Murder in Moscow

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Home.”

  “Whose home?”

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

  Chapter Twenty

  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.

  Alexandra smiled demurely. “I am afraid so,” she said.

  Harrison Monroe boarded, along with two other men I hadn’t seen before. One of them joined the pilot in the cockpit and took the right seat. The cockpit door remained open, allowing us to observe the two men manipulate controls, causing the sleek jet to move.

  “We’re cleared for an immediate takeoff,” the copilot said over the intercom. “Please fasten your seat belts and secure any loose objects.”

  I held my teacup as the pilot applied thrust. The twin engines whined, then roared to life, and we were on our way. In what seemed only a second, the nose tilted up and we were airborne, slicing our way through the night sky to altitude, and destination, unknown.

  “Any idea where we’re headed?” Vaughan asked.

  “They told me London,” I replied, “but I wouldn’t count on it.”

  Once we reached cruising altitude, the copilot,
who didn’t look older than a high school senior, acted as our flight attendant, offering drinks and packaged snacks. I asked who owned the plane.

  “It’s a beauty, isn’t it?” he replied.

  Another question deflected.

  “You should have something stronger than tea,” Vaughan said after he and Olga ordered vodka, and Alexandra asked for her second drink. “After what you’ve been through.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” I said.

  While the copilot was busy at the bar, Vaughan leaned over the table and said, “You obviously persuaded Ms. Kozhina to come over to our side.”

  Alexandra lowered her head, then raised it, looking at me and smiling. “I am sorry to disappoint you, but what you say is not true.”

  “But you’re with us on this plane,” Vaughan said.

  “That is true,” she said. “But—”

  Monroe, who sat with his colleague at the other table, suddenly joined us, cutting off what Alexandra was about to say.

  “Everyone comfortable?” he asked.

  “Ms. Kozhina was about to answer a question,” I said.

  “Plenty of time for that,” Monroe said. “Ms. Kozhina, would you be good enough to join us at the other table? We have some things to discuss with you.”

  “Plokha,” I said.

  “Pardon?” Monroe said.

  “It means bad in Russian, I think,” I said. “It’s the worst Russian word I learned. If I’d learned a few more, I’d—”

  “Enjoy your drinks,” Monroe said. “Pleasure to have you with us.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Alexandra’s defection to the plane’s other table—no pun intended—allowed Vaughan, Olga, and me to catch up on our respective adventures of that night.

  “After the men pushed me aside and made you a captive in the limo,” Vaughan said, “Olga and I really feared for our lives. They were mobsters, no doubt about that.”

  “How did you get away from them?” I asked.

  Olga answered, “Truth is, Jess, we didn’t get away from them. They let us go.”

  “Immediately?”

  “Yes,” said Vaughan. “They said something to us in Russian and walked away.”

  “Just like that?” I said.

  “Not quite,” Olga said. “One of them spoke some English. He said their expenses had to be paid.”

  “Expenses? Paid by you? That’s outrageous.”

  Olga laughed. “Sure it was,” she said. “A shake-down.”

  “What did you do?” I asked.

  “Paid them, of course,” Vaughan said. “Gave them every cent we had in cash. You saw them. Not people to be trifled with.”

  “You were smart,” I said. “At least you’re alive. Where did you go after that?”

  “We went directly to the embassy,” Olga said.

  Vaughan chimed in, “We told Mulligan what happened to us, and to you. He didn’t seem too concerned. Frankly, I think the man is lacking to be in such a job. A typical bureaucrat waiting for the pension. But enough about us. What happened to you? How did you hook up with her?” He indicated Alexandra, who continued to huddle with Monroe and his colleague.

  “It’s a—well, I’m not sure I’m capable of telling you with any accuracy. The whole night’s a blur.”

  “You delivered the message to her from Mulligan and Warner, I assume,” Olga said.

  “Yes, although she already knew what the message was.”

  “How did she know?”

  “How do people know anything in Russia?” I said. “I had the feeling she wasn’t interested in working for us. Us. I mean the government. The United States. At any rate, she dismissed it until she received a message on her answering machine. An American male voice said, ‘Your eyes are like stars in the night.’ ”

  “Where have I heard that before?” Vaughan asked. “In the note I carried to her.”

  “That’s right,” Vaughan said. “Why would that line change her mind about cooperating with the U.S.?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “That’s only one of a hundred questions I want answered.”

  Alexandra rejoined us. “I am sorry,” she said. “They had things they wanted me to know. I am also sorry about what happened to all of you. It was not my intention to see you inconvenienced.”

  My laugh was purely involuntary. “I’m afraid that ranks with one of the great understatements, Alexandra.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said.

  I glanced at the other table where Harrison Monroe and his colleague were deep in hushed conversation. Since they didn’t seem especially interested in us, it was a good time to ask Alexandra a few questions. I leaned close to her and asked, “What does the message, ‘Your eyes are like stars in the night’ mean?”

  She thought before answering. “It was a way of letting me know that I was no longer safe with my people.”

  “I’ll need a little more explanation than that.” I said as Vaughan and Olga leaned forward to pick up on our conversation.

  “I was told that I would receive instruction from Dimitri on what code word, or words, would be used to alert me to danger.”

  “Danger? Danger from whom?”

  “My Communist comrades.”

  “Why would you be in danger with them?”

  “Because they learned of what I have been doing for your people.”

  “Wait a minute,” Vaughan said, keeping his voice low. “How could your so-called comrades know that you’d decided to cooperate with the Americans? Jess just made the offer tonight. As I understand it from her, you were warned of being in danger before you’d ever decided to cooperate.”

  A small, satisfied smile crossed her pretty lips. She slowly shook her head, looked at me, then said to Vaughan, “That is not true, Mr. Buckley. I made my decision two years ago.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Alexandra’s statement that she’d decided two years ago to cooperate with the United States left us stunned. I started to probe her for details, but Monroe again interrupted by ushering her back to his table. It was at that moment that the night caught up with me. I couldn’t keep my eyes open, and stopped trying.

  When I awoke, Vaughan, too, was sleeping. Olga had moved to the bench seat where she read a fashion magazine, one of many publications available on the plane.

  “We’re beginning our descent into London,” the pilot said over the intercom. “I suggest you tidy up your area in preparation for landing. We should be touching down at Gatwick in about twenty minutes. I’ll give you a heads-up when we’re a few minutes out.”

  His announcement woke Vaughan, who yawned, stretched and smiled. “Almost over,” he said. “London will be a pleasant change from where we’ve been.”

  “And what we’ve been through,” Olga added as she rejoined us.

  Flying into London naturally generated thoughts of George Sutherland, Scotland Yard chief inspector and my dear friend. Scottish by birth, George had been with The Yard in London for many years. We’d met there when I was visiting another friend, Majorie Ainsworth, then the world’s reigning mystery writer. She was murdered during my visit, which was the catalyst for coming into contact with the dashing, urbane Inspector Sutherland.

  We’d maintained our relationship since then, and I’d been a guest at his family’s castle in Wick, Scotland, a few summers ago. Some of my close friends back home are convinced George and I were enjoying a romantic relationship. That wasn’t true, although I’d be less than honest not to admit that the contemplation was not unpleasant. George had made his feelings known to me during that summer in Wick. But we both knew that if something deeper and more meaningful were ever to develop between us, it could result only from a careful navigation of our individual lives, and what the melding of them would potentially represent. Neither of us had reached that point.

  I looked to the other table where Alexandra napped in one of the four chairs. Harrison Monroe and the other
man read newspapers.

  “Interesting,” Vaughan said, “what Ms. Kozhina said about having made up her mind two years ago to change sides. Your delivering that message to her, Jess, seemed to be the catalyst for her to act on her decision.”

  “I suppose so,” I said. “Still, why would she wait so long?”

  Monroe joined us. “We’ll be landing in a few minutes,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll be happy to get into a comfortable hotel and catch up on your sleep.”

  “I have other things on my mind besides sleep,” I said.

  “Oh? A writer’s mind at work?”

  “Nothing to do with being a writer,” I said. “More a matter of being a citizen of the United States.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, Mr. Monroe, that what we’ve been put through since agreeing to be part of a trade mission hardly represents what any citizen should be subjected to. No one responds to questions. We’re told to do things without any explanation, any justification. Here we are on a private jet flying to London after being spirited out of Moscow. Our personal belongings are left behind. My friends here are accosted by Russian hoodlums. I was kidnapped, chased through the streets, hustled from car to car, and taken on mad rides in and out of Moscow, all because I was, as they say, a good soldier, doing what I was asked to do by my government.”

  Monroe listened quietly, his chin resting on a tent formed by his hands.

  Vaughan said, “I think what Mrs. Fletcher is saying, Mr. Monroe, is that some simple answers would go a long way to salving the resentment she’s feeling—that we’re all feeling.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem,” Monroe said.

  “Exactly,” I said. “It shouldn’t be a problem. But it seems to be a big one.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re about six minutes from touchdown,” the pilot announced. “Please take your seats and buckle up, secure any loose items.”

  Monroe stood. “There’s a meeting scheduled first thing in the morning,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll have all the answers you need. Excuse me.”

  The landing was so smooth we barely felt the wheels touch the runway. As the pilot taxied to a hangar on the perimeter of the airport, I saw through the window two limousines with their headlights on, and what appeared to be a police vehicle. A number of people milled about as the plane was maneuvered to position the boarding stairs close to the vehicles.