The Moscow Affair

by Nancy Boyarsky

  Nicole frowned. “I still need to know more about what I’m getting myself into. For example, you mentioned reporting my observations back to your people. How would I do that? Wouldn’t it be risky? What if my targets become suspicious? They could hack into my phone and read my messages.”

  “The agency has that covered. You’ll communicate these reports through a smart watch, which I’ll give you. It will allow you to send a daily oral report. The watch’s communication system won’t be using the ship’s unsecure internet connection. It communicates by satellite, like other electronic devices do for driving directions or tracing an individual’s location. We’ve taken this to a new level and added text and voice functions. Your reports will be encrypted so no one other than our government will be able to understand them. If you become concerned about anything that happens on your tour, you can ask your contact to call you. This will also be done with the watch. Your travel documents are in an envelope, which I’ll give you.”

  “How am I supposed to treat the people I’m spying on?”

  “Just as you would any passengers you don’t care to socialize with. Greet them if they greet you, but don’t engage with them unless they approach you. Feel free to socialize with others on the ship. Just refrain from reaching out to the people on your list. Above all, it’s vital that you keep this mission secret. Do not tell anyone, not even your closest friends or relations.

  “And do not—under any circumstances—interfere with what these people are doing, no matter what it is. If you observe them engaging in suspicious or illegal activity, let us know immediately. Most importantly, do not give the Russian police any information. They are corrupt and untrustworthy. I can’t emphasize that enough. But as an American tourist, you’re unlikely to have any contact with them. Now, what do you say?”

  Nicole briefly considered what Davies had told her. She had a feeling this was probably not the benign assignment he’d described, but how dangerous could it be on a ship filled with tourists? What attracted her was the chance to get away from her unhappy situation at work. Instead, she’d be involved in a secret investigation. If the British government, which was more likely MI6, was unwilling to give any details, she’d enjoy the challenge of trying to figure them out herself. Added to this was the possibility of seeing Reinhardt. How could she refuse?

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Excellent. Now for a few formalities. In accepting this assignment, you cannot claim to represent the British government. Can I have your word on that?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And you understand that you are not an employee of the British government. You have no authority to act for the government, and you are working voluntarily. Are we clear on that?”

  “Yes.”

  Davies’ gaze shifted to Smith, his young companion, who’d been sitting stonily on Nicole’s other side. He gave a nod. Nicole decided he must have been brought along to witness this exchange, in case of complications later. She wondered briefly what those might be.

  “Any more questions?” He gave a little laugh. “I’m sure you have many. I mean questions I might be able to answer.”

  “When do I leave?”

  “You’re booked on a 9:00 p.m. flight this Sunday.”

  “Seriously? Today’s Friday. How can I possibly be ready by then? Don’t I need to apply for a visa?”

  “These arrangements are all taken care of. We have your visa; your air travel is booked in first class with the return flight open. The cost of this trip is covered, of course, and there is a check to make up for the time you’ll lose from work.”

  “I can take vacation time.” Nicole couldn’t help herself. As she thought about this trip, she was suddenly looking forward to it.

  “That isn’t necessary. We don’t expect you to sacrifice your holiday hours when you’re working for us.”

  “I have one question,” she said. “Did Ronald Reinhardt recommend me for this job? Are you in touch with him?”

  Davies paused a few seconds too long before responding. “Who?”

  “Ronald Reinhardt. He works for one of the U.K.’s intelligence services.”

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I’ve never heard of him. Remember, I work for the consulate, which is completely separate from intelligence.”

  As she watched him take a manila envelope out of his attaché case, she wondered once again if he was who he claimed to be. He did have an ID card that said he was with the consulate, but such things could be forged. If there was one thing she’d learned since becoming an investigator, it was to never take the word of someone you weren’t sure you could trust. She’d do a background check on Davies as soon as she got back to her office.

  He handed her the envelope. “Here are your travel documents, including your air tickets, tourist visa, and a brochure describing the ship’s itinerary on Russian waterways from Moscow to St. Petersburg.”

  “I guess you were pretty sure I wouldn’t say no.”

  Davies gave a smile. “I’m only the messenger. One more thing—the watch.” He pulled a jeweler’s box out of an inside suit pocket, opened the case, and took out a watch. It was larger than any Nicole would have chosen for herself but quite pretty, a simple design with a rose gold band and an iridescent, mother-of-pearl face. On the side, it had a knob used for setting the time and, above it, a tiny button. He showed her several sequences of pressing the knob and button in order to turn on the phone’s voice and message functions.

  She took it from him, removed her own watch, and put this one on. She held her arm up to admire it.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Do I get to keep it?”

  “I’ll have to check, but I doubt it. It’s a sophisticated piece of equipment they engineered especially for this assignment. It has a translation function—English to Russian and Ukrainian. Oh, about the weather in Russia,” he went on. “I’d advise you to bring rainboots, a heavy coat, and an umbrella. Moscow is a good bit colder than Los Angeles, and St. Petersburg is indeed chilly this time of year.”

  He picked up his attaché case and got up to leave. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Ms. Graves. I wish you luck.”

  “Thanks.” She reached out her hand, and he shook it. She didn’t bother with shaking Kevin’s hand or even saying goodbye. He was standing some distance away staring at the pool of tar bubbling a few feet from the path.

  “I’ve got to tell my boss I’m taking vacation time and go home to pack,” Nicole said. “This comes at a good time. I’ve been looking for a trip that would be a real adventure.”

  “As they say, ‘Be careful what you wish for.’” He winked to indicate he was joking. “Be sure to memorize the list of passengers and their photos and delete them before you leave. Don’t bring along anything related to this matter. Above all, do not tell anyone about it. You might say a friend had a ticket for this trip but fell ill. That would explain your sudden decision to take this cruise.”

  Back in her office, she once again noticed the blinking light on her phone, but she was too distracted by her interview with Davies to bother with it. She sat down at her computer and did a background check on him. Just as his card said, he was listed as a trade representative at the British Consulate in Los Angeles. His bio said he’d worked there for fifteen years. He seemed authentic, but as Nicole knew, just because he worked at the consulate didn’t mean he wasn’t also with British intelligence. It would make the perfect cover.

  Next, she dumped the contents of the envelope onto her desk. She looked at the airline tickets—British Airways, first class, just as Davies had said. There was also a Russian tourist visa and a printout of an email confirming her reservation on the cruise. All of the documents bore her name. How did they know she was going to accept? She pictured them running her likely reactions through one of their behavioral algorithms. The notion made her smile. That kind of technology belonged in a James Bond movie. Then something else occurred to her: if Reinhardt had a hand in this assignment,
he’d know she wouldn’t be able to resist. Her heart skipped a beat at the thought of him.

  She put the material back in the envelope and went to Jerry’s office to tell him about her trip. He was on the phone, leaning back in his chair, his long legs resting on the windowsill behind the desk. She could see the beginnings of a bald spot in the back of his short, sandy hair and wondered, not for the first time, if he was aware of it. She could tell by his conciliatory tone that he was talking to someone he considered important. It was a good ten minutes before he turned and looked at her. He didn’t smile, nor did she. He was still angry about her reaction to his recent decisions and “willingness to play the game,” as he put it. And that was pretty much the size of it. Their easy friendship was damaged beyond repair.

  “A friend of mine signed up for a riverboat cruise in Russia, and now she’s had to cancel.” Nicole kept her tone matter-of-fact. “She can’t get a refund this close to departure, so she gave me her ticket. I’m leaving on Sunday. I’ll be away until May 11.”

  “You’re what?” He sounded incredulous, as if she’d just told him she was becoming a Scientologist or planning to live with an Indigenous tribe in the Amazon.

  The phone rang again. Jerry glanced at the caller ID, and his face lit up, a sign that this was one of his new celebrity clients. By the flirtatious tone of his “Why, hello there,” it was no doubt a woman. He put his hand over the receiver and gave Nicole a dismissive wave.

  “Fine. Go,” he said in a low voice before returning to his conversation.

  She gathered her things from her office and left for home, happy to be relieved of any further discussion with Jerry. She really needed to find another job, but she wouldn’t have to think about that for a while. This trip had come at just the right time.

  Chapter Two

  The first-class flight on British Airways was pure pleasure. Nicole enjoyed the champagne and warmed cashews served on takeoff. Dinner consisted of Caesar salad, rare filet mignon, and spinach soufflé followed by a cheese course then a hot fudge sundae. Since it was a night flight, the lights were soon dimmed. Nicole didn’t sleep well on airplanes, but she did nap off and on. An hour before landing, she was served the full English breakfast she’d ordered the night before. There was a four-hour layover at London’s Heathrow, where she stretched her legs by window-shopping at the terminal’s many designer shops. The connecting flight to Moscow was on Aeroflot, which had no first class. The service and comfort on this flight was way below the standard set by British Airways’ first class. Boarding was delayed due to “mechanical difficulties,” and they arrived in Moscow two hours late.

  Domodedovo Airport was a huge modern complex with great expanses of windows and a confusing layout, but it did offer many of the amenities found at other big international airports. On the long walk to immigration control, Nicole noted signs pointing to showers and sleeping accommodations. She needed both but was blocked from the main terminal by a barrier attended by stern-faced, armed guards. They were there to make sure no one got into Russia without a passport and the proper visa. Immigration control seemed to be a leftover from the old USSR, with its inefficiencies and red tape. Not only was the room hot and packed to capacity, but it also seemed to have no organized lines, just people jockeying for better positions and shoving their way past those ahead of them.

  Another American tourist, a woman who seemed familiar with the process, advised Nicole to avoid waiting behind Asian travelers. “The Russians always stop them, search their luggage, and ask them a million questions. It can take hours!”

  Since at least a third of the travelers appeared to be Asian, avoiding them was all but impossible. Nicole was relieved when she finally reached the second place in line. But the immigration officer made the woman ahead of her dump the contents of her purse on the counter. He carefully went through each item, stopping when he came across what looked like a hand-written receipt. He held it up to read it.

  The woman and her traveling companion—a man who might have been her husband— stared at each other but remained silent, refusing to answer the official’s question, which he repeated several times. From Nicole’s standpoint, his English was clear enough, though a bit fractured. He was saying, “Where are the diamonds?” Finally, he left his station and brought back a supervisor who repeated the same question. The presumed diamond smugglers continued their silence while they were forced to empty their pockets. When no gems were found, the supervisor sent someone to track down their luggage. Time was passing, and Nicole wondered if she should switch lines, but this would mean she’d have to start all over again.

  The couple’s luggage was brought and searched. Still no diamonds, and the couple resolutely refused to speak. As fascinating as this was to watch, Nicole was agonizing about the time. It was close to 7:00, and she had yet to reclaim her luggage. The directions from the cruise line said the ship stopped boarding at 10:00 p.m., and the ride to the ship from the airport could be as long as three hours.

  By the time two uniformed policemen arrived to take the couple away and Nicole finally left immigration control, two-and-a-half hours had passed since she’d disembarked. Whoever had arranged her itinerary had hired a driver to transport her from the airport to the cruise ship. She was exhausted by now, grateful to be able to sit and relax in the back of a comfortable limousine. It took yet another two hours to get to the ship. By now it was almost 11:00, and the gate at the wharf leading to the Queen of the Volga was closed and locked.

  Nicole made several calls to the cruise line’s emergency number. At last, the gate opened. A man in a snappy white uniform walked down to pick up her bags and motioned her to follow. The ship he led her to was not Queen of the Volga but the Amadeus. Nicole protested, but her guide gave a wave of annoyance and murmured, “Come!” He took her on a circuitous route through the Amadeus and across a gangplank to the ship anchored next to it. This pattern was repeated until they finally reached Queen of the Volga, anchored five vessels out from the dock. Even though this was only the start of tourist season, river cruise ships were out in great numbers, overwhelming the wharf’s capacity. The man in white led her onto the ship and up two flights of stairs to the top deck. He opened the door to her cabin, put her luggage in the entryway closet, and handed her the keycard. He gave a brief bow—his only concession to civility—and left before she could put together a tip from the rubles she’d picked up at the airport.

  She was too tired to take much notice of the suite except that it was unusually large and luxurious for a ship’s cabin. Leaving her suitcases where they were, she went in search of the bed. She kicked off her shoes and climbed under the covers.

  She tossed a while, unable to make herself comfortable. Finally, she realized she was too tired and jetlagged to sleep. Surrendering to the inevitable, she turned on the bedside lamp and sat up to read Little Dorrit. This was at least the fifth time she’d read it. She never tired of Dickens’ lampooning of nineteenth-century England’s civil courts and the lawyers who made it their livelihood. Little Dorrit was a rare combination: a fascinating read and a cure for insomnia. At last she felt sleepy enough to put the book aside and turn out the light. She slept until a loud noise, perhaps the slamming of a door, woke her. She sat up, suddenly alert, her heart thumping as if from a nightmare she couldn’t remember. She turned on the bedside lamp. It was 3:00 a.m. by her watch. Now she was wide awake and fairly certain she wouldn’t be getting back to sleep anytime soon.

  Nicole put on her coat and opened the sliding door that led to the suite’s private deck. She hoped for some brisk night air and her first look at the Moskva River, but all she could see was the ship docked next to hers. She left her cabin and started down two flights of stairs that led to the main deck where she might have a better view. The deck’s lighting had been dimmed for the night, but as she reached the bottom of the stairs, she had a clear view of three men standing by the ship’s railing. They had their backs to her. One of them appeared drunk, and the other tw
o seemed to be holding him up. But when he started to struggle, it was clear they’d been restraining him. He said something she couldn’t understand; perhaps it was in Russian. His voice grew louder as the other two lifted him over the railing and pushed him. He screamed as he fell into the water, and there was a loud splash. The men turned in Nicole’s direction. She froze for the briefest moment before scurrying to duck under a nearby lifeboat, one of several suspended upside down along the deck’s perimeter.

  She was stunned, not just by the violent act she’d witnessed but by the fact that she recognized the two who’d thrown the third overboard. They were two of her targets, people whose photos had been emailed to her.

  They started running toward her. Had they spotted her? In the darkness under the lifeboat, she could hardly breathe. But they passed her by and took the stairwell to a lower level. Once they were gone, she crossed to the other side of the deck, sticking to the shadows. She almost cried out when she brushed against someone walking in the opposite direction. Thoroughly spooked, she ran up the stairs to her cabin.

  After locking her door, she leaned against it in a state of shock. Her heart was still racing, and she couldn’t stop picturing the man being pushed over the rail. She thought of the person she’d passed. He or she must have also seen what had happened. Who could it have been?

  Her thoughts were flying in all directions. She slowed her breathing, trying to calm herself. The man who’d been thrown into the water might still be alive. She could alert rescuers. If they acted quickly, they might be able to save him. Then she remembered the British consul’s admonition to stay out of her targets’ business. But surely they didn’t mean a situation like this when someone’s life was at stake. She couldn’t just stand by and let the man drown if there was any possibility of saving him.

  The ship was silent. Was it possible no one besides her, the man’s assailants, and the unknown stranger had heard the cry that rang out when he was pushed off the ship? She decided to call the ship’s night manager. Hopefully, he’d know what to do.