Hotel Moscow

by Talia Carner

  “In Russia, attention can only be bad for you.”

  “Publicity might be your best—and only—defense.”

  Olga looked at her, doubt in her eyes. “The new Russia is still Russia. The only difference is that in the new Russia the mafia is more efficient than the K.G.B. ever was.”

  “Do you have a better idea?”

  Olga shook her head.

  “Use Norcress’s article to announce you are running for parliament,” Brooke said, thinking of Belgorov’s advice. “It will give you credibility, and the drama will draw more international attention to your plight.”

  “The more reason the mafia will have to try to eliminate me. Anyway, I’m not ready to make that announcement until I ‘tie my shoelaces.’”

  “We call it ‘tie loose ends.’” Brooke smiled. “I would like to give the journalist the copies of the documents. He will need them to authenticate the story.”

  Olga unlocked a drawer, pulled out a folder, and laid it on her desk. “I’ve made another copy and hidden it with your ledger.” She swiveled in her chair, turning her back to Brooke.

  Even though the room was chilly, perspiration gathered at Brooke’s temples. “I’ll wait outside until Norcress arrives,” she said to Olga’s back.

  Olga nodded without turning around. Her fingers drummed on the arm of her chair.

  Outside in the corridor, Brooke paced, willing her panic to ease. A clock was ticking somewhere.

  She heard the ring of the elevator bell, followed by the mechanical swish of the opening door. When Norcress stepped out, his thin face broadened into a smile as if they were old acquaintances. He wore the same multipocketed vest she had seen before, but instead of cameras he carried a canvas briefcase.

  “Come,” Brooke said. “I want you to meet Dr. Olga Leonidovna Rozanova. A sociologist. My partner in crime.” She was placing Olga’s and Svetlana’s lives—and, ultimately, her own safety as well—in the hands of a complete stranger.

  As they entered the office, Olga offered to make tea. Brooke shook her head. “Let’s begin. We don’t have much time.”

  “This trouble may finish me, but no one will be able to deny I was a good hostess,” Olga replied. “Sit down.”

  Against the clink of Olga’s china and the hiss of the samovar, Brooke asked Norcress, “Is the uprising truly contained?”

  “It is, but not the mess. The thousands of parliament supporters who poured into the center of Moscow have dispersed all over the city, and now Yeltsin’s militia is searching for them.” He accepted the cup of tea from Olga, and said to her, “Your president never faces a confrontation he’d rather avoid.” He turned back to Brooke. “Get this. He’s issued a directive for Muscovites to report any sighting of ‘foreigners’ being sheltered by their neighbors.”

  “How Soviet. And how embarrassing,” Olga muttered. “We’re still in charge of each other’s morals, spying on our neighbors and relatives.”

  “Is there still a threat of civil war?” Brooke asked.

  “Civil-war-like clashes, for sure. Civilians continue to attack the military—and one another.” He looked at her. “Better not get into trouble. The American Embassy is still closed.”

  “When is the airport opening?”

  “Maybe later today. But you may need to shoot your way out through roadblocks to get out of the city.”

  Just yesterday, miraculously, Aleksandr’s documents had let the group through the roadblocks. It suddenly occurred to Brooke that someone—Sidorov perhaps—might have wanted them out of the hotel in order to have access to her still-packed suitcase. Since last night, she had only retrieved whatever she needed without checking to see if anything had been disturbed.

  Olga settled in her seat and unbuttoned her suit jacket. Her face, so pale earlier, was flushed. “Go ahead, Brooke. You tell him what’s happening; my English is not so good.”

  Norcress’s eyes scanned the office. “Is this place secure?”

  Olga nodded. “For years, my work was too academic to warrant the expense of wiring me.”

  “What about your hotel?” Brooke asked Norcress. “Foreign correspondents must be watched closely.”

  “The Interior Ministry monitors us, for sure. But what do they do with the information? Since yesterday their militia has been too busy breaking up street brawls. Anyway, why shouldn’t we, two Americans, speak?”

  “Some Russians might care if they knew what I am about to tell you.”

  He placed his tape recorder on the small coffee table. “I’m ready if you are.”

  Brooke recounted Olga’s investigation. She described the attack at the Gorbachevskaya Street Factory and explained how she had joined forces with Olga to follow the money trail, and that she’d retrieved four files.

  “You went alone to the Economic Authority offices?”

  Brooke tilted her head. “Let’s assume I did, okay?”

  “Sure. You read Russian, too. That’s how you found your way around a local government office.”

  Brooke let out a thin smile and went on, skipping her near-death ordeal; Olga had enough to handle without feeling guilty for having put her in jeopardy. “What’s important,” Brooke continued, “is what we’ve learned. Nikolai Sidorov, an economic adviser to Yeltsin, is the man who has spearheaded the intimidation of the very same ventures he was supposed to help get on their feet.”

  “I like this story. A lot,” Norcress said.

  “There’s more.” Brooke took in a deep breath. “I’ve discovered that this man runs complex business shenanigans that penetrate deep into Iran, Iraq, and maybe other nations. And now he aspires to become the mayor of Moscow.”

  “The mayor of Moscow.” Norcress whistled.

  “And this same man is the host of our group. He’s found out what we’re up to, and now he’s wiretapped us.”

  “Maybe he wiretapped you because of your contacts with foreigners,” Norcress said to Olga.

  “We’ve had visiting foreign academicians before, although no Americans.” Olga’s voice was raspier than usual. “There’s a Russian saying, ‘Don’t dig a hole for somebody else lest you fall into it yourself.’ And this is where we are now. In that hole.”

  “What tipped him off?” Norcress asked.

  “I told no one,” Brooke replied. “Neither Olga nor I, nor the director of the Gorbachevskaya Street Factory discussed any of it over the phone. Only the three of us knew.”

  “Nevertheless, there’s been a leak.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Your danger is greater as long as you don’t know how the information is getting out.”

  Olga lit another cigarette and blew the smoke away from them. “Will publishing your story help?”

  Norcress made some notes. “I’ll write the story. I will even ask my editor to distribute it through an international news service to reach a far wider audience than the Los Angeles Record.”

  “There’s a ‘but’ hidden somewhere,” Brooke said.

  He turned to Olga. “Dr. Rozanova—”

  “Olga is better.”

  “Olga, it will take me time to write the story, even if I spend the rest of today on it. I need to check many facts for complete accuracy.”

  “Here are copies of the most damning documents for you,” Brooke said, and motioned to Olga to hand him the folder. “You read Russian, I assume,” she added, recalling that he had talked to the taxi driver.

  “How do I know that these are copies of the original documents from the Economic Authority?” Norcress’s brows raised as he leafed through the papers.

  “We’re talking old Soviet Union,” Brooke said. “Let’s not get sources involved.”

  “I personally copied the original forms from the Economic Authority files, including the signature of Sidorov’s wife or daughter for the transfer of ownership,” Olga said.

  “Okay for now. If there’s a discrepancy when I cross-reference with other sources, I’ll need to speak to whoever had direct access to the files.”
>
  “That’s me,” Brooke said. “I pulled them up from the file cabinets at the Finance Department.”

  He addressed Olga. “Dr. Rozanova, I hate to think that your life depends on my article getting published, and it may take more than one story to smoke out these mafia barons. In a paradoxical way, it might strengthen Sidorov; sometimes publicity—even damaging—enhances a head honcho’s clout. Even if he leaves you alone, he might hurt your family.” He paused. “But you know that, I’m sure.”

  Olga spoke through a cloud of smoke. “I’ll leave first thing in the morning for my dacha and stay there until I see the results. Maybe my husband can take his vacation days. Either way, I’ll have my granddaughter with me, but our son and his wife, they have jobs. They can’t just disappear.”

  “They would if they were dead,” Norcress said.

  Olga dropped her face into her hands.

  Brooke patted her shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

  “We say, ‘If you offer to carry the basket, don’t complain of the weight.’ But it’s unfair that I dragged you into it.” Olga’s words came muffled from between her fingers. “I’ve taken risks before, and lived.”

  “You should make your announcement,” Brooke told her.

  “I haven’t yet secured the commitment of all key supporters.”

  “Am I missing something?” Norcress asked.

  Olga nodded her assent to Brooke, who then said, “She’s planning to run for a seat in the Duma on the women’s platform ticket. Olga is well known and highly respected; she used to publish a samizdat with wide readership. Her chances are quite good.”

  A broad smile spread over Norcress’s face. “Now that’s a story.”

  Brooke straightened. “Olga, if, as Belgorov believes, publishing the story in the international media has the power to control Sidorov, what about the reverse?”

  “The reverse?” Norcress asked.

  “A simple blackmail,” Brooke said. “Olga will negotiate with Sidorov not to run the story if he leaves her and her family alone.”

  Olga chortled. “So now I must trust the mafia to make a deal? No, never.”

  “Look,” Brooke said. “Sidorov has political aspirations.”

  “Yes.” Olga nodded pensively. “And he wouldn’t want to lose his place in Yeltsin’s inner circle.”

  Norcress tapped his foot. “What am I doing here, then? You’re killing my story?”

  He was right, of course. Brooke rose and went to the far window. It was preposterous of her; she had invited the journalist so he could write a story. “Editors sit on stories all the time. Especially human-interest stories.”

  “Of a corrupt, violent man gearing up to run for the mayoralty of Moscow and a woman who is a candidate for the Russian parliament?”

  “Look, if the story doesn’t get published, you can use the material for a deeper and broader investigative report into the political corruption here.” Brooke thought of Roman Belgorov’s partner. “I personally guarantee you another excellent lead.”

  “What kind?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I know what you can give me.” Locking his fingers behind his head, Norcress tipped his chair back, then landed forward with a thud. “Who’s that guy Judd Kornblum?”

  Surprise hit Brooke like the snapping of a bent branch. “What?”

  “You heard me. That Jewish dude who’s using your group as a cover.”

  “What has given you the impression that he’s operating anything, covert or otherwise?” Brooke asked.

  Norcress’s raised eyebrow gave her a you-know-I-can’t-tell look.

  “I haven’t figured him out either.” Brooke sighed, but she hoped that Judd would help her send Svetlana and her daughter to a safe place. “So, where do we stand on this?”

  “You have a deal.” Norcress turned to Olga. “I’ll have the article ready tonight. You can start negotiating with Sidorov.”

  “When? My symposium is about to start.”

  “It’s your life.” He rose to his feet. “Call me at my hotel no later than tomorrow morning—even during the night—and let me know how to proceed.” He pulled out a small black notebook. “Also, write down for me your full name and address.”

  After Olga scribbled it, Brooke asked for a copy for herself. While Olga wrote it for her, Brooke wrote down Belgorov’s phone number in Norcress’s book. The Russian had done as he had promised, and last night had delivered the note to Norcress, anonymously. “Here is your other lead. He has lots of good material.”

  “If we don’t break this story, I may still want to do a profile on you when you announce your candidacy for the Duma,” Norcress told Olga.

  “Thanks, but that won’t be necessary.”

  He laughed. “It’s campaigning American-style.” Norcress kissed Brooke’s cheek. “Get the hell out of Moscow.”

  “I’ll probably make it out tomorrow.”

  “If I were you, I’d be at the airport now, sitting on my suitcase to catch the first flight out when air traffic opens—even if it were to Kathmandu.”

  Chapter Forty-one

  BROOKE CRANED HER neck to see whether Olga had returned to the auditorium. Where was she? The Russian had been summoned by an attendee during the coffee break, but that had been an hour ago. Perhaps she was consulting additional people about running for the Duma.

  The auditorium on the ground floor of Olga’s institute must have been refurbished in recent years. Brooke scanned the rows of custom-made oak tables equipped with built-in microphones, and the interpreters sitting behind a glass divider at the back of the room, speaking into the attendees’ headsets. A giant tapestry in swirling yellow, orange, and red dominated the front wall, a rare abstract public decor with no Soviet theme.

  The crowd’s anguish over the war downtown thickened the air as people accustomed to sitting still so as not to draw attention fidgeted and whispered. Nevertheless, Olga had been right: They had shown up. Brooke plugged her headset into the portable transmitter, but quickly lost interest as the pathos-filled, canned speeches of the male representatives continued. The one hundred women who had traveled from distant places to this symposium deserved a lot more than what they were getting. The apparatchiks were wasting everyone’s time. The event was nothing like the hands-on day of workshops Amanda had organized in which dozens of Irinas acquired new insights and skills, nor was there any speech of business substance that called for the American guests’ response as originally planned.

  Brooke glanced at her watch. Where was Olga?

  Fifteen minutes later, she unplugged her earphones and walked out of the auditorium.

  In the large foyer, artisans had set up tables to sell handmade dolls, jewelry, embroidered shirts, painted bowls, crocheted napkins, and mosaic pictures. As Brooke rushed through, none of the women met her gaze, and the gloom of the day lingered on their faces, more grave than the usual dour Russian expression. Looking around the lobby for a glimpse of Olga, Brooke made a mental note to buy a matryoshka doll later for the wife of her superintendent back in New York as thanks for watching Sushi.

  The bathrooms on the ground floor were empty, but smelly. Olga wasn’t there. Back in the foyer, a large wall clock struck the hour. In thirty minutes, according to the translated typed schedule, Olga would give the morning’s closing remarks, and the program would break for lunch. Where was she? Clammy fingers of dread touched Brooke’s skin. She hurried to the elevator, took it to the fourteenth floor, and marched down the corridor toward Olga’s office.

  A man’s mocking laughter rushed adrenaline into her veins. She pushed the door open.

  The combined odor of alcohol, vomit, and cigar smoke reminded her of a cheap pub. Nikolai Sidorov sat in Olga’s desk chair, a cigar dangling from the corner of his mouth, ringlets of blue-gray smoke swirling lazily over his head. Unhurriedly, he raised his eyes to meet Brooke’s stare. Brooke immediately broke eye contact. She scanned the room.

  Between the two large win
dows stood a tall, broad young man in a colorful jogging suit. Olga was slumped like a puppet in one of the upholstered chairs, her legs splayed. Her right arm almost touched the floor, and her chin had dropped onto her high bosom. Clumps of her hair stood up as though electrified.

  Brooke started toward her, shouting, “What have you done to her?”

  The bodyguard blocked her way.

  “She’s drunk,” Sidorov said. “Go back to where you came from.”

  Brooke tried to step around the bodyguard, but his pointed index finger almost punctured her collarbone.

  “I’m not going anywhere until I know what’s wrong with Dr. Rozanova.”

  “You know us Russians.” Sidorov smirked. “She’s had too much vodka.”

  A bottle of brown liquid sat on the desk. Brooke recognized the Cyrillic letters for vodka. But vodka was clear. . . . “What have you forced down her throat?”

  Sidorov puffed on his cigar. The bodyguard stepped closer to Brooke until his broad chest touched her face. It felt like an iron gate.

  “Get away from me,” she growled through clenched teeth. “Who do you think you are?”

  Sidorov said something in Russian, and the man clomped back to his spot by the wall.

  “She’s been drinking and talking.” Slowly, Sidorov laid his cigar in the ashtray. “But since you’re here, there are a couple of things you can clarify for me.”

  Olga’s skin was sickly gray. She moaned. Brooke moved toward her, but Sidorov’s voice stopped her.

  “You’d better ‘spill the beans,’ as you say in America, or you’ll be very thirsty, too.” He chuckled. “That Chinese girl who leads your group—”

  “Amanda Cheng is an American.”

  “A liar, like all of you. Did she really think I’d believe that each of you would pay from her own pocket to come teach business to our women?” He shook his head in pity. “Americans think Russians are stupid.”

  The turn in the conversation startled Brooke. “I don’t follow you.”