by Otho Eskin
I point to the Honda. “It’s attached to the differential.”
“I might have known.” Ron looks at me funny, then calls out: “Code Red. Now!”
Half a dozen men and two women climb out of the truck, putting on HAZMAT and protective gear. They clear the area around the car, several going house to house to tell the occupants to evacuate their homes immediately. Ron and one of his assistants inspect the underside of the car using high-powered flashlights.
“It’s a bomb,” Ron tells me.
“I know it’s a bomb,” I say. “That’s why I called you. What are you going to do about it?”
“It’s too dangerous to move.”
“So?”
“We’ll blow it up.”
“What about my car?”
“That, too.”
It takes almost half an hour for Ron’s team to clear the area. The bomb squad strings up yellow police tape at each end of the block blocking off all traffic, car and pedestrian. Several fire trucks arrive with firemen geared up ready to do their thing. The bomb squad crew drapes a heavy steel containment net over the car.
Then my Honda Civic explodes.
The firemen converge, putting out the fire, which takes almost thirty minutes, leaving a heap of twisted and charred steel and melted plastic on the street.
Ensler takes off his HAZMAT helmet; his face red and sweating, while his team removes the steel containment net from what’s left of my car and others search the wreckage for bomb fragments.
“That was a real motherfucker,” Ron tells me. “This your car?”
“Was.”
A couple of Ensler’s people come up to us and a woman holds a piece of burnt and twisted metal in her gloved hand. “Part of the detonator,” she tells Ensler.
“What would make it go off?” I ask.
Ensler turns the piece of metal over in his hand. “That was no amateur job—highly professional. You don’t see those much. I can’t be sure, but I’d say it’s one of those detonators that is triggered when the vehicle reaches a certain set speed, say twenty-five miles an hour for example. Very professional.”
“What am I supposed to do with that mess you left on the street?” I ask.
“It’s your car. Deal with it.” Ron climbs into the bomb squad truck with his crew and cheerfully waves goodbye.
As I ride in one of the police cruisers to return to the embassy I try to remember whether I checked the box for insurance when I rented the Honda.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“HAVE ANY OF you jokers seen the prime minister?” Janet is yelling as I walk into the waiting room outside Nina’s private quarters. Janet turns to Viktor Savich. “That damned woman has disappeared. She just finished hours of press and TV interviews and retired to her private quarters to rest, she said. Now she’s gone and vanished.”
Janet and her team disappear into the labyrinth of rooms in the residential section of the embassy, searching for the prime minister.
“Where’s Nina?” I ask Viktor, who seems quite calm.
“She’s safe as long as she’s inside the embassy.”
I’m beginning to have second thoughts about that. At the back of my mind I have questions about His Excellency the Ambassador and I’m no longer sure Nina’s completely safe here.
“I think I know where she went,” says Savich. “Come with me.”
I follow him into Nina’s private quarters, which are empty, along a back corridor until we stop at a small door.
Savich opens the door and I follow him down a set of steep, narrow steps. At the foot of the steps, we’re in what appears to be a series of storage and workrooms. One room is filled with locked file cabinets. Another has industrial-size washing machines and dryers. We pass quickly through what seems like a disused conference room.
Savich swings open a door and we step into a large, institutional kitchen with gas ranges, stainless steel sinks, slate-topped worktables, and a walk-in refrigerator: Nina Voychek stands at one of the worktables.
“Nina! You can’t disappear like this,” I say.
“I’m so sorry,” Nina answers. “I didn’t mean to make trouble. After I heard about the murder of our code clerk, I needed time by myself, I needed time to grieve for that girl.”
“How did you manage to get out of your private suite without Janet or her people seeing you?” I ask.
“There’s a back entrance to the basement. There always is. When I was an undergrad in New York, I worked summers as a house cleaner on the Upper East Side. I learned there’s always a back entrance to the servants’ quarters.”
While Savich escorts Nina back to her private quarters, I return to the waiting room. After a half hour, during which I have a heated phone discussion with the rent-a-car company, one of Nina’s assistants approaches. “The Prime Minister would like a word with you.”
Nine Voychek sits on a small settee in her private suite.
“I apologize for the trouble I caused,” Nina says softly. “That was stupid of me. I’ve already apologized to Janet.” She takes a deep breath. “I was deeply affected by the death of Yulia Orlyk and needed some time by myself to deal with what happened—and to deal with personal memories.”
Nina wraps her arms tightly around her body. She’s nervous and tense—something I haven’t seen in her. Her jaw is clenched.
“Tell me,” she asks, “how was Yulia killed?”
This is not the first time someone has asked me specifically how Yulia Orlyk was murdered. Most people don’t ask that. Most people don’t want to know the details. I try to remember who it was that asked me that question before: it seems like it should be important.
“She was strangled,” I tell her.
She studies my face closely. “Do you mean she was garroted? Is that right?”
“Yes, ma’am. How did you know that?”
“It’s Nina, remember.” She takes a deep breath. “Did they hit her in the face?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“They like to do that to women.”
“I can’t imagine what it must have been like,” I say.
Nina Voychek shudders, almost a spasm. Her face flushes. “I can imagine.” She gasps. “I know how the garrote feels around my neck. I’ve died that way several times.”
She pulls the scarf from her neck and reveals a dark wound around her throat: the same wound I saw around the neck of Yulia Orlyk. The same wound I saw around the neck of the dead guard at the theater.
“That’s my gift from Goran Drach,” she whispers and turns away. “I’m sorry.” She hastily covers the wound, embarrassed. “I promised myself never to do that. It’s selfish of me.”
She takes a deep breath. “I need a drink; would you be so kind as to get me a scotch and one for yourself, if you’re allowed to drink while you’re on duty. I’m rather shaken,” she says. “I’m not sure I trust myself to walk across the room just now.”
I pour her a glass of scotch and water and fix one for myself.
“Marko, I ask that you be discreet about this.” She touches the scarf wrapped around her throat. “I consider my scars to be a badge of honor; but they’re a private honor.”
“Were you the one who insisted I be assigned to your security detail?” I ask, handing her a glass of scotch.
“Did somebody request your involvement specifically?” She sips her drink thoughtfully. “That’s curious. It wasn’t me. Somebody on my staff, do you suppose? I’m certainly happy it worked out that way. I feel safer with you around.”
“You have your own people. That should make you feel safe.”
“It should, but it doesn’t. I know my friends and supporters are here to protect and help me. But with you I feel truly safe.”
“Why? We’re strangers.”
“It’s because we are strangers that I trust you. The people who accompany me have been through the agony of my country, and they bring their own memories and emotional baggage. How could it be otherwise? Three times someone has tri
ed to kill me. These attempts involved people I thought I knew and trusted. You’re a stranger who brings no personal agenda. I can’t tell you what a comfort that is for me.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“You asked when we first met whether I’d lost anyone during the Revolution.” She takes a deep drink. “His name was Sasha and he was a poet. We planned to marry, but it didn’t work out. When I returned to my country from the States, I became engaged in opposition politics, and I had no time for love.” Her face is frozen, lost in her own thoughts and memories. “I was a bit older than Sasha and more experienced; I’d had affairs in college. Nothing serious, but Sasha was an innocent.
“Then Mykhayl Drach issued the Special Emergency Decrees and opposition politics became very dangerous. Newspapers and radio and TV stations were shut down. Men and women were fired from their teaching positions and arrested. Ordinary people were recruited as spies for the Secret Police—Goran Drach’s police—forced to inform on their friends, on members of their own families. Soon, no one trusted anyone.” She stops and again stares into the middle distance. “And then the ethnic cleansing started.”
“If it’s too painful, you don’t have to talk about it.”
She shakes her head. “I have no one I can take into my confidence anymore; no one I can really trust.” She lifts her now-empty glass. “Do you think you could fix me another?”
I pour us both fresh drinks.
“Then the day came when Drach’s secret police came to our apartment and arrested Sasha and me and took us to the St. Nikolas Central Prison. I was held there for seven months: in solitary confinement. Twice I was brought before the high Tribunal and charged with treason against the state. Twice I was condemned to death. Twice I was taken to the execution chamber, the garrote tightened around my neck until I passed out. But I lived. I suppose I was more valuable to them alive than dead.
“Many of my followers were arrested and taken there. Many were executed, including members of my family. Drach’s thugs tortured my poor brother, Filip. They demanded he sign a document denouncing me as a traitor. He is not strong but he held out as long as he could. Finally, he signed a statement saying I was a CIA agent. Then they let him go.”
“And Sasha?”
She closes her eyes. Her face is hard with loss—or is it rage? “I was forced to watch his execution, which was by garrote, of course. The garrote is the preferred means of execution used by the former regime for special prisoners. It used to be called ‘Drach’s necktie’. They brought Sasha into the execution chamber where there were boxes of Sasha’s books and poems. They forced Sasha to watch as they burned them. All his life reduced to a pile of ashes. Then they murdered him.”
There’s a gentle knock on the door.
“Come,” Nina says.
Janet Cliff opens the door and looks suspiciously around the room. “Just checking. Is everything alright here?”
“Everything is fine,” Nina answers. “Marko is looking after me.”
Janet gives me a hard look. “I’ll be right outside the door if you need me.” Janet silently closes the door, leaving me and Nina alone again. Nina sips her drink, huddled on the settee. “This business with the code clerk has shattered me: I feel personally responsible—guilty.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“Wasn’t it? My presence has caused destruction to many people. My work caused Sasha a terrible death. By coming here to Washington, I’m responsible for the death of that young woman, I’m sure of it. How can I not feel guilty? Now it is you who’s in danger.”
“I must tell you,” I say. “There was an attempt on my life today. Somebody planted a bomb in my car.”
“Were you hurt?” She sits up straight, concerned.
“I found the bomb before I drove the car. It’s been safely disposed of.”
“That’s awful. You must be very careful.”
“The attempt may have nothing to do with you, Nina. A few days ago somebody shot at me. And more recently, I was attacked by some unknown person in the basement of a theater. These things happened before you arrived in the US. Maybe they have nothing to do with your presence here.”
She looks skeptical. “Do you really believe that? And there is the murder of my embassy code clerk. I can’t dismiss all this as coincidence. I couldn’t stand to have you on my conscience as well.”
“I’ll make sure you won’t have to.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
LUCY IS STANDING at the edge of the stage when I arrive at the theater. “Natalie Esmond, the actress, is on her way,” Lucy says. “She’ll be here any minute. The props girl is backstage waiting for you.”
“It won’t take me long,” I say.
“I’ve already questioned Props. She doesn’t know anything useful. She just joined the production a few days ago. She was a last-minute replacement when the former props manager left unexpectedly. She has no prior connection with any member of the cast or crew. Absolutely none with Victoria West.”
“Where does your investigation stand?”
“I wish I had better news. The whole team of homicide detectives and I have been over the scene again and again. We’ve interviewed every member of the cast and crew and everyone in the theater on the night of the murder. That includes four stagehands, an electrician, two concession-stand folks, and a coat-check girl. Everyone except those in the audience. The people in the audience were never near the stage.”
“Did you find any ringer in the group you interviewed?”
“Roy Hunt concentrated on the women, but he didn’t get anywhere. He swears they’re all innocent. I’ve spoken personally with each one as well. Maybe they’re not quite as innocent as Roy claims, but there are no killers among them as far as I can see. With maybe one exception. Cynthia Fletcher. She was Victoria West’s agent.”
“What’s wrong with her story?”
“Her relationship with Miss West was more than professional.”
“Meaning?”
“They were … very close.”
“Don’t be squeamish, Lucy. You mean they were lovers?”
“Maybe. And Victoria West was about to announce she was going to marry Arthur Cantwell. Maybe Fletcher killed Victoria West in a fit of jealousy. She seems high-strung and she was at the theater that night, but no one remembers seeing her all the time.”
“Anything else?” I ask.
“Cynthia Fletcher made several withdrawals from her bank account, which is now close to zero balance. She claims her fees have dried up in recent weeks.”
“How about members of the cast and crew?”
“I’ve pulled up police records on everyone. I found nothing suspicious. Interesting, maybe. One of the actors, Tim Collins, was once charged with assault, but the charges were dropped.”
“Who’s Tim Collins?”
“He’s the actor you interviewed. The one on that TV series The Phantom.”
“Who did he assault?”
“He tried to beat up some theater critic he met in a restaurant. He didn’t do any serious damage. And Arthur Cantwell withdrew $100,000 from his investment account the day before the murder.”
“Do we know why?” I ask.
“He claims it was to redecorate an apartment in New York for Vickie and him to live in. He also has a serious gambling problem.”
“Does he owe money to anyone in the production?”
“Nothing I could find. Cantwell did buy two round-trip tickets for Aruba a few days ago. But they were open tickets with no fixed departure date.
“A sound designer, a man named Carl Soames, borrowed almost $81,000 from some New Jersey loan sharks. But he was in New York at the time of the murder and his alibi is solid. And there’s one more thing. Michael Toland, the stage manager, admits to owning a Smith & Wesson revolver. He keeps it in his desk in the stage manager’s office.”
“The same gun that killed Vickie West?”
“The same make and model but a different gun. Hann
a’s checking it out.”
“Has Toland’s gun been fired?”
“Not recently. You should know that the gun is unregistered.”
“Why didn’t Toland register it?”
“He said he forgot. A couple of the stagehands had minor offenses and some drug possession charges, but nothing stuck and that was years ago. I’m afraid it’s all pretty thin. I hate to admit it, but we’re nowhere.”
“We’ll get there. Keep the faith,” I urge.
“By now we should have some sense of motive. I can find no reason why anyone would want to harm Victoria West. She was well liked. She’d worked with members of the cast and crew for weeks in rehearsals and previews and there’d been no sign of any problems. Many had worked with her in previous productions and were her friends.”
“Not everybody was her friend.”
“Everyone involved had a stake in the production being a success. With her death, they’re all out of a job. At first, I put my money on Arthur Cantwell,” Lucy says. “He seems like someone who could commit murder.”
“More likely as a victim than as a killer,” I say. “Do you still think he’s a suspect?”
“That doesn’t make sense to me. He and Vickie were going to be married. Why would he kill the woman he supposedly loved?”
“It’s true, married couples usually wait until after the wedding ceremony to kill one another. And they already had their opportunity when they were first married.”
“It looks like we’re nowhere.”
“I’m going to talk to the props girl now,” I say. “Call me when Natalie Esmond gets here.”
The props girl, whose name I seem to remember is Lily, is waiting for me at her table backstage, sitting in semidarkness.
“Can I ask you a few more questions, Lily?”
“Sure,” she whispers.
“You only recently joined the Hedda Gabler production as a replacement.”
“That’s right. The former props person left, and they needed someone to take her place.”
“Who hired you?”
“Mr. Taylor.”
“Had you worked for him before?”