Murder in Moscow

by Jessica Fletcher

  Vaughan handed her his card. “If you ever want to explore it, Ms. Kozhina, give me a call. That’s my private number.”

  “I’m surprised to see you,” I said to her. “We assumed you’d be sequestered somewhere.”

  She laughed. “I thought I would be, too. No, they told me I’m free to do anything I want.”

  “You are coming on the plane with us tonight?”

  “Oh, no. I am staying here in London for a few days, perhaps a week.”

  “What are you doing this afternoon?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What about you, Jess?” Olga asked.

  “I thought I’d call my friend George Sutherland and see if he’s in town and free for lunch.”

  The smile on Vaughan and Olga’s faces said many things. I ignored their editorial content.

  “Would you be free for lunch?” I asked Alexandra.

  “Yes.”

  “Then we’ll have lunch together, whether George can make it or not. Vaughan? Olga?”

  “Thanks, no,” Vaughan said. “As long as we’ve ended up in London, there are some things we’d like to do before leaving tonight.”

  “Suit yourself,” I said.

  We said good-bye; we’d see each other again at the hotel.

  I called George’s office number from a red public phone booth. To my delight he was there, surprised to hear from me and free for lunch. When I told him we’d be joined by a newfound Russian friend, he said he looked forward to meeting her, and suggested we rendezvous at noon at Brasserie on the Park, in the Park Lane Hotel on Piccadilly, near Hyde Park Comer.

  “I just thought of something,” I told Alexandra after hanging up.

  “What is that?”

  “Since today is Sunday, you might want to see democracy in action—really in action.”

  “Oh?”

  “Hyde Park Corner is always very busy on Sunday mornings. It’s where anyone can get up and speak their piece, preach, rant and rave, and sometimes even have something worthwhile to say. It’s very exciting. I think you’ll enjoy it. Besides, we’re having lunch close to there. Game?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Game. Would you like to?”

  “Very much, yes. I am happy to go wherever you go, Jessica.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  We made our way into the maze of underground tunnels that allowed pedestrians to safely cross the busy streets surrounding the park. The events of the past few days were now very much behind me, although the unexplained deaths of Vladislav Staritova and Ward Wenington kept invading my consciousness.

  Still, I felt buoyant. I liked being with Alexandra Kozhina. She was a bright, interesting young woman whose Russian roots were a source of fascination to me. We chatted like schoolgirl chums on our way to the park, laughing at some of the things we’d shared in the past forty-eight hours. Of course, my feeling of well-being was also bolstered by the promise of seeing George Sutherland at lunch.

  The park was especially busy that morning. Speakers had staked out territory, and were in the midst of their appeals to the curious who’d gathered that Sunday morning to experience one of the world’s great free markets of thought and ideas.

  Some speakers simply yelled loud enough to gather a crowd. Others peddled their intellectual wares from atop boxes, and used portable sound systems and elaborate visual aids to be better understood. Their causes ranged from animal rights—No nation in the world loves its pets more than England—to off-beat religious theories. East Indians called for the abolition of their government, while a Chinese speaker condemned the handing off of Hong Kong to Communist rule. A disheveled older man with matted hair down his back and over his face, warned, at the top of his lungs, that sinners had thirty-six hours to repent before doomsday. And a woman wearing a witch’s costume, replete with broad-brimmed spiked hat and holding a broom, claimed that witchcraft had infiltrated the British Parliament, and was behind its decisions.

  “Enjoying yourself?” I asked Alexandra as we moved from speaker to speaker.

  “Very much. Such fun. There is more free speech now in Russia, but not like this.”

  The area devoted to this Sunday morning spectacle is large, which was why, I suppose, I noticed a particular gentleman who seemed always to be where we were. He was well dressed, wearing a tan raincoat and plaid cap, highly polished brown shoes, and carrying a rolled-up black umbrella. The umbrella struck me as odd, considering the splendid sunny day. But the British are fond of carrying things no matter what the weather, including walking sticks and their beloved “brollies.”

  We stopped at an ice-cream vendor and bought two cones—vanilla for me, chocolate for Alexandra.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you,” I said, “about the message on your answering machine. ‘Your eyes are like stars in the night.’ Who left that message?”

  “My handler.”

  “Handler?”

  “A term, that’s all. Mr. Warner left it.”

  “Karl Warner. He was your ‘handler?’ ”

  “Yes. After Mr. Wenington died.”

  “You knew about that?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Do you know how Wenington died?”

  “No,” she said, taking a lick of her ice cream.

  “Was he murdered?”

  “I don’t know. This is good ice cream. Better than in Moscow.”

  “I’m sure the ice cream will improve there, too,” I said, “along with many other things.”

  We continued to stroll, eventually stopping where a young man and woman spoke into a microphone of their fervent belief that socialism was the only answer to world famine and disease. I observed Alexandra’s reaction to what they said. She winced at some of their claims, seemed passively in agreement with others.

  As we listened, I took in the eclectic mix of men, women, and children, old and young, prosperous and downtrodden, who surrounded us. The same man who ended up at every stop we made was there again, listening intently. He’d moved to Alexandra’s side, not looking at her, his attention focused on the orators.

  I was about to return my focus to them, too. But just before I did, I saw him move his umbrella in such a way to point its tip at Alexandra’s ankle.

  I looked up at the stage. A moment later, Alexandra yelped, crouched, and scratched her ankle.

  The man was gone.

  “You all right?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said, straightening. “Must have been bitten by something.”

  “That man,” I said, pointing to his back as he disappeared into the throng of people.

  “What man?”

  “Him.”

  “Who?”

  “Nothing. Ready to leave?”

  “Yes.”

  We started in the direction of the tunnels leading beneath the roads, and had gotten a few hundred yards when Alexandra grabbed my arm.

  “Are you feeling ill?” I asked.

  “Yes. I—”

  She collapsed in my arms as though someone had pulled a plug, draining her of every fiber.

  I lowered her to the grass and looked into her face. Her eyes had rolled back, leaving only the whites visible. Her pretty face was bathed in sweat, and her whole body had begun to shake.

  I looked up at people who’d stopped to observe.

  “Help, please,” I said. “Get an ambulance. She’s ... she’s dying!”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  An onlooker dialed 911 from a cell phone, and minutes later an ambulance and two police officers arrived. Alexandra was placed on a stretcher and gently moved into the rear of the ambulance.

  “Are you with her?” one of two medical emergency workers asked me.

  “Yes.”

  “Come on then.”

  I sat on a small jump seat next to Alexandra while the technician administered an IV. “Casualty department’s been alerted,” he said, not looking up from his task.

  “Casualty department?”

&nbs
p; “Yank, huh? Emergency room, you’d call it.”

  “Oh.”

  “Any notion what happened to her?” he asked.

  “No. She—I saw a man with an umbrella. He touched her leg with its tip.”

  “Man with a brolly?” The technician stopped asking any more questions of me.

  Traffic was wicked, but we eventually reached Charing Cross Hospital, where nurses and doctors anxiously awaited our arrival. I followed as Alexandra was wheeled inside and through swinging doors into the casualty department. A young physician in a white coat approached. “A word, ma’am?”

  “Of course.”

  He asked me a series of questions, few of which I could answer. It was especially difficult when he got into who she was, family background, and other personal questions that put me on the spot. Do I explain why she was in London and suggest they call the American Embassy? I decided to stop worrying about it and be as honest as possible.

  “Russian, you say,” the doctor said. “A bit of a spy?”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” I said. “The embassy people are better equipped to explain.”

  I told him about the man in raincoat and cap who’d touched the tip of his umbrella to Alexandra’s ankle, deliberately as far as I was concerned. He listened with apparent interest, making notes as I spoke. When I was finished, he looked up at me, nodded, and said, “Can’t see what that would have to do with her sudden illness, but I’ll mention it to the attending physicians.”

  “Any idea how she’s doing?” I asked.

  “I’ll check, be back in a bit. Make yourself comfortable in the waiting room.”

  “Is there a phone I can use?” I asked.

  “Use this one here, Mrs....”

  “Fletcher. Jessica Fletcher.”

  “The mystery writer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Seems we’ve got a bit of a mystery here ourselves.”

  George Sutherland answered at Scotland Yard headquarters. I told him what had happened, and where I was.

  “I’m on my way,” he said.

  We had tea in the hospital cafeteria.

  “Wonderful to see you, Jess,” George said.

  “Same here, although a pleasant lunch would have been preferable.”

  “Tell me about this young woman.”

  I spent the next ten minutes doing just that. When I’d completed my tale, he sat back in his chair, shook his head, and said, “Trouble follows you like that character in your American comic strip, the one with the rain cloud always over his head.”

  “If I thought that,” I said, “I’d never venture out of the house again.”

  “Might not be a bad idea. Tell me more about this bloke with the umbrella.”

  I did.

  “Interesting,” he said.

  “I thought so.”

  “Had a case a number of years ago, Jess. Height of the cold war, bloody damn spies running about killing other spies to God knows what end. At any rate, one of these shadowy types was poisoned.”

  “And?”

  “Seems it was administered by a rigged brolly, spring-action device at its tip, shoot the poison into the victim who doesn’t even know it happened until—”

  “Until he died,” I said, grimly.

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you think that’s what might have happened to Alexandra?”

  “No idea, but it’s worth mentioning to the doctors, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Come on, then, let’s find one.”

  It was a two-way exchange of information. The doctor listened closely to George, obviously impressed with his credentials and knowledge. “Could be ricin,” George said. “A bloody toxic substance, for certain. As bad as botulinus. Fashioned from castor oil beans. Bloody difficult to detect—unless you’re looking for it.”

  The doctor said, “I doubt if we have the capability to detect it, Inspector.”

  “Wouldn’t expect that you would,” George said. “But our lab chaps at The Yard have dealt with it before. I suggest you confer with them. Here’s the direct number.”

  “I’ll call right away,” the doctor said.

  “How is she?” I asked him before he left.

  His face reflected the gravity of the situation. “Alive,” he said, “but barely. The next twenty-four hours will tell the tale.”

  As we left the hospital, I felt as though a thousand-pound weight had been placed on my shoulders.

  “She won’t make it, will she?” I said as we walked away from the hospital with no particular destination.

  “If it’s ricin, I would say the chances are very slim, Jess. But maybe it was another substance, a less lethal one.”

  “Let’s hope for that.”

  “Still want to have lunch?”

  “Yes. I’m leaving London tonight. I’d like as much time with you as possible.”

  Over onion soup and salads at the Brasserie on the Park, we tried to cram into the few hours we had as much conversation as possible. I expressed my admiration for Alexandra Kozhina, and wondered whether I should postpone leaving London.

  “I think under the circumstances, Jess, you’d best get on that plane tonight. No sense upsetting the powers that be. I’ll keep close tabs on your Russian friend, and be in touch with you on a regular basis.”

  “I suppose I should call the embassy. They’ll be looking for her.”

  “Yes, I suppose you should.” He frowned, looked me in the eye, and said, “Your Russian adventure might not be over, you know. This business of the chap ending up dead in Washington, and your Russian publisher keeling over, leaves a sizable cloud over things.”

  “Not as far as I’m concerned,” I said.

  “I hope that’s true, Jess. But you discovered the body in Washington, and were with your publisher when he died. If the scenario is true—that Ms. Kozhina was the target of an assassination—you were there, too, when it happened.”

  “If I think about that, George, I’ll spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder. I won’t live that way.”

  I spoke again with George that night from Heathrow Airport, moments before I boarded the British Airways’ 747 for the flight to New York. The news was heartening. Scotland Yard’s forensic scientists had worked with the hospital in determining what had happened to Alexandra. It wasn’t ricin, thank God, but a less lethal form of poison, and a known antidote was being administered. Although she was still in critical condition, the physicians felt there was a good chance she’d pull through. Without George and his experts, I know she would have died.

  I stayed in New York overnight at Vaughan and Olga’s apartment in the Dakota, and flew to Maine the following morning. It was good to be home, although I didn’t experience the sort of pleasure I usually do when returning from a trip. My friends called and wanted to get together for a welcome-home party, but I declined as politely as possible, saying that the trip had been arduous, and that I was suffering a terminal case of jet lag.

  George called every night with a progress report on Alexandra. Poor girl. Although she’d survived the attack, the poison had compromised some of her internal organs. She was in for months of convalescence in a London nursing home arranged for her by unnamed officials of the American and British governments.

  I obtained the nursing home address and dropped frequent notes to her, which she promptly answered. She was feeling stronger each day, she said, and looked forward to a full recovery.

  Two months later, while enjoying breakfast on my patio, I received a call from Vaughan Buckley. “Sitting down?” he asked.

  “No, but there’s a chair nearby.”

  “Jess, Alexandra Kozhina is in New York. I just got off the phone with her.”

  “That’s wonderful,” I said. “How long is she staying?”

  “Just overnight. She heads for Washington in the morning. Olga and I are having dinner with her. I think she’s interested in writing the book I suggested.”

&
nbsp; “Interesting.”

  “I was wondering whether you could get down here to join us. I know it’s extremely short notice, but I figured it might be possible. Still friends with that fellow who runs his own airline in Cabot Cove?”

  “Jed Richardson? Sure. But he’s away on a charter, left this morning.”

  “Shame. No way you could make it?”

  “You know I’d love to, Vaughan, but I just don’t see it happening. But you will give her my love.”

  “Of course. Maybe she’ll have a chance to call you before she leaves.”

  I no sooner hung up when the phone rang again. It was Alexandra.

  “I just spoke with Vaughan,” I said. “He told me about dinner, and that you might write that book.”

  “I’m thinking of it,” she said. “I wish I could see you, Jessica. I feel very much as though we’re sisters or something, close friends.”

  “I feel the same way, Alexandra. We went through a lot together.”

  She laughed. “That, as you would say, is a large understatement. I’ll be going directly back to London from Washington.”

  “What are you doing there?” I asked.

  She hesitated before saying, “Oh, just meeting with a few people.”

  Translation: I can’t talk about it.

  We chatted for a few more minutes, promised to one day meet again, and the conversation ended. I suffered parallel joy and sadness at having spoken with her. She obviously was still immersed in some sort of clandestine activity of the sort that, based upon my brush with it, was something I would assiduously avoid for the rest of my life.

  Alexandra Kozhina did write her book for Buckley House. Vaughan told me he was extremely pleased with the manuscript she delivered. I asked questions about it, but he was evasive, saying only, “She wants to send you one of the first copies, Jess, autographed to you.”

  “I look forward to that. Please give her my love when you see her again.”

  A year later, a FedEx package arrived from Buckley House. I eagerly opened it to find a copy of Alexandra’s book, A Sub-Rosa Life.

  I opened it to the dedication page:

  FOR: Jessica Fletcher, an inspiration to any aspiring writer, a courageous woman, and one of the most deceat human beings I have ever known. With love. Alexandra.