The policeman got off with her on the fifth floor and trailed after her. The dimly lit hallway smelled of mothballs and disinfectant. When she reached room 516, she had a hard time getting the key to turn, struggling until it grudgingly clicked and the door swung open. She hurried inside and locked the door. The cop could hang around all day, but at least she had the room to herself.
It was tiny, furnished with the bare minimum: a bed that sagged in the middle, a bureau topped with an oval mirror, and an overstuffed red velour chair that appeared to be the only recent addition. The red stood out garishly in contrast to the rest of the decor, which was in faded browns and beiges. There was no TV. The bathroom was white with old-fashioned black and white mosaic tiles on the floor. It appeared reasonably clean.
After looking around, she noticed a phone on top of the bureau. If she could make herself understood, maybe the desk clerk would connect her with the U.S. Embassy. Tarasov had said they wouldn’t help in a situation like this, but surely they could do something. She picked up the receiver and put it to her ear. It was silent, without a dial tone. The phone was out of order or had been deliberately shut off.
She hung up and went over to the window to see if this might be a means of escape. It was a clear drop, five floors straight down. The view was even more depressing than the room. It took in a decommissioned railway yard with a few derelict trains that might have been used decades ago to transport prisoners to Siberia.
Just then, someone knocked at the door. When she opened it, the policeman who’d followed her stepped inside. He had her suitcases, and she wondered where he’d gotten them since he hadn’t been carrying them earlier. Perhaps someone had just delivered them and brought them up in the elevator. Wordlessly, he set them down, gave a slight dip of his head to acknowledge her, and left, closing the door behind him. To her alarm, she heard a key turn in the lock. She tried the door. It was locked.
For God’s sake, she thought. She got out the key the hotel clerk had given her, but it wouldn’t go in. She bent down to look in the keyhole. Something had been put inside, blocking her key. The policeman must have done this to make sure she couldn’t leave. She banged on the door and shouted, “Let me out. The door is stuck!”
Something rattled on the other side of the door, then a key turned in the lock. The same policeman appeared. “Da?” he said. She noticed a chair in the hallway outside her door. He’d been sitting there to make sure she didn’t leave.
“Why did you lock my door?” she demanded. “I need to get something to eat.” Assuming he didn’t understand English, she mimed holding a plate in one hand and lifting a fork to her mouth with the other.
What he understood was that she wanted to leave. He shook his finger at her and came out with a heavily accented “You stay” before firmly closing the door and locking it.
She went over to the window again and gazed out. The window was dirty, inside and out. A large decal in one corner showed a picture of a wine bottle overlaid by a red circle with a forward slash through the middle. She took this to mean guests were not allowed to throw bottles out the window. Did people actually do that? The decal reminded her she was thirsty as well as hungry. Was it possible this dump had a minibar? She wanted a cold drink or maybe even a glass of wine.
She gave the room another look, but there was no minibar. The bathroom had a faucet but no glasses to drink from, nor was there any bottled water. She put her face next to the faucet and sucked in a long drink.
She looked at her wrist, expecting to see the watch so she could check for messages. Only then did she remember the watch was broken, zipped into a compartment of her purse. For the first time since Kolkov had knocked on her door, she thought of Chet. She still hadn’t been able to let his team know that he’d been badly injured, much less give them the location of the explosives. That was completely out of the question now that she was a prisoner here.
She’d missed breakfast and now lunchtime had passed as well. As the afternoon dragged on, she banged on the door repeatedly, demanding food, using every synonym for the word she could think of in case the policeman knew one of them and would realize she was asking for something other than to be allowed to leave. There was no response, and she began to wonder if he was still out there. She tried her key again. This finally got a response from her guard, who loudly thumped on the door and shouted a command in Russian she could tell was some kind of rebuke.
It was getting dark outside when the policeman finally opened the door and handed her a tray holding a mug and a covered dish. Nicole took it and, having nowhere else to put it, set it on the bed. The dish held some kind of meat patty with dumplings. It didn’t look bad, although it didn’t smell much like food. She tasted it. The meat had an odd, chemical taste that made her wonder what was in it. The dumplings were surprisingly tough, the brown gravy tasteless. The mug of coffee was tepid but otherwise not too bad. She drank it down and put the mug in her bathroom for later use.
She picked up the tray and knocked on the door to let the policeman know he could take it away. Getting no response, she banged harder. Maybe he’d left his post for a break or to use the men’s room. In an old structure like this, she was pretty sure he’d have to go down to the first floor or even leave the premises.
She continued banging on the door until a woman’s voice said, “Da?”
Nicole called out that the door was stuck, demonstrating by rattling the doorknob until door shook. When she heard the maid jiggling the lock, Nicole rushed into the bathroom, plugged the sink and turned on the water full force. When she returned to the door, the woman was still struggling with the lock. Nicole prayed she’d be able to get it open before the policeman returned. At last the maid managed to remove whatever was blocking the key and opened the door.
Nicole touched the woman’s arm and pointed toward bathroom where the sound of running water was accompanied by the sink’s overflow splashing onto the floor. As the maid disappeared into the bathroom, Nicole picked up her purse and jacket and walked out the door. She spotted a sign at the end of the hall with the universal symbols of exit: an arrow and a flight of stairs. She started to run.
Chapter Eight
Nicole ran down three flights of stairs. When she reached the hotel’s second-floor landing, she heard a door above slam shut and heavy footsteps hurrying down. The policeman must have arrived back in time to see her leave and was coming after her. It occurred to her that if he’d called for backup, she might emerge onto the street and find the police waiting for her there. Instead of continuing down, she opened the door to the second floor and silently closed it behind her.
At the end of a long corridor, she spotted a lit green-and-white sign with a word in Cyrillic that she took to mean exit. Without pausing, she ran for the door nearest the sign. It opened onto a dimly lit stairwell. Judging by the dust and spiderwebs, these stairs had fallen out of use long ago, perhaps when the elevators were installed. They were constructed of wooden slats, several broken or missing. The first step creaked and sunk a bit as she put her weight on it, which made her slow down and proceed with caution.
At the bottom, she opened the door and found herself in a large room. Above a door in the corner was another exit sign. The room was filled with clothing racks. The one nearest the exit was jammed with coats, jackets, and other apparel that appeared to belong to the help. The others were filled with hotel uniforms—blue maid’s dresses and matching coveralls for maintenance workers. She quickly went through the coat rack, looking for something to change her appearance as well as protect her from the cold night air. She found a brown, full-length coat with a fleece lining that looked as if it would do the job. After putting it on, she turned to look in a large, free-standing mirror. The coat was several sizes too big and visibly frayed on the sleeve cuffs and around the collar. She turned away from the mirror, reminding herself this was no time for vanity. She hung the sweatshirt hoodie she’d been wearing where the coat had been before something occurred to her. H
er lightweight jacket was no substitute for this warm coat. Whoever owned it was going to be cold and might not have money for new outerwear. She got out her wallet and, after a quick calculation, stuffed a 5,000 ruble note into the sweatshirt pocket. This taken care of, she headed for the exit.
Outside, she found herself in an alley populated with overflowing trash bins that gave off a powerful smell, as if the garbage hadn’t been picked up in weeks. She followed the alley for several blocks, passing more overfilled garbage containers before exiting onto a boulevard in a business area. Three- and four-story buildings lined the street with shops and restaurants at ground level and what looked like offices above. Nearing the end of rush hour, there was plenty of foot traffic.
She took a deep breath to calm herself and slowed her pace, hoping to fit in with the flow of pedestrians. Meanwhile, she kept watch for American or British tourists. She needed to find someone who could speak English and might be willing to lend her a phone.
Glancing in the windows she passed, she could see that shops in this neighborhood weren’t upscale enough to attract many tourists. Most were selling newspapers and packaged junk food. She kept an eye out for a place to buy a burner phone, but none seemed to be on offer. Some shops featured signs with graphics—sometimes hand-drawn—offering currency exchange and check cashing services. Tiny grocery stores tried to lure customers in with produce displayed in crates on the sidewalk. Hardware stores had windows filled with brooms, mops, and cleaning supplies. A small number of marginal businesses were selling assorted odds and ends, new and used.
She came to a women’s clothing store—an anomaly in this neighborhood—and stopped to look at the display. The clothes were reasonably fashionable, but the uneven way they hung on the mannequins suggested they were poorly made of cheap fabric. When she saw her reflection in the window, she remembered that she wasn’t exactly presentable. How likely was it a shop owner would welcome her in and let her use the phone? Maybe it would improve her chances if she made a purchase before she asked.
She turned away from the passersby and checked her wallet to see how much money she had left. She was pleased to find over 3,500 rubles, worth almost fifty dollars. In addition, she had a one-hundred-dollar bill she always kept for emergencies in the hidden pocket of her wallet. If she changed that into rubles, it would keep her going for a few days. For the moment, she took out a 1000 ruble note and put it in her coat pocket, then zipped her wallet back into her purse.
Nicole entered the shop, giving the saleswoman her most confident smile. “Do you speak English?”
“Yezz.” Instead of smiling back, the woman frowned. Only then did Nicole remember the tour guide’s warning that, here in Russia, a smile from a stranger might be considered an insult. The woman coolly sized Nicole up from head to toe, then looked away.
Nicole went up to a counter with a display of necklaces and earrings. The woman hurried over as if she thought Nicole might be planning to steal a piece of jewelry or perhaps scoop the entire display into her purse and run off.
“How much is this one?” Nicole pointed at a silver necklace with a blue stone surrounded by sparkly diamond-like chips.
“7,500 rubles.”
“Really?” Nicole did a quick calculation. That amounted to more than a hundred dollars. She didn’t have that much in rubles. Besides, the necklace looked like cheap costume jewelry, worth about twenty bucks back home, if that much. She pointed to a plainer necklace, silver with a small mother-of-pearl pendant.
“Is 7,500 rubles,” the saleswoman said. “All same price. You serious buyer? If not, you must leave. I can’t spend all day watching customer.”
Despite the woman’s rudeness, Nicole decided to push ahead. She pulled out the 1,000 ruble note. “May I use your phone? I have money. I’ll gladly pay for the call.”
“No phone,” the woman said, although there was one sitting on a cabinet behind her. “Customers not allowed. You leave now.”
Nicole did as she was told. Back on the sidewalk, she soon found herself walking behind two well-dressed boys in their early teens who were obviously tourists. One of them was wearing a pair of AirPods sticking straight up, making him look like a visitor from outer space. The boys were speaking French peppered with English phrases. She hurried to catch up with them.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Someone stole my cell phone and passport. I need to call the American Embassy. Would you lend me your phone? I’ll pay you.” She pulled the 1,000 ruble note out of her pocket.
The boys stared at her. The one without the AirPods started talking to the other boy in French, apparently translating what she’d just said. They stepped to the side so they weren’t holding up pedestrians while the boy with the AirPods dug in his pocket, pulled out a cell phone, and gave it to her.
“Merci,” she said, handing him the 1,000 ruble note. Only then did she realize she didn’t have a number for the embassy. She dug through her purse for her tourist’s guide and thumbed through until she found the number. She tapped the cell to wake it, only to be greeted by a demand for a passcode. She handed it to the boy. He at once saw her problem and typed something in. She took it back and had just entered the embassy’s number when she noticed a squad car pull up to a nearby curb. Two policemen got out and, after looking around, headed in her direction. She turned and started to run.
The boys were in close pursuit, shouting, “Au voleur!” People stopped, curious about the scene, but no one joined the chase. Perhaps they didn’t know the French phrase for stop thief; perhaps they didn’t care. Nicole wanted to return the phone, but she didn’t dare slow down to hand it over. Instead, she tossed it back over her shoulder, hoping the boys would be able to catch it. There was a cracking sound as the phone hit the pavement. She could hear the boys shouting after her. She’d taken French in school but had no idea what they were saying. She had a hunch those words wouldn’t have been taught in class.
She turned at the next corner, where a throng of people were gathered. She hoped to get lost in the crowd and slip away by a side street, but it turned out to be a broad stone-paved plaza that dead-ended into the backs of several office buildings. The only way out was the way she’d come in. In the plaza, food venders were selling their wares, and the crowd was watching two buskers performing an elaborate juggling act.
Three office buildings had their back entrances here. Nicole figured they’d probably be locked at this hour but rushed over to the nearest one. As she drew close, she couldn’t believe her luck. The door was propped open with a rubber doorstop, allowing access to anyone who wanted to enter. As she slipped inside, she kicked the doorstop out of the way and let the door close. The doorknob inside didn’t seem to have a way to lock it, but since it had been propped open, she was pretty sure it automatically locked itself. She leaned against it, trying to catch her breath, then froze when the doorknob rattled as someone tried to get in. She had no doubt it was the police, who were soon shouting and pounding on the door. At last the banging stopped, and she could hear the murmur of conversation, growing fainter as they walked away. Had they given up or were they heading around the block to the building’s front entrance to continue pursuing her?
All was quiet except for a distant cathedral bell that rang nine times, which meant it was 9:00 p.m. She wondered why this office building was open so late in the evening. She thought of the cell phone she’d taken from the boys then thrown back to them. She regretted this now. They hadn’t been able to catch it, and it was probably useless once it hit the pavement. Meanwhile, she was in bad need of a way to call the American Embassy. Then she remembered. Tomorrow was Saturday. The embassy would be closed. Even so, they must have a twenty-four seven emergency line. That brought up a new concern. She had to check out how much help the embassy would be willing to provide. According to Sergey Tarasov, the deputy minister who’d questioned her, the embassy didn’t help U.S. citizens in trouble with Russian law enforcement. She wondered if this was true. She’d have to check it out b
efore she contacted the embassy. But how was she going to do that without a computer or smartphone? Another worry popped into her head: If she couldn’t get immediate help, where was she to stay? No hotel would accept her without a passport.
Nicole opened a door that led to the building’s lobby. It was well lit, and there were windows through which she might be seen from outside. She decided to seek refuge on a higher floor. This thought lifted her spirits. Entering this building might turn out to be a lucky accident if she found an office she could get into. Maybe there would be a couch where she could bed down for the night.
She walked over to the elevators just as one of them dinged. She had the presence of mind to turn away as the doors slowly opened. As the passenger walked by, she risked a quick glance. He was a middle-aged man whose downcast face and hunched shoulders made him look as if he was in a rush to escape a very bad day. He had no interest in her but was focused on getting out of the building as fast as he could.
The fact that someone was still here using the elevators made her decide to take the stairs. She spotted an arrow-shaped sign with the familiar staircase symbol and headed in that direction.
She climbed several flights until she came to a door marked with the number three. As soon as she stepped into the hallway, she saw that many of the offices were lit and appeared to be open for business. As she walked along, she noticed signs on the doors bearing the names of publications from all over the world: Le Monde, The Guardian, China Daily, The Wall Street Journal, the Sydney Morning Herald, and many others.
The offices were occupied by people busy at their computers. None of them looked up as she passed. This was the centralized media building that had been pointed out by the guide on the ship’s tour of the city. It made sense that a country like Russia would want them all in one place. The government could keep track of phone calls and stories sent electronically. For that matter, they could bug the offices and listen in on conversations. She had no doubt this was done and that the reporters who worked here would be well aware of it.
The Moscow Affair Page 11
