Murder in Moscow

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Then I should be able to go with you,” Olga said.

  “She’s right,” I offered.

  “Jess. I—”

  “Of course I’m right,” said Olga. “Besides, why should you two have all the fun? I’d love to attend a Russian writers’ meeting, see how they think, what they’re up to. The next Pushkin or Chekhov or Tolstoy might be there.”

  “Unlikely,” Vaughan said, resignation in his voice.

  “Then it’s settled,” Olga said. She looked at her watch. “Time to get to the afternoon meeting.” She smiled sweetly at Vaughan. “I never knew the publishing business was so much fun.”

  That afternoon’s gathering was not what I would term “fun.” A panel of Russian publishers—we were told there were an estimated three thousand independent publishers in Russia; the panel represented the few who were solvent—droned on about their business woes, some speaking in fractured English, others-filtering their remarks through a translator. Their ultimate message was clear enough, no matter in what language it was presented. They wanted American publishers to buy their way into the Russian book market through partnerships forged with the Russians.

  “At the profit margin we operate under, the last thing Buckley House needs is a Russian partner tottering on the brink of bankruptcy,” Vaughan whispered to me. “And with the Russian mob as a not very silent partner.”

  I chuckled. I was thinking the same thing. I was also pondering how lucky I was to not be in business, with all its intrigue and pressures and perpetual eye on the bottom line. Running my own little, one-person writing factory was quite enough, thank you.

  The ubiquitous cocktail party followed the meeting, with caviar and smoked salmon and an unending supply of vodka. I wasn’t surprised to see the ever-present Karl Warner at the party. But the arrival of Tom Mulligan of the American Embassy was unexpected. He came directly to where I chatted with a group of Russians, one of whom made an enthusiastic pitch for the rights to my books. “Poor Vlady,” the Russian said. “He would have been a good publisher for you, Mrs. Fletcher. But, alas, poor Vlady is no longer with us, which means there is no one at his publishing house to do your works justice. I, on the other hand, have a fine staff who would—”

  “Mr. Mulligan,” I said, happy for the intrusion. “How nice to see you again.”

  The Russian publishers drifted away, leaving Mulligan and me alone.

  “Learning a lot about your Russian colleagues?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes. This has been a fascinating, as well as informative experience.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  I looked past him to where Warner stood with a small cluster of people. Although he was engaged in conversation with them, I had no doubt his attention was on us.

  “Have a pleasant evening planned?” Mulligan asked.

  I wasn’t sure how to answer. Did he know about my date to address Alexandra Kozhina’s writers’ group? Probably. On the other hand, maybe he wasn’t in Warner’s loop. We’d been told at lunch that the performance of the LenKom Theater and the Russian nightclub visit, both having been cancelled due to Vlady Staritova’s death, had been rescheduled for that evening. Was Mulligan referring to those plans?

  I replied to his question in my best noncommittal, bureaucratic, governmental manner: “Yes,” I said.

  He gave me a wide smile. “Good. I want to be sure our distinguished American visitors enjoy themselves. Hope to see you again before you leave, Mrs. Fletcher. And thank you again for signing the books for me and my wife. Much appreciated.”

  He sauntered away, his walk that of a man sure of himself in any situation.

  His departure left me looking directly at Warner, who also smiled, nodded in a way that said everything would be fine, and left the room.

  “Dinner plans?” Marge Fargo asked, coming up behind me.

  “Ah, no. Well, yes, actually. I promised some people we’d get together tonight.” Which I had done, although it didn’t involve dinner. The whitest of lies.

  “Oh, sorry,” she said. “I was hoping to catch some quiet time with you during the trip. Happy with Buckley House?”

  Her question caught me off-guard. “Pardon?” I said.

  “Are you happy with Buckley House publishing your books?”

  “Why, yes.”

  “Good to hear. You know, Jess, sometimes even the best of relationships in this business run their course. A staleness sets in. I’ve just established a new division devoted exclusively to murder mysteries. You’d be the crown jewel of that division. Plenty of money to put behind your books.”

  A wave of pervasive discomfort swept over me. I didn’t know Marge Fargo very well, hardly at all, actually, aside from her reputation in the publishing world, which was a fine one. Here I was being wooed away from my publisher of many years, Buckley House, not the biggest in the business but one of the most respected. I’d developed a strong friendship with Vaughan Buckley and had always been blissfully pleased with the job he did publishing and marketing my books. It was an awkward situation Marge Fargo was putting me in, one I was anxious to escape.

  “Your new division sounds exciting,” I said. “You’ll have to tell me more about it one day. Maybe on the flight home. But Buckley House and I are—well, we’ve become inseparable, in a sense.”

  “I understand,” she said. “Vaughan is one of the best. Still, change can sometimes be beneficial for an author. Let’s talk about it at another time. Going to the theater and nightclub?”

  “I don’t think so, Marge. Dinner with these friends, then early to bed. I’m beat.”

  “Just a few more days to go. See you later.”

  My dinner plans had been decided earlier that afternoon. Vaughan suggested we have room service for the three of us sent to my suite. That would give us a chance to discuss the evening ahead, and to be at the hotel when the car sent by Ms. Kozhina arrived. I found it somewhat strange that a writers’ group, in any country, would have the resources to send a car for someone. Then again, I suppose I should have been flattered they thought so much of my appearance that they extended that courtesy. Probably one of the group’s members, not a hired car.

  On the other hand, what if it wasn’t a writer’s group? What if it was as Warner and Mulligan claimed, a subversive Communist cell with an important role to play in attempting to overthrow the Yeltsin government?

  I preferred to not think about that.

  Chapter Sixteen

  We ordered up steaks and salads, and a platter of cookies for dessert. While waiting for room service to arrive, Vaughan and Olga insisted I show off my musical training by playing a few tunes on the piano. They didn’t believe my protestations about how musically inept I was—until I’d fumbled through a simple song or two. They were polite in their praise, but I knew they were pleased when the knock came at the door announcing dinner was about to be served, and that the concert was over.

  It was pleasurable dining privately with my two good friends in the opulence of my suite. The subject of what we’d be doing later that evening didn’t come up until I’d poured coffee and had passed around the platter of tiny Russian sweets.

  “Want to go over what you’re supposed to say?” Vaughan asked.

  “I’ve done that a thousand times in my head,” I said. “It seems so simple, but—”

  “What you’re concerned about is her reaction, I presume,” he said.

  “Yes. I also wonder how I’m going to find time alone with her, at least enough to have a one-on-one conversation.”

  “Maybe we can help with that,” Olga said. “You know, divert the attention of others away from you and this Ms. Kozhina.”

  “We’ll look for an opportunity to do that,” said Vaughan.

  “Time to get downstairs,” I said. “The car will be here in ten minutes.”

  “How do I look?” Olga asked, standing and extending her arms.

  Vaughan laughed and said, “You look like one of James Bonds’s girls.”

 
; “Is that a compliment?” Olga asked.

  “Decidedly so,” he said.

  “Let’s go,” I said. “Musn’t keep my Russian writers’ group waiting.”

  “But we’re all agreed on one thing,” Vaughan said. “If any of us smells trouble, we’re out of there, no questions asked.”

  “You’d think Mr. Warner and whoever he works for would have arranged for a way for us to get in touch with them in an emergency,” Olga said as he went to the door.

  “Maybe he has,” I said, opening the door. Outside in the hall was the same man who’d been stationed there at various times since our arrival.

  “Dobry vecher,” I said, pleasantly.

  “Dobry vecher,” he mumbled, turning away.

  “Who’s he?” Vaughan asked when we were out of earshot.

  “Don’t know his name,” I said. “Sort of an anonymous companion.”

  “Gives me the creeps,” Olga said as the elevator doors opened.

  “Him?” I said.

  “This whole place. The hotel, the city, everything.”

  “Let’s not overreact,” Vaughan said, stepping aside for us to enter.

  We rode down in silence.

  The Savoy’s large lobby was a beehive of activity when we came off the elevator. That it was a center of international business travel was evidenced by the mix of nationalities milling about and speaking different languages, but undoubtedly all there for the same reason—to explore ways to profit from the new Russia.

  We went to the door leading to the street, where the busy sidewalk mirrored what was going on inside.

  “Do we know what car to look for?” Olga asked.

  “No,” I said, standing on tiptoe to see over the throng of people blocking my view. There were a number of hired cars with drivers waiting for whom-ever they were assigned to drive that night.

  “Maybe we should go back inside and call someone,” Vaughan suggested.

  “Call who?” I asked. “I don’t have Ms. Kozhina’s number.”

  “Mrs. Fletcher!”

  We turned to see a young man making his way through the crowd in our direction, hand held high. “Mrs. Fletcher!”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I... am ... driver,” he said, breathless. He wore a black suit and black cap with a small brim. Long strands of silky blond hair sprouted out on all sides.

  “I’m glad you found us,” I said.

  He looked at me quizzically.

  “Gavareete lee vy pa angleeskee?” I asked.

  “Nyet. No ... speak... much... ah ... angleeskee.”

  “That’s fine,” Vaughan said. “Where’s your car? Automobile.”

  His face lit up. “Ah, yes. Come.”

  We followed him along the sidewalk and to a side street where he’d parked his car, a long, sleek gray limousine. So much for one of the writers’ group’s members picking us up. Either Alexandra Kozhina and her group had lots of money, or the driver was someone’s relative.

  He opened one of the rear doors and allowed us to enter, closed the door, and ran around to the driver’s side where he slid behind the wheel.

  “What is your name?” Vaughan asked.

  The driver turned. “Name? Ah, yes. Misha. My... name ... is ... Misha.”

  “Good,” Vaughan said. “Where are we going?”

  Misha’s answer was to start the engine, slip the limo into gear, and pull into traffic on the main street, oblivious to other vehicles in his way.

  “Hang on,” Vaughan said.

  His warning was justified. Misha drove like a madman, cutting off cars and trucks and large red buses, one hand on the wheel, the other pressed firmly against the horn button.

  “Would you please slow down,” I said, trying to penetrate the glass partition he’d closed between him and the passenger compartment.

  “Save your breath,” Olga said, grabbing her husband’s arm as we took a corner without slowing.

  I tried to gain a sense of the direction in which we were going, but it was difficult because of our speed, and the darkened windows in the limo. Besides, since I didn’t know the city, there weren’t any reference points to use.

  After fifteen minutes, I started to become concerned. Dimitri Rublev had said the section of Moscow in which Alexandra Kozhina lived, Kitay Gorod, was close to the Kremlin, and I knew that the Kremlin was within walking distance of the hotel.

  I knocked on the partition. Misha cocked his head. I looked for a handle that would allow me to slide the partition open, but there wasn’t any.

  “Open it!” Vaughan yelled.

  Misha answered by making a hard right and screeching to a halt in front of a nondescript building, in a row of nondescript buildings. He hopped from the limo, came around, and opened the door for us. Vaughan was closest to the door; Olga sat between Vaughan and me, leaving me as the last person who would exit.

  Vaughan got out and stretched.

  Olga looked at me and said, “God, what a ride. He’s a madman.”

  “I know,” I said, drawing a deep breath of relief that we’d finally—and safely—reached our destination.

  “Is this where she lives?” Olga asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Come on,” Vaughan urged from the sidewalk. Olga slowly slid across the broad seat and accepted Vaughan’s offer of his hand. It was at that moment I noticed someone slip behind the wheel. It wasn’t Misha, no blond curls protruding from beneath his cap. It was someone else.

  I turned to see Vaughan about to extend his hand to me.

  Then, someone came up and pushed Vaughan aside.

  The door slammed shut.

  The click of the electronic door locks reverberated throughout the rear passenger compartment.

  I heard Vaughan yell, “Jess!”

  The driver rammed the accelerator to the floor, sending me back hard against the seat.

  I pivoted and looked out the rear window. Vaughan and Olga stood helplessly by, flanked by two tough-looking men.

  I swung around, leaned forward, and pounded my fist on the partition. The driver turned his head slightly.

  It was Ivan, our driver of the day before.

  I don’t swear. But if I’d known a four-letter word in Russian, I certainly would have used it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Street signs blurred as we raced past them. I tried to open the lock on the nearest door but couldn’t. My mind ran as fast as the limo, conflicting thoughts and fears bumping into each other, anger coming to the fore one moment, replaced by heart-pounding fear the next. Most prevailing was the sense of hopelessness, of impotency. There was nothing I could do except wait until we got to where we were going and see what that situation brought.

  I thought of movies I’d seen in which a kidnap victim has the presence of mind to observe landmarks to be used later when the abductors are brought to justice and put on trial. I would have tried to do that, too, except the combination of night, and the darkened windows, made it impossible to get a fix on anything. I did sense one thing, however. We were leaving the city proper and heading into a less populated area. That was even more frightening.

  Was I being taken to some remote location to be killed? Why would anyone want to kill me? What had I done? As far as I knew, my only action was to agree to deliver a lover’s note to a young Russian woman who also happened to be a writer. Was Vaughan Buckley right, that the note contained some sort of code? Even if it did, I hadn’t written it, nor could I know what it meant.

  And why would I be kidnapped? The only contact I’d had with this Alexandra Kozhina was a few telephone conversations.

  But as I continued to chew on these thoughts, it became more evident that the complication had been injected by my own people, my own government. Here I was agreeing to deliver a message to Ms. Kozhina on behalf of those same people and that same government. That had removed me from the simple role of, as the travel book publisher had said during our flight to Moscow, a “courier of romance
.” I knew one thing: Assuming I got out of this alive, I’d leave playing Cupid to others more constitutionally suited for that dangerous occupation.

  I was mired deep in thought and fear when Ivan pulled off onto a narrow dirt road that was deeply rutted. I strained to see where we were; all I saw were the silhouettes of trees against a bright nighttime sky. Ivan stopped the limo, got out, and stood in front of it. He lit a cigarette and continued to stand there, the smoke visibly wafting up into the air each time he took a puff.

  I tried the door. It was locked.

  I heard voices. A moment later, the shadows of two people fell across my window as they passed. An animated conversation in Russian erupted between the newcomers and Ivan. Then the door was opened, and the beam of a flashlight blinded me. My hands reflexively came up to shield my eyes.

  “Out!” a man said in English.

  “Get the light out of my eyes,” I said.

  “Out!” he repeated.

  I slid across the leather seat and paused at the open door. The flashlight was now trained on the second man who’d arrived, young, tall, and with a long, chiseled face.

  “Who are you?” I asked, leaving the vehicle and planting my feet on the spongy soil.

  “You will, please, come with us,” the man holding the flashlight said.

  “I demand to know why I’ve been abducted,” I said, surprised at the resolve in my voice. My inner trembling was unstated.

  “Please, not to argue with me,” he said. He touched my elbow.

  “Keep your hands off me,” I said, following him around the car to where another vehicle was parked beneath a clump of low-hanging trees. Its lights were off, the full moon’s glow providing natural illumination.

  The man led me to the second vehicle, a small sedan, and opened the rear door.

  “I am not getting in there” I said.