Murder in Moscow

by Jessica Fletcher

  “You know Seth, Jess. The older he gets, the more convinced he is that bad things lurk around every corner. Sounds like a great trip, and honor, for you. Keep in touch. Maybe you’ll do a piece for the magazine about the trip.”

  “Happy to. Thanks for the ride.”

  My phone was ringing as I walked through my front door. It was Seth Hazlitt.

  “Seth, I—”

  “No more lectures from me, Jessica. You’re all grown up, capable of makin’ your own decisions.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Heard you mention you’d like to learn a little Russian before going there. Know Professor Donskoy over at the extension?”

  “I know of him.”

  “Been a patient ‘a mine for a long time. Speaks three or four languages, teaches ’em, too, including Russian. Thought you might want to take a lesson or two from him.”

  “What a wonderful idea, Seth. I’ll call him first thing in the morning.”

  Seth gave me the professor’s number, told me again why the landfill project had to be stopped—“Jimmy Shevlin’s a real nice fella, smart and all, but he can be so damn jo-jeezly about this landfill thing.”

  “He’s not that ornery, Seth. We’ll talk more about it at the town meeting this weekend. In the meantime, this lady in about to get to bed. Good meeting, wasn’t it?”

  “Perfectly fine, Jessica. Call Professor Donskoy.”

  “I will. Thanks for the suggestion.”

  After changing for bed, I turned on the late news. The lead item was about an American businessman from Texas who’d been gunned down outside his Moscow hotel.

  Russian authorities say it has all the markings of a mob hit, something happening with frightening regularity these days as Russia struggles to shift from its previous Communist system of government to democracy.

  With any luck, Seth and Mort hadn’t seen the TV report. If they had, I knew I’d be in for another round of warnings the next time we were together.

  I turned off the TV and climbed into bed. I could see through my window that snow had begun to fall. It hadn’t been forecast, but this was, after all, Maine. I hoped it would amount to only a dusting. As much as I love snow, enough is enough.

  One of the guidebooks said that springtime weather in Russia could be delightful.

  A lovely thought.

  An American businessman shot to death in Moscow.

  Not so lovely a thought.

  I fell asleep saying aloud some of the Russian phrases I’d learned from the phrase books I’d bought from Roberta.

  “Spasibo.” “Izvinitye.”

  I didn’t know the Russian word for murder and didn’t want to.

  Chapter Two

  Flying into Washington, D.C., in clear weather lifts my spirits. The approach often takes you down the Potomac River,. affording a good look at the magnificent monuments that testify to the democracy we all cherish: the Jefferson and Lincoln memorials, the Mall, the buildings of the Smithsonian Institution, the soaring Washington Monument (will I ever get around to climbing to the top?), the Capitol Building, the new FDR Memorial, and the White House. That our capital has fallen onto such hard financial times is cause for sadness. It truly is a special city, the symbol of our nation, and should be supported as such.

  I flew there from Boston. Most of the others in our publishing contingent had traveled from New York. The landing at National Airport was smooth. The sun had begun to set over Washington, putting into motion a dazzling display of lights across the city.

  As I exited the jetway, two men in dark suits held up a sign with my name on it. “Mrs. Fletcher?” one said.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Ed Rodier, Sam Roberts’s assistant at the Commerce Department.” He extended his hand. “This is Mike Moga. He works for Sam, too.”

  “Pleased to meet both of you,” I said.

  “We have a car waiting,” Rodier said.

  “Wonderful. I was told I’d be met.” .

  “Pleasant flight?” Moga asked as we headed for the baggage area.

  “Smooth as silk. Will I be meeting Mr. Roberts this evening?”

  “Afraid not. You’ll meet him at a breakfast in the morning at the Capitol Building, hosted by members of the House Subcommittee on International Economic Policy, Export and, Trade Promotion.”

  “Must be an important committee judging from the length of its name. Anything on the agenda for this evening?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am. ”You’ll be a guest of honor at a cocktail party at the Russian Embassy. After that, a dinner at the National Gallery of Art. By coincidence they’re featuring an exhibition of Russian art. And then—”

  “And then—to bed, I hope,” I said.

  Rodier laughed. “Not on the agenda, Mrs. Fletcher, but we’ll see if we can work some sleep into the schedule.”

  The long black limousine was driven by a tall, elderly uniformed gentleman. We left the airport, moved smoothly down the George Washington Memorial Highway, and crossed the Arlington Memorial Bridge into the area of Washington known as Foggy Bottom, home of the State Department and George Washington University.

  “It’s such a lovely city,” I said, more to myself than to the two gentlemen with me in the back of the luxurious vehicle.

  “Yes, it is,” Rodier said, sighing. “But with lots of problems.”

  We said little more to each other until the driver pulled up in front of the Madison Hotel, on Fifteenth Street NW, directly across from the Washington Post.

  “I’ve never stayed at the Madison,” I said, “but always wanted to.”

  “I think you’ll find it a pleasant experience,” Moga said. “Very classy. A big favorite with foreign dignitaries, especially the Russians. They like it because it has a top-security floor.”

  “I thought the cold war was over,” I said.

  “It is,” said Rodier, adding, “in some areas.”

  I didn’t press him for further explanation.

  The driver opened the door, and I stepped out, followed by my hosts. We entered the lobby, where I stopped to admire an impressive collection of antique furniture. Everything about the space said “rich.”

  Rodier went to the desk and told the young woman behind it who I was, and that I was part of the Commerce Department’s publishing trade group. “She goes on the master bill,” he said.

  “Welcome, Mrs. Fletcher,” the desk clerk said. “First time with us?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, we’ll do everything we can to make your stay a pleasant one.”

  “Is everyone from the group staying here?” I asked Rodier.

  “Just about. A few of the Russian publishers preferred to be put up by their embassy.” He turned to Moga. “Two of them, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Cars will be here in an hour, Mrs. Fletcher, to take you and the others to the reception.”

  “Then I’d better get to my room and put myself together.”

  I was taken to a large, lovely room on a high floor at the front of the hotel, overlooking the street. The young bellhop showed me how the TV, thermostat, and other things worked. He refused a tip, saying all gratuities were being paid by our hosts. The moment he was gone, I opened my luggage and took out the clothing I planned to wear that evening. It wasn’t easy packing for this trip. We’d be away from home for two weeks, and the schedule sent to me before departure indicated there would be dozens of dressy affairs.

  When I arrived in the lobby an hour later, the others had already gathered, including my American publisher of many years, Vaughan Buckley, whose Buckley House is among the industry’s most prestigious. It was always good to see him. Not only did he publish me, we’d become best of friends.

  “Good to see you,” he said, crossing the lobby and kissing my cheek.

  “Good to see you, too. Where’s Olga?”

  “Be down in a minute.” His wife had been a top fashion model in New York before meeting and falling in love with the dashing, han
dsome publisher.

  “This is so exciting,” I said.

  “And worthwhile, Jess. Working with the Russians to build a viable publishing industry can help the country become a democracy, open it up to new ideas after all those years of censorship.”

  “That is worthwhile,” I said. “Have you met the Russian publishers?”

  “A few. Did Matt Miller tell you we sold rights to your new book to a Russian house?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Your Russian publisher is on the trip. Spend some time with him. I think he wants you to come to Russia next year to promote the Russian edition.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Vladislav Staritova. Calls himself Vlady. A funny guy. Drinks vodka like it was water. No surprise for a Russian. He has his wife with him.”

  “Great. I’ll—”

  “Jessica.” Olga Buckley emerged from the elevator and gave me a hug and kiss.

  “Hi,” I said. “I was just talking to Vaughan about this wonderful experience.”

  “I know,” she said. “The minute he told me we’d been invited, I started preparing. I even took a crash course in Russian.”

  I laughed and said, “I hope you did better than I did with mine.”

  “Everyone, please, the cars are waiting,” a young man from Commerce announced.

  Our limousines fell in behind two police vehicles, their lights flashing.

  “I’ve never had a police escort before,” I said. “I feel like a dignitary.”

  “You are,” Vaughan said. “We all are, at least for two weeks.”

  “It’s a little off-putting,” Olga said. “Are we in jeopardy?”

  “Of course not,” said Vaughan. “It’s just a Washington thing. A government thing.”

  Fifteen minutes later we were waved through the gates of the Russian Embassy on upper Wisconsin Avenue, an imposing complex surrounded by a high steel fence. Remote TV cameras were everywhere. “It’s like an armed camp,” I whispered to Olga.

  “It’s the government,” Vaughan repeated.

  We stepped out of the limousines at the main entrance to the embassy, a huge monochromatic buff building. Young Russian military personnel lined the steps as the Russian ambassador to the United States and his wife descended them, welcomed us in English and Russian, and escorted us inside, where the strains of a string quartet wafted from a distant room.

  While we paused in the large, circular marble foyer, I used the time to take in my colleagues. There were about thirty people, including wives of some of the publishers, and the husband of the only female publishing executive. Everyone seemed in good spirits, although the Russians looked fatigued, the result, I assumed, of their long flight to Washington. I’d probably look the same after our flight to Moscow later in the week. The chatter was a mix of English and Russian. As I looked at their faces, I had a reaction I often experience, that despite the unfortunate tendency to stereotype those who aren’t just like us, we’re all basically the same—human beings speaking different languages and of different skin colors and religious beliefs, but the same—aspiring to the same goals, feeling the same pain, laughing and crying at the same things.

  I didn’t have much time to dwell on the thought because we were led from the foyer into a ballroom, where the ambassador and his wife headed a long reception line. To the musical group’s rendition of a familiar Russian melody, Mussorgsky’s Night on Bald Mountain, I preceded Vaughan and Olga Buckley as we progressed down the line. A young man in a tuxedo was handling the introductions. I wondered how politicians do it, shaking hundreds, even thousands of hands each day. Obviously, I was not cut out to run for elective office.

  As I would quickly learn, socializing with Russians meant that vodka and caviar were never far away. I declined a drink, opting instead for sparkling bottled water, and plucked a smoked salmon on brown bread from a passing tray. Vaughan Buckley raised his glass of vodka: “To the first night of a memorable experience.” Olga and I touched rims with him.

  “Mr. Buckley,” a corpulent gentleman in a tuxedo said. An equally large woman dressed in a sequined purple dress was on his arm.

  “Hello, Vlady,” Vaughan said. “This is my wife, Olga. And this is your new author, Jessica Fletcher.”

  Vladislav Staritova bowed and extended his hand, which I took. Mrs. Staritova smiled pleasantly. “Dobry viecher,” her husband said. “A sincere pleasure.”

  “Oh, yes. Dobry viecher,” I said, remembering from my lessons with Professor Donskoy that it meant good evening. “The pleasure is mine. I’m delighted you’ll be making my book available to Russian readers.”

  “And it warms my heart that it will be my publishing company that makes it possible.”

  The party at the Russian Embassy lasted a little over an hour, not enough time to meet everyone, but a good start. I spent most of the party with Mr. and Mrs. Staritova. They were pleasant conversationalists, although as “Vlady” continued to down shots of chilled vodka served by a waiter who seemed to have become his personal valet, his speech became a little sloppy, his eyes watery. That was all right. The problem was he also increasingly felt the need to touch me to make his point, a hand on the arm or shoulder, a few attempts to hug me when he was expressing pleasure at having bought the rights to my book. I eventually found a reason to break away, and joined a knot of American publishers in another part of the room.

  The limousines next took us to the National Gallery of Art for a dinner in its West Wing, where Old Masters are displayed. The East Wing, designed by famed architect I. M. Pei, houses more modem collections.

  Tables had been elaborately set in a large space devoted to an exhibition of art by Russian artists whose names I didn’t know—Vrubel, Nakst, Somov, and Kustodiev—but who, I was assured, represented an important era in art created around the turn of the century in what was then the Soviet Union. Two contemporary representatives of Russia’s creative community, who’d come to Washington as special guests of the National Gallery and the Library of Congress, joined us at dinner. One, a graphic artist, was a handsome young man with jet black hair and sensuous dark brown eyes that were in constant motion. The other, a writer, was older; I judged him to be in his early sixties. He was a short man with noticeably bowed legs and unruly steel gray hair. His glasses had extremely thick lenses. I was seated next to him at dinner. His English vocabulary was good, his accent heavy. His name was Dimitri Rublev.

  Seated on the other side of me was Vladislav Staritova, who insisted I call him Vlady. He continued to down vodka as though it were water, although he didn’t seem to have become more inebriated than he’d been at the Russian Embassy.

  “I am flattered to be seated next to you,” the Russian writer, Rublev, said. “You are a very famous author.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “I am not so famous,” he said.

  “What sort of books do you write?” I asked.

  “Poetry, mostly. But I have just finished a novel, my first.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “It is a murder mystery.”

  “Then I’m in trouble.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I’ll have to compete with you for readers.” He seemed to take me seriously. “I was only joking,” I said.

  We both laughed.

  “Mine is a political mystery, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Oh? Politics as they are today in Russia, or when it was the Soviet Union?”

  “It takes place in today’s Russia. The new Russia.” There was sarcasm in his tone.

  I looked to Staritova, who was engaged in a conversation with his wife. I asked Rublev, “Is Mr. Staritova your publisher?”

  His expression was that of having tasted sour milk. He shook his head and finished a half glass of vodka that had been sitting in front of him.

  The dinner was excellent, although I made a silent pledge to go easy on meals for the duration of the trip. These next two weeks could easily undo an entire
winter of exercise and healthy eating.

  After dinner the curator of the Russian exhibition gave us a tour of the artwork on display. As we moved from painting to painting, I couldn’t help but be aware that there were a number of people in the large gallery space who kept an eagle-eye on us. Not unusual, of course. All major museums have large security staffs to ensure no one attempts to steal or deface a work of art. But there were plenty of uniformed guards throughout the National Gallery to see to that.

  The men I noticed did not wear uniforms. And they formed two distinct groups.

  One group was distinctly American, judging from their clothing, haircuts, and general demeanor. Secret Service? I wondered. No. That elite group of men and women wouldn’t be assigned to watch over a trade mission, unless the president and his inner circle were involved.

  Plainclothes officers working for the National Gallery? Unlikely.

  The second group was comprised of angry-looking younger men whose suits and Slavic faces indicated they were probably Russian. My assumption was that they fulfilled some sort of security role for the Russians taking part in the trade mission. In the days ahead that assumption would be verified.

  My attention was diverted from them by a particular painting being discussed by the curator. “Mikhail Vrubel was a tortured artist,” he said. “Immensely talented but mad, a man obsessed with the sort of demons you see in this work. He died in nineteen-ten in an asylum after having left a copious amount of work.”

  “Was he really crazy,” an American publisher asked, “or was he put in the asylum for political purposes?”

  “I suppose we’ll never know,” the curator replied.

  “Why do you Americans always assume the worst about us?” a Russian publisher asked the American. “What do you think, that every person committed to an asylum is a political prisoner?”

  “No,” the American replied. “But you must admit you did use confinement as a way to rid the state of political dissidents.”

  “Vastly exaggerated,” said the Russian, his tone hard.