Murder in Moscow (11 page)

I didn’t know the name of the song, but it reached a point where the Russians suddenly yelped some phrase in concert with the musicians.

I considered leaving the table and going to a rest room. It had all been too much—the long flight, all the food and drink—although I’d barely sipped some vodka to be polite to my hosts—the music, the noise, the ...

I turned to Vlady to excuse myself.

He looked at me. His eyes bulged, his mouth hung open. His face was beet red.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

He replied by squaring himself in his chair, taking a deep and prolonged breath, and pitching forward, his head hitting his dessert plate with a thud. Chocolate syrup and whipped cream gushed from the plate, creating a black-and-white nest for his face.

His wife screamed.

No one heard because of the music and singing.

I turned to a dour young Russian man who’d been seated to my left. He was gone.

“Help!” I shouted, standing.

The music stopped. People turned and looked at me.

I pointed to Staritova’s lifeless body.

“He’s dead,” I said.

And so he was.

Chaos erupted once it was evident—and confirmed—that Vladislav Staritova, my Russian publisher, was dead. Women screamed, men evoked God, and restaurant employees stood in stunned silence.

Karl Warner came immediately to me, gripped my elbow with not inconsiderable pressure, and led me to a comer of the large dining room. I looked to Vaughan and Olga Buckley, who stood with others in an opposite comer. I started toward them, but Warner stopped me.

“I want to be with my friends,” I said.

Warner said nothing.

“But I—”

A man ran into the room and came to us. “Ready,” he announced.

“Let’s go,” Warner said to me.

“Go where?” I asked.

“Out of here. Come on. The car’s waiting.”

“What about them?” I asked, indicating the Buckleys and others.

“They’ll follow shortly.”

“No,” I said. “I’m staying with them.”

Warner fixed me with a stare that would cut steel. “Please, Mrs. Fletcher, don’t argue. It’s for your safety.”

“My safety? I—”

Hand still holding my elbow, he propelled me across the floor, skirting the tables, and to the door.

“Jessica,” Vaughan called.

I stopped, turned, and made a gesture of helplessness.

“Come on,” Warner said, even more stem this time.

The limos that had brought us to the restaurant stood at-the-ready, lights on, doors open, engines running. The young Russian men from our group lined the walkway, displaying weapons.

Vaughan Buckley emerged from the restaurant as I was about to get into the back of the car. I shook off Wamer’s grip on me and took steps in Vaughan’s direction.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Mr. Warner insists I leave with him.”

Buckley faced Warner. “She stays with me,” he said.

“Look,” Warner said, “we have to leave here now! You can talk about it back at the hotel. Please, Mr. Buckley, don’t interfere.”

Vaughan looked on helplessly as Warner guided me into the limo, climbed in beside me, and slammed the door. “Move!” he shouted at the driver. The vehicle lurched forward.

“Where are we going?” I asked, my voice mirroring my upset and concern.

“The hotel.”

“But why couldn’t I go with my friends?”

“Because this doesn’t involve them.”

“What
doesn’t involve them? A man died. A heart attack, I suppose. It involves all of us because we were there.”

“I’ll explain later,” Warner said.

“No,” I said. “You’ll explain now!”

He turned from me and peered out the window. End of conversation. We rode in silence all the way to the Savoy.

Still not saying anything, Warner escorted me to my suite.

“I must tell you, Mr. Warner, that I resent being treated this way.”

“You resent being kept safe?” he asked, opening doors to closets and the bathroom and drawing the drapes tightly shut.

“Mr. Warner,” I said, trying to sound as reasonable as possible, “I’m not critical of your doing your job, whatever it is. But Mr, Staritova’s unfortunate death tonight was obviously the result of natural causes. I fail to see where my safety is in jeopardy.”

He ignored what I said.

“Mr. Warner, why was I whisked out of the restaurant while the others stayed?”

“Excuse me,” he said, picking up the phone and dialing a number. “Jeff, Karl here. She’s in her suite.”

He listened to what Jeff said, whoever he was, hung up, and faced me. “Mrs. Fletcher, I have to be somewhere else. You are not to leave the suite.”

“Why?”

He walked to the door.

“Mr. Warner,” I said, loudly.

He turned, his expression quizzical.

“I insist I be told why I’m being treated this way. I am, after all, an American citizen.”

“I’ll be back. There’ll be someone outside your door. Sorry for being so brusque. I’ll explain later.”

He left.

I was consumed with frustration and confusion. I hadn’t been able to get a straight answer from anyone since arriving in Washington. Ward Wenington had avoided answering even my simplest of questions when it involved who he was, what he did, and why he was with our trade mission.

His successor, Karl Warner, was equally evasive.

Why?

Surely, having someone keel over at a dinner was not cause to treat the situation as though an armed attack were under way.

The vision of Vlady Staritova collapsing next to me at the dinner table generated a pervasive wave of sadness, especially when I thought of his wife. Poor thing. One minute her husband was laughing and drinking and urging me to join him on the dance floor. The next moment he was dead. I wish I’d been a little more gracious to him. I suppose we always wish we’d been more of something, or less, when someone we know dies.

I opened my door. Standing in the dim hallway was the same man who’d been there when I left that morning. I shut the door, then opened it again. He looked Russian to me. He certainly wasn’t an American. Why would Karl Warner have a Russian standing guard outside my suite?

But then it occurred to me that because the same man had been there in the morning, chances were he wasn’t working for Warner.

Who
was
he working for?

The phone rang.

“Jessica? Vaughan.”

“Where are you?” I asked.

“In our room. You all right?”

“Yes. Shaken, of course, but—”

“Why were you rushed out of the restaurant? They detained us outside for fifteen minutes.”

“I don’t know, Vaughan. I’ve been asking myself the same question.”

“Let’s meet downstairs. There’s a bar, I think.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t leave my room. Mr. Warner’s orders.”

“Who the hell is he to be giving you orders like that?”

“I’ve asked that question. He ignores it every time.”

“Then I’m coming up. What room are you in?”

I told him.

“Be there in ten minutes.”

Ten minutes later, the phone rang. It was Vaughan.

“Coming?” I asked.

“No. I tried. There are three goons in suits just outside your elevator. No one’s allowed down your hallway.”

“I can’t believe this,” I said.

“I’m trying to reach our Russian host, Belopolsky, and the embassy.”

“You say you got as far as my floor. Why are they allowing you to leave your room, but not me?”

“We’ll find that out, along with answers to other questions. Did you notice anything unusual about Vlady Staritova before he died?”

“No. He was his usual ebullient self. A little drunk. One minute he was asking me to dance;. the next minute he was dead. Any speculation on what killed him? Looked like a coronary.”

“No idea, Jess. Look, I’ll keep trying to get hold of someone to straighten out your situation. In the meantime, sit tight.”

“I don’t have any choice. Thanks, Vaughan. Keep in touch.”

I hung up and paced the living room, stopping occasionally to hit a few dissonant notes on the keyboard. I felt like a caged animal. What had begun as a wonderful trip to an exotic place, and for a worthwhile cause, had suddenly, dramatically, deteriorated into a nightmare.

My thoughts went back to Cabot Cove and my friends there. I hadn’t returned Seth Hazlitt’s call. I needed to talk to someone far removed from Moscow and the Savoy Hotel, a familiar voice from the place I love so much. I did a fast calculation; it was morning in Maine.

I dialed the hotel operator and said I wished to place a call to the United States. My assumption was that the phone system in Russia would be bad, another preconceived, stereotypical notion proved wrong. I was speaking with Seth within a minute.

“Jessica,” he said. “Thought you didn’t get my message. Called you in Washington.”

“I know, Seth. Sorry, but I didn’t find a minute to get back to you before leaving for Moscow. Am I calling at a bad time?”

“No. Mrs. Jenkins just left. Got a touch a the flu. Joe jenks’ll be comin’ in any time now. His gout’s just gettin’ worse, but the damned old fool won’t follow the diet. You’re calling from Moscow?”

“Yes.”

“Enjoyin’ your trip, Jessica?”

“Yes. No. Something unexpected has happened.”

“Oh
^?
What’s that?”

I told him about Vlady Staritova’s sudden death that night at dinner.

“Your Russian publisher died?”

“Yes. And so did a man I had lunch with.”

“What?”

“You didn’t read about my finding his body in Washington?”

“Can’t say that I did. Tell me more.”

I did.

My friend exhaled loudly.

“Seth?”

“Looks like Mort was right,” he said.

“About what?”

“About you goin’ to Russia not bein’ a particularly smart thing to do.”

“Oh, I feel safe enough,” I said, looking around the suite in which I’d become a virtual prisoner. “Not to worry.”

“Easy for you to say, Jessica.”

I didn’t argue. “Anyway, Seth, I apologize again for taking so long to get back to you. Have to run.”

“Run to where?”

“Ah ... have to meet Vaughan Buckley and his wife.”

“My best to Mr. and Mrs. Buckley.”

“I’ll tell them. See you soon.”

I’d no sooner put down the receiver when it rang.

“Mrs. Fletcher?”

I recognized the voice immediately. It belonged to the young woman, Alexandra Kozhina, to whom I was to deliver the envelope from Dimitri Rublev.

“Ms. Kozhina?”

“Da. Yes.”

“Ms. Kozhina, I asked the host for the trade mission I’m on whether I was scheduled to speak to your mystery writers’ group. He said he knew nothing of it.”

There was silence on the other end.

“I have something for you, Ms. Kozhina,” I said.

“From Dimitri.”

“That’s right. He told you I’d be bringing it to Moscow?”

“Then I suggest we get together so I can give it to you. ”

“I would like to do that—very much like to do that.”

“As far as I know, I’ll be here in Moscow for a few more days. Would you like to come to my hotel? I’m at the Savoy.”

“I know that.”

“Or, maybe I can find the time to come to you. But I’m still puzzled about my appearance before your group. It seems to me that—”

“I must go, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Wait. Just tell me—”

The click reverberated in my ear.

I called Vaughan’s room, but no one was there.

There was a knock at my door.

“Who is it?” I asked without opening it. There was no peephole as found in most hotels.

“Karl Warner, Mrs. Fletcher.”

It sounded like him. Still ...

“Mrs. Fletcher, it’s Karl Warner,” he repeated.

I slid open the deadbolt and opened the door to the extent the chain allowed. Warner stood there with two other men, both of whom looked Russian to me. There was no doubt about one of them. He wore a blue-and-gray uniform with red lapels and hat band. The other person was in a dark suit, white shirt, and red tie.

“Who’s with you?” I asked through the narrow opening.

“Mrs. Fletcher, there’s nothing to worry about. They work with me.”

That answer might have sufficed under ordinary circumstances, but I still didn’t know whom he worked for.

“Mrs. Fletcher?”

“All right,” I undid the chain and stepped back to allow them to enter.

Led by Wamer, they went to the middle of the living room and looked around as though deciding whether to purchase it or not.

“Don’t you think an introduction is in order?” I asked.

“Yes, of course. This is Mr. Sergius,” Warner said, indicating the man in civilian clothes. “And this is Captain Kazakov, Moscow
Militsia.”

I nodded at both. I knew the Russians called their police force
militsia.
Why an officer of that force was in my room at that hour was the next question I asked.

Sergius, reed-thin and with dark, almost black eyes sunk deep in his face, looked at me, smiled, and said, “I fear we are not showing our best face to the lovely lady.”

“I don’t care about best faces, Mr. Sergius, but I do wonder why you’re here. I assume it has to do with the unfortunate incident this evening at the restaurant.”

“Da.
Most unfortunate,” Sergius said. “May I sit?” He took a place on a couch and looked at me with an expression that suggested I join him, which I did. Karl Warner perched on the edge of a windowsill, while Captain Kazakov stood at attention next to the grand piano.