Murder in Moscow

by Jessica Fletcher

  The pilot stepped into the passenger compartment, but Monroe held up a hand. “We just need a few minutes,” he said. The pilot quickly retreated into the cockpit, shutting the door behind him.

  Monroe addressed us: “I understand the frustration you’ve felt the past few days. All I can say at this juncture is that everything was done with your best interests uppermost in mind. Tomorrow morning you’ll be meeting with the people who are authorized to explain what has happened, and to answer your questions. Until that meeting, I ask that you put aside any preconceived notions, not discuss the matter with anyone except among yourselves, enjoy a good dinner and the rest of the evening, and be ready to go to tomorrow’s meeting at nine sharp.”

  “What about clothing?” Olga asked. “And toiletries.”

  “Our London people were contacted before we left Moscow. We gave them our best estimate of what you would need until your belongings arrive tomorrow afternoon. You have sleepwear, toiletries, and fresh undergarments and other items of clothing in your hotel rooms. If we were off on our estimate of your sizes, I apologize. Any other questions?”

  “Where are we staying?” Vaughan asked.

  “One of London’s finest,” Monroe replied. “Nothing too good for citizens like you.”

  Monroe knocked on the cockpit door, and the pilot emerged. “Ready to go,” Monroe said.

  The passenger door opened, and the boarding stairs were lowered. Monroe and his colleague kept Alexandra behind with them as Vaughan, Olga, and I descended the stairs to the tarmac, where we were greeted by a young woman in a tailored brown business suit. She was flanked by a half-dozen men.

  “This way, please,” she said in a clipped British accent, and led us to one of the limos.

  I looked back to see Alexandra come down the boarding stairs, Monroe in front of her, the other man taking up the rear. They were ushered into the second limousine.

  “Why wouldn’t he at least tell us where we’re staying?” Olga asked.

  Vaughan answered, “Because it’s the government, my dear.”

  “But it’s our government.”

  “Precisely.”

  Gatwick, the second of the two major London airports, is thirty miles south of the city, approximately twice as far as the more frequently used Heathrow. It took us about an hour to reach our hotel, which I recognized immediately—the Athenaeum, on Piccadilly, one of my favorite London hotels.

  But instead of pulling up to its entrance, the driver stopped a half block away, in front of a row of stately town houses belonging to the Athenaeum. I’d been given a tour of one of them during my last stay; they define elegance and privacy. Guests staying in them have their own entrance, yet enjoy the full array of services offered by the hotel itself.

  The two limousines had been followed into the city by three other cars. Now, with all five vehicles lined up at the curb, we got out and were immediately led up the stairs of the town houses. I stood on the small landing and looked to where Vaughan and Olga were entering the house next to me. On my other side, Alexandra Kozhina and the British woman who’d greeted us at the foot of the aircraft stairs were about to go into that building.

  I was personally escorted into my quarters by Harrison Monroe. Once we were inside, he said, “I trust you’ll find this comfortable enough, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  There was a knock at the door. Monroe opened it, and a young woman, of the same stripe as the one with Alexandra, entered.

  “Mrs. Fletcher, this is Ms. Connie McGlouthern. She works closely with us and will be staying with you in the second bedroom.”

  I suppose my expression of surprise was evident, because he added, “Hope you don’t mind the company. Necessary, but only for tonight. Tomorrow, you’ll be on your way home to—where is it you live?—Cabot Cove? In Maine?”

  “No, I don’t mind,” I said. “And going home to Cabot Cove sounds lovely.”

  “I’m sure it does. Well, I’ll leave you two until we meet up again at dinner. An hour. Connie will bring you.”

  “Are we eating in the hotel?” I asked.

  “Yes. A room reserved for us. See you then.”

  After a few words of greeting Ms. McGlouthern showed me where a variety of clothing and toiletries had been placed in the master bedroom. “I’ll leave you alone until dinner, Mrs. Fletcher,” she said, her brogue pegging her Scottish heritage.

  I thought of George Sutherland.

  “That will be fine,” I said. “I have a personal call to make to someone here in London.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “Orders are that you and the others are not to make any calls until after the meeting tomorrow morning.”

  “That’s outrageous,” I said. “How dare anyone tell me I can’t call a friend?”

  “Please, Mrs. Fletcher, perhaps Mr. Monroe will explain at dinner. But I have my orders. The phones in the town houses have been disconnected for tonight.”

  She saw how upset I was, and wisely left the bedroom. I sat on the king-size bed and fought to bring my anger under control. Once I had, I went to a window that looked out over Piccadilly and saw two of the men who’d been at Gatwick when we deplaned. Obviously, not only weren’t we allowed to make calls, we wouldn’t be going out for a midnight stroll, either.

  An hour later, Ms. McGlouthern and I exited the town house, walked a few yards down the street, entered the hotel, and stepped into a small private dining room, where Monroe, his unnamed colleague, Vaughan and Olga, Alexandra Kozhina and two other men were seated at an elaborately set table. The men stood. “Good evening again, Mrs. Fletcher,” Monroe said. He pointed to the only unoccupied chair. “Please. Next to me.”

  Everyone looked appropriately exhausted; conversation at the dinner table was mundane and without spirit. There was a natural temptation to fling questions at Monroe and the other men, all of whom had been introduced by name, but with no more identification than that. It wasn’t worth pursuing what agencies they represented. The answers would undoubtedly be as they’d been all along—nonanswers, evasions, vague references, outright ignoring of any such inquiries.

  Dinner was simple, and quickly served; we were there no longer than an hour. Afterward, we were reminded that we’d be picked up at nine o’clock for the meeting—breakfast would be served at it—and were told we were booked the following night, first class, on British Airways, for New York’s Kennedy Airport. The afternoon was ours to enjoy at our leisure. Our luggage would arrive from Moscow prior to leaving London.

  My final thought before falling asleep was that tomorrow was Sunday. I’d lost all sense of time.

  I slept fitfully, which was to be expected, but was ready to go by eight-thirty. The limos took us from the Athenaeum to the American Embassy on Grosvenor Square, a bunker of a building I’d visited a few times during previous London trips.

  The gigantic bald eagle atop the building peered down at us as we entered, and were immediately taken to a conference room on the ground floor. After partaking in a breakfast buffet and coffee/tea service set up in a comer of the large room, we took seats and waited for the meeting to begin.

  We didn’t have to wait long. The door opened, and Harrison Monroe entered, followed by another tall, slim gentleman wearing a form-fitting double-breasted blue blazer, crisp white shirt, red-and-white tie, and gray slacks. His silver hair was carefully coifed, and he carried himself with the carriage of someone at home in all situations, and with any group of people.

  “Good morning,” he said. “I’m John Vogler, attached to the embassy’s commerce office. I understand you’ve had quite an experience in Moscow.” His smile was slight, practiced.

  “I understand we’re here to receive some answers to questions,” I said.

  “To the extent I’m able to answer them, yes.”

  His qualification nettled me.

  “Let me begin by giving you some information th
at will probably answer some of those questions. As you know, Ms. Kozhina has been an important member of a group within Russia dedicated to overthrowing the duly elected democratic government of Boris Yeltsin.”

  We looked at Alexandra, who did not seem especially comfortable on center stage.

  Vogler continued. “Because she’s been so intimately involved with the leaders of that movement, her knowledge of its inner workings have not only been of great interest to President Yeltsin’s government, it has important ramifications for the United States.”

  He now looked at me.

  “It is not easy for me to admit to a failure by individuals who work for our government, but I’m afraid that is exactly what I must do this morning.”

  “Failure?” Vaughan said. “What sort of failure?”

  “Without being specific, I—”

  “We’d appreciate it if you would be specific, Mr. Vogler,” I said. “We’ve been subjected to enough bureaucratic vagueness to last a lifetime.”

  If I was too forthright and candid, he didn’t reflect it. He smiled at me, nodded, and went on with his speech.

  “I’m sure you are aware that due to national security considerations, complete candor is not always possible. But I’ll be as frank as permissible. Our relationship with Ms. Kozhina goes back two years. It started when—”

  “Excuse me for interrupting,” I said, “but what you’ve just said astounds me. I carried a message to Alexandra—Ms. Kozhina—on behalf of people within my own government. I was told by those people that it was important to convince her to come over to our side, I suppose it’s called, to act as a ... double agent? ... I’m not familiar with the nomenclature of the spy business. She decided to do that last night.”

  Vogler started to say something, but Alexandra interrupted. “No, Jessica, I did not decide to do that last night. I decided to do that two years ago, and have been doing it ever since.”

  “But then why send me?” I asked, unable to control sounding strident.

  “That was the failure I mentioned earlier,” said Vogler. “The U.S. government is, as you well know, very large. There are times that duplication of effort occurs, an overlapping of function, generally well-meaning, but problematic.”

  I turned to Alexandra, who looked away.

  I said, “What you’re telling me, Mr. Vogler, is that what I went through was unnecessary, a mistake, a ‘duplication of effort,’ as you put it.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Fletcher. That’s correct.”

  “And Ms. Kozhina has been working as a double agent for two years?”

  “Correct again.”

  “The people who asked me to deliver the message had no idea that she’d already been recruited? Two years ago?”

  “Sad, but true. Two different agencies at work, one not knowing what the other was doing.”

  Vaughan’s voice was louder as he asked, “What two agencies?”

  Vogler grimaced. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to reveal that, Mr. Buckley. Suffice it to say, they both function in the intelligence community.”

  Vaughan sat back and let out a series of unintelligible utterances that were best left that way.

  “I understand your dismay,” said Vogler, “but these are the facts.”

  I turned to Alexandra. “If you’d been functioning as a double agent for two years,” I said, “why did you encourage me to meet with you?”

  “For two reasons,” she said. “First, I wished to meet you. You are a writer I look up to very much. It was an honor—I was excited to meet such a famous writer.”

  “That’s flattering, Alexandra, but considering what it led to, I can’t view it with much enthusiasm.”

  “I can understand that,” she said.

  “You said there were two reasons. What’s the second?”

  She looked at Vogler, whose raised eyebrows said he was waiting for the answer, too.

  “It is all right to say?” she asked him.

  He nodded.

  “Things were becoming tense,” she said softly, eyes trained on the tabletop. “We knew that my situation was becoming serious, even dangerous. Too many people had learned that I was not loyal to the cause. Two years is a long time to lead a double life, Jessica.”

  “But what did that have to do with me?”

  “The note from—” Another look for approval from Vogler.

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  “The note from Dimitri,” she said. “It was important I receive it.”

  “Why?” Vaughan asked. “Because it contained the code phrase to be used in case it was necessary for me to leave immediately.”

  “Your eyes are like stars in the night,” I said.

  “Yes. That was the phrase. It was placed in a certain part of the note. The fifth sentence. I knew that if I heard that, it was time to get out.”

  I started to respond, but Vaughan cut me off. “Let me see if I have this sorted out,” he said. “You have two intelligence agencies working at cross purposes where Ms. Kozhina is concerned. One recruited her two years ago, and she’s been functioning for that agency ever since. The other agency wants to recruit Ms. Kozhina, too, only it doesn’t know that the goal has already been accomplished.

  “Jessica—Mrs. Fletcher—is given a note to be delivered to Ms. Kozhina in Moscow. In that note is a coded phrase. The other intelligence agency, the one operating in the dark, if you will, finds out that Mrs. Fletcher has the note, and will make contact with Ms. Kozhina. They, whoever they are, see this as an opportunity to recruit Ms. Kozhina, and ask Mrs. Fletcher to attempt to accomplish that. Correct so far?”

  “You’re doing very well,” Vogler said. “Proceed.”

  “Anything you want to add, Jess?” Vaughan asked.

  “Not at the moment,” I said, pleased with the clarity of his summary.

  “Actually,” Vaughan said, “that pretty much is what I’ve figured out so far.”

  “Let me ask a question,” Olga said. She’d been silent since the meeting began. “Why were we forcibly separated from Mrs. Fletcher by men who clearly were mobsters? Mafioso, Russian style.”

  “To protect you,” Alexandra said.

  “Protect us?” Olga blurted. “We were physically shoved aside, then shaken down for money. You call that being protected?”

  “It was better that only Jessica visit me,” Alexandra said. “As for the men wanting money, that is the way they are. The Communist cause and the mafia have similar goals. Unfortunate, but true.”

  “Were you in physical danger?” Olga asked me.

  “I think so,” I replied. “It certainly seemed that way.”

  “We were both in danger,” Alexandra said. “But only because—” She stopped speaking and again looked at Vogler. “I do not wish to offend,” she said.

  “Feel free,” said Vogler.

  “It was having Mrs. Fletcher come to me with a request that I change my allegiance that placed us in physical danger.”

  I started to respond, but she cut me off. “You see, Jessica, those within my movement who suspected me of not being loyal—and that’s all it was, suspicion—decided, I think, that you would be persuasive enough to convince me. Fortunately, I received a warning on my answering machine, which gave us time to escape.”

  “By the skin of our teeth,” I said. “They were never far behind.”

  A brief discussion ensued about plans for leaving London that night. As it went on, my thoughts went to Vlady Staritova and Ward Wenington. I waited until there was a lull in the conversation before saying, “Two men have died since I came on this so-called trade mission, Mr. Vogler. One worked for our government, a gentleman named Ward Wenington. I discovered his body in Washington. Then, at a dinner in Moscow, my Russian publisher, Vladislav Staritova, dropped dead. I was told that neither death resulted from natural causes. Perhaps you’d be good enough to bring me up to date.”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Fletcher, but I don’t have any information about those deaths.”

&n
bsp; We locked eyes. I didn’t believe him, and he knew it.

  Vogler went on to discuss other matters, none of which were substantive. Twenty minutes later, the meeting ended.

  “Your flight leaves tonight at nine, from Heathrow,” Vogler said. “Between now and then, you are free to enjoy this great city. Your luggage from Moscow will be delivered to your rooms at the Athenaeum by two this afternoon. Transportation to the airport will leave the hotel at seven. Any questions?”

  “I have one,” I said.

  “Yes, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “I was prohibited last night from placing any phone calls. I’d like an explanation of why that freedom was denied me, and the others.”

  Vogler shrugged and said, “A practical necessity, Mrs. Fletcher. It’s no longer necessary to restrict you. Feel free to call anyone you wish.”

  As we filed from the room, Vaughan said, “There’s a book in this.”

  “If you feel that way,” Vogler said, “you’ll follow through and publish it. We’re all beneficiaries of our Constitution’s First Amendment, a precious right never to be violated. Thank you for being here this morning, and for the contribution you’ve made to your country.”

  We stood on the street and looked at each other. The limousines were gone. So were the men who’d escorted us. We were alone with each other, and on our own.

  “Slick fellow,” Vaughan said.

  “Too slick,” Olga said. “Who do you think he works for?”

  “The CIA, Defense Intelligence Agency, some other spook agency,” Vaughan said. “There are dozens of them.”

  Alexandra hadn’t left the building with us, and we assumed that because of her status and situation, she’d be kept in some sort of seclusion.

  But to our surprise, she joined us.

  “I meant what I said in there, Ms. Kozhina,” Vaughan said, “about there being a book. Obviously, you have quite a story to tell.”

  “I don’t think I could ever do that,” she said.