Murder in Moscow

by Jessica Fletcher

  “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?”

  “Da.”

  “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.

  “Well?” I said to all three of them. “Will one of you please explain why the death of a publisher, obviously by natural causes, has resulted in my being raced away from the scene and secluded in my hotel room?”

  Sergius removed a cigarette from a thin silver case, held it to his mouth, glanced at me, and asked, “May I?”

  “If you insist,” I said. I’m very much against smoking, although it has never become a cause celebre for me as it has for millions of others. Besides, I learned from the first day in Washington with my Russian publishing counterparts that smoking was an integral part of their lives. They all smoked. When in Rome ... or Moscow ...

  He lit the cigarette, took a satisfied drag, waved his hand at Warner, and said, “Please, Karl, explain things to the lovely lady.”

  Warner appeared to be unsure whether he wanted to be thrust into that role. But he pushed himself away from the sill, took a stuffed chair across the coffee table from me, and said, “I know this must be puzzling to you, Mrs. Fletcher, and I apologize for that. But that’s the way it had to be.”

  “That’s the way what had to be?”

  “The secrecy. I had to keep you in the dark until things were in place.”

  I couldn’t help but smile as I said, “You’re still keeping me in the dark. I’d really appreciate being told in simple terms what it is that’s going on. My Maine heritage coming through, I suppose.”

  “A
ll right,” said Warner. “Mr. Staritova’s sudden death this evening wasn’t the result of natural causes.”

  I leaned forward. “It wasn’t? How do you know?”

  Warner looked at Sergius before continuing. “There’s more to this trade mission, Mrs. Fletcher, than you might know.”

  “I’m listening,” I said.

  “It didn’t start out that way. I mean, I don’t want you to think we knew from the beginning that we’d be ... deviating from its stated purpose.”

  “Has it?” I asked. “Deviated?”

  “There are forces at work in Russia, Mrs. Fletcher, that would like to see the new democracy fail.”

  “Such as?”

  “The Communists, for one. Organized crime, for another.”

  I sat back and collected my thoughts. When I had, I said, “I asked how you knew that Mr. Staritova didn’t die of natural causes. As usual, you didn’t answer my question. I would appreciate it if you would.”

  Warner’s eyes met mine. He didn’t flinch from my comment. Instead, he gave out what would pass as a smile, hunched his shoulders as though against a pain in his back or neck, grimaced, and said, “There are things I just can’t reveal at this stage.”

  I stood, went to the door, and said, “Then I suggest you leave immediately. And tell those men out in the hall to leave, too. I would not have volunteered myself for what I thought was a worthwhile mission for my country and profession, to be treated this way.”

  They didn’t move.

  “Mrs. Fletcher,” Sergius said, “your feelings are understandable.” Before I could add to his understandingof my feelings, he said, “You will meet with Ms. Kozhina? Yes?”

  “Meet with—”

  “Please, sit down,” Captain Kazakov said, his first words since entering the suite. His deep voice carried the authority of his position. His smile was broad and genuine. “Pazhalsta,” he said, repeating his “please” in Russian. He indicated with his hand that I should return to where I’d been sitting before. I reluctantly did.

  “Ms. Kozhina,” Sergius repeated flatly.

  “What about her?” I asked. “No, more important, how do you even know about her?”

  “That isn’t important,” Warner said. “What is important is that you obviously have a connection with her.”

  “Connection? With her? You’re wrong. She called me here in my room and—”

  “We know that, Mrs. Fletcher,” said Sergius.

  No one said anything else for a moment During that period of silence the admonition given us by Sam Roberts in Washington—that we should be careful about what we say because of the possibility of being overheard by electronic devices—came back to me. Of course My phone was probably bugged. The whole suite, maybe. Was there a tiny microphone inside the grand piano that picked up every note of my feeble attempts to create music? The clock radio next to my bed? The lamps, heating and air-conditioning systems, even beneath the carpeting?

  Warner seemed to know what I was thinking. He broke the quiet by saying, “The point is, Mrs. Fletcher, we’d like you to go through with your meeting with Ms. Kozhina.”

  “I don’t have a meeting scheduled with her.”

  “We know,” said Warner. “Make one.”

  “I don’t know how to reach her,” I said.

  I said it based upon not having a phone number for her. But I did have her address. Did they know that? Did they know about the note from Dimitri Rublev that I was to deliver to her? Had I mentioned Rublev and the note to Ms. Kozhina during our two telephone conversations? I couldn’t remember for the moment.

  I made a decision on the spot to not mention the note unless they brought it up. I also told myself that there was nothing to be gained by continuing to confront them. After all, they were asking me to do nothing more than to call a young female Russian writer, who I intended to meet up with anyway. By morning, I’d be back in the secure comfort of my American friends and could discuss the situation with them, benefit from their sage advice.

  “She’ll undoubtedly call again,” Warner said, confirming that they knew of the two previous calls from her.

  “Why is it so important that I meet with her?” I asked. “Who is she? Why are you so interested in her?”

  “All you have to do, Mrs. Fletcher, is meet with her, see what she has to say, and remember it.”

  “Remember what she says?”

  “Right,” said Wamer.

  I thought of Ward Wenington’s asking me to agree to be “debriefed” upon my return from Russia. But he hadn’t said I’d be asked to engage selected, specific Russians in conversation. This was different.

  “I ask again,” I said. “Why is Ms. Kozhina so important to you? As far as I know, she’s just a young mystery writer.”

  Warner stood, and said, “You’ve been very cooperative, Mrs. Fletcher, very patient. I assure you it’s appreciated.”

  The Russian militsia captain, Kazakov, and Mr. Sergius also stood. Kazakov clicked his heels and bowed slightly. Sergius came to me and extended his hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher, for allowing us to intrude on your privacy and your evening. I look forward to meeting with you again.”

  I turned to Karl Warner. “What if I don’t wish to meet with Ms. Kozhina? I don’t have to, you know. I’m here as part of a trade delegation, not as a set of ears for whatever agency you work for.”

  His little smile was annoying. He said, “You’re absolutely right, Mrs. Fletcher. You have no obligation to do anything beyond meeting with Russian publishers. Of course, your Russian publisher isn’t alive anymore, not as of tonight. A good friend of mine, Ward Wenington, is also dead. I’d like to see that no one else dies. Thanks again, Mrs. Fletcher. Oh, I’d appreciate it if you’d not mention any of this to the others. Wouldn’t accomplish anything. Good night.”

  Chapter Eleven

  I called Vaughan Buckley a few minutes after the others departed my suite. He was upbeat; he’d just gotten off the phone with not only our Russian host, Mr. Belopolsky, but with an official at the American Embassy. In both cases, Vaughan assured me, immediate action would be taken to ensure that I was not harassed or bothered by individuals who weren’t directly involved with the trade mission.

  “That’s a relief,” I said.

  “I made a date tomorrow morning for us at the embassy.”

  “Oh? Is that necessary?”

  “It wasn’t my idea. The official I spoke with there—his name’s Tom Mulligan—is in the economic development office. He asked that we stop by to meet him. Actually, he wants to meet you. He’s a fan of your books.”

  “That’s good to hear. What time?”

  “Eleven. We have that nine o’clock breakfast meeting with the Russian Publishers’ Association. Lunch at one with the editors from Ogonyok. A good magazine, Jess. There’s a copy in your room. You might want to browse it before tomorrow’s lunch. Three million circulation, and v-e-r-y literary. We’ll have plenty of time between the morning meeting and lunch to swing by the embassy.”

  “All this going on despite what happened tonight to poor Vlady,” I said.

  “Life goes on, Jess. A tragedy to be sure, but—”

  “I was told that Vlady’s death wasn’t—” I stopped myself in midsentence, my eyes flitting about the room.

  “You were saying?” Vaughan said. “About Vlady’s death?”

  “Oh, nothing. I’ll tell you in the morning.”

  “All right. Feel better?”

  “Much, although I’m exhausted.”

  “Belopolsky offers his apologies for our missing the theater and the nightclub.”

  “That never crossed my mind. Think I’ll get to bed. It’s been a long day, and tomorrow promises more of the same.”

  “Sleep tight, Jess. Things will get back to normal in the morning.”

  I had a lot of trouble sleeping that night. Despite Vaughan’s reassuring words, the confusion of the evening stayed with me. Before going to bed, I opened my door and peered i
nto the hall. The man who’d been there all day was gone. I was tempted to go to the elevators to see whether the other men Vaughan had mentioned were still on duty, but decided against it. It was over. Vaughan said it was over.

  Still, sleep came only in fits and starts. I lay awake a long time after they left, chewing on everything that had been said, analyzing it, trying to identify the meaning of it. Was it that easy? I wondered, for Belopolsky, and a single embassy official, to call off the dogs, as it were.

  But even if that was the case, there was still the deeply troubling assertions made by Karl Warner and his two Russian colleagues.

  They’d said that there were forces wanting to thwart Russia’s move to democracy, namely the Communists and the mafia. That statement had been uttered in connection with their request that I arrange a meeting with Alexandra Kozhina.

  Who was this mysterious young lady? She’d developed, for me, from mystery writer into legitimate mystery woman. What could she possibly have to do with such monumental issues as governments and organized crime?

  But what really kept me awake was the comment that Vladislav Staritova, my Russian publisher, hadn’t died at dinner from natural causes. How could that be? How could they know the cause of death so soon after it had happened?

  Finally, if Karl Warner was correct—mat Staritova hadn’t died of a coronary or other natural causes—did that have any connection with the death of Ward Wenington?

  I didn’t have any answers at the moment and wasn’t sure I wanted any.

  My final question as sleep finally embraced me was whether there was a hidden camera somewhere in the suite, videotaping my every move. I shuddered at the contemplation, pulled the covers up tight around my neck, and closed my eyes.

  What had Sir Winston Churchill said? “Russia is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.”

  He’d receive no argument from me.

  Chapter Twelve

  The breakfast with the Russian Publishers’ Association was held in a handsome old building near the Kremlin. We joined fifty or more Russian publishing executives in a sprawling, domed room with bloodred wallpaper and gold leaf everywhere one looked.