“Y-ees,” said one of the young men brushing the horse as if he doubted his own ability to provide the information. He carefully brushed out the animal’s mane. “What’s this about?” His Russian was stilted, but whether Anglo or German, Kazakov couldn’t tell.
He was young, broad-shouldered, and blond, and by the gleam that remained on his clothing under the horse dust, he came from the money now infiltrating New Moscow’s wealthiest families.
“It is a police matter. Now the directions, please?”
The young man waved him toward a door in an alcove and Kazakov left them whispering as they brushed the horse. Beyond the door he stumped up a flight of stairs and found himself in a heated lounge, complete with wet bar and leather-clad tables and chairs. On one wall hung a painting of an English countryside with horses and riders galloping, painted in an almost oriental style. Lounging in one of the swivel chairs nearest to a broad expanse of window overlooking the arena sat a woman also clad in a pair of those ubiquitous boots and breeches and a down vest over a heavy knit multicolored sweater.
She glanced over her shoulder and smoothed a palm over chestnut, shoulder-length hair. By the fairness of her skin, Kazakov expected freckles and as he approached her, he wasn’t disappointed.
“So? She asked from her chair, her attention back on the arena where a horse and rider were going around in circles. She didn’t even shift the long legs that were stretched out before her. “What do you want? Police, correct?”
Her accent was thickly Anglo—a transplant, then. Possibly brought in to help introduce the Anglo version of polo.
Kazakov introduced himself and she already looked bored. “That is an unusual painting,” he said. “I’m not familiar with the style.”
She rolled her eyes slightly. “It’s Neuvo-Briton—the latest thing a few years back. A blend of Anglo and our Asian friends’ styles. Made popular by the painter Henry Chow, if you must know. That’s one of his. What of it?”
Kazakov studied the painting. So perhaps Collin Archer had been reflecting Anglo-German tastes. He turned back to her. “Just interested. It’s an interesting style given its heavy Chinese influence.”
She held him steady with her gaze. “I guess that was the point.”
Time to change the subject. “I need to talk to you about an AngloTec rider.”
She glanced at him, an arched brow awaiting the answer to the obvious question.
“Collin Archer?” he asked.
She sighed and sat up, her heels pulled into a prim position on the floor. “So how is dear Archer? We haven’t seen him for a few days. His ponies miss him. So do the bookies.”
She turned back to the arena and appeared to study a second man working a horse in a circle on the end of two long lines.
Damn it, he needed her attention. “Well, he won’t be here for either horses or bookies again.”
She blinked three times as if processing that information. Then she swung her chair around to face him.
“Tell me about him,” he asked, hooking a chair forward to sit down facing her. He pulled out his notebook. “Your name?”
“Charlotte Newcomb. I’m married to Brett Newcomb, the Anglo attaché to the Ambassador.”
As opposed to the German attaché who would also be attached to the Amabassador. Though the Anglo-German Empire had a single royal family, the two cultures were distinct enough that care had to be taken to retain the uneasy peace of the Anglo-German alliance even after two hundred years of being one empire.
“And what is your role at this polo club?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Manager, I suppose, though the mysoginist club members barely acknowledge even that. I make sure the feed for the horses is here and arrange the matches—that sort of thing.”
Kazakov nodded and noted it down.
“So, you said Collin Archer won’t be back. What’s happened to him?” She shook her head. “Something bad, I’m thinking—given you’re here.”
He studied her from the tops of his eyes. “He’s dead.”
Charlotte Newcomb showed almost no reaction. Then she sighed and nodded. “How did he die?”
There was no way Kazakov was providing the details. “Let’s just say that there were unusual circumstances. So, what can you tell me about Collin Archer?” He held his pen poised as she rolled her head on her neck.
“Unusual circumstances. Why doesn’t that surprise me,” she said with a hint of laughter. Then she turned serious. “Well… regardless of what he told everyone, he was a very poor horseman and a not much better gambler.” She shook her head and leaned forward as if warming to the subject. “Collin never did have much affinity for the animals. He’s got good ponies—the best money could buy or train, actually—but unlike the other riders, he never did the work himself and seemed to expect horses to just be like a vehicle: you climb behind the wheel and they go where you tell them.” She shook her head.
“Anyway, Collin Archer was one of those men I like to call a Golden Eagle—not good for much except swooping in and taking the credit. You know eagles are very much carrion birds, don’t you? He’d swan in here and spend time flirting or talking, let others ride his horses, and then swan in again when a game was on. Don’t get me wrong. He could ride. But it was more like he went through the motions, not that he was passionate about it.”
“You don’t sound like you cared for him very much.”
Charlotte shrugged. “What difference would it make if I did? I’m just one of the follow-along crowd. I might ride dressage horses, but in this stable it counts for nothing.” She lifted her chin at the horse in the ring. “They’re doing it all wrong. The way they’re working him, the horse is learning to drop his shoulder and fall onto his forehand. Not what you want in any horse, but god forbid I should say anything.”
“The people around here don’t like your advice?”
She smiled sweetly but there was a touch of acid in her gaze. “They are men in a man’s world. Who am I but the wife of somebody, even if I own this barn?”
Surprised, he looked down at his notes. “You said you were the manager…”
She shrugged again. “To them that is all I can ever be, even if I’m also the money behind the operation.”
Her bitterness was so harsh that he chose to ignore it. “You mentioned bookies before. What did you mean?”
She leaned back in her chair, appraising him. “So is this where we get to the heart of the matter? Collin Archer. He had a gambling problem. Perhaps that’s what caused his—what did you call it?—the unusual circumstances of his death?”
He leaned back, too. “Tell me about this gambling. What do you know?”
She appeared to consider for a moment and then rolled her gaze heavenward. “What don’t I? Archer and his buddies were deep into gambling. They even tried to rig a polo match until I caught them. I told them that if they ever bet on a polo match, they were out of the club and the stable, no matter how much they paid in dues. I would not stand for it. I do not like scandal. So as far as I know, Collin took his gambling elsewhere.”
“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to do Collin Archer harm?”
Her steady gaze glittered at him. “Aside from me, Detektiv?”
He cocked a brow in question and she looked away. “Let us just say that he was no gentleman. He might be of good Anglo stock, but there was something about him. He might speak the right words, have the right accent, but there was something very—wrong—about him. Don’t get me wrong, it was nothing major—just many little things like how he would fold a coat, or expect me and others to answer to him. I mentioned it to my husband, but he told me I just didn’t like the guy. Maybe that was the case, I don’t know. I suppose that sort of attitude could come from the nobility, but I never heard that about Collin. I used to tell Brett that I thought he was a psychopath—absolutely no concept of anything other than what he wanted, and what he wanted was money and influence. He was always trying to sidle up beside the righ
t person at the wrong time, but I guess some people are like that. Made for very awkward social situations from time to time.”
She shifted uneasily in her chair while Kazakov simply watched her.
“The last rumor I heard was that he had lost big on a football match and his bookies were demanding payment.” She shrugged. “Sometimes you reap what you sow, Detektiv.”
“Do you know who these bookies might be?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Someone in New Moscow, I suppose. I’d heard he’d already had to trade favors in lieu of interest on what he owed. Something about someone’s nephew getting a job beyond his competence level. I think there may be a lot of that thing in Fergana. But then I suspect you would know that, Detektiv.” She spoke as if she suspected as much of him.
He noted the information down, but frankly it didn’t sit right with him. Why would a spy go out of his way to be noticed—and for all the wrong reasons? It made no sense—and yet—who would ever suspect someone with Collin Archer’s personality of being more than a difficult to deal with foreign company hack? If Collin Archer was a spy, he was either the most incompetent or the most brilliant spy he’d ever heard of.
Not that he’d heard of many.
But clearly Charlotte Newcomb did not know who the bookies were, or she took pleasure in not telling. Which meant he had little more to go on. He was going to have to track down the bookies through standard police procedures.
He thought about Collin Archer and how much he didn’t know about him.
“There was a charity polo match of the old-fashioned kind. It was held to raise money for a youth musical conference. Were you involved in that?”
She grimaced as if the whole event had been distasteful. “Live goats.” She shuddered. “I organized the event at the request of my husband and some politicians. They thought it would provide a marquee event that would provide good press for AngloTec and the government. Embracing culture and all that.”
Kazakov again made a note. “What happened during the event?” He left it open for her interpretation of what was important to report on.
She shrugged. “We hosted the event. It was well attended by Fergana’s well-heeled. The game was held with a reception afterward with food and music and much schmoozing.” Another lift of the shoulder as if it was nothing. Clearly Charlotte Newcomb was well trained in the art of leaving much unsaid.
“There were newspaper articles about the event…” he said and held her gaze until she shifted in her seat and looked away.
“There was one small problem. One of our guests had words with one of the caterers—or at least we thought the young man was one of the catering staff. It turns out he was uninvited and was trying to cause problems. The police were called, but the young man disappeared before they arrived. That was all there was to it.”
Kazakov nodded. “Tell me, if this was to benefit student musicians, surely some of the musicians must have been in attendance.”
“Definitely. There was a chamber orchestra. They were not that good, but then they had been drawn from a number of schools.”
Including Yekaterina Weber, most likely. “And can you tell me which guest this unknown youth troubled?”
Charlotte Newcomb looked puzzled. “What does this have to do with Collin Archer?”
“Please. Just answer the question.” He held his breath.
“Why, it was Boris Bure. We had to work very hard to convince the press to leave that little fact out of their articles.” She grew thoughtful. “Come to think of it, it was Collin who helped make that possible and he also came to Boris’s rescue.”
Kazakov was writing as fast as he could. “Why would he do that, do you think?”
“I—I’m not sure.” And for a woman as certain as Charlotte Newcomb, that was something. “Perhaps Archer was simply currying favors—again. But I seem to recall that Boris and Collin might have been talking when the young man interrupted. They were off to one side, in a small garden that grows next to the polo field and reception area. I suppose Collin was the only one around to help Boris.” Another shrug as if it didn’t matter.
But it mattered to Kazakov. In those circumstances, he could see young Semetai Manas trying to make contact. He could have followed the two men into the garden in order to talk to Boris Bure when the two men were finished their conversation. Had he heard something he shouldn’t have or was it simply that he had tried to speak to Bure about his stepdaughter? Obviously, Charlotte Newcomb would know nothing of that. He decided to change the direction of enquiry, but the familiar tingling in his chest said that he was onto something. He just needed to learn more about that day.
“These places.” He encompassed the arena and stables in his wave. “There must be some place that the riders maintain their possessions.”
She sat up. “You mean their lockers?”
He nodded. “That might be it. But it may not be, too. Lockers tend to be small.” Too small for a spy who would need to have access to equipment. “Did Collin have any other place that was his own within the complex? A place he could store things in private?”
She started to laugh and it was both amused and annoyed. “A space? A small space, he asked for. The least of spaces—where a man could relax together with his friends, he said. It was a card club! A damned card club!” She leapt to her feet and paced around the carpeted room, her booted feet thumping hollowly on the floor.
Then she turned to him. “Come with me.”
She grabbed a knee-length shearling jacket that would cost about half a year of Kazakov’s pay and ran down the stairs from the viewing room to the stables, then threw open the door to outside and marched into the night, Kazakov at her heels.
Outside, she strode across the snowy parking lot to a large truck and trailer parked to one side. The stable lights reflected in its darkened windows and on the chrome grill work. The truck was commercial grade, made for hauling large loads over long distances—the same type that hauled cargo up and over the mountain passes between China and Fergana, but the trailer was custom made—a large horse-hauling van with a large living space up front.
Charlotte stormed up to the living quarters stairs, fished a key ring from somewhere on her person, and threw open the door.
“There!” she said turning to him. “If he had anything stored privately, it would be here. And if you want his locker, I will be here for another hour.” Then she stomped back down the stairs and away across the silent parking lot to the arena.
Chapter 10
Kazakov’s breath steamed around him as he turned back to the open door above the three retractable iron stairs that led up to the trailer entrance. Grabbing hold of the side of the door, he hiked himself up into inky darkness. There were few windows and the open door provided only a narrow alley of light. His eyes adjusted gradually and his fingers fumbled on the wall until he found a small switch. He toggled it on and a low hum filled the room. Then a soft flickering glow began from a single overhead light and a whiff of heat came from somewhere down by his feet. The place had a generator. Very nice. And expensive.
He closed the door behind him as the light increased and steadied.
The room was about ten feet long by seven feet wide. Cupboards filled the upper walls above a half-sized sink, electric oven, and a single cooktop gas burner. Low, cushioned, bench seating around three sides of a small table sat beneath a shuttered window opposite the door. Two small doors gave off toward the rear of the trailer. He checked one and it gave onto the length of the horse area. The other door gave onto a tiny bathroom with toilet and shower. In the main room’s heat, the dusty-sweet scent of horse sweat slowly permeated the air.
It was clearly the change and lounge room used by the riders when away at a match. What had Collin Archer turned it into?
He began with the cupboards.
The uppers revealed packs of playing cards and dice and opened and sealed bottles of vodka, imported Anglo whiskey, German beer, and even a bottle of sake. Car
tons of Anglo crisps, jars of pickles, and tins of something called herring and sardines filled the rest of the upper cupboards. The fridge contained delicacies of cheese and sausages he had only seen in specialty shops catering to expatriate shoppers. Everything looked reasonably fresh, as if it had been replaced only recently. It certainly looked like the lair of an Anglo gentleman who liked his comforts of home. Or else it was a perfect place to make other Anglo gentlemen feel at home, and those who were not Anglo feel like they had stepped into a rarified world of plentiful exotic food. A place of comfort. A place among friends.
He crouched down and went through the lower cupboards. They smelled of astringent and antiseptic. Large bottles of strange brown liquid sloshed when he shifted them. Tins of hoof unguent, sprays to enhance the shine of a horse’s coat. A plastic workman’s rack filled with brushes and other paraphernalia he couldn’t identify. Long strips of bandages. Hair tonic. Boot black.
And exactly nothing that told him anything more than he already knew about Collin Archer.
He sat back on his heels as the humming cut out. The room had reached a temperature that he no longer needed his coat. He stood, removed it, and placed it on a hook by the door.
The bench seating had thick cushion backs and seats. He pulled off each one, unzipping the faded cover—this was clearly a well-used trailer—and felt inside the dense foam. Nothing in the side cushions, but when he unzipped the larger cushion from the back of the bench seat, he found a line of small slits in the foam just big enough to slip two fingers inside.
There was nothing in the three exposed by the zipper.
Simply an imperfection of the foam, or something cut more recently? He pulled the slipcover right off and laid the foam wedge across the table to check each slit. On the second to last one, his fingers hit something. He pulled his fingers out and parted the foam to peer inside.
Buried in the foam was something small, about an inch wide, that looked like tan-colored plastic.
After Yekaterina Page 18