by Otho Eskin
We arrive at the embassy in good time. I see no sign of a tail.
“For the remainder of the day I’ll be embedded with an armed escort of US government agents,” I say. “I’ll be quite safe and you can return to headquarters. I’ll call you when I need you.”
The lieutenant seems like a decent guy trying to do a thankless job. I hate to lie to him, but there’s a place I have to go to and people I must see I don’t want recorded. For that trip, I’ll use a rental car.
“I guess you must have got the short straw for this assignment,” I say, trying to be friendly.
“No, sir. I volunteered.”
“Why on earth would you do that?”
“I wanted to meet you. You’re something of a legend in the Metropolitan Police Department. I wanted to see how you do it. Is it true you rarely carry a gun?”
“I don’t like guns.” I get out of the car.
When I enter the embassy, I tell the receptionist, the overweight young man with a pimply face, that I must speak with the ambassador. The young man tells me His Excellency is not available. I don’t believe that for a minute but don’t argue the point. I’m not here for slivovitz and polite conversation. I’m here for information. Anyone will do.
“Who was the man who met me here yesterday afternoon? A short man with steel-rimmed glasses. Nervous. Blinks a lot.”
The receptionist smiles broadly. “Ah, yes, sir. That would be Mr. Radich. I’ll see if he is available.”
“Make him available. At once.”
The receptionist anxiously punches buttons on a telephone console and speaks in a language I don’t understand. “He will be here directly,” the receptionist tells me when he hangs up.
Within two minutes the man with the steel-rimmed glasses bustles up to the reception counter. “Detective? You wish to speak to me?”
“Can we talk somewhere in private?”
He looks confused and a little annoyed. “Follow me.” He leads me into the ground-floor reception area.
“First,” I ask, “who are you?”
He stiffens slightly and looks miffed. His eyes blink rapidly. “I am Boris Radich.”
“You work here?”
“Of course, I work here.”
“What do you do in this outfit?”
“I am the Deputy Chief of Mission.”
I take my cell phone from my pocket and show Radich the photograph of the dead girl. “Who is this woman?” I make no effort to be gentle with this guy. I’m running out of time and patience and I don’t think he deserves gentle.
Radich’s face goes white and his eyes blink rapidly as he stares at the screen. “What is this?” he chokes.
“You tell me.”
“That’s … that’s Yulia.”
“Who is Yulia?”
“Yulia Orlyk. She is an employee of the embassy. What happened to her? Where did you get this picture? We’ve been looking for her for hours.”
“Miss Orlyk was found dead last night.”
Radich’s knees seem to give way and he collapses onto the edge of a nearby chair. A vein at his temple is throbbing. I don’t think it’s shock; I think it’s fear. There’s something about his eyes.
“That’s not possible,” Radich says, breathing rapidly. “What happened to her?”
“Miss Orlyk was murdered.”
“How?” Radich’s voice is strained, his face drained of blood as he studies the photo again. “Was she strangled?”
Now, how would he know that? “I never said she was strangled. Why did you think she was strangled?”
He hunches over. “I don’t know. I just assumed.”
I hand Radich my notebook. “Write down Miss Orlyk’s full name and her address and her telephone number.”
His hands shaking, Radich scribbles onto the notebook page and passes it back to me, almost dropping the notebook on the floor.
“The investigating office will need someone from the embassy to identify the body.”
“Of course.” He almost chokes.
“What did Miss Orlyk do here in the embassy?” I ask.
“I can’t talk to you about our internal arrangements. They are confidential matters.” His eyes blink.
“You can tell me, Mr. Radich, and you will, or I’ll have to arrest you and take you to the police station, where you will be interviewed. All of which will be an enormous inconvenience for both of us,”
“That’s illegal,” Radich protests.
“I’m sure it is, and the police will eventually be obliged to make profound and heartfelt apologies, but by that time, your day would be ruined. My boss might even insist that I be the one who must come here and make a personal apology. That would be embarrassing to me. Save us both heaps of trouble, Radich, and tell me what exactly Miss Orlyk did in the embassy.”
“Oh, my God, I must inform Ambassador Lukshich at once.” Radich jumps to his feet. He’s trembling. “This is just awful. Awful.”
“Sit down, Radich. What did Yulia Orlyk do here?”
He sits uneasily. “She was a clerk.”
“I’m running out of patience. What kind of clerk?”
“A communications clerk. She was the embassy cipher clerk.”
“Do you mean she was the embassy’s code clerk? Is that what you’re saying?”
“That’s right.” He’s having a hard time breathing.
It comes back to me—the scrap of paper Yulia Orlyk pressed urgently into my hand—the paper with what seemed a meaningless series of numbers. I realize now what I was looking at was a five-digit code. Almost certainly the embassy’s diplomatic code.
When I first studied it, I could make no sense of it. But I know someone who can read it. With a little encouragement.
“What exactly did she do here as a code clerk?” I demand.
Radich looks around the room anxiously as if for help, but there’s no one there to help. No one but me. “We give her the text of messages we need to send to our home office in Podgorica …”
“Podgorica is the capital of Montenegro?” I ask.
“That’s right. When we have confidential and secret messages, she puts the text through our coding system and cables the encrypted text to our home office.”
“And if the embassy receives a message in code from your home office in Podgorica, what happens then?”
“Yulia Orlyk would put the coded message through our system and print it out and deliver it by hand to the ambassador. Really, I must inform His Excellency.”
“What time did she leave the embassy yesterday?” I stand above Radich so he can’t slip away from my clutches.
“She left at eleven eighteen precisely.”
“Kind of late.”
“There has been a lot of cable traffic these days, what with the visit of the prime minister, you understand. Last night at around ten forty-five, we received an administrative communication from Podgorica informing us there would be no further cable traffic that night. We closed our communications link and I told Yulia to go home.”
“What time would that have been?”
“About ten fifty or so.”
“And she went home after she logged out?”
“According to the reception desk log she called for a taxi around eleven. That’s standard procedure at that late hour for our female employees.”
“When did you learn she was missing?”
“The woman Yulia lives with, Mrs. Kostenko, called the embassy last night, around midnight. She said Yulia never got home. May I go now?”
“Not just yet.”
Radich is terribly unhappy.
“You have two CCTV cameras installed above your front entrance,” I say.
Radich nods cautiously.
“I want the tapes from those cameras from last night.”
“That’s not possible. They are the property of the embassy.”
“You’re beginning to seriously annoy me, Radich. Here I thought we were getting along so well. You don’t want to
annoy me, do you?”
“You are on the soil of the Republic of Montenegro. The cameras are the property of the embassy,” Radich announces. “That means they and their contents are the property of the Republic of Montenegro and they are therefore beyond the jurisdiction of the Government of United States and its agents.” He sounds like he’s reciting something he vaguely remembers from some long-ago course in international law.
“The cameras are outside the embassy building and therefore not on the soil of the Republic of Montenegro,” I say, as officiously as I can. As if I knew what I was talking about.
“But they are physically attached to the embassy structure. According to international law, they are therefore on the territory of Montenegro.”
“According to the international law relating to diplomatic immunity, an object outside of an embassy even though attached to the embassy is not subject to diplomatic immunity protection, unless it’s an integral part of the embassy structure. The courts have clearly ruled that CCTV cameras, even if attached to a diplomatic structure, are not integral. Therefore I, as a representative of the US Government, have the right to seize the films.”
He’s pretty sure I’m bullshitting but he can’t be certain and he’s desperate to get away and tell his ambassador about the murder of Yulia Orlyk. “Very well, you may have them. May I go now?”
“You can go when I have the CCTV tapes.”
“I’ll send them to your office.”
“Bring them to me now—then you can inform your ambassador.”
Radich slumps in defeat and calls the receptionist. “Alexi, bring the CCTV tapes from last night.”
A couple of minutes later the pimply receptionist bustles in, clutching two film canisters. I snatch them from him before Radich can touch them. “Send Yulia’s roommate—Mrs. Kostenko—to me. I will speak with her here.”
Radich hurries anxiously off. I call Lieutenant Price of the Maryland State Police. “I have the name of the victim. Her name is Yulia Orlyk. She worked for the embassy of Montenegro and was last seen last night when she left the embassy a little after eleven. You can get biographic info on her from the State Department or Immigration Service. They’ll have her visa application on file.”
A middle-aged woman dressed in black appears in the reception area. “Mrs. Kostenko?” I ask as I stand to greet her. I decide, given the lady’s age, she deserves special courtesy.
She nods suspiciously. “That’s right.”
“My name is Marko Zorn. I’m a policeman. Please have a seat, Mrs. Kostenko.”
We both sit, facing one another. She is tense and suspicious.
“What happened to Yulia?” the woman demands. “Has something happened to the girl?”
“I’m sorry to have to tell you, Miss Orlyk is dead.”
“No. How could that happen?”
“It looks as though she was murdered.” I don’t know how to say this in a nice way. There is no way to make murder sound nice.
The woman bends over, her hands over her eyes, and sobs uncontrollably. I never know what to do with sobbing women. They always make me feel uncomfortable and inadequate. I briefly consider putting my arm around her shoulder, but this is a woman who’s probably spent her life in a police state and will see any policemen as the enemy and not to be trusted. I’m pretty sure a hug from me would not be welcome, so I sit silently and try to look sympathetic until she regains control of herself.
Finally, she takes a deep, ragged breath, snatches a handkerchief from a pocket and dabs at her eyes.
“When did you last see Yulia?” I ask.
“Sometime yesterday afternoon. We work on different floors. She’s in the secure area. She called me around eleven last night and said she was leaving the embassy and was waiting for her taxi. When Yulia didn’t arrive by midnight, I worry. I call her cell phone. No answer. I call the embassy. My God, what happened? Do you think it was your Washington hooligans who did this?”
“No, Mrs. Kostenko, I don’t. I don’t know what happened to Miss Orlyk, but it wasn’t hooligans. At least not our hooligans. I’m sure of that.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
JANET CLIFF ENTERS the waiting room and announces: “Show time, everybody.”
Nina emerges from her private suite, accompanied by her ambassador and members of her staff. Nina is dressed in a tailored, teal-colored pantsuit and wears a dark green scarf around her neck. She manages to look both formal and professional and, at the same time, quite sexy. Or maybe that’s me.
Nina gestures for the others to stay at a distance as she steps close to me, close enough I can smell her perfume. It’s some light floral scent.
“The ambassador has just informed me of the death of the young clerk from our embassy,” Nina says. “What can you tell me about this terrible event?”
“Her body was found last night on the side of a highway outside the city of Washington.”
“How did she die?”
“It appears she was murdered. I don’t have any details yet.”
“I must telephone the girl’s parents as soon as I return from my meeting with the Secretary of State. Please keep Ambassador Lukshich informed.”
She turns and leaves with her ambassador hovering at her side, whispering into her ear. The rest of us follow them to the garage. Nina and the ambassador, along with Janet, get into the car with the flags. Savich and I get in the follow car, and in seconds, we’re out of the garage and into the street on the short trip to the State Department.
“Tell me about the girl,” Viktor Savich asks.
“One of your embassy clerks, a young woman named Yulia Orlyk, was murdered last night.”
“Who killed her?”
“I have no idea. The Maryland police are investigating her murder. I’ll keep you informed.”
“I must know all the details.”
“Did you know the woman?”
“I never met Miss Orlyk.”
“I must tell you,” I tell Savich, “I met with Yulia Orlyk for maybe a minute yesterday afternoon. We were in the ambassador’s outer office.”
He turns in his seat to face me. “What did she say?”
“Nothing really. She seemed frightened but wouldn’t tell me why.”
“That’s all?”
“She warned me of danger and promised to call me that night. I never heard from her.”
Our caravan arrives at the State Department diplomatic entrance, where Nina is greeted by a group of men and women, all beaming with goodwill. Media people and photographers swarm around her, hoping for a quote and a good picture. After a few minutes, Nina is escorted through security and into the Secretary’s personal elevator along with her ambassador. The rest of us follow in less distinguished elevators.
I catch sight of the Secretary of State, Leland Cross, at a distance as he greets Nina and escorts her and her entourage into what seems to be a conference room. The rest of us peons are asked to make ourselves comfortable while the talks take place.
We’re in the State Department reception area furnished with what look like elegant—and expensive—antiques, which Benjamin Franklin might have admired. I find a chair that doesn’t look too fragile and has a cushion and I wait until I’m needed.
An hour and a half later the doors to the conference room are opened and the diplomats emerge looking tired but happy. And mostly hungry. Secretary Cross and Nina emerge, together smiling. By which I conclude the United States and Montenegro are not at war.
The elite members of the delegation and senior State Department types are escorted into a posh dining room. The rest of us are left to search for vending machines or use the State Department cafeteria on the ground floor.
I know Nina is safe here but I’m uncomfortable being far away from her while she’s not in her embassy.
After I’ve had a leisurely lunch consisting of coffee in a paper cup and Mars Bars, Nina and the Secretary of State emerge from the dining room looking happy and well fed. The press is unleas
hed and more photos are taken of Nina and the Secretary shaking hands and smiling broadly.
Janet collects us and we return to our cars. Nina gestures for me to join her and Janet in her limousine. The ambassador and Savich have gone off somewhere on their own.
“How did it go?” I ask, to be polite.
Nina slumps in the back seat and briefly shuts her eyes. Finally, rousing herself: “It went well. We both got what we wanted. There were some compromises on both sides. I hate compromise.” She looks at me hard. “Tell me about the girl who was murdered last night.”
“I wish I could tell you more. The Maryland police are investigating. The DC police are helping where we can.”
“Who could do such a thing?” Nina asks. “Why would someone want to hurt that poor girl?”
I have no answer.
When the cars pull into the embassy garage, I say: “I have some police business. I believe your schedule calls for you to remain in the embassy the rest of the afternoon. With your permission I will go to police headquarters to deal with another matter.”
“Of course. I’ll be safe in the embassy. Janet and Viktor will look after me.”
When I return to police headquarters, Cynthia Fletcher, Victoria West’s theatrical agent, is waiting for me. Arms folded across her breast, she regards me warily. “Somebody murdered Vickie West,” she announces to me, without preamble.
Cynthia Fletcher is easy to identify by the white streak running through her dark hair: as if she were hit by lightning. Very dramatic, I think. Very New York. Today in bright light she looks about forty. She’s tall and slender and she wears a long, gray skirt that reaches her ankles. Her eyes are gray and suspicious.
“Am I allowed to smoke here?” she asks, holding a crumpled pack of cigarettes in one hand, a light in the other.
“I’m afraid not. This is a no smoking area.”
“Damn! How do you get any work done?”
“If this is about the death of Victoria West, you should speak with my partner, Lucy Tanaka. She’s in charge of the investigation now.”
“I’m speaking to you on a personal basis: this is a private matter.” She stuffs her cigarette package and lighter angrily into her large purse. “You need to know that Vickie did not commit suicide.”