The receptionist requested Nicole’s ID and held on to it. When Nicole asked for a patient named Antonovich, the woman couldn’t find him in the directory, and she was much less patient than the receptionist at the other hospital. When Nicole indicated she didn’t speak Russian, the woman turned on a loudspeaker and made an announcement. Nicole wondered if she was calling security and toyed with the idea of making a quick exit.
Before she could do so, a friendly looking young man in a suit and tie walked up to her. He turned out to be an interpreter. The desk clerk had summoned him because of Nicole’s inability to understand Russian. She handed Nicole’s ID to him. Nicole’s stomach lurched. If by chance he knew Slovak, he’d know she wasn’t Slovakian because she couldn’t speak the language any more than she could speak Russian. He’d figure out her ID must be forged and turn her over to the police.
But luck was with her. The interpreter didn’t speak Slovak, and to her relief, their only common language was the French she’d studied in school. She could catch the gist of what he said, but her ability to speak French had all but disappeared. She managed to make herself understood mainly by gesturing when she couldn’t remember a word. She explained about the bullet wound and that she and her husband had been mugged, his wallet and ID stolen. If he was unconscious, the hospital wouldn’t have his name in their records, but he might still be here.
Much to the annoyance of the desk clerk, the interpreter interrupted her while she was helping another visitor. When the interpreter explained Nicole’s dilemma, the woman went into her computer, looked up a record, and printed it out. She handed it to the interpreter and spoke to him in a low voice.
He came back to where Nicole was waiting. He explained that a patient with a gunshot wound was brought in night before last, but he’d died. His body was still there, waiting for the coroner to pick him up. “It would be good if you could identify him,” he said. “Do you feel you able to do that?”
Nicole nodded yes, and the man accompanied her to the elevator where he hit the button for the bottom floor. She’d had to identify a corpse once before in a case back home. It hadn’t been too unpleasant since they’d showed her a photo of the dead girl, and she didn’t have to look at the body. Here, there were no such niceties. When the interpreter led her down to the basement morgue, the air was heavy with the unmistakable smell of human decay.
The interpreter spoke to the attendant, and the man went over to a bank of stainless-steel drawers and pulled one out. When the corpse’s face was uncovered, it was clear that—aside from the bullet that killed him—the man had been badly beaten and someone had virtually pulverized his face. Even so, she could tell from his physique that it wasn’t Chet. She was so relieved that she almost cried. She must have appeared on the verge of collapse because the interpreter grabbed her arm and steered her over to a chair.
She didn’t sit for long. Her only desire was to leave this place and its terrible smell. On the Metro ride back to Olga’s, she wondered if Chet might have died before they got him to the hospital. If he was never admitted as a patient, he probably would have been sent straight to the city morgue, and she’d never find out what happened.
By the time she got back to Olga’s, it was 7:00 p.m. Olga had set out a platter of potato-cheese pierogi she’d bought at a neighborhood shop. Under other circumstances, the food might have been appealing, but as Nicole explained, after her visit to the hospital’s morgue, she was unable to look at the food, much less eat it. She apologized.
“No need, my dear,” Olga said. “You must be exhausted. I usually read in bed during the evening. You can take the futon in my office, and I have a nightgown you can wear. Shall we make up the futon now?”
“Thanks, but I can do that myself.”
Olga gave her the bedding. They bid each other goodnight. Nicole ended up reading until the wee hours.
In the morning, she examined her face in the mirror of the tiny bathroom, expecting to see the bloodshot eyes and dark circles she’d earned from all the sleepless nights since this trip began. But she looked no different than usual. She still couldn’t eat the toast and jam Olga had set out for breakfast, but she managed to down two cups of tea.
As they were getting up from the table, the phone rang. Olga picked it up, gave a brief response, and headed for the closet that led to her office. She beckoned Nicole to follow. Once they were in the office, she handed the phone to Nicole. “It’s Abby,” she said. “She wants to speak to you.”
“I found him,” Abby said. “I figured that if they couldn’t ID him, they’d conclude he didn’t have medical insurance so he’d end up at a free state hospital. But for some reason—probably because he’d lost a lot of blood and needed immediate care—they took him to a private hospital. They have his first name as Konstantin, by the way. “
“Really? I didn’t think he had any ID on him.”
“Maybe he told them.”
“You mean he’s conscious?”
“I got that impression. I told them I was his wife, so they’re expecting a wife to visit him.”
Nicole wrote down the name and address of the hospital and Abby’s directions for getting there. As soon as she was dressed, Nicole headed out. This hospital was in a handsome new building with a bank of windows facing the park across the street.
She knew the routine now and what to say to the receptionist. She was given his room number and a sticker to wear on her lapel to show that she’d checked in. She felt hopeful and more upbeat than she had since Chet had said she’d be going home soon. If only that had been true.
She easily found the right wing of the hospital, but when she reached the corridor where his room was located, she stopped. A policeman was sitting on a chair in front of a patient’s door. Nicole walked along the hallway, checking room numbers. As she’d suspected, the one guarded by the cop was Chet’s. She couldn’t go in, not while that policeman was sitting there. Was he protecting Chet because of the shooting or had Chet been arrested? She’d have to wait, hoping the cop would get up and leave so she could sneak in. She was pretty sure she could get the information she needed quickly, providing Chet was conscious.
She went into the women’s room, peeking out every few minutes to see if the cop was still there. After a long wait, he got up and left. She didn’t know how much time she had before he returned, but this was her chance. She hurried into the room.
Chet’s eyes were closed, but as soon as she gave his shoulder a little shake, he opened them and gave her a blank look.
“Hi, Chet. It’s Nicole, remember me?”
He stared at her for a long moment before he smiled. “Of course. I was supposed to pick you up, wasn’t I? But I got shot. I don’t remember anything after that. Was I on my way to you?”
Nicole took a deep breath and looked away. He had no recollection of the hours before he was shot, so he wouldn’t remember where the explosives were. But it could have been worse. At least he was alive and awake; he knew who she was and remembered the purpose of their mission.
She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Your contact has to send someone to disarm the explosives in—”
“Yes, yes, now I remember. I was supposed to take you there so you could show me where they are.”
“We went there, Chet,” she said. “Don’t you remember any of it?”
“Sorry. I can’t—it must have something to do with my injury. Maybe it will come back to me.”
“Listen, it’s fine.” As she spoke, Nicole took a pen and small notebook from her purse. “I’ll take care of it. Just tell me how to get in touch with your handler.”
He beckoned her closer and whispered, “I’ll tell you, but you can’t write it down, or it might get into the wrong hands. You’ll have to commit it to memory. You understand?”
Just then, the door opened, and the policeman walked in. Seeing Nicole he shook his head and grabbed her arm muttering, “Nyet, nyet.” He pulled her to her feet and began steering her toward the door.
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She recalled the Russian phrase Olga had told her to memorize: “I am his wife.”
The policeman let go of her and said something, pointing to his watch then holding up one hand and waggling all five fingers. She took this to mean he’d let her stay five minutes. As he left, he closed the door.
“Why is the policeman here?” Nicole said.
“He’s waiting to see if my memory comes back. The police want to know why I was shot. Maybe they think it has something to do with the Russian Mafia. I keep telling them I don’t remember, but it was probably a mugging since my wallet and ID are gone. He’ll probably give up by the end of the afternoon. A mugging is of little consequence to the Moscow police.”
“OK,” she whispered. “All I need is that phone number. Then I can leave and let your contact know about the explosives and where to find you.”
He motioned for her to sit on the bed and move close enough for him to whisper in her ear. He recited a phone number, and she repeated it back enough times until it was firmly planted in her memory.
She started to get up, but he said, “Wait!” She leaned down again for him to whisper in her ear.
“There’s a passphrase I have to repeat to identify myself. It’s ‘I’m looking for a bargain price on a case of vodka.’”
“Got it!” She stood up again. “Thanks and goodbye. I hope you’ll be back on your feet soon.”
“No worries. I heal fast. I’ll be out of here in a day or two.”
She opened the door to find herself face-to-face with the policeman. He’d been on his way in to say her time was up. He asked her something in Russian. She shrugged as if to say she didn’t know the answer to his question. Before he could pursue it, Chet called out to him. The policeman hesitated and watched Nicole walk away before he disappeared into Chet’s room.
Chapter Ten
Nicole ducked into a hospital bathroom and used the burner phone to call the number Chet had given her. The phone rang once before a recorded message came on. It was in English and terse: “This number is no longer in service.” After the message, it immediately disconnected. She hung up and tried again in case she’d made a mistake the first time, but the result was the same.
She understood what this meant and felt a slow burn of anger. They’d shut down Chet’s ability to communicate with them, and in so doing, they’d cut her off, too—completely pulled the rug out from under the two of them. She grew even more outraged when she thought of all she’d gone through for this assignment—the horror of witnessing a murder, the anxiety of dealing with the Russian police, the need to flee into a city where she knew no one. Ian Davies had completely misled her. According to him, she could expect a pleasant cruise on the Volga, spending a little time observing a handful of fellow passengers and filing some reports.
What Chet was going through was much worse. His handler must have found out he’d been shot and was in the hospital under police guard. Perhaps intelligence was afraid he might let it slip that he was a spy, and the Russians would find a way to extract more information from him. She wondered if the Brits had given up on the whole operation. Would they really back off, let Red Square blow up, and allow the Ukraine to suffer Russia’s terrible vengeance?
What now?
Today was May 8. The Victory Day parade was tomorrow, and British intelligence’s attempt to prevent the destabilization of Eastern Europe seemed to have fallen apart.
Nicole decided to return to Olga’s and try to figure out what, if anything, she could do. If she went to the British Embassy and told them what she knew, would they believe her? Or would they think she was some kind of conspiracy nut? She now realized they wouldn’t know anything about Chet or his assignment for MI6. That would be beyond top secret. She felt compelled to do something to stop the impending disaster. She just couldn’t imagine what that might be.
It was late morning when she arrived at Olga’s building and climbed the many flights of stairs to her apartment. She knocked at the door, but there was no answer. Maybe Olga was in the office and hadn’t heard. She tried again and again, knocking louder each time until she was convinced the woman wasn’t home. She sat on the floor in front of the apartment for nearly an hour, wondering what might have happened to Olga. Was it possible she’d been caught and arrested? It had happened before. This new worry joined her concern for Chet and the explosives in Red Square.
Anxiety drove Nicole out of the building. She settled on the apartment’s front stoop. Here, at least, she had the mild distraction of watching what was happening on the busy boulevard. Before long, who should come doddering along the sidewalk but Olga in her babushka outfit. She was dragging a dilapidated shopping cart filled with grocery bags. Nicole was overjoyed to see her. The old woman greeted her once more with a delighted “Malyshka!” and they hugged. Nicole took over bumping the shopping cart up the stairs while Olga hobbled beside her, letting out an occasional groan as if her knees were killing her.
Once inside the apartment, they headed for the office so they could talk. As Olga shed her coat and layers of scarves, Nicole told her about the disconnected phone. She was careful not to use the word “handler” or give any hint that Chet was a spy. Instead, she said that since she couldn’t reach Chet’s “friend,” she had no way of getting out of the country.
“Have you picked up your own voice messages yet?” Olga said. When Nicole shook her head, Olga went on, “Why don’t you take care of that? It will give you something to do, and one of those calls might be important. Be sure to use the burner, not my home phone.” Olga pulled out a pen and pad of paper, put them on her desk, and got up to offer Nicole her seat. “I’m going back to the kitchen to put my groceries away.”
Nicole called the international number for mobile customer support, which she’d jotted in her notebook. This time a real person answered after she negotiated the choices on the phone menu. At last, she was able to pick up her messages. There were thirty waiting for her. She deleted several recorded sales pitches and a call from her boss, Jerry, who sounded contrite. She wondered if he finally realized he’d acted like a jerk and wanted to apologize. She saved calls from three friends so she could return them when—and if—she got home. There was a call from someone who threatened to turn off her utilities if she didn’t call an 800 number to take care of a past-due bill. Since she had such bills paid automatically from her bank account, she knew this was a scam and deleted it. Cold calls had come in from realtors and building contractors trying to drum up business.
With most of the calls out of the way, she got to one that—to her astonishment—was from Reinhardt. He sounded as if no time had passed, and he expected to pick up where they’d left off all those months ago.
“Hey, baby, where are you? Guess what! I’m finally coming to L.A. I called your office, but you didn’t pick up. Hope you get this message. Give me a call. Love you.”
He’d left another message twelve hours later. “I’m here in L.A. standing outside the door to your condo. It’s midnight and you aren’t here. Now I’m worried something’s happened to you. Please call me.”
She paused after the second message, surprised to feel her eyes filling with tears. She was so happy to hear from him, to know he was all right. At the same time, she was furious. How many times had she left messages on his phone saying how worried she was? On her birthday, five months before, she’d received a hand-written note from him, but she’d never received a single response to her calls.
Another voice message had been left the previous morning. “I talked to your sister, and she told me you’re on a tour of Russia. I called the touring company. They said you’d left the ship two days ago, and they had no idea where you were. I looked online and was gobsmacked to see you’ve made headlines over there. Apparently, you’re a person of interest in a couple of murders and escaped police custody. Mother of God, Nicole! What are you doing in Russia of all places? And—I hate to sound like your old boyfriend—Jonah? Jeb? Whatever his name was—but how do
you manage to keep putting yourself in harm’s way like this? I’m in a cab heading for LAX to catch the next flight to Moscow.
“You know my number. Give me a call and let me know if you’re still there. If I don’t answer, leave a message with an address where I can find you. I’m scheduled to land at Domodedovo Airport around 10:00 a.m. Remember, all of my messages are encrypted, so you don’t have to worry about hackers.”
Right after this message was one from her sister. “Where are you? Reinhardt told me you left the cruise and are wanted by the Russian police. For God’s sake, Nicole, what’s going on? Call me.”
Instead of returning Steph’s call, she hurried into the kitchen to get Olga. Back in the relative privacy of the office, Nicole explained who Reinhardt was while remaining as vague as possible about his work.
“He’s been away on business for a while and out of touch because he was so busy. But he called and left messages several times since I’ve been away. He read that the Moscow police are looking for me, and he’s worried. So he’s on his way here. In fact, he may already have landed. Is it OK with you if I give him your address?”
Olga gave her a long, searching look. “I see. This is spy business. Your friend Chet is a spy, this fiancé of yours, and maybe you, too. May I ask who you work for?”
Nicole was dumbfounded. How did Olga deduce this from so little information? “Believe me, I’m not a spy. Chet and Reinhardt are both British, but I don’t know—” Her voice trailed off. She could see Olga wasn’t buying it.
“Nicole,” Olga said. “You are a very bad liar, or is it that you’re naïve? Of course they’re spies.”
“All right. This is all I know. When I met him, Reinhardt was a DCI with the London Police. A while back, he changed jobs. Since then, he’s refused to talk about his work.”
The Moscow Affair Page 14