The Moscow Affair

by Nancy Boyarsky

  Still considering what to do, she took off all the layers of clothes and stepped into a hot shower, attempting to get warm. She changed into her pj’s, wrapped herself in the terry robe, and—still as cold as when she walked in—climbed into bed.

  After the night’s misadventure, her thoughts were on Chet, his cool in the face of any situation thrown at him—until that bullet found him. She wondered if he was fatalistic about his work. Had he been willing to die for his country? Or did he believe himself invincible? She remembered all the questions that went through her head as they walked to Red Square. She wished she hadn’t been too intimidated by him to ask.

  She remembered the arrangements that were being made to extract her from Russia. But there was no way for anyone to let her know about them now that the watch was broken. She felt a tug in her gut, the feeling that something even worse was about to happen. She had to let someone know about the explosives and where they were hidden. But who? She’d been warned not to tell the Russian police. If only Chet had given her a number to call if things went sideways.

  She had only three more days to find someone who could help clean up the situation in Red Square. She vibrated with adrenalin, certain she’d never be able to sleep. But, against all logic, she sank into a deep, dreamless sleep almost as soon as she tucked the duvet under her chin.

  The midday sun was shining through her porthole when she was startled awake. Someone was banging on her door. “Police! Open up!” Kolkov was back. She hadn’t escaped him after all.

  Chapter Seven

  When Nicole opened the door, Kolkov was even more abrupt than on his previous visit. No greeting, just, “Get dressed. I take you in for questioning.” He talked fast, radiating impatience.

  “Why can’t we do it here like before?” Nicole said.

  “Get dressed!” he shouted, pointing to the bedroom. “I give five minutes.”

  She went to her room and got out a black turtleneck, tan slacks, and her boots before heading into the bathroom.

  Kolkov was waiting at the door and seemed to be in a tremendous hurry. As she approached, he stepped toward her and firmly gripped her by the arm as if he expected her to try to escape.

  She pulled back, pointing to the closet. “I have to get my jacket.”

  He let go so she could pull out her zippered hoody and put it on. It was going to be cold out. She longed for her warm coat, but it was in the hamper, stained with Chet’s blood—something else to worry about if Kolkov decided to search the cabin again. She grabbed her purse as Kolkov pulled her out the door.

  Other passengers stared as Kolkov led Nicole down to the main deck and across the ramp to the ship next to theirs. Surely they could tell she was being taken from the ship involuntarily; perhaps they recognized Kolkov from his previous visit. But no one stepped forward to ask what was happening. Nicole wondered what they were thinking.

  The pair of them drew an even larger audience as they walked through the four vessels anchored between Queen of the Volga and the dock. Finally, they reached the street, where a boxy black sedan was standing at the curb with a uniformed policeman at the wheel. Kolkov put Nicole in back, not relaxing his hold on her until he was about to close the door. He climbed in the front seat, and they took off.

  Traffic was heavy, and it took a while to get to their destination: an imposing, gray office building with no identifying sign in front. It bore no resemblance to the sprawling Moscow Police headquarters Nicole had seen on her bus tour of the city.

  Without explanation, she was marched inside. In the lobby, they passed through a gauntlet of security checks, including a pat down by a male guard who wore an infuriating smirk while he searched her. As they headed into the building’s main corridor, she looked around, taking note of her surroundings. Since she wasn’t being arrested—at least that was what Kolkov had said—she had no reason to look for an escape route. On the other hand, she had the feeling the situation was still evolving. She’d expected Kolkov to take her to a police station, but this was no police station. It had the look of a government building filled with high-placed officials. Gold Cyrillic lettering appeared on the doors along the wood-paneled corridor. The floor was highly polished marble.

  They took an elevator to the top floor and walked down a long hallway. Kolkov stopped at a pair of double doors marked with more rows of lettering than appeared elsewhere. It also bore the crest of the Russian Federation, with its double-headed eagle. Before entering, Kolkov took off his hat. Inside, a woman sat at a desk facing the door. She was wearing a boxy brown suit that looked like a leftover from the Soviet era. Her gray hair was pulled back tight into an oversized bun. She and Kolkov spoke in Russian. From the way the two kept glancing at Nicole, it was clear they were discussing her. At last, the woman picked up the phone, spoke a few words, then addressed Kolkov again, apparently telling him to go into the office.

  “You come,” he said to Nicole. When he took hold of her arm, she noticed he was trembling. Why is he afraid? Nicole thought. Whoever’s in this office must have a great deal of power over him. Kolkov gave two light raps on the door. A man’s voice called from inside, and Kolkov led Nicole into a large corner office with a view of the city. The room was nicely appointed with a large walnut desk, where a man in his late fifties was seated. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and was completely bald, his head so shiny it looked as if he’d polished it. He and Kolkov exchanged a few words, after which Kolkov left. Nicole noted that he backed his way to the door, as if leaving a royal presence.

  The man stood up. “Please, have a seat. I think the blue one on the left is the most comfortable.” His English was excellent with hardly a trace of an accent, his tone cordial, even friendly. Nicole sat on the chair he’d indicated. It was beyond her to figure out what was going on. Was this man, who appeared to be a high-level bureaucrat, playing good cop to Kolkov’s bad cop?

  “Let me introduce myself. I’m Sergey Tarasov, deputy minister of internal affairs for the Russian Federation. And—for the record—you are?”

  “Nicole Graves. I’m an American citizen. I’m here as a tourist on a riverboat cruise to St. Petersburg.”

  “And your occupation?”

  “I’m a private investigator, but I’m not working at present. I’m on vacation.”

  “I understand. And I want to apologize for interrupting your holiday. You see, this unfortunate death of a foreign tourist on a Russian cruise ship has caught attention at the highest levels of our government. That’s why I’m interviewing you today instead of the police. I notice that on your visa, you identified yourself as an office worker. Why didn’t you state that you’re a private investigator?”

  Nicole paused to consider how to respond. She wasn’t the one who’d applied for the visa. It was British intelligence. “I used to put that on my visas when I traveled abroad,” she finally said. “But immigration officials would take me aside and question me at length. They seemed to think I was in their country for something other than tourism. It was a waste of everyone’s time. I’m just another tourist on vacation. My occupation is irrelevant.”

  “I agree, although immigration officials do have the right to know who is visiting their country. But this isn’t germane to today’s business. You are not suspected of any wrongdoing, though we do believe you may have witnessed something that would help us solve the murder on the ship. I also want to ask about your friendship with a Ukrainian national named Darina Kravchenko, who is presently under arrest.”

  “Darina Kravchenko?” Nicole felt a wave of relief. This explained everything. It was all a misunderstanding. “You’ve made a mistake. I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  “I’m afraid you do, Ms. Graves, although you may not be aware of it. You see, Ms. Kravchenko uses many aliases. One of them is Katarina, or Kat, Heikkinen. I understand that you spent a great deal of time with her on this tour. When did you meet? What were the circumstances?”

  Nicole thought about his question, which had been asked i
n the mildest of tone as if he were merely curious, not an official interviewing a murder witness. “All right,” she said. “But first I want to know why you arrested Kat. What is she charged with?”

  “Why, I thought you knew. She’s been charged with the murder of Derek Swan.”

  Nicole blinked. A long moment passed before she recovered from her surprise. Whatever Kat was guilty of, it wasn’t murder.

  “How would that be possible?” she said. “I saw Swan’s body after they pulled him out. He was big, maybe 250 pounds. It would have taken a couple of strong men to lift him over the rail and into the water.”

  “Obviously, she would have needed help,” he said. “Or else she hired people to take care of it. There’s no doubt about it. She’s already admitted her guilt, but she refuses to tell us anything more. We’re hoping you can give us a description of the people who threw Mr. Swan overboard.”

  “I didn’t see them.”

  He sighed. “I’m afraid you’re not telling the truth. The ship has a surveillance camera that caught you standing on the deck around the time of the murder, facing the spot where it took place. Unfortunately, no camera was positioned to catch the crime itself.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again.

  “Do you still deny you saw anything?”

  Her face grew hot. He’d caught her in a lie. What could she say that wouldn’t make things worse?

  “This is crazy. I have a right to a phone call. I want to speak to the American Embassy.”

  “I’m afraid such calls are reserved for people who’ve been arrested. And, by the way—” A tone of sarcasm had crept into his voice. “Your embassy doesn’t intervene in Russian police matters involving American citizens. But let me reiterate: no one is planning to arrest you. When we do arrest an American citizen, it can become an international incident. In this case, it’s not worth the furor it would stir up. All we want is a description of the murderers.”

  She seized on a reply she hoped would sound reasonable. “That’s why I didn’t report it,” she said. “I can’t give you a description. I saw three figures by the ship’s railing as I walked by, but they were turned away from me, and I couldn’t see their faces. And I didn’t see Mr. Swan thrown off the ship. That must have happened after I started back up to my cabin. When I heard him scream, I turned around and hurried back to the main deck. That’s when I heard passengers saying someone had gone overboard. I suspected it might have had something to do with those people I passed. But I didn’t mention it because I knew this would happen.” She held up her hands in a gesture of frustration. “I didn’t want to get involved because I really didn’t see anything, and I knew it would turn into a hassle if I spoke up. The only time I got a good look at Swan was after the divers brought him up, and he was lying on the deck.”

  “All right. Maybe you can help us in some other way. Let’s start at the beginning. How did you meet Ms. Kravchenko—or Kat, as you call her—and what was your relationship with her?”

  Nicole swallowed hard, surprised that Tarasov was willing to accept her denial so easily. Was he planning to circle back to it later? She had no reason to trust this man with his perfect English and good manners. But after a moment’s thought, she decided she could tell most of what she knew about Kat without giving away the information she’d promised not to reveal.

  “OK, I’ll tell you, but I really can’t see how any of it is relevant. I met Kat at dinner on the first full day of the tour,” she said. “She approached my table, introduced herself, and asked if she could sit with me. I preferred sitting alone, but I didn’t want to be rude, so I said yes.”

  “Ah-h. And what did you talk about?”

  “She did most of the talking, mainly gossip about other passengers she’d met at lunch.”

  “The two of you were constantly together the last few days. You must have enjoyed her company.”

  “At first. But then she wanted to spend every minute with me, and I need time to myself. I also wanted a chance to mingle with the other passengers, so this became a problem. On the third day of the tour, I managed to sneak away from her and spend some time on my own.”

  “She must have talked about more than this common gossip you mention.” His tone had turned less conciliatory. “I know how women talk, confide in each other.”

  “Well, there was a little more, but I don’t see how—” Her voice trailed off. She might as well repeat what Kat had said, even though it was probably a pack of lies. “All right. She told me this trip was supposed to be her honeymoon, but her fiancé backed out of the wedding at the last minute. She seemed to be quite broken up about it. She also mentioned that she was a financial manager at a large bank in Manhattan, although she didn’t say which one. Oh, and she grew up in Switzerland and, after her parents’ divorce, divided her time between New York and Geneva.”

  “These are all lies, things she made up to give herself a credible background outside Ukraine.” He paused, then added. “You’re a smart woman. You know the kind of thing we’re looking for. She conspired with others to murder someone, and we want to know who they are and why this man was killed.”

  “Well, she certainly didn’t tell me anything about it. If she actually did such a terrible thing, why would she confide in me?”

  “Come now,” he said. “She must have dropped a hint about what she was up to. You had several days to observe her and listen to what she had to say. We want to know why she was on that ship and what her relationship was with Mr. Swan. Any information of that nature would help us find the killers. And it would help you.”

  Nicole’s uneasiness grew. “What do you mean it would help me?”

  “Until we’re satisfied you’ve told us everything, we can’t allow you to leave Moscow.”

  “But that’s all I know. Kat and I talked about trivial things—fashion, books, movies, other passengers. She didn’t mention anything that suggested she even knew the murder victim.” Nicole was briefly silent as she remembered one of her first conversations with Kat. “She told me she’d boarded the ship the morning after the murder and had missed the visit from the police.”

  “Another of her lies,” he said. “We have irrefutable proof that she was on board at the time of the murder. What else did she say? Did she tell you why she’d come to Moscow? What her plans were?”

  “I told you. She said she was on the trip because it was supposed to be her honeymoon and was already paid for when her fiancé cancelled the wedding. From what she told me, her only plan was to visit tourist sites on the cruise from Moscow to St. Petersburg.”

  Once more, he sighed. “That’s simply not good enough. I want you to think this over carefully. I believe you know more, perhaps a lot more. There’s still time if you choose to cooperate. When your ship leaves Moscow tonight, you could be on it.”

  “Honestly, I’ve already told you everything.” A pleading tone had entered her voice; she was starting to be genuinely alarmed. “If the ship leaves without me, what about the clothes I left on the ship, my bags—my passport? And I have nowhere to stay in Moscow, or are you planning to put me in jail to try and sweat me for information I don’t have?”

  “Don’t be so melodramatic.” Tarasov was clearly losing his patience. “We’ll arrange accommodations at the Tourist Hotel—not as luxurious as your suite on the ship I’m afraid. The police will pack the things you left behind and deliver them to your hotel. Except for your passport, of course. We’ll keep it for the time being.”

  He stood and resumed the polite demeanor he’d shown when she first walked in. “Again, I’m sorry for the inconvenience. I truly hope you’ll remember something that can help us so you can quickly rejoin your shipmates.” He smiled as he reached under his desk, presumably pushing a button to summon his secretary. The door opened, and she appeared.

  “Take her to Colonel Kolkov,”

  “Of course,” the secretary said. “He’s just outside.”

  Kolkov delivered her back
to the car, firmly holding onto her until she was seated inside. They drove to an old five-story brick building with a big rooftop sign that read “Typucm” in roman letters, then lower down, something in Cyrillic. It was one of several brick buildings in a cluster, all in the same state of disrepair. Nicole assumed typucm was the Russian word for tourist. At first, she thought Tarasov had meant it was tourist class. As it turned out, tourist was both the name and class of the hotel, which was quite a few rungs below the places where Nicole usually stayed and light years below her accommodations on the ship.

  Kolkov marched her into the lobby and stood back as the woman at the desk shoved the credit card reader across the counter to Nicole, indicating she was to produce a credit card. Nicole reached into her purse and handed over the card. An impression of it was taken, and she signed the receipt, although she couldn’t read it and had no idea what the room charge would be. From the depressed condition of the lobby, she couldn’t imagine it would be much.

  The woman spoke at length in Russian, giving what sounded like detailed instructions for Nicole to find her room, ignoring her protestations that she didn’t speak the language. Nicole glanced over at Kolkov, who appeared deep in thought. As the desk clerk wound down, she handed Nicole a map showing five buildings that apparently housed the hotel complex. The clerk pointed to one building and said, “Bot.” She then circled the building with her pen and wrote “516” in the margin. She handed Nicole a large, old-fashioned key and pointed toward the exit. As she headed outside, Kolkov followed. He accompanied her to another building where a uniformed policeman was waiting. Without a word, Kolkov walked away, leaving the uniformed cop to accompany her inside. He was a large man with a fringe of brown hair and sleepy eyes.

  The building had no reception area, just a bleak entry hall with two elevators. One appeared to be stuck on the fifth floor. She and the cop waited while the other car slowly made its way down to the lobby. It was tiny, barely big enough for the two of them to squeeze in.