The Moscow Affair (From The Files Of Lady Dru Drummond Book 1)

by CW Hawes

  He followed me everywhere, just as in the song, strolling down the avenue. I found his presence comforting. Being a foreigner and alone in a big city, I was relieved to know I had a guardian angel to watch over me.

  When I became lost, he helped me find my hotel. Then slipped off into the shadows to keep an eye on me. If anyone knows, my shadow does.

  FIVE

  Taken

  Today was my second full day in Moscow. To be honest, my heart was no longer in this assignment. My thoughts kept bringing up the idea to catch the next airship to anywhere, or even a train, just to be gone from this place. I no longer have Karl and Mikhail is but a dream. For the first time in a long time I’m homesick.

  McAleer picked us up at nine o’clock this morning and took us to the Red Rooster, where Karl and I had gone, for breakfast. We ordered and while waiting for our food to arrive McAleer told me he liked my stories.

  “They are very good, Lady Hurley-Drummond, but ‘My Shadow’ will not make it past the Soviet censors. ‘My First Day In Moscow’ is iffy. I’d say they’ll let most of it through. They don’t like anything which even remotely smells of criticism.”

  “I can understand ‘My Shadow,’ but they’d censor my first day impressions?”

  “Possibly,” McAleer said. “Then again, maybe not. What we see as criticism, they might see as affirmation. The next staff person leaving, I’ll give them ‘My Shadow’ so it can be sent from a location outside the Soviet Union. If the Soviets want to make too many cuts to your first impressions story, I’ll do the same with it. We’ll see. The censors are a funny lot.”

  “I’ll agree with that,” Karl said. “Never know what they’ll cut or keep.”

  Our breakfast came and the conversation moved to Russian food. McAleer holding out that by and large, while generally being tasty, it was monotonous fare being poor peasant food. Karl thought Russian food quite good and not at all boring. “The flavor spectrum is quite nuanced,” he said. McAleer laughed and said, “I think that’s just a fancy way of saying monotonous.”

  We finished our breakfast and McAleer drove us back to Hall Media. For the first time I noticed a semi-rigid airship circling slowly overhead and several autogyros. McAleer said they were part of the aerial surveillance. “Eyes in the sky,” he quipped. Once in his office, he said he had good news.

  “Speak freely. We swept for bugs this morning and disposed of them. Once the cleaning crew leaves tonight, they’ll be back in place. But for now – no listening ears.

  “I got an interpreter for you. Petre Djuranovic. He speaks English very well.”

  “Is he a secret police agent?” I asked.

  “Probably,” McAleer replied. “Assume he is. Karl, we’ve requested interviews for you with Malenkov, Voroshilov, Molotov, and Mikoyan. Not sure if we’ll get any of them, but you’ve been here before so it’s possible. A respected foreign correspondent will help them show the world nothing’s changed with Stalin’s death.”

  “Do you have any idea when we’ll know?” Karl asked.

  “None. Malenkov holds all the power for the moment, but things are up in the air over there. You know how it is. The constant jockeying for power.”

  McAleer continued, “I also got you a car and driver. The driver’s name is Boleslav Vitsin. He’s done some driving for us before. Knows German and English. Not fluent, but very good. He may be MGB. We’re not sure. Just assume he is, until you know differently. What counts is he knows Moscow like the back of his hand. He can get you where you want to go.”

  “That’s good,” I said. “I’d like to interview the ordinary people. Perhaps he can take me to a good place outside of the central city.”

  “Probably can,” McAleer said. “Vitsin is waiting. Djuronovic won’t be here until this afternoon. You two can figure out how you want to use him.”

  “Thanks, Denby,” Karl said.

  “No problem, Karl. You two just go out there and write your hearts out, so Mr. Hall is happy with us.”

  Karl nodded and I said, “I always do.”

  “That you do, Lady Hurley-Drummond,” McAleer replied.

  Karl and I left Denby McAleer’s office. In the lobby of the Hall Media suite was a young man wearing a grey suit. He was in his twenties, middle to late I’d say, and holding his hat. He stood when he entered.

  Karl asked, “Are you Boleslav Vitsin?”

  “I am,” he replied.

  Karl continued, “I’m von Weidner and this is Lady Hurley-Drummond. We understand you are our driver.”

  “Yes, sir. I am.”

  “Very good,” Karl said. “We’re ready to go back to Hotel Moskva.”

  “Yes, sir. Please follow me. The car is this way.”

  Boleslav led us outside to where parked along a kerb was a blocky auto, painted battleship grey. Nothing like the sleek aerodynamic look of American and western European vehicles.

  Karl shook his head. “McAleer would saddle us with a Moskvitch 400.”

  “Is that bad?” I asked.

  “I guess not. It has an engine and four wheels and will get us where we want to go.”

  Boleslav held the doors for us while we got in. Once we were in the backseat, he got behind the wheel, and we were off to the hotel.

  Karl passed me a note, which read:

  Petre and Boleslav may be wired with microphones. Be careful what you say.

  I said, “Me and my shadow.”

  A hint of a smile touched Karl’s lips. “Indeed.” There was a pause and then Karl said, “Why don’t you go out this afternoon with Petre and interview a few people? Get their mood. See if they’ll tell you anything now that Stalin is dead.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll do a housewife waiting in line interview.”

  “Hopefully you’ll get a few good human interest stories.”

  “Hopefully.”

  We arrived at the hotel and I told Boleslav I would need his services after lunch.

  Karl said, “Dru, why don’t we lunch here at the hotel restaurant?”

  “I would love to.”

  I was surprised Karl wanted to lunch together, but if he asked I wasn’t going to say, “no.” If for nothing else, I just wanted the company. But it was Karl asking. We were shown to our table, which was in an out of the way corner of the restaurant. Perhaps the maitre d’ thought we were lovers. A week ago he would have been right.

  The menu was designed with foreigners in mind. The text was in French and most of the dishes were French.

  “Do you want me to order for you?” Karl asked.

  Since I can read French and speak it to some degree, I said, “No. I can manage.”

  When the waiter returned, I ordered Potage Parmentier for the soup course. For the main course I ordered Poulets Grilles a la Diable with Puree de Navets Parmentier and Petits Oignons Aigre-Doux. Dessert, for me, was Gratin de Pommes, Normande. Karl ordered Soupe a l’Ail aux Pommes de Terre, Poulet Poele a l’Estragon, Carrots aux Fines Herbes, Pommes de Terre Chateau, and Le Saint-Andre aux Abricots for dessert. To drink with our meal, I ordered amontillado and Karl ordered burgundy.

  Having taken our orders, the waiter departed and I asked Karl how he intended to spend his afternoon.

  “I have several stories I want to write, which should keep me busy while you are out with Petre interviewing people.”

  I nodded.

  He went on. “I may go out and get a newspaper. Stretch my legs. Something French, German, or English – find out what’s going on in the world.”

  “I’ll pick a couple up for you if we go by a newsstand.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate it, Dru.”

  Our food arrived and we ate in relative silence. Karl can be silent in the best of times, but now the lack of words on both our parts just seemed awkward. I think he felt it too, for when we finished eating he excused himself and left. I asked for tea and when the samovar arrived and a cup was sitting before me I didn’t touch it for some time. My mind was on the happy times when Karl wo
uld’ve been here with me. At last I took a sip and began thinking of the questions to ask in this afternoon’s interviews. After two cups, I left the restaurant. The meal would go on our tab.

  Boleslav was waiting in the lounge at the hotel’s entrance. I walked up to him. He stood.

  “Are you ready for drive, Lady Hurley-Drummond?”

  “Yes, Boleslav. Take me to Hall Media. We’ll pick up Mr. Djuranovic and he and I will decide our next stop.”

  “Very good, Lady Hurley-Drummond.”

  He left and soon the Moskvitch 400 had pulled up to the door. I walked outside, Boleslav held the door open for me, and I got in. He closed the door and got behind the wheel.

  Boleslav guided the car out onto the street. We’d gone about a block when he said, “I have a message for you, Lady Hurley-Drummond.”

  I looked at him and saw him looking at me in the rearview mirror. “Go on,” I said. Suddenly my heart was racing.

  “Captain Mikhail Turbanev will meet you soon.”

  My breath caught in my throat. Suddenly the car, Moscow itself, faded from view. I was back on the Deutschland and Mikhail was making love to me. “Wh-when?” I managed to get out.

  “I do not know. Soon. He is in Moscow.”

  He’s here. In Moscow. Mikhail is in Moscow. My heart was pounding. He did come. “When did he arrive?” I asked.

  “I do not know. It is best not to know too much. He is here and will meet you soon.”

  We arrived at the building where Hall Media had its offices. Boleslav parked the car and got out to get my interpreter. The men soon returned. Petre Djuranovic sat in the backseat of the car with me. He was a tall man. Somewhere in his forties. Well groomed. Black hair.

  “I am Petre Djuranovic, your interpreter.” His English was excellent.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Djuranovic. I’m Lady Hurley-Drummond.” I extended my hand and he took it, held it a moment, gave it a slight squeeze, and let it go. I continued, “I thought to go to the market area and interview a few women about daily life in Moscow.”

  “I am at your service,” Djuranovic said.

  “Very good. Boleslav, please take us to the market.”

  “Yes, Madam,” he replied.

  When we arrived, Boleslav parked the car and Djuranovic and I got out. Boleslav opening my door for me. Mid-afternoon and I noticed shops and stores had already closed. Apparently having run out of goods, the owners and managers saw no need to keep the store open. An airship circled overhead. I wrote a few notes. Djuranovic and I walked on. We came across a vegetable stall which still had a few vegetables. The line was made up of five women. Djuranovic asked them if any wished to speak with “the famous British journalist, Lady Hurley-Drummond.” Two did, as long as they didn’t have to give up their place in line.

  I asked questions about daily life, waiting in line, their opinion of Stalin and Malenkov, if they had children (they did) and what they hoped for their children. Their answers were mostly short and mostly positive. Even though they were brave enough to talk to the foreign journalist, they were wary of Petre and the other women in line. The scared look on their faces, their nervous hands, the sidelong glances to check if anyone disapproved of their answers, their unwillingness to look at Djuranovic told the story of the fear which marked their daily lives.

  I was amazed at the impact on people of one man’s paranoia. I could only hope Malenkov would loosen the reign of terror crippling these poor people. Djuranovic and I walked around the market area asking for interviews, but were met with cast down eyes and the word “nyet” time and again. An autogyro flew down the length of the street.

  A clerk in the clothing store, which had mostly empty shelves and only two customers, finally said, “Da.” The man wore a suit, looked to be in his late thirties or early forties, wore his hair slicked back, and was clean shaven. Djuranovic told me the man’s name was Vladimir Pyzik.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Pyzik. I’m Lady Hurley-Drummond. A journalist for Hall Media in the United States of America.”

  “Good afternoon,” he replied through the interpreter.

  “How long have you worked here?”

  “Eleven years.”

  “There don’t appear to be many goods for sale. Are the shelves usually this bare?”

  “Oh no. Today was a busy day. We will get more clothing tomorrow.”

  “Enough to fill the shelves?”

  “We will get enough to meet our needs.”

  I thought, From each according to his ability . To each according to his need. Who determines the “from” and the “to”? I decided to ask.

  “Mr. Pyzik, who determines what your needs are?”

  “Comrade Stalin determined what we needed. Now Comrade Malenkov will tell us what we need.”

  “Do you have a wife and children, Mr. Pyzik?”

  “Yes. Three children. Two sons. One daughter.”

  “What is your opinion of the late Joseph Stalin?”

  Too eagerly the answer poured forth. “A great man. He made Russia a modern country.”

  “And what of Mr. Malenkov?”

  “He too is a great man. He will do much good for Mother Russia.”

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Pyzik.”

  Mr. Pyzik gave me a little bow.

  “I’m done for today, Mr. Djuranovic.”

  “Very good, Lady Hurley-Drummond.”

  I got the impression my interpreter was pleased with how the afternoon had gone. I had no way of knowing if the answers I’d gotten were from the interviewees or from the interpreter. Quite frustrating when one can’t trust one’s interpreter.

  We walked back to the car. On the way, Djuranovic asked if I found the interviews satisfactory. I told him I found them of interest. We reached the car and Boleslav held the door for me. Djuranovic got in on his own. After Boleslav got behind the wheel, he asked where we wanted to go.

  I told him, “Hall Media to drop off Mr. Djuranovic and then Hotel Moskva. If we pass a newsstand, would you stop? I’d like to get a couple of foreign newspapers for Mr. Weidner.”

  “Yes, Madam.”

  Boleslav started the car, put it in gear, and was off. I looked out the window on the way to Hall Media. I wondered if any of the people I’d interviewed suffered at the hands of the secret police. Probably not. If they had, I wouldn’t be interviewing them. Had they had family or friends arrested or imprisoned? I suppose “or” is not the correct word. If one is arrested, one is imprisoned. The “or” should be applied to “execution.”

  Djuranovic made an attempt to engage me in conversation, but I was not in the mood to talk to the Janus. Eventually he took the hint from my monosyllabic replies and he stopped talking. We reached the building where Hall Media has its offices. Djuranovic wished me a goodnight and I wished him likewise and he got out of the car.

  Back on the street, Boleslav said, “While you were gone, I make telephone call. My mother would like to meet you. She’s invited you to eat with us tonight.”

  “Is my being in your home a danger for you?”

  “Da. We used to danger.”

  “I don’t want you to get in trouble, Boleslav.”

  He pulled to the kerb by a newsstand. I gave him money and Boleslav picked up a French and German newspaper for me.

  “Lady Hurley-Drummond, this meeting with my mother is very important. You must accept and eat with us.”

  I had the feeling he was trying to tell me something. I’m a journalist. I look for stories. Sometimes dangerous stories. This might be exactly what I’ve been looking for.

  “Alright, Boleslav, I’ll eat with you.”

  “Good. Now we lose secret police following us.”

  He then described how I should go through the hotel and come out on the northwest side of the building where he would meet me. When we reached the hotel, he opened the door for me and I got out. Boleslav got back in the car and drove off to park it. I entered the lobby and, rather then take the lift and run the risk of
the lift operator reporting my activities, I took the stairs to my floor. I knocked on Karl’s door but there was no answer, so I left the papers on the floor outside the door. I retraced my steps, descended to the second floor and walked to the opposite side of the hotel. I crossed the back of the building to the northwest side, descended the stairs, and came out on the street.

  Boleslav detached himself from the shadows by the side of the building and together we walked down the street. When we reached the corner, a car pulled up.

  He opened the door and said, “Get in.”

  I got in, he closed the door, and the driver pulled away.

  “Stop!” I yelled. “What’s going on?” I tried opening the door, but it was locked.

  The driver said something in Russian.

  I was being kidnapped. I took off my shoe and tried hitting the driver in the head with it. But he managed to raise his arm and the shoe struck it instead.

  The driver spat out something in Russian, pulled over to the kerb, and pointed a pistol at me. I didn’t understand his Russian, but the pistol I understood. I sat back in the seat. He said, “Da,” and put the car in gear, and drove back out into the traffic lane.

  I put my shoe back on and muttered, “Damn it, Dru. You got yourself into a fine mess this time.” I tried to note landmarks to remember my route. It seemed to me, the driver was taking me out of the city. This was definitely not a good situation. Once out of Moscow, and my not speaking the language, I was going to have a devil of a time getting back. Then again, depending on where I was going, maybe I wasn’t coming back.

  SIX

  Mikhail

  Not knowing Russian, I could not read the road signs. The cloudy sky prevented me from seeing the sun and thereby getting some idea of the direction in which I was being taken. And why was I being kidnapped? And who was kidnapping me? I was scared. Plain and simple. Would a search be mounted for me? Surely Karl will insist on it. In spite of everything he still loves me. And Hall Media as well would push the Russian government to find me. Assuming the government wasn’t behind my abduction.