The Moscow Code

by Nick Wilkshire

  “Tell him to relax. I’m done.”

  Sophie followed Charlie out into the hall, and as they waited for Dontseva, she began pacing the floor. Charlie considered asking her if everything was all right, but the very question seemed ludicrous in these circumstances.

  “Bastards,” she muttered, as Dontseva appeared in the hall and looked at her.

  “You must let me do the talking, so we can get your brother’s personal effects before we leave, yes?”

  Sophie stared back at Dontseva as the lawyer stepped closer and touched her arm. The gesture seemed to defuse some of Sophie’s anger and she took a deep breath, before nodding her silent assent.

  “Come on,” Charlie said, “Let’s get out of here.”

  Chapter 11

  Charlie stood in the lobby of the Marriott Grand, watching the Friday-evening crowd milling about near the entrance to the bar. For the most part, the Russian men laughed amongst themselves and smoked cigarettes, while their dates perched on stilettos nearby, looking bored. Charlie had been trying to think of a way out of an invitation to the dinner party — he had a pretty good idea that it was a blind date set up by a well-meaning but nosy colleague in consular — when Sophie Durant called with the perfect excuse. She had been given tickets to a piano concerto at the Moscow Conservatory and was hoping he could join her.

  When he had dropped her off at the hotel the night before, she had been in rough shape, her mental exhaustion from grief and anger exacerbated by jet lag. Charlie had offered to show her the sights on the weekend, if only to take her mind off things until the next scheduled meeting on Monday at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs building, but her call had still been a surprise. He scanned the lobby again to make sure she wasn’t waiting on the other side, and as he glanced toward the elevators, the doors slid open and his breath caught in his throat. She wore a simple black dress, and other than small diamond studs in her ears, the only accessory was a black headband with a subtle pattern of white polka dots that complimented her reddish-brown hair, but the overall effect was stunning. Charlie could sense eyes from all over the lobby fix on her as she spotted him and made her way over.

  “Thanks for coming on such short notice,” she said as he stood to greet her. “I hope I didn’t ruin your evening.”

  “I had nothing planned, anyway,” he lied. Sophie’s face looked much less strained than the night before, but her body language still suggested a tentativeness that seemed at odds with her assertive personality.

  “Do you know where it is?” she asked, slipping her coat off her arm and putting it on. “I could ask the concierge.”

  “I know where it is. You okay with the Metro?”

  She nodded and began to head for the door. “Come on. We don’t want to be late.”

  They walked out into the cold evening air and Charlie led the way north up Tverskaya, wondering what to make of her uncharacteristic silence. They reached Mayakovskaya station in a matter of minutes and made their way down to the turnstiles as Charlie pulled a pair of tickets out of his pocket and handed her one.

  “Thanks,” she said, watching as he slid his ticket into the gate and then following the same process with hers. “I’ll pick up the return trip,” she added as they joined the stream of people converging at the top of the escalator.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got plenty.”

  “You take the subway a lot?” she asked. They began their descent and she peered down the steep grade.

  “I’m slowly getting used to it, and Moscow traffic’s a nightmare.”

  “How deep does this thing go?” she said, looking down the escalator, the platform below still nowhere in sight.

  “Quite something, isn’t it?” he said, noticing her relief as the bottom of the escalator finally came into view. “Stalin had it built deep enough that it could do double duty as a bomb shelter.” They continued their descent in silence, and Charlie tried to think of something light to say, something that wouldn’t remind her of why she was in Moscow. “So where did you get the tickets, anyway?”

  She seemed to consider the question for a moment, and Charlie was more intrigued than ever by her preoccupation with what he thought was a straightforward question. “I don’t have tickets,” she said as they reached the bottom and followed the mass toward the platform. “I was told I could get them at the door.”

  Charlie checked the signs for the southbound train as Sophie looked up.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said, pointing to an intricate mosaic inside one of the circular niches that lined the ceiling of the central colonnade separating the two platforms.

  “This way,” he said, hurrying them toward a waiting train, the red lights above its doors beginning to flash as they entered. They took standing positions in the open space at the front of the car.

  “I should have told you,” she said, as the train began to move, “but I was … afraid, I guess.”

  “Told me what?”

  “Someone left me a note at the front desk this afternoon,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. “Telling me to meet them at the Conservatory. I’m supposed to come alone.”

  Charlie reached for the overhead handle as the car lurched forward, catching Sophie in his free arm as she flailed for something to hold on to.

  “Who left you the note?” he asked after she had righted herself and latched on to a bar.

  “He said he was a friend of Steve’s — no, a colleague.”

  “And he didn’t leave a name?”

  “Look, I probably shouldn’t have misled you like this. I understand if you don’t want to …”

  He shook his head. “It just seems a bit odd, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe, but I need to find out what happened in that prison,” she said, the more familiar resolve returning to her features.

  “What do you mean?”

  She clutched the bar as they clattered over the connecting rails beneath them and the car wobbled from side to side and an ear-splitting screech announced their impending arrival at the next station. “I mean Steve didn’t commit suicide.”

  They made it to the Moscow Conservatory twenty minutes before the scheduled start of the recital and agreed to line up separately for tickets. Since it was general admission, they agreed Charlie would sit at the back and keep an eye on Sophie while she waited for her mystery date. As the room filled up to near capacity, Charlie took his seat and watched as she settled herself near the end of a long bench ahead of him, leaving just enough room for someone to squeeze in. As the curtain came up and the crowd began to applaud, the spot next to Sophie remained vacant. The pianist took her seat behind the piano, and as she began playing, Charlie divided his attention between the Rachmaninoff and the back of Sophie’s head. As the time passed, Charlie’s hope that the planned meeting wouldn’t materialize grew, though he couldn’t imagine why someone would bother with such a hoax. More troubling was Sophie’s statement in the subway about her brother’s death, and the look on her face that left no doubt as to her conviction. But what made her so sure it wasn’t a suicide? After all, she had said herself that her brother had some emotional problems. Charlie couldn’t imagine that these would have been helped by incarceration in a Russian jail. But there was an unmistakable look in Sophie’s eyes that made him wonder what she knew that he didn’t. Something she felt disinclined to share with him on a crowded Moscow subway car.

  Charlie watched as she subtly glanced around the room, giving him a view of that perfect profile. To describe Sophie Durant as beautiful was to call the pyramids just okay, but he wondered what lay behind her tough exterior, whether she let it down for anyone, even her husband. He hadn’t noticed a wedding ring, but the fact that she had a different last name than her brother certainly suggested that she was married. Hardly a surprise, he thought, imagining a six-foot-four cardiothoracic surgeon with a lantern jaw.

 
As the frenzied pace set by the pianist slowed to a few final notes, then the brief silence that preceded an ovation, Charlie realized that they had reached the intermission. He watched as the audience drifted out of their seats, and when Sophie stood and made her way to the lobby, he followed at a distance. He watched from one line as she stood in another, eventually buying a glass of wine. A few minutes later he had his own and was considering crossing to the corner where she stood when he saw a man stop and engage her in conversation. Charlie leaned on a railing in the opposite corner of the lobby, trying not to stare as Sophie acknowledged the other man’s presence, not with a smile, but with body language that indicated a keen interest. The man was tall and thin, in his fifties, with wavy grey hair and an angular face, which together with his worn corduroy suit, made him look distinctly Russian. He appeared relaxed as he stood next to Sophie, speaking between sips from his glass of wine. Charlie busied himself with his program on the couple of occasions when the man took his eyes off Sophie to survey the room. Whatever he was saying, it had Sophie’s full attention, and from what Charlie could see from across the room, the mystery man was doing most of the talking.

  As the first bell rang to announce the second half of the performance, Charlie watched the man reach over and shake Sophie’s hand. She seemed surprised by the gesture and Charlie felt a surge of alarm as the handshake lingered for a tick too long. He started toward them but the handshake was suddenly broken and the man was gone, disappearing among the crowd making its way back into the concert hall. The second bell seemed to stir Sophie into action and, depositing her wineglass on a nearby table, she made her way back to her seat. As he regained his own, Charlie saw her turn and catch his eye. But instead of giving him a sign that they should leave, she returned a blank gaze, faced front, and settled in her seat. Charlie bit back his curiosity as a full orchestra assembled on stage and the pianist returned to a roar of applause.

  Chapter 12

  At the end of the performance, Charlie followed Sophie out into the evening chill, hanging back as she regained the street and headed back in the direction of the Metro. After taking only a few steps away from the Conservatory entrance, Charlie could bear it no longer and quickly closed the gap between them.

  “So?” he asked when he caught up.

  “I need a drink,” she said, spotting the lights of a nearby restaurant.

  The place was filling up with the Conservatory crowd, but they were squeezed into a small booth at the rear of the smoking section. Sophie waved off Charlie’s concern for her lungs as they ordered drinks. When the server left, he waited for her to speak.

  “He was a friend of Steve’s,” she began. It was clear that, despite the hour spent listening to the second half of the concerto, she was still shaken by the encounter. “A journalist.”

  When she didn’t continue, Charlie finally spoke. “Why did he want to meet with you and why all the secrecy?”

  “He said Steve told him, if anything ever happened to him, to get in touch with me. As for the cloak-and-dagger stuff, he was afraid — pure and simple.”

  Charlie looked puzzled. “Did he say why?”

  “He said he and Steve had discussed journalism in Russia, and the dangers that went with the profession here. Then Steve said he was working on something … explosive.” She paused as their drinks arrived and only resumed after she had taken a long sip of her gin and tonic. “He also said that when he heard Steve had … died, he knew that he’d been killed.”

  “Did he say what this explosive thing was? An article or an exposé or something? You said he was a writer.”

  Sophie shook her head. “I said he wanted to be a writer, and apparently he wouldn’t say what it was. Just that it was going to make a name for him, that he knew it might piss some people off, but he was prepared to take the risk.”

  “How did this guy know about Steve’s death, anyway?”

  “He said he used to be a crime reporter, and he still has contacts. He’d heard about Steve’s arrest and was trying to find out about his case when he heard …” She trailed off and put her face in her hands. Charlie tried to think of something to say and put his hand on her arm.

  “I’m sorry, Sophie. I know this must be awful for you, but even if his intentions are good, this guy’s information sounds pretty vague.”

  She wiped away her tears and, taking a deep breath, appeared to steel herself to continue. “It wasn’t suicide. I know that much for a fact.”

  Charlie looked at her eyes, no less piercing despite being red-rimmed. “Is there something you’re not telling me?” He had lowered his voice despite the hubbub around them. She shot a look around before leaning forward to speak.

  “Steve had a puncture mark on his right trapezius,” she said, and Charlie remembered he was talking to a doctor. He had never asked what her specialty was, but he knew she was a surgeon of some kind. Somehow he couldn’t picture her doling out antibiotics in a family clinic.

  “Is that significant?” he asked, thinking the question made him sound ignorant, but his knowledge of medicine really was nil. If his inquiry frustrated her, though, she didn’t show it.

  “It looked a lot like the mark a twenty-five-gauge needle would make, and the trapezius muscle’s an excellent injection site.”

  “For what?”

  “A paralytic, like succinylcholine,” she said, her voice down to barely more than a whisper, “which could completely incapacitate an adult within seconds, and it would be difficult to find with a blood test, even if you knew to look for it.” She paused and braced herself with a healthy swallow of her drink. “If I wanted to stage a hanging, I couldn’t think of a better way to do it.”

  “You mean the person would be unconscious?”

  “Not unconscious, just paralyzed,” she said as Charlie realized the implications, “for anywhere from five to fifteen minutes, depending on the dose.” They sat in silence on either side of the table. Even with no medical training, Charlie had no problem conjuring up a vivid mental image of Steve Liepa’s last moments on earth, and he hoped Sophie, for her sake, wasn’t doing the same.

  “You would like to order now?”

  Charlie looked up to see a server standing there, pad and pen at the ready, the menus unopened on the table between them. “Uh, give us a couple of minutes.”

  “I’m not hungry,” Sophie said, pushing the menu away.

  “You should try to eat something. It’s hard to think straight on an empty stomach.”

  She looked at him and the flicker of a smile graced one side of her mouth. “I suppose you’re right. What do you recommend?”

  “Damned if I know. I usually stick to the Western stuff. My experimentation in local cuisine has been hit-or-miss, but you can’t go wrong with a BLT.”

  She nodded. “How long have you been in Moscow, anyway?”

  “A couple of months.”

  “I’ll bet Steve loved it here,” she said, looking around the crowded restaurant. Most of the patrons were in their twenties and thirties, and whatever segment of the Russian population was suffering from the economic slowdown, it wasn’t to be found in here. These people were too busy laughing and drinking through a haze of cigarette smoke. Charlie nodded as he pictured Steve Liepa sitting at one of the tables, laughing right along.

  “Where did he learn his Russian?”

  “Our parents were Lithuanian, and they taught us a bit of Russian, too,” Sophie said. “Whatever I learned as a kid, I’ve long forgotten, but Steve retained it all, and he picked up French, German, and who knows what else over the years. He always had a natural aptitude for languages.” She gave a little chuckle as she added, “I barely passed my one and only undergrad English course.”

  “You obviously have other strengths,” Charlie said, trying to prolong the levity in the conversation, but he could tell by her expression that she was struggling. “He seemed like a re
ally decent, easygoing guy,” he added, after an awkward silence.

  “Everyone loved him. It used to drive me nuts when we were growing up, the way our parents fawned over him, but looking back, how could I blame them? Thank God they didn’t live to see him die, especially like this.”

  “It was just the two of you?”

  She nodded. “Our parents both passed away in the last five years.” The server returned for their orders and when they were alone again, she continued. “No, Steve could do no wrong in my parents’ eyes, being the baby and all.”

  “And no matter how hard you applied yourself, as the dutiful older sibling, it was never enough?”

  She looked up at him, the vacant gaze gone now, replaced by an inquisitive sparkle.

  “I have a brother back in Newfoundland,” he said, and Sophie slowly nodded. “Though mine’s the older one and that’s probably what he would say. I guess you could say I’m the fuck-up in our relationship, so I think I know what you mean, but what good does it do to beat yourself up about it now? Steve didn’t strike me as someone who would hold a grudge, anyway.”

  She laughed. “I’m sure he was oblivious. I was such a bitch to him sometimes, though.”

  “I’m not sure he would have seen it that way, somehow.”

  She smiled and finished her drink, waving as the server passed by. “You want another?”

  Charlie looked at the inch of beer left in his glass. “Sure.”

  “Two more of the same, please.” She paused for a moment, looking at him with her sad eyes. “What does your brother do?”

  “He owns a chain of building supply stores,” he said, thinking of the mansion his brother had just had built on a prime lot in St. John’s. Charlie didn’t even own a home anymore, and his government salary wasn’t going to make him rich, hardship bonuses or not. “He does very well, and I’m obviously in the wrong line of work.”

  “I guess a little sibling rivalry is par for the course in every family,” she said with a small grin.