The caller was gone before Nicole had a chance to voice her objections to the way the assignment was going. She wasn’t easily frightened and had handled dangerous situations in the past, but this felt different. She was on foreign soil, knew no one, and didn’t speak the language. She couldn’t even trust the police. What had been bothering her most, she realized, was her lack of control over the situation. If she was suddenly in danger, where would she turn?
The call had been somewhat reassuring. It showed that at least someone was monitoring the messages sent from her phone and would return a call for help. Her real problem, she decided, was her unrelenting jetlag. She was too tired to think straight. The most sensible thing to do would be to take a nap.
The ship’s loudspeaker woke her around 5:00 p.m. It was Kolkov’s voice ordering all passengers to appear in the entertainment arena on the main deck in thirty minutes. The large room served as a bar, dance floor, casino, and venue for entertainers. Still groggy, Nicole dragged herself out of bed and dressed. She was in time to find a spot in the first row.
Kolkov stood at the front and waited until the place was full before he spoke. “Police leave ship now,” he announced. “But we not finish investigation. Our engineers look at evidence and decide if this…” He paused to consult his notes. “…Derek Swan jump or someone push him. Ship must remain in Moscow until we decide.” As he left, the audience was abuzz. They were supposed to cruise up the Volga to St. Petersburg, stopping at points of interest along the way. How long were they going to be delayed? Would the cruise line compensate them for the interruption in the promised itinerary? When they grew tired of speculating, most of them remained in the big salon, heading for the bar or the slot machines.
When Nicole returned to her room, she made herself a double espresso, hoping the caffeine would clear her head. She went out on her deck to drink it. She sat there only a brief time before a cold fog rising from the river drove her inside. She turned on the TV. RT News seemed to be replay the same news it ran earlier, but even this was better than leaving her mind free to revisit the murder. After watching RT’s anti-American propaganda for a while, she decided that going down to dinner might be a more pleasant diversion, even if she wasn’t hungry. She changed into fresh clothes and headed downstairs.
Instead of sitting at a large group table and mingling, as passengers were encouraged to do, Nicole chose a table for two. This would allow her to privately observe the people whose faces and identities she’d memorized. She’d only been seated a few minutes when a woman stopped at her table.
“Do you mind if I sit with you?” she said. “Unless someone’s joining you, of course.”
Nicole was surprised by the request. The fact that she’d chosen a small table should have been a hint that she wanted to dine alone, but she didn’t want to be rude.
“Of course not,” she said. “Please, have a seat.”
The woman had long, dark, wavy hair and was quite lovely. She was dressed in a black, peasant-style blouse pulled down around her shoulders and a print skirt that fit closely to the hips then flared out at the bottom.
“I’m Katarina Heikkinen. Please call me Kat. All my friends do.” The woman gave a warm smile. Her accent was so slight, it was hard to tell what her native country might have been. “I don’t want to sit at one of those big tables either. What a collection of bores!”
“I’m Nicole Graves.” Nicole reached out to shake the woman’s hand. “I’m just getting my first real look at them. My flight got in late last night, and I slept most of the afternoon.”
“I didn’t arrive until this morning,” Kat said. “I guess you missed last night’s excitement, too.”
“Actually, I was here,” Nicole said. “The head detective seems to think the victim might have been murdered. Now we’re stuck in Moscow until the police figure it out. A plot worthy of Agatha Christie.”
Kat’s laugh was musical. As they talked, their conversation grew more relaxed. Kat had a rather exotic background. She was brought up in Finland until her early teens, when her parents divorced, and her mother, a New Yorker, moved back to Manhattan, where Kat still lived and worked. She was an investment advisor for one of the big banks. She seemed fascinated when Nicole said she was a private investigator and wanted to know all about it. After a waiter took their wine order, another appeared to explain the night’s specials and find out what they wanted for dinner. Once that was taken care of, Kat resumed questioning Nicole about her work.
Their dishes were served. House salads for both, which included fresh corn and lobster. The main dish was beef stroganoff with potato dumplings. The food, which had sounded appealing on the menu, was disappointing—the salad drenched in dressing, the beef tough and dry. Nicole left most of it on her plate.
“Did you know that you and I are the only single women our age on the entire ship?” Kat said. “And not one eligible man.” She shook her head regretfully. “I saw you coming out of the Regent suite earlier. I’m so jealous! That was my first choice, but it was already reserved—for you, I guess.”
“Actually, I wasn’t the one who booked it,” Nicole said. “A friend of mine did then had to cancel at the last minute. Of course, there was no refund that close to departure, so she insisted on giving me the ticket. I was really surprised when it turned out to be so luxurious.”
“Lucky you! Your friend must be rich.”
“Let’s put it this way,” Nicole said, thinking of her sponsors. “Money isn’t a consideration.”
The waiters arrived to clear their plates and serve dessert, an unappealing slice of white cake. Nicole left it on the plate. She turned to Kat.
“What made you choose this tour? Are you a Russian history buff?”
“It was my ex’s choice. No idea why he decided on it.” She paused and made a sound, as if she were gulping back tears. “This was supposed to be our honeymoon.”
“Oh, no! What happened?”
“He backed out two days before the wedding.” Now she was crying in earnest. “He said he’d met someone else and was confused. He wanted more time to think it over. That was it for me; I wasn’t going to wait around while he chose between me and some other woman. I’d used most of my savings for the wedding itself—of course I couldn’t get a refund by then. He paid for this trip, and as you said, there are no refunds that close to the date. So he gave me the tickets and told me to invite a friend and use them myself. At first, I refused. But then I changed my mind. Why not enjoy all this luxury while I try to convince myself that I’m better off without him?” She blew her nose hard.
“Maybe he was doing you a favor,” Nicole said. “But I’m sure it doesn’t feel like it right now.”
“Let’s talk about something else, OK?” Kat said. “What do you think of our fellow passengers? I sat at one of the big tables at lunch. The conversation was mind-numbingly dull.”
Kat pointed out several passengers who’d attracted her attention. There was a couple she called “the hat people” because they both were wearing odd hats. Nicole recognized them as two of her targets, Sheila Drysdale and Lucien Collins. Nowhere had her background information said they were a couple, but they certainly were posing as one. Sheila had on a black-and-white dress with a wide-brimmed, black-and-white hat that swooped up on one side. Lucien wore a gray tracksuit with an old-fashioned tennis hat. It had a tiny brim, and the crown was smashed in as if someone had sat on it. Every other man in the room had followed the ship’s suggestion of “dressy casual,” with slacks and a polo shirt, sports shirt, or sweater.
Kat seemed to enjoy inventing nicknames for people. She’d come up with some for other passengers. She called Tyler Brandt, the young man Nicole had spotted in the crowd the night before, “the bro.” She nicknamed Mary Haworth, who had the look of a suburban housewife, “the hausfrau.” David Wynn, one of the men who’d thrown Swan overboard, was “the grim reaper,” a reference to his sickly appearance.
Next, Kat nodded toward a man at one of th
e bigger tables who was holding forth about his gun collection in a booming voice. She called him “the mayor.” With a jolt, Nicole realized she recognized him, too. He was James Bartel, one of the men who’d killed Swan. Kat was eager to share gossip about him: “He’s a former mayor of Lubbock, Texas, with the most grating accent you’ve ever heard. He loves making smutty remarks. What’s really weird is his meek little wife laughs her head off as if she thinks he’s a great wit. He’s always joking that the woman he calls the ‘femme ancienne’ is his girlfriend.” She stopped to point out an elderly woman in a pale blue shirtdress that looked like it dated back to the 1950s. “He keeps inviting himself to her room for a little ‘tit-a-tit,’ as he puts it. You should hear the things he says. Oh, he’s horrible.” Kat dissolved in laughter. The man may have been horrible, but she certainly found him entertaining.
Kat went on about other passengers. Her comments were amusing and sometimes witty, if a bit mean spirited. Nicole was only half listening as she looked around. Six of her remaining seven targets were in the dining room tonight. Only one, a woman named Gina DeSoto, hadn’t appeared, although Nicole had seen her on deck that morning.
All the A-deck passengers were together for the 7:00 p.m. dinner seating, and Nicole, presumed, would share the same tour bus. That explained why whoever scheduled her trip had placed her on A-deck, which had the priciest accommodations, although it was a mystery why they’d chosen the largest and most expensive suite for her.
“Is that a smart watch you’re wearing?” Kat said. “It’s very pretty.”
Nicole glanced uneasily at the watch, which she’d thought was ordinary enough not to attract much notice. “It’s smart enough to tell me what time it is. But no, it’s just a plain watch. I picked it up at a consignment boutique in L.A. I think it’s quite old.”
“But look how thick it is,” Kat insisted, “And it has a knob and a button on one side, just like an Apple watch.”
“Well, if it has any smart features, it hasn’t revealed them to me.”
“Look on the web. Maybe you can download instructions.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t see even see a brand name,” Nicole said.
“It might be on the back. Do you mind if I take a look?”
Nicole did mind. She was trying to think of a way to distract Kat’s attention from her watch when a disturbance started up in the center of the room. David Wynn, aka the grim reaper, had been making his way toward the exit, leaning heavily on his walker. As he passed by former mayor James Bartel’s table, Bartel’s wife gave out a loud yelp. Bartel jumped to his feet.
“You stomped my wife’s foot with your stupid goddamn walker,” he yelled. He took a swing at Wynn, landing a solid punch on the jaw. Wynn keeled over. People at other tables jumped up and came forward to help, but Wynn angrily shooed them away.
“Leave me alone! I can get up myself.”
Wynn put his hands on the mayor’s table to pull himself upright, took a step toward Bartel, and punched him in the face. As Bartel went down, his wife emitted another shriek of distress. Wynn leaned over to pick up his toppled walker and headed for the exit at a pace he didn’t seem capable of moments before. He’d already reached the door before Bartel was on his feet. His nose was bleeding. A waiter helped him to his chair and handed him a pile of cloth napkins to staunch the flow. Moments later, the maître d’ bustled over with a bag of ice and stood there, talking to Bartel in a low voice. Nicole had the feeling he was telling the mayor that a fist fight in the dining room was unacceptable behavior on the Queen of the Volga.
“Well, he stomped my wife’s foot!” the mayor half shouted.
Nicole turned to look at Kat, who was watching the scene with great interest. “That certainly caps an eventful day,” Nicole said. “I’m beat, so I think I’ll head back to my cabin.”
Kat was still staring at Bartel’s table, as if hoping for more action. She nodded without looking at Nicole.
“I’ll see you on the bus tomorrow,” she said. “Save me a seat if you get there first.”
“OK,” Nicole said, although she wasn’t sure this was a good idea. She’d found Kat a pleasant dinner companion, but maybe it was better not to pair up with a passenger quite so interested in other people’s business. In a way, she and Kat were alike. Kat was curious about people just like Nicole. And she was an excitement junky, another characteristic they shared. The woman might have made a good traveling companion another time. On this trip, however, Nicole was supposed to focus on observing her fellow passengers, not pairing off with another traveler given to constant chatter. She decided to arrive at the tour bus early so she could sit with someone else.
She thought about the behavior of her targets at dinner. They certainly weren’t trying to blend in as she’d expect if they were up to something serious enough to attract the interest of British intelligence. These people were acting as if they wanted to call attention to themselves. Did they imagine this would make them seem less suspicious? She let herself into her suite and used her watch to send another report, detailing Gina De Soto’s absence and what had happened at dinner. This raised a question in Nicole’s mind. Had Gina, like Derek Swan, met with foul play?
§
At 7:30 the next morning, Nicole—certain that arriving at the bus a half hour before the tour’s departure would be early enough to beat Kat—found the woman already on board, saving a seat for her. There was no way around it. Kat would be her companion for the day.
Kat greeted her with a big smile. “I’m so happy we ran into each other last night. I was afraid I wouldn’t have anyone to hang out with on this trip. But as soon as I saw you, I knew we were going to be friends.”
Nicole said she was glad, too, keeping her reservations to herself. Kat’s need to talk all the time was a distraction, but Nicole was pretty sure she’d be able to keep an eye on her subjects. As the bus filled up, she was relieved to see almost all of them were there. The only exception was Gina DeSoto, who was still missing.
As the bus driver closed the doors, a young member of the ship’s crew told them he was to be their tour guide. His name was Boris, and his English was excellent. He talked a bit about how much he enjoyed his job.
“At first it was hard to get used to American tourists because you smile so much.” He was smiling as he said this, as if their tendency to smile was contagious. “You may notice that most Russians won’t smile back at you. This is part of our culture. We smile only at people we know well and only if there is something to be happy about. Russians tend to think that someone who smiles all the time is insincere, hiding their true feelings. Some even consider a smile from a stranger rude. You might keep this in mind when you go into shops and restaurants. Don’t expect waiters and salespeople to smile at you, and try not to smile too much.” He gave a laugh as if he knew this was probably impossible.
This made Nicole reflect on her own behavior, the way she’d been trained to smile since she was little, just like most other Americans. Eventually, smiles became automatic, a habit generated by grown-ups’ prodding. “Why are you looking so sour?” they would say, or “Where’s that pretty smile?” or “What happened to those adorable dimples?” Later, when she was in her teens and early twenties, the demand for a smile was a form of sexual harassment directed at young women. “Smile!” she’d hear from a perfect stranger on the street. She had a friend who’d retort, “Kneel!” But that wasn’t Nicole’s style. She’d pretend to ignore it, even though she found such comments annoying and downright insulting. Was it possible the Russians were on to something?
Boris went on to explain that the drive into central Moscow would take an hour and a half because of traffic. He also mentioned that construction was going on in Red Square in preparation for a military parade on May 9, known as Victory Day. This was Russia’s annual celebration of the defeat of Nazi Germany in 1945.
Many of the buildings they passed on the way were in the Stalinist style, massive structures, some topped wi
th spires. He pointed out those of interest, the headquarters of the Federal Security Service, which replaced the KGB; Moscow Police headquarters; and various government agencies. Most interesting to Nicole was the centralized press building, where international as well as domestic media outlets were all housed.
Once they entered Red Square, Boris stopped them so he could point out sites of interest. Most of the group pulled out their cell phones and cameras to take photos. The gate they’d entered was an extension of the many-spired state history museum. The square itself wasn’t square at all but a long, irregular rectangle formed by the buildings surrounding it. To their left was a huge Victorian structure that housed the famous GUM department store. At the far end of the square was St. Basil’s Cathedral. But what stood out was the bustling activity along the entire right side of the square, where workers were preparing for the May 9 parade. The half-built bleachers looked as if they could accommodate thousands. A short distance behind the construction was the high wall of the Kremlin. The work wasn’t fenced off from the rest of the square, but guards were stationed every twenty feet or so in front of it.
Sitting incongruously in the center of all this was the squat, old-fashioned building that housed Lenin’s tomb. Despite the ongoing construction surrounding the tomb, it was still open. A sizeable crowd snaked out in front, waiting to get in. When Nicole and her fellow passengers saw the long queue, they voted to skip the tomb. Boris led them to the far end of the square and the colorful onion domes of St. Basil’s.
While they waited to enter the cathedral, Boris told them some of its history, which both fascinated and horrified Nicole. Ivan the Terrible, the czar who’d commissioned the building of St. Basil’s in the sixteenth century, rewarded its architect by having his eyes put out. This was to assure he’d never design a building more beautiful. The cathedral’s interior was as ornate as the outside. Its carved wooden walls were painted in the same vivid colors, although there was more use of gold leaf inside. Religious paintings lined the walls. As she took in the building and its beauty, she couldn’t help but think of its architect’s gruesome fate and how aptly Ivan the Terrible had been named.
The Moscow Affair Page 4
