Murder in Moscow

by Jessica Fletcher

  My fear.

  I was more frightened at that moment than I could ever remember being. Nothing made sense to me. I was in a strange country that had been, until only a few years ago, committed to bombing the United States into oblivion. I’d found a body in Washington, a man who’d taken me to lunch that very day and asked me to report back any conversations I had with Russian officials. My Russian publisher dropped dead at a dinner we’d attended. I was told neither death resulted from natural causes.

  An official of the American Embassy in Moscow asked me to carry a message to an alleged Communist sympathizer, asking her to become a double agent.

  Which I’d done, proudly, and blindly.

  And now here I was on a rooftop in Moscow, with a beautiful young woman who bolts at hearing a sloppy, adoring message on her answering machine, and who informs me there are men wanting to kill us.

  The next time I’m invited on a trade mission for the United States, I’ll be busy, I decided as I followed her to the edge of the roof.

  “What are we doing?” I asked.

  “Going down,” she replied, slinging a leg over the edge and planting her foot on the top rung of a metal ladder.

  “Not me,” I said.

  The hard expression on her face returned. “Don’t be a fool,” she said. “It’s the only way to escape them.”

  “Escape who?”

  “Come. It is not far.”

  She disappeared.

  I peered over the roof’s edge. She was halfway down. She stopped her descent, looked up, and said, “Follow! I will explain when we are safe.”

  I turned and looked at the metal door through which we’d come. Did I hear footsteps? The next sound was that of someone trying to open the door from inside.

  I looked down again to where Alexandra now stood in an alley behind the building. She waved for me to follow.

  The noise from the other side of the door became louder, fists banging on it.

  I drew a deep breath, slowly placed one leg over the edge, found the top rung, maneuvered the rest of my body over, and slowly started down, heart pounding, eyes closed. “Just take it slow,” I said aloud to myself, “one step at a time. One foot, then the other. That’s right. Nothing to worry about. You’ll reach the bottom and—”

  Men’s voices at the top of the ladder caused me to look up. My foot slipped off the rung, and I slid down the rest of the way, not a great distance, but far enough for me to land feet first with an impact that sent a jolt of pain up my legs.

  Ms. Kozhina grabbed my hand and pulled me to where the alley opened on to a street. “Please, faster,” she said, pulling me along with her.

  A yellow taxi with a checkered band on the door indicating it was an official cab, and a green light in the corner of the windshield announcing it was available, stood at the curb. Alexandra opened the door, pushed me past it, and scrambled in beside me.

  “This is insane,” I managed to say as she shouted something at the driver in Russian. We roared away from the curb.

  “I am sorry to be so rough,” Alexandra said, “but it is a matter of life or death.”

  “You’d said you’d explain,” I said.

  “Yes. Later. When we are safe.”

  “We’ll be safe if we go directly to the American Embassy.”

  There wasn’t time for her to reply because after traveling only two blocks, the driver brought the taxi to a jarring halt. Alexandra threw rubles at him, opened the door, and dragged me out. A large red neon letter M announced we were at an entrance to the famed, efficient Moscow Metro.

  We looked at each other. This was it, I thought, my chance to get away. All I had to do was take off at a run in any direction, hopefully losing myself in the crowds of people on the street.

  Alexandra knew what I was thinking. She narrowed her eyes, placed both hands on my arms, and said, “You are not safe, Mrs. Fletcher, unless you come with me. Soon, it will be over. Okay?”

  We went down into the underground station and boarded a crowded train that had just pulled in.

  “Where are we going?” I asked, adrenaline flowing, a thin film of perspiration on my forehead and upper lip.

  “To be with friends,” she said in a stage whisper.

  The ride seemed interminable. But we eventually reached our destination, a stop called Shchkinskaya. We climbed the stairs to street level. Alexandra paused, as though to get her bearings. A beggar without legs sat on the sidewalk. He held out a plate. A small battery-powered radio was next to him. Although I couldn’t understand what the announcer said, it sounded like a newscast.

  “They are looking for you,” Alexandra said.

  “Who?”

  “The police.”

  She started to walk away from the beggar, but I grabbed her arm. “What else are they saying?”

  She leaned closer to the radio. “Your friends are safe.”

  “Vaughan and Olga?”

  “They reported your kidnapping.” She listened for another few seconds. “The police say you were abducted by either Communists or the mafiya.”

  She looked at me.

  “Which is it?” I asked.

  “Come,” she said, grabbing my hand.

  I pulled free and dropped rubles on the beggar’s plate.

  “He’ll just buy vodka,” she said, again taking my hand and leading me around the corner in the direction of what looked like an industrial area. The hustle-bustle at the top of the Metro stairs gradually gave way to a dark, narrow street lined with warehouses. We walked quickly, Alexandra setting the pace, and crossed the street to where a single store-front broke up the gray monotony of the industrial buildings. Yellow light from deep inside reached the front window, casting a gentle glow over carved wooden figures.

  Alexandra rapped on the door. When no one responded, she knocked again, louder this time. A door to the rear of the shop opened, allowing more light to spill into the shop itself. A man stood in the open doorway. He was small and hunched over. Because the light source was behind him, I saw him only in silhouette.

  “Who is he?” I asked.

  “Sssssh.”

  The man approached the front door with the sort of shuffle common in older people, unsure of his steps and not wanting to fall. As he peered through the door’s glass, I could see that his face was as old as his gait. Errant strands of hair rose straight up from a bald pate. His glasses were thick, magnifying his eyes behind them.

  “Alexandra?” he said loud enough for us to hear through the door.

  “Da,” she said. “Open up.”

  Unlocking the door and fumbling with interior security chains was a tortuous process. Finally, the door swung open and he stepped outside, looked left and right, then led us inside.

  His interest was very much on me.

  Alexandra spoke in Russian, then said to me in English, “He wanted to know who you were. I told him you are my friend.”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond. I was there only because I’d been duped by her. I’d been thrown into cars, forced to climb down from a roof on a metal ladder, and was told there were men wanting to kill me. My friend? If that were true, our friendship was bizarre enough to be worthy of a daytime TV talk show.

  He looked at me with cocked head and narrowed eyes behind the twin circles of bottle glass resting on his nose. I understood when he asked Alexandra whether I spoke Russian.

  “Nyet,” she replied.

  “No,” I said.

  He managed a small smile, pleased that I’d understood his question.

  The little old man slowly led us to his office at the rear of the shop. As we moved, we passed framed art on the walls.

  “Is this a gallery?” I asked Alexandra in a lowered voice reserved for galleries and museums.

  “Yes,” she said.

  The office was testimony to chaos and clutter. Narrow aisles between waist-high mounds of books and newspapers afforded the only passage. Two small windows were covered with heavily taped cardboard. Th
e desk was obscured by piles of papers, unframed artwork, and books, many of them very old, judging from the musty odor.

  “His name is Josef,” Alexandra said. “He is my friend.”

  “Fine,” I said. “But why are we here?”

  “To save our lives. You will excuse me, please. Josef and I must discuss things. Be patient.”

  They disappeared into the shop area, leaving me alone in the office and again facing the decision whether to attempt to escape, or to trust Alexandra Kozhina. I opted for the latter. I didn’t know where in Moscow I was at the moment. To venture out into the street seemed foolhardy—providing I could. What would I do once I was out? Find a Russian policeman? I didn’t speak the language. Besides, could I trust a Russian policeman? Could I trust anyone?

  I’m always disappointed at movies in which the hero or heroine does something dumb, something everyone in the audience wouldn’t do if placed in a similar situation.

  If this were a movie, would the audience think I was dumb for not running for my life?

  Or would it wince at my stupidity if I found a way out of the shop, and stumbled into a strange street?

  A sudden wave of fatigue swept over me. I was drained, mentally and physically. I made my way to a rickety swivel chair behind the desk and dropped onto the seat. The decision had been made. My life was in Alexandra Kozhina’s hands.

  I had almost nodded off in the chair while waiting for Alexandra and Josef to return to the office. When they did, Alexandra exhibited a rare smile, which picked up my spirits.

  “Everything is good now,” she said.

  “It is?” I said, standing.

  “Yes. Josef has arranged for us to leave.”

  “That’s good,” I said. “I assume we’re going back to my hotel, or to the embassy.”

  “Embassy? Nyet!!!” Josef snarled. “No embassy!!!”

  I looked to Alexandra, who gave me a shrug of her shoulders, and what I took as a wink. If, as Winston Churchill said, Russia is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, Alexandra Kozhina was its poster girl. She was so mercurial, cool and calculating one moment, playfully girlish the next.

  “Are we leaving?” I asked.

  “The car will be here soon,” Alexandra said.

  “To take us where?” I asked.

  “To take us to—”

  Automobile headlights tossing shards of bright white light through the shop’s front window stopped her in midsentence.

  “For us?” I said brightly, seeing in those lights a welcome end to the evening.

  “Yes,” she said, steel back in her voice, matching the grim expression on her face.

  “I’m ready to go,” I said.

  Alexandra ignored me, turned to Josef, and said, “The back door. Tell Mily we will be at Titanic.”

  “Now wait a minute,” I said. “Who are these people out front?”

  “The men who will kill us,” Alexandra said.

  “But I thought—”

  “Mrs. Fletcher, we do not have a moment to spare. You have a choice. Either come with me and spare your life, or stay here and lose it.”

  Some choice.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It’s been said of me by friends that I can find something positive in even the most unpleasant situations. I experienced one of those moments as we exited Josef’s office through a back door, ran down a narrow alley, climbed over a three-foot-high brick wall, and emerged on a street lined with shops and small restaurants.

  “Wait,” I said, pausing to allow my breath to catch up with me, and to press my hands against pain in my sides.

  “Are you all right?” Alexandra asked.

  “No, I’m not,” I said. “Look, you have to explain to me why we’re running away again, and where we’re going.”

  “We’re going to Titanic.”

  “Why? Are we about to sink?”

  “No. It is a nightclub. There are people there who will help us.”

  “A nightclub,” I said. “I’ll say one thing for you, Ms. Kozhina.”

  “What is that?”

  “At least I’m seeing more of Moscow than my friends are.”

  She laughed. “I am glad you can see something good in this, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  Something positive from an unpleasant situation.

  A taxi came around the corner, and Alexandra hailed it. Once inside, she told the young driver, “The Titanic, please. And hurry.”

  I wished she hadn’t said that. Russian cab drivers go fast enough without being prompted.

  After a fifteen-minute race that brought me close to losing anything I’d eaten that day, we pulled up in front of a building whose flashing neon sign announced TITANIC. A hundred young people milled about outside the entrance, some drinking beer, others openly smoking marijuana cigarettes. Alexandra paid the driver, and we joined the crowd on the sidewalk. Loud music poured through the open front doors. I was aware that I was on the receiving end of some strange looks from the young men and women. Clearly, I was the only person there on the wrong side of forty.

  I followed Alexandra past the doors to where two large, scowling men in gray suits stood guard at doors leading to the club itself. The music was now deafening, and we weren’t even inside.

  “Alexandra, I really don’t think that—”

  She pulled rubles from her jacket pocket and slapped them on the table. “Dva,” she said. I knew from my Russian lessons with Professor Donskoy that it meant two.

  One of the men scooped up the money, tore off two tickets from a roll, and handed them to Alexandra. As menacing as he was, at least he was of my generation.

  Something positive from an unpleasant situation.

  I smiled at him.

  He said something in Russian.

  “What did he say?” I shouted to Alexandra over the musical din as we were allowed to pass through the interior doors.

  “Something dirty. He likes you.”

  “Oh.”

  Inside, it was a scene from Fellini, blinding strobe lights casting garish images, the incessant beat of the music assaulting the ears, indeed the whole body, as the booming bass notes pulsated from toes to head. What looked like a thousand young men and women gyrated to the beat on a massive dance floor.

  I looked at Alexandra and yelled in her ear, “What do we do now?”

  “What?”

  “Now. What now?”

  She motioned with her head to follow her, and we threaded our way through the twisted, tangled knot of dancers until reaching the opposite end of the dance floor. Men who looked like those at the front door ringed the club’s perimeter. Bouncers, I assumed, judging from their size, the hard expression on their faces, and the bulges in their suit jackets. Trouble would not be tolerated in Titanic.

  I had the feeling Alexandra wasn’t sure of what to do next. Her eyes swept the club, from dancers to bouncers, up to a booth where a disc jockey plied his musical wares, then back to where we stood.

  She stepped up onto a round pedestal on which one of the club’s many speakers sat, affording her a better overview of her surroundings. I watched her intently; her expression shifted from intense scrutiny, to disbelief, then to overt fear. She hopped down, grabbed my hand, and said, “This way,” pulling me toward a door at the comer of the room.

  Another back door exit, was all I could think.

  Suddenly, we were frozen by the abrupt cessation of the music. I looked to the dance floor, where dancers had frozen, too, players in a game of statues, puzzled expressions creasing their faces.

  “Quickly,” Alexandra said.

  But before we reached the door, a young man intercepted us.

  “Mily,” Alexandra said.

  “Come,” the young man said.

  We followed him to the opposite corner, where a folding screen concealed yet another door. One of the bouncers, considerably younger than his colleagues, stepped aside as we went behind the screen. Another young man opened the door for us. Alexandra and the two me
n exchanged words in rapid-fire Russian.

  We were in an unlighted hallway. At its end was a heavy metal door, presumably leading to the outside. We were hustled to it, and one of the young men opened it. I was right; we now stood in a small asphalt area between two large Dumpsters. I couldn’t see cars, but I could hear their running engines.

  We circumvented the Dumpsters to where two Mercedes sedans idled. The young man opened the door to one and shouted something that sounded urgent. Alexandra leaped into the back of the car, turned, and said, “Now, Mrs. Fletcher. Get in!”

  Commotion from the hallway reached my ears—shouting, then a gunshot, and anguished Russian words from someone.

  I got in the car. The door was slammed closed behind me. The young man who’d led us there ran off, disappearing into the shadows.

  The driver turned on the lights and left rubber behind as he made a tight turn and headed for an exit. The second Mercedes followed.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “To where we will be safe,” she said.

  “A few days ago I was very safe in my home, in Cabot Cove, Maine.”

  “And you shall be there again soon. Trust me.”

  I realized that’s exactly what I’d been doing all along. Trusting her. Don’t ask me why. Based upon everything that had happened, I shouldn’t have trusted anyone. But here I was in another car, being tossed about as the driver made insanely fast turns, on our way to—it almost didn’t matter where we were going anymore. I was drained, numb, like someone who’d given up all control and had come to grips with an inevitable future.

  As happened earlier that evening on one of my previous mystery rides, we left the city confines and were on country roads. Now, as the countryside flashed by, I began to sense that we were on the same road we’d taken from the airport to Moscow upon arrival in Russia. That both heartened me and was cause for concern.

  Why were we heading for the airport?

  My instincts proved correct when we turned into the entrance for Sheremetyevo II International Airport.

  “Are we about to fly somewhere?” I asked Alexandra.

  “Yes.”

  “Where?” I envisioned getting on a plane and ending up in Siberia, Mongolia, or worse.