Murder in Moscow

by Jessica Fletcher

  Chapter Thirteen

  “You don’t have to do it, you know,” Vaughan said as we rode from the embassy to our luncheon.

  “I’m aware of that,” I said. “But he was persuasive.”

  “So’s someone selling snake oil. I was surprised when you agreed.”

  I sensed that Ivan, our driver, was dividing his attention between watching the road and listening to our conversation.

  “You do realize, Jess, that—?”

  I put my index finger to my lips and shook my head. Ivan’s eyes bored holes at me in the rearview mirror. He quickly averted my gaze and focused on the car ahead of us.

  Our lunch with the editors of Ogonyok was at Glazur, a Danish-Russian joint venture in a nineteenth-century mansion on the Garden Ring. Because it was only possible to hire a car for a full day, we had Ivan for the duration, whether we used him or not. He politely opened the door for us and scurried to do the same with the door leading into the elegant restaurant, tastefully decorated in shades of muted brown and glittering gold. We were early, beating the others by fifteen minutes. The editors were there, however, and warmly greeted us. After seeing that we had drinks—vodka for Vaughan, mineral water for me—they left us alone for a few minutes.

  “Back to what I was saying in the car, Jess. Frankly, I think Mulligan and Warner, and whoever else is involved, have a hell of a nerve asking you to take on something that ... well ... that could put you in jeopardy.”

  “You, too, Mr. Buckley,” I said. “They chose to include you in the discussion.”

  “As Mulligan said, to make you feel more secure.”

  “Which I do, knowing you’ll be involved. Tell you what Let’s enjoy the rest of the day. I told Mulligan I’d think about it, which I intend to do. We’re on our own for dinner. I suppose we’ll have to eat with some of the others. But after that, let’s find a quiet, secure place to talk it over.”

  He raised his glass in a toast.

  “What are we toasting?” I asked.

  “You. I live a relatively dull existence as a book publisher. But I get my vicarious thrills through one Jessica Fletcher. You always seem to end up in the middle of some exciting, threatening, and decidedly unusual situations. This certainly ranks as one of them.”

  Our colleagues drifted into the restaurant after returning from their tour. Marge Fargo came up to Vaughan and me and asked, “Everything go okay at the embassy?”

  “Everything went fine,” I said.

  “Autograph some of your books, Jess?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did. Very pleasant experience. I understand the food here is excellent. I’m famished.”

  The food was as wonderful as its advance billing. We started with russkaya zakuska, a beef aspic in which ham, chicken, and tongue had been finely chopped; went on to a main course of svinina à la gousar, spicy eggplant cooked with carrots, onion, and a healthy dose of garlic; and topped it off with the Russian version of baked Alaska and very strong coffee.

  “I am absolutely stuffed,” I announced to my tablemates.

  “Do Russians eat like this every day?” Marge Fargo asked a Russian publisher.

  “Da,” he said, grinning. “But soon your Weight Watchers will open here and we will all get skinny, like your American models.”

  We laughed.

  The afternoon was spent in meetings with Russian publishers. I felt slightly out of my element. Although most of my professional life has been spent writing books for publishers, their inner workings are a mystery to me. Still, being privy to the discussions was of great interest. They spoke of how to bridge the American-Russian gap in publishing philosophy, ways to jointly develop books that would have an appeal to both nations’ readership, and tackled the thorny problem of assuring that authors from both countries were treated fairly when it came to accounting procedures and royalty payments. The latter topic was of particular interest to this writer, now that my books were about to be published in Russia.

  Provided, of course, that Vlady Staritova’s sudden death didn’t change things. Since his death, I hadn’t given even a moment’s thought to his being my publisher. The only thing that mattered was that he’d died—and, of course, that I’d been told it wasn’t from natural causes. Whenever I stopped to ponder that upsetting possibility, my thoughts also went to Ward Wenington. What was the connection between the two deaths? Was there a connection?

  A cocktail party at the hotel capped off the day’s official activities. Since we were free to make our own dinner plans, Vaughan, Olga, and I made a reservation at the hotel’s dining room, aptly named the Savoy Restaurant. We would have preferred to limit it to just the three of us, but others signed on, and by the time we were seated at a large round table, there were eleven of us.

  I knew most of our dinner companions, but there was one man I hadn’t seen or met before. I judged him to be in his early thirties. His brown hair was close-cropped, and he sported a pencil-line mustache beneath an aquiline nose. I noticed an especially large ring on the pinky of his right hand, a diamond surrounded by rubies. He introduced himself as Peter Lomonosov, and took the seat immediately to my right.

  “What publishing house are you with?” I asked as waiters filled our water goblets, then stood ready to take drink orders.

  “I am not with a publishing house,” he replied pleasantly.

  “What is your connection to us?” I asked.

  An engaging smile preceded his answer. “I am with the Cultural Exchange Office,” he said.

  “A government agency?” I asked.

  “Yes. We are most anxious to foster cultural exchanges with America. Through such exchanges we strengthen many areas of our relationship.”

  “I agree with you,” I said.

  “I am particularly interested in your American jazz. It is very popular here, and we plan to establish a school for young musicians, very much like your... Berklee School?”

  “In Boston,” I said.

  “Yes. In Boston.”

  “That sounds exciting, Mr. Lomonosov.”

  “Yes, but it is always hard to find the money.”

  “In America, too,” I said.

  We didn’t have to worry about choosing what to order because a specialty of the Savoy had been pre-ordered for us—a re-creation of one of twelve menus served in 1896 for the coronation of Czar Nicholas II. I wasn’t sure I could get through another big meal, but was determined to try.

  The restaurant’s decor defined opulence, something I might have expected to see in one of St. Petersburg’s imperial palaces, at least based on descriptions I’d read. The dining room soon filled up; every other table was taken, and the general atmosphere became festive, enhanced by a group of Russian musicians. I got caught up in the spirit of the evening, the unpleasant events since joining the trade mission forgotten amidst the laughter and conversation.

  That pleasant sensation lasted through dessert—until I saw Karl Warner enter the restaurant with three other people. One of them was the gentleman who’d visited me in my suite, Mr. Sergius, whose affiliation and first name had never been given me. The other two people in their party were a man and a woman, elegantly dressed and carrying themselves with matching aplomb. They were escorted to a prime table near a window.

  Vaughan noticed I’d seen them, came around behind my chair, and whispered in my ear, “Maybe we should leave, Jess, and find that private place for a talk.”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” I said.

  I turned to excuse myself from Lomonosov, but he’d just gotten up from the table and was making his way to where Warner and his companions had just settled in. I watched him navigate tables and waiters until reaching his destination. Warner and the other man stood and shook Lomonosov’s hand. The woman extended her hand from where she sat; Lomonosov kissed it.

  Nothing strange or untoward about them knowing each other. Still ...

  We made our apologies to the others at the table, left the restaurant, crossed the lobby, and st
epped out into the Moscow night. Traffic, vehicular and pedestrian, was heavy. The Savoy was just off Theater Square, and a short walk to the Kremlin, luring tourists headed for plays and concerts, or sightseers out for a glimpse of the impressively lighted Kremlin at night.

  “Are we taking a walk?” Olga asked. I wondered whether Vaughan had told her about the conversation at the embassy that morning. If he had, she didn’t indicate it.

  “I’d love a walk,” I said. “The meal was delicious—and obscenely fattening.”

  Olga laughed, hooked her arm in mine, and with Vaughan on my other flank, we set out for some much needed post-prandial exercise. We’d gone only a block when Olga said, “Vaughan told me about what happened at the embassy this morning.”

  “I was hoping he would,” I said. “What do you think?”

  “Mixed emotions, I guess. On the one hand, it sounds downright exciting. How many people get to play spy these days? On the other hand—”

  Vaughan interrupted. “It’s also fraught with danger.”

  “Is it?” Olga asked across me.

  “I don’t know specifically,” he said, “but we are, after all, dealing here with unsavory people.”

  “I’m glad you said ‘we’re,’ ” I said. “I never would have even considered it without you.”

  Olga stopped us. “You didn’t say we would be involved, Vaughan.”

  “We wouldn’t,” he said. “Not you, at least. But Mulligan at the embassy is pretty shrewd. He knew Jess would never agree to it unilaterally. That’s why he included me in the conversation.”

  We resumed our walk.

  “I don’t like it,” Olga said.

  “I have such conflicting thoughts,” I said. “The way Mr. Mulligan put it, I’d be doing something very valuable for my country. But I’ve developed this instinctive mistrust of almost every government official I’ve met since beginning this trade mission.”

  “Don’t become too jaded, Jess,” Vaughan said. “You’ve just had the misfortune of meeting a certain type of government official.” ,

  “The president was charming,” Olga offered.

  “And the First Lady,” I said.

  A young man wearing a bandana around his head stopped us. “Rubles for cash American,” he said. “I give you best deal in Moscow.”

  We kept walking. Among many things Sam Roberts briefed us about in Washington was to avoid sidewalk money changers. Deal with them and you’d likely end up seeing the inside of a Russian jail.

  “Do you know where we are?” Olga asked.

  We stopped to take in our surroundings.

  “I think we went the wrong way,” Vaughan said. “The theater district is in the other direction.”

  While talking, we’d wandered onto a dimly lighted street with few people.

  “Not the best part of town,” Olga said. “Let’s go.”

  We turned to retrace our steps in the direction of the hotel.

  “Wait!”

  We froze at Vaughan’s command.

  “What?” Olga whispered.

  “There,” Vaughan said.

  We looked in the direction he pointed. A heavyset man in overcoat and fedora, and smoking a cigar, stood beneath a street lamp that cast minimal light down on him. With him was a casually dressed shorter man.

  But they weren’t the focus of Vaughan’s attention. A long black sedan had pulled up to the curb a few feet from the duo on the comer. Both back doors of the vehicle opened, and two men exited from each side. As dim as the light from the street lamp was, it cast enough illumination to kick a reflection off the gleaming metal barrels of the weapons they carried.

  The big man saw them coming and dropped his cigar. The smaller man reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a revolver.

  “Good God!” Olga muttered.

  “Over here,” Vaughan said, pushing us into a doorway strewn with empty bottles and other trash.

  We’d no sooner wedged into the cramped space when another automobile roared up, windows down, men hanging out holding automatic weapons. The firing erupted like a tornado, guns going off, men yelling, bullets ricocheting off the concrete above our heads.

  It was over as quickly as it had started. We’d crouched as low as possible to avoid being hit. Now we slowly straightened up and peeked around the comer of the doorway. Both vehicles were gone. The two men who’d stood beneath the street lamp lay on the pavement.

  “They’re dead,” Olga gasped.

  “Looks that way,” Vaughan said. “You all right, Jess?”

  “I think so.”

  We were frozen in shock and fear. One instinct was to go to the fallen men to see if there was anything we could do to help. The opposing pull was to run as fast as possible from the scene.

  “Where are the police?” Vaughan muttered.

  As he said it, a car with red lights flashing and two-tone siren blaring screeched around the comer and came to a halt.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Olga said, tugging my arm.

  “Don’t we have an obligation to—?”

  “Olga’s right,” Vaughan said. “It’s some sort of mob rub-out. Not our concern.”

  “You!” an officer said, approaching us.

  “Yes?” Vaughan said.

  “Americans?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You were here?”

  “Here?” Olga said. “Where?”

  “Here.” He pointed to the corner, where other officers leaned over the bodies.

  “No,” Olga said. “We were ... we just got here ... we ...”

  “If you’re asking if we were here when it happened, we were,” Vaughan said.

  “Are they both dead?” I asked.

  “Da. Come with me.”

  “We have nothing to offer,” Vaughan said. “We might have been here, but we ducked into that doorway and didn’t see the actual shooting.”

  Vaughan’s protest fell on deaf bureaucratic Russian ears. The officer, a tall, stem man wearing the same uniform as Captain Kazakov, said, “You will come with me. Now!”

  “Hold on.”

  We turned to see a man approaching, walking at a fast clip.

  “I know him,” I said. “He—”

  The man came up to the police officer and said something to him.

  “Who is he?” Olga whispered in my ear.

  “He sat next to me at dinner.”

  “Yes,” Vaughan said. “That’s right.”

  “Name is Lomonosov. Something like that.”

  “Why would he just happen to show up?” Vaughan asked.

  Lomonosov came to where we stood. “Good evening,” he said.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “I did not expect to see you again so soon,” he said. “Peter Lomonosov.”

  “Yes, I know,” I said.

  “I am afraid you will have to go with him for questioning,” he said, pointing to the uniformed officer. “But I will go with you. Just a formality, I assure you.”

  The officer waved for us to join him on the corner.

  “I really don’t want to look at the bodies,” Olga said.

  “I agree,” I said.

  “Please,” Lomonosov said, stepping back and gesturing with his hand that we should follow the officer.

  “You will get in the car, please,” the officer said.

  “Hold on a second,” Vaughan said. “You have no right to take us anywhere. We’re Americans on an important trade mission to your country.”

  “You will please not make argument with me,” the officer said.

  Lomonosov interjected, “There is no sense in debating it. You go with him, answer a few questions, then we leave.”

  The officer-in-charge’s tone was not nearly as conciliatory. “You will get into car now!”

  Another squad car arrived. “Mr. Lomonosov is right,” I offered. “Debating it with the officer isn’t going to get us anywhere. If we run into a problem at police headquarters, we can call the embassy from the
re.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we were seated at a scarred wooden table in a stark room I assumed was used for interrogation of prisoners. A female officer with a boxlike body and hair pulled back in a bun so tight it must have been painful, served us tepid tea in paper cups.

  “I still don’t understand why we’re here,” Olga said. “They could have taken our statements at the scene.”

  “We’ll give it another ten minutes,” Vaughan said. “If they don’t release us by then, I’ll call the embassy.”

  “Where did Mr. Lomonosov go?” I asked.

  The door opened and the officer who’d taken us to police headquarters entered the room. He was less stern now, apologizing for detaining us and asking if we wanted more tea.

  “What we’d like is to leave,” Vaughan said.

  “Of course,” said the officer. “Now, just a few questions. Tell me what you saw this evening.”

  “As I told you, we saw nothing,” Vaughan replied. “We ducked into the doorway and looked away. We didn’t venture back out until the cars were gone.”

  “Ah, the cars,” the officer said. “You will tell me what sort of automobiles they were.”

  We looked at each other. I said, “I don’t think any of us can tell you that. All I know is that one of the vehicles was long and black. I think it was black.” To Vaughan: “Was it black?”

  “It was a dark color,” he said. To Olga: “Did you catch the color?”

  She shook her head.

  “The men,” said the officer. “You will describe them for me?”

  “The men on the corner?” Olga said.

  “Nyet. We know them. They are in the morgue. The men in the cars, with the weapons.”

  The three of us agreed we didn’t have a chance to see any of their faces.

  “I told you we saw nothing,” Vaughan said. “Bringing us here was a waste of time—our time.”

  The officer shrugged. “It was necessary. It is the way we do things.”

  “I assume we’re free to leave now,” I said, standing and straightening my skirt.

  “Of course,” the officer said, also standing. “I will have someone take you to the Savoy.”

  “You know where we’re staying?” I asked.

  “Da.”

  Interesting, I thought. I hadn’t mentioned it to him, nor had I heard Vaughan or Olga say it.