The Moscow Affair

by Nancy Boyarsky

  Leaving the cathedral, Nicole spotted a folded-up walker leaning against a fence nearby. She recognized it as Wynn’s—an upscale model with a basket underneath and a seat that could be folded down when the user wanted to sit. Thinking back, she realized she hadn’t seen Wynn since they entered the cathedral. As they headed toward the square’s other sites, she noticed that all the people she was supposed to be watching had gone missing. They must have slipped away when the tour group entered St. Basil’s.

  Nicole kept looking for the missing passengers, but they were nowhere in sight. She and the others who remained were led through the state museum and several other buildings, ending up at the GUM mall. Boris gave them forty-five minutes to explore the ornate structure’s warren of shops. Some were uniquely Russian, but many bore the names of international designers and more casual brands that could be seen in any American mall.

  Kat led Nicole into a candy shop that had caught her eye and picked out a box of chocolates. But when she approached the counter, the salesgirl—busy talking on her cell—waved her away.

  “Excuse me!” Kat said. “I want to buy this.”

  “I am sorry, madam, but we close for mid-day meal.”

  At this point, Kat showed an aggressiveness Nicole hadn’t seen before. She argued with the woman, angrily pointing out that the shop was obviously open and that salespeople were supposed to stop what they were doing to wait on customers. Fuming, she slammed the box on the counter and told the woman, “In our country, you’d be fired.”

  The woman said something into the phone. It was in Russian, but her snide tone and the way she glanced in their direction made it clear she was mocking Kat or perhaps both of them. As they left the shop, Kat said, “I’m going to search this mall until I find someone to report her to.”

  “Let it go,” Nicole said, glancing at her watch. “Our shopping time is up. We’ll have to hurry to meet the others or they’ll leave without us.”

  Still venting, Kat allowed herself to be guided down the escalator and out of the mall where the others were gathered.

  By now it was past 2:00 p.m. and the end of their visit to Red Square. Boris sent them off to find a place to eat a late lunch.

  “Be back at the bus no later than 3:00. We must leave at that time so we reach the ship before rush hour. If you aren’t back before we leave, you’ll have to take a taxi.” He paused to point out an elegant nineteenth century building a few blocks away. “One of the doormen at the hotel will find a taxi for you. Some drivers don’t like to stop for tourists.”

  As they walked toward the gate, Kat looped her arm though Nicole’s and steered her across the street. “I read about a trendy hamburger spot on the ride in and found it on my map. It’s not far.” It was a ten-minute walk to the restaurant, a large storefront with high tables and yellow bar stools. The casual eatery was roomy enough to also house a museum of old Soviet arcade games. The burgers were served on black buns, much like Russian black bread. They came with a generous box of fries that reminded Nicole of home.

  “Wait,” Kat said, pulling out what looked like black cloth sealed in plastic. It had been folded inside the napkin. “What on earth is this?”

  Nicole pulled hers out, too. “Oh, I read something about it. Russians think it’s unsanitary to eat with their hands, which it probably is. Then high-end burger spots like this came into vogue, and they started giving away plastic gloves with the burgers. We’re supposed to eat wearing these gloves.”

  Both the women put on the gloves and picked up the burgers. Aside from the meat, the filling included fried cheese, bacon, and sauce. “Oh, my God,” Kat said after her first bite. “This is the best burger I’ve ever had.” Nicole got up to fetch more napkins. Even so, both women ended up with spots of sauce on their clothes.

  By the time they were done, it was 2:45. They had fifteen minutes to get to the bus. As they exited the restaurant, Kat pulled out her phone and consulted the map. The directions said they were to turn left to get back to the bus parking lot and that it was a ten-minute walk.

  “Are you sure?” Nicole said. “I think we came from the other direction.”

  Kat studied the map on her phone and looked both ways. “I can’t remember. But the map is usually right. Is it OK with you if we do what it says?”

  “Sure,” Nicole said. “But I’ve found online maps are sometimes off, especially in foreign countries.”

  They walked for quite a while but saw no sign of St. Basil’s domes or the Red Square parking lot. “You were right,” Kat said. “The map sent us the wrong way. Let’s go back to the hamburger place and go in the other direction.”

  They walked as quickly as they could, but as they approached the lot, they could see the bus had already left.

  “I’m so sorry,” Kat said. “You were right about the map. I should have listened.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Nicole said. “We got to test the map’s accuracy in Moscow, and it failed. Next time we’ll know.”

  When they entered the lot, they found David Wynn sitting on his walker, smoking a cigarette. Apparently, he’d missed the bus, too. He didn’t seem to recognize them, or if he did, he was pretending he didn’t.

  Nicole wondered what had happened to the others who had slipped away from the tour. “You’re on the Queen of the Volga, right?” she said.

  “Correct.” He didn’t bother to look at her. He was staring up the street as if expecting someone.

  “We got left behind, too,” Nicole said. “We’re about to have a hotel doorman hail a cab to take us back to the ship. Would you like to join us?”

  “I already sent for a car. You can come along if you want.” His tone was neither friendly nor unfriendly but flat with indifference.

  “That would be great,” she said. “Thanks!”

  After a nod in her direction, he continued smoking his cigarette and looking around.

  Kat took a step toward him. “I noticed you left the tour back at the cathedral. Where did you go?”

  Wynn gave her a surprised look. “Pardon me?”

  “You left your walker outside the cathedral when the tour started, and I didn’t see you after that. I just wondered what you found more interesting than St. Basil’s.”

  He paused and seemed to be reaching for an answer. “I had the address of a Russian—uh—antique dealer. So a group of us went out there to do some shopping.”

  “How exciting!” Katrina said. “What did you buy? Can we see?”

  He held up his hands to indicate they were empty. “I had my purchases sent on. I don’t have room in my bags, and the authorities don’t like to see some of these things leave the country.”

  They waited quite a while with no sign of the van that Wynn had summoned. He called in after the first half hour, then reported to the women that it was the beginning of rush hour and the vehicle was stuck in traffic. They waited an hour before a shiny black minibus pulled up. The driver got out and helped Wynn into the front seat, placing his walker in back. Nicole noticed the vehicle had eight seats. Had Wynn been expecting the others in the group to show up?

  The two women climbed into the second row of seats. They chatted quietly while Wynn, his head resting against the passenger window, appeared to be asleep. During the long ride back to the ship, Nicole was somewhat in awe of Kat’s chutzpah, asking Wynn what he’d been up to. Nicole had the same question, but under the circumstances, it wouldn’t do for her to be openly curious about her targets’ whereabouts. And she was pretty sure Wynn hadn’t gone anywhere near a Russian antique dealer. Since he was already lying about his identity and being disabled, she was disinclined to believe anything he said.

  Chapter Four

  Evening traffic was at a crawl, and the minibus didn’t get Nicole, Kat, and Wynn back to the ship until well after 9:00 p.m. Dinner was long over.

  Nicole was hungry, which surprised her after her late, filling lunch. Back in her suite, she got out a menu and called room service. The call went directl
y to the main desk. “I am sorry, madam,” the night manager said. “Food service has closed for the night.”

  Nicole was surprised. This was billed as a luxury cruise. Didn’t luxury cruises come with twenty-four-hour room service? But maybe this was just another quirk of Russian hospitality. “Couldn’t they just make me a sandwich? I’ll go down to the kitchen and pick it up myself.”

  “I am sorry, madam. Kitchen is closed.” There was a click, and he was gone.

  Nicole searched the refrigerator, locating several packets of cheese and crackers and a Cadbury bar. It wasn’t much of a meal, and she was still hungry. Despite her fatigue, she made another attempt to get her phone messages. This time, the international number worked, and she was put through to customer service, only to be put on hold. She held the phone to her ear while she got ready for bed, then took it into bed with her. She fell asleep with the phone next to her ear, still on hold.

  Her sleep was fitful, haunted by the scene she’d witnessed that first night. In her dream, she was the one being thrown off the ship, her body bouncing with the impact of hitting the water. She felt the current drag her down and tried to fight her way up to the surface. At that moment, the dream, which had seemed so real, burst like a bubble. She was sitting up in bed, struggling to breathe. By the time she realized it had been a dream, she was wide awake, still trembling.

  Her duvet was on the floor, along with her phone, which was—predictably—out of battery. She put it on its charger and retrieved her iPad from the nightstand, resigned to spending the rest of the night reading. At some point, she must have dropped off, for the ring of the cabin’s phone startled her awake.

  “Hello?” she croaked.

  It was Kat. “You sound like you’re still asleep. The bus is leaving in forty-five minutes. If you want breakfast, you’d better get down here.”

  Nicole was immediately out of bed. She quickly washed and got dressed, grabbing her coat and purse on her way out. When she arrived in the dining room, it was almost empty. The waiters were carrying away the last of the buffet’s hot trays. Kat had saved her a pastry and a cup of coffee. It was clear that Nicole would have to spend another day in non-stop conversation with Kat. She wished the woman hadn’t latched onto her. Kat seemed determined to be Nicole’s best friend and constant companion. This was a problem Nicole hadn’t encountered since middle school.

  By the time Nicole and Kat arrived at the bus, it was almost full. All of Nicole’s targets were on board, even Gina DeSoto, the woman who’d been missing from the tour the day before. In the photo Nicole had seen, Gina was an attractive brunette of a certain age with a kittenish smile. This morning, her expression was grim, and she gave off a negative vibe, as if to warn people away. She was wearing a great deal of makeup, which did not improve her appearance.

  Today they had a different guide. This one was a local, who didn’t work for the cruise line. When the travelers noticed the bus pulling into the parking for Red Square, they told him they’d already been there the day before.

  “I show you different parts other guide not know,” he said. He was young like Boris, their guide on the previous day, but this man didn’t have Boris’s friendly, outgoing personality. He didn’t bother to introduce himself and was unyielding in his determination to give them a second tour of the square. As they entered, Nicole noticed more construction in progress. Some of the bleachers were almost complete. Workers were busy making chalk marks on the ancient stone pavement in front of Lenin’s tomb. Heavy electrical cords snaked near the construction, making the area hard to navigate.

  At the guide’s insistence, they began at the tomb. “Is closing soon for builders finish platform for speakers,” he said. “I make special arrangement for you to get in.” Despite his “special arrangement,” they had to wait nearly an hour to see the embalmed revolutionary. Nicole was amazed at how well-preserved Lenin’s body was. He was also a great deal better looking than in the photos taken of him when he was alive. The guide mentioned that he’d been removed from the tomb for several years to undergo “restoration.”

  “I’ll bet they made a wax-works copy and buried the real body,” Kat whispered. “It would have been in bad shape after lying in state for nearly a century. Even ancient Egypt’s embalmers weren’t that good.”

  The guide started to steer them toward St. Basil’s Cathedral, but the passengers objected so vociferously that he gave up. Taking advantage of their new-found power, they also insisted on a bathroom break. Once they congregated again, he led them back to the bus. Nicole was already seated when she noticed her targets weren’t on the bus. She got up and went to the door to peer out. The group was nowhere in sight. She briefly considered getting off the bus to look for them, but what would be the point? She didn’t know the area well enough to look for them without getting lost. And if she limited her search to Red Square, the bus would probably leave without her.

  Only when she turned to go back to her seat did she realize Kat was standing behind her.

  “What’s wrong, Nicole?” she said.

  “I left my lip gloss in the loo,” Nicole said. “But it’s not worth going back and risk missing the bus.”

  The tour guide waited another few minutes before muttering to himself and motioning the driver to close the door and move on. They drove through old Moscow, with its many onion-domed churches and spired, fortress-like structures. The guide didn’t provide the usual tour-guide patter about what they were seeing. He seemed deeply offended by the group’s rejection of his itinerary.

  They hadn’t gone far when she spotted the press building she’d noticed the day before. She wondered what was going on inside and what today’s big story might be. Russian journalists would be in there along with foreign ones, including those representing major American news outlets. How could it not be an exciting place to work, located in the capital of one of the world’s most watched and feared countries?

  In the absence of input from their guide, Kat had taken out her guidebook and was reading aloud as they passed sites of interest. At last the bus parked, and the guide led them through the streets. He was in full pout, punishing the group with his silence. They walked through several museums where most of the signage was in Cyrillic, and they had only a vague idea what they were seeing.

  Finally, they reached a museum of universal interest. It was dedicated entirely to vodka. The display included bottles representing hundreds—perhaps thousands—of brands of vodka, some in odd and fanciful collectors’ bottles. A young woman with rosy cheeks and braids across the top of her head stood by the counter, holding a tray of paper cups. As the tourists filed by, she offered samples of two brands of vodka. One had an unpronounceable name and was flavored with ginger. The other brand was Putin Vodka, though Putin himself was reputed to be a teetotaler. Not surprisingly, Putin Vodka was produced by a state-owned distillery. Nicole took a few sips of each and put the cups down. The portions were more than she was used to, especially on an empty stomach. Lunch hour was long past. After her light breakfast, she was starving.

  Just outside, a stand was selling assorted sausages and kabobs. They bought long sausages on buns, and Kat insisted on paying. Oddly, despite the fact that they were on buns, the sausages were mounted on skewers. Dressed with mayonnaise and jam, they were delicious. Some of the group was still in the shop, buying vodka to bring back to the ship. At last, they all boarded the bus again. It took them through Moscow’s new financial center, where gleaming skyscrapers towered above the rest of the city. Soon they got off the bus to ride Moscow’s Metro, stopping at Kiyevskaya, considered the system’s most beautiful station. It was an art museum in itself, filled with large oil paintings inside ornate plaster frames built into the walls.

  Around 3:30, they were ushered back on the bus to return to the ship. None of the missing passengers had made an appearance. This was understandable. Even if they’d wanted to, they wouldn’t have found the bus, which was now far from Red Square.

  They arrived b
ack at their destination two hours later. Both Nicole and Kat retired to their cabins for a rest. Nicole, feeling drowsy again, was hoping for a quick nap before dinner. But first she had to send a message reporting that the group had left the tour again, and she’d been unable to follow them.

  Before she had a chance to do that, someone knocked on the door. Nicole felt a shiver of alarm. Could it be Colonel Kolkov back for another interview? She held her breath as she went over to look through the peephole. To her surprise, it was Kat, even though they’d parted no more than ten minutes before.

  Kat looked as if she’d been crying. “I hope I’m not being too much of a pest.” Her voice was shaky. “But Jack just called. He’s having second thoughts about his second thoughts. I hung up on him. I really need someone to talk to.” Kat was crying in earnest now.

  “I’m so sorry,” Nicole said. “Come in. I’ll make you a drink, and we can sit down and talk about it. Would you like a glass of wine?”

  Kat snuffled into her tissue and reached in her purse to pull out another. “I think I need something stronger.” Her voice was thick from crying. “Do you have ingredients for a martini?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Kat moved past Nicole and was standing in the middle of the room. “I’m so sorry to barge in on you like this. I hope you don’t mind.” She turned around to take in the decor. “Your suite is beautiful. Do you mind if I look around?”

  “Go ahead. Take a quick tour while I fix the drinks.”

  Nicole felt sorry for Kat. What a creep this fiancé must be. She didn’t mind lending her new friend a shoulder to cry on, but she had to send that message to her handler, and she couldn’t do it with someone else there. When she thought about it, the message didn’t seem that urgent. After all, the group had done the same thing the previous afternoon. She’d reported it. As far as she could tell, nothing had been done. It could wait until after dinner.