately.

“Vaughan, it’s Jessica. Sorry if I woke you.”

“You didn’t. We just walked in a few minutes ago. Enjoy your evening?”

“No.”

“What’s the matter?”

I told him.

“That’s terrible,” he said. “It’s the same man you’ve been mentioning to me?”

“Yes. I had lunch with him today.”

“You did? Why?”

“Buy me a cup of tea downstairs?”

“I’m on my way.”

Vaughan was waiting for me in the bar when I arrived. He ordered a cognac; I asked for tea with lemon.

The bar was virtually empty, and so we had our choice of tables. We chose one in a comer farthest from the door and bar.

“Now, tell me again about this dreadful experience you had tonight,” he said in hushed tones.