Wishing for a camera to document the evidence, he dug the plastic piece out onto the table.
Not quite an inch wide and about two inches long, the small plastic rectangle was cut by a seam around the waist. He couldn’t tease the two pieces of plastic apart with his fingernails and finally picked the rectangle up and pulled the two ends. It came apart in his hands, one piece clearly a protective lid for what he had uncovered.
It was a small metal prong that reminded him of an electric plug, but he couldn’t think of anything small enough to plug it into. It wasn’t shaped like a normal three-prong plug, either. This had two plugs on one side, so close together as to almost be one and delicate enough looking he could probably bend them off with a finger. The third prong sat at the other side of the end of the plastic and was a simple small metal rod or wire.
Replacing the lid on the rectangle, he pulled out a plastic bag and placed the contraption inside. Then he kept searching. There was nothing further in the cushion. He pulled the cover back on and placed the evidence bag in his pocket just as the door pulled open, letting in a blast of cold air and the young man he’d spoken to when he’d first arrived at the stable. The young man entered as his blue eyes scanned the room.
“I figured it would be messier,” he said in an atrocious German accent.
Kazakov arched a brow at him.
“You know. You’re searching old Collin’s secret hideaway, aren’t you? A cop doing his job?”
Kazakov slowly nodded, not quite sure what to make of the man. Friend of Archer’s? An ally? Of Archer or Kazakov?
The young men grinned, revealing crooked white teeth in his otherwise handsome face. “When Charlotte came storming back I figured she probably wouldn’t have showed ya the tricks of this place.” He shook his head. “Charlotte. She’s had a hard-on for Collin ever since he turned her down when he first arrived. She likes to have her way with each of us and then toss us aside. I think it makes her feel better. But Collin wasn’t having none and she resented him for it. Couldn’t stand a man with morals greater than her own, I guess.” He lounged companionably against the closed door and looked around the room.
“So just what’s happened to Collin and what are you looking for?”
It was unusual for people to be so easily forthcoming. If Collin Archer was truly a spy, would he not try to ingratiate himself and fit in? But then perhaps he had—with the men.
“What can you tell me about Collin?” Kazakov asked.
The young man shrugged. “Damn good polo player when you can get him on the ponies—or maybe it’s the expensive horseflesh that makes him look good. Either way he was a good man to have on your team.”
“And beyond polo?”
Another shrug. “I didn’t really know him. Quiet sort of bloke except when it came to the gambling. He’s pretty serious about that. Made for quite a few good parties.” He grinned his crooked grin. “A lot of money changed hands a time or two because he wasn’t that good at it—the gambling I mean. He’s into me for a few pounds. A few of the others, too. But he provided the liquor and the food and that’s too good a deal to turn down, isn’t it?”
Kazakov patted the cushion back, sat down and pulled out his notebook. “Tell me about these parties.”
The young man settled across the table from him. “What’s there to tell? We get together and play cards and get soused.”
“Who is we?”
“Well, me of course.”
“And your name is?”
“Richard Spencer. I’m assistant to the Anglo-German Ambassador.”
Kazakov scribbled.
“And then there’s Henry Scott, he’s in the foreign trade department. And George Kinsey. He’s in security—top secret stuff, you know.” Another crooked grin. “Rodney Swift. He’s in communications. He comes in from time to time. A few others, but we’re the main ones.”
“And what do you talk about at these parties?”
The young man leaned back in his seat. “I don’t know. Women, of course. The damned snow in winter. In summer, the heat and dust. What we miss from back home—you cannot get a decent beefsteak here—or shepherd’s pie or clotted cream.” He shook his head as if it pained him. “Work, at times. The horses or the last game or football, of course. Who cheats the worst—usually that’s Collin!” Another disarming grin.
Kazakov thought for a moment. If he had been Collin Archer, getting a few fools together talking about their work would be a good way to learn the Anglo-German position on matters of trade and foreign policy, but the Anglo-Germans weren’t the Chinese enemy. That was the Ottoman Empire. Why would such a carefully prepared spy be wasted on these people and why was he dead?
“Did Collin Archer have any enemies?”
The young man’s gaze narrowed and his grin disappeared. A calculation came into his eyes that said he was no fool. “You said ‘did’. Why are you asking me all this? Has something happen to Collin?”
Kazakov met his gaze. “Answer the question first.”
Richard Spenser shook his head. “Like I said, he keeps more to himself. None of us knows him that well. We didn’t exactly run in the same circles back home, but he’s a fun enough bloke to be with. Aside from Charlotte, I never saw him have words with anyone.”
“Collin Archer’s body was found three days agoin Yekaterina Park.”
“Jeezus.” Richard Spenser looked stunned. “Robbed? He always did like to show that bank roll of his…”
“It did not appear to be a robbery.” Kazakov looked at his notes and made a note of bank roll and question mark. “What did Collin Archer usually wear?”
“Out here? Boots and breeches mostly. Like the rest of us. He had a few nice pieces, though. That navy coat of his was Saville Row, and he had a few fine suits. Mostly his things were bought here—when he had the money, and that was usually when he’d won a pot or a bet or something.”
“Can you think of anything Collin was involved in that would make him a target?”
“A target? Are you talking premeditated murder?”
Kazakov didn’t say anything and Richard Spencer seemed to collapse back into his seat.
He rubbed his face and looked apologetically up at Kazakov. “First time this has ever happened to me. I came out here for a bit of a lark.” He waved around the trailer. “But then I came to Fergana for a bit of a lark, too, didn’t I? Jeezus.”
He leaned forward. “Listen, I didn’t know Collin that well, like I said. He wasn’t exactly a cuddly bloke. But I will say that the past month or so he’s seemed a bit on edge. I thought it was just the heebie-jeebies that come after you’ve lived in this hole of a country for a few months, but maybe he was expecting something to happen. I guess something did.”
Making a show of checking his watch, Richard Spenser slid out of the bench seat.
Kazakov stopped him with a raised hand. “I expect you were at the charity polo match along with the others?”
Richard Spenser looked like a man who had just missed his escape. “Yeesss. I was there. A good match, too, though I’m not too partial to the live goat thing.” He shuddered. “What of it?”
Kazakov held his gaze, then glanced at his notes and up again. “There was an altercation at the reception. What can you tell me about it?”
Cautiously, Spenser slid back into his seat. “There was nothing to tell, really. Some guy crashed the event and got into an argument with one of the guests. Collin intervened, I guess. He had scraped-up knuckles and a mark on his cheek.”
“Where did this altercation occur?”
Spenser shrugged. “I was told in the garden. Odd, because at that time of year, it gets cold outside in the evening. I guess people wanted a break from the crowd. Some privacy, so to speak.”
Which meshed with Kazakov’s thinking.
“Do you know who the party crasher was? Could you describe him?”
“It was a kid, actually. I caught a glimpse of him leaving when everyone else was running toward the noise of the alte
rcation. I’d hung back to get another drink when this young guy scurries across the room and out the door. Dark-haired kid. Looked young, too. He looked mighty angry.” Spenser brightened. “Could he be the killer?”
Kazakov maintained a noncommittal expression. “One more question: what’s your understanding of what the altercation was about?”
Spenser shifted in his seat as if the question made him uncomfortable. He shook his head. “You’ve got to understand. I wasn’t there so I don’t know for sure, but I’ve heard a couple of stories. One is that the kid was dating someone’s daughter when it wasn’t approved. You know how fathers can be.” He shrugged as if that was all he had to say, but Kazakov wasn’t going to let him off that easy.
“And the other story?”
Spenser blinked as if he didn’t like being caught, but he grinned his bright grin and shrugged. “Rumors, old son. Simply rumors, but I’ve heard it said that the gardens are a place of private conversations and the kid might have been eavesdropping.”
Kazakov held Spenser with his gaze. Was this truth or fabrication? The clarity of Spenser’s gaze said it was either the truth or he was the consummate liar. Kazakov wasn’t sure which to believe.
Spenser took the opportunity to scramble up. “I’d best be going. I’ve got an early day tomorrow. Oh. And if you’re searching this place, check the walls. Charlotte had it fitted with a number of ‘secret’ panels for stowing extra gear when we were traveling. Sometimes it’s not good to have everything out for customs to see when you’re crossing borders.”
“Pardon me?” Kazakov wasn’t sure what he’d just heard.
“Like here, see?” Richard Spencer pressed a panel in the wall by the door. The panel of wood sprang open to expose an empty bit of shelving. “Sometimes the border crossings confiscate some of the horse medications. They’re expensive, so Charlotte had this done.”
Kazakov eyed the space and realized that he had a lot more searching to do. “How often do you travel outside of Fergana?” he asked.
Richard Spencer frowned. “Last year it was eight or ten times all over the eastern Ottoman and once down into the Moghul South. The last trip was just a few weeks back. It was a hell of a trip at this time of year. I swear I won’t do it again over those roads. But then, I survived, didn’t I? This year Charlotte’s talking about traveling as far as Bagdad and Damascus and maybe up into Constantinople itself. A hell of trip to tell my grandkids about.” Another of those crooked grins and he checked his watch again, nodded, and ducked out the door into the night.
It was a lot of information to take in. Kazakov let it sift into his brain and then took rapid notes. So there was the possibility that Semetai had overheard something. Something important enough it could warrant his death? But if that was the case, why was Semetai allowed to live all these months since the eavesdropping occurred? And a Chinese spy on trips through the Ottoman empire. Was Archer actually spying on the Ottomans? That gave a number of motives for his death. It might also explain his odd actions and attitudes in Fergana. He wasn’t spying on Fergana—he was using it as an axis hub while he spied on the Ottomans. But his body was found perilously close to the home of a high-ranking Ottoman, Enver Pasha. He could not see any Ottoman doing that purposely.
Those thoughts in mind, he stood and inspected the cubbyhole that Richard Spencer had shown him. It was a narrow space between the inner and outer walls of the transport. This one held shelves that still carried a few bottles. The labels were for horse medications. He opened the bottles one by one and the pungent astringent odor set him back a pace. The shelf ran ten inches to either side of the opening. That was a lot of storage, but there was still three feet of space between the secret cupboard and the floor.
He pressed the paneling below the opening, but nothing happened, then went around the room pressing any exposed panel. Four more cupboards sprang open, all of them set comfortingly at chest height and all equally as disappointingly empty.
Something about this wasn’t right. Charlotte or whoever had installed the hidden cabinets had left the better amount of the wall’s potential storage untapped. Why just build the cabinets in the top part of the wall?
He went to the first cabinet by the door and examined the bottom shelf. Solid wood by the look of it. He ran his fingers along the shelf inside the left of the cupboard. There was nothing. On the right his fingernail caught in a small protrusion of wood. He pressed it and there was still nothing, but then he pressed it again and leaned on the shelf.
Click.
The shelf dropped away, exposing a dark, empty space that appeared to run to the floor. He grabbed a flashlight from his pocket and exposed a space perfect for storing contraband. He’d bet good money that Charlotte Newcomb smuggled more than horse drugs in this trailer.
He repeated his discovery in each of the other cabinets. Of course, it was the last one that wasn’t empty. Slid into the narrow dark space was something wrapped in a muffling cloth. To hide it or to protect it? He reached in and pulled it out. Heavier than it looked for the size. Not square, the item was about twelve inches long by nine inches across and two inches deep when he set it on the table. The muffling cloth was not a cloth at all, but butter-soft leather that he unwrapped to expose something rectangular and metal.
The metal was burnished on the top and sides and it looked like it was made of two pieces fitted one on the top of the other and connected by a hinge. On the side of the lower portion were a series of holes, one pattern like it would accept three prongs. He pulled the baggie with the small rectangle out of his pocket. Could it be?
He retrieved the small, pronged rectangle from the baggie and pulled off the top to try the exposed prongs in the hole pattern. The small prongs slid right in as if made to do so.
So the two items were meant to be together, though for what purpose he wasn’t sure. Gingerly he separated the top from the bottom of the larger metal rectangle. It swung upward to expose a tray of lettered keys and, on the upper half, a blank black screen.
“Derr`mo,” he swore softly. He knew what it was, though he had never seen anything like it before. The screen and keys were too similar to the new German-made data machine at his office, but this was incredibly small. So small he could not believe that it could actually do something useful.
Beyond the keys, a small round button sat just below the screen. He pressed it and the box began to hum. A machine. It was a machine, like the one that held the police and government database.
A database. The machine itself must be worth a fortune, but what did it carry? Secret information? And the small rectangle that he had found hidden separately. What did it do?
The screen swirled to life with red Chinese characters and too many dots, dashes, and slashes to make any sense at all. It was clear that he wasn’t going to make any further discoveries here. He clicked the top down and pulled the small rectangle from its side, reinstalling it in the baggy and then rewrapping the data machine in the leather.
He scanned the transport one more time. Charlotte Newcomb had built an almost perfect vehicle for smuggling. Had she known what she’d done? But if she had, why would she have led him right to this evidence? No, Charlotte smuggled for her own purposes. Collin Archer had just taken advantage and no one had been the wiser because Collin Archer was regarded as a bit of a fool.
In a way, it was a more brilliant disguise than the facial reconstruction.
He left the stable in the dark with the small data machine placed like a bomb on the Perseus’s seat beside him, the small slotted rectangle in his pocket, and too many questions. There was no question that along with the information that proved the connection between Semetai Manas and Collin Archer, he’d found something important. And there was no question that if the owners of these items knew what he’d found, they’d want them back. Hell, this was most likely what they’d been looking for in Archer’s apartment.
The night-bound highway stretched before him, the traffic limited to the huge transports c
arrying cargo to and from New Moscow. Their headlights filled the highway with a ghostly blue glow that left him half blind after they passed by. His eyelids were heavy. It had been a long few days with very little sleep. The Perseus’s heater churned out comforting warmth, but couldn’t erase the chill he felt. Just what did the death of a smuggling spy have to do with the deaths of Yekaterina and Semetai? What had the teenagers gotten involved with that got them killed? What had they known?
He might have thought he had it all wrong, but the fact that Collin Archer had been identified as one of the people in pursuit of Semetai and that a prior connection was known—well, that proved the connection between the cases. This box might tell him why three people had died.
A part of him felt the quiver of excitement that always came with an important clue, but it was tempered with frustration. What did he know about data machines? He’d barely managed to turn the thing on and it appeared that everything was in Mandarin or some other dialect. And if he couldn’t access whatever was on the machine, he had exactly nothing at all.
Maybe Rostoff had been right that this was a case he should leave alone.
He shook himself. That had to be fatigue talking. All cases came with difficulties.
Like the dog kept within a walled garden for too long, if he just kept scratching at the walls, eventually they would be gone.
He headed for home to sleep and think, driving the snowy roads to bypass New Moscow up into the hills. His headlights caught on the unmarked lane leading to Agafya Ryabkov’s home—he would need to bring her more supplies in the next few days—and then he turned into the ruts left behind from the Perseus’s wheels in the driveway up to his home. A welcoming light gleamed from the dacha window when he came out into the clearing.
Carrying the leather-wrapped machine, he went into the dacha, his feet sounding hollow on the newly swept stairs. A whiff of lavender greeted him at the door along with the luscious scent of leftovers from the day before. His mouth watered. A lit lantern sat on the counter beside the woodstove, a covered plate beside it. Maria lay cocooned, asleep in his covers, Koshka curled in close to her breast.
After Yekaterina Page 19