In a building filled with journalists from all over the world—including the U.S. and U.K.—it was possible she could reach out and ask for help. But she was too frightened and exhausted from her last encounter with the police. She decided to wait until she calmed down. Maybe she could find an empty office and rest for a bit. Then she’d be better able to assess the situation and choose the most likely prospect.
She spotted a women’s room and went in. When she looked in the mirror, she was shocked. Her coat was even dirtier and more worn than it had appeared in the hotel’s uniform room. Her hair was a mess from running, and she had a dark smudge on one cheek.
She took off the coat and, draping it over her arm, washed her face, finger-combed her hair, and applied some lip gloss. These small touches made her slightly more presentable.
Further along the corridor, she noticed an office with the lights off and the door shut. The sign on the door identified it as The Miami Herald. It appeared to be closed for the night, perhaps the whole weekend. She reached into her purse for her Swiss Army knife in case she had to jimmy the lock. To her surprise, it was unlocked. She went in, closing and locking the door behind her.
The front office held two desks, each with a computer and stacks of newspapers. The floor was littered with crumpled computer printouts that had been tossed at the wastepaper basket and missed. There was a comfortable-looking couch, but she decided it would be a bad idea to sleep so close to a door where people entered. No telling how early they might arrive for work. She wanted to be able to hear them come in so she could hide and, hopefully, slip away before she was seen.
She headed through a doorway into a second office. This one looked as if it might belong to a bureau chief. It was larger than the outer office, although no neater. Since there was only one computer and one phone, whoever worked here must have the room to his or herself. It was furnished with a large desk piled with papers, two chairs facing the desk, a wall-mounted TV, and a daybed. A pillow and blanket were piled at one end as if someone slept or napped there. Nicole put her purse down and dropped onto the bed, kicking off her shoes. Getting off her feet and lying down felt unbelievably good. Only now did she realize how exhausted she was.
Her plan was to rest for a bit before seeing if she could sign onto one of the computers without a password. She wanted to find out if the news had anything that mentioned herself and Kat, or Darina Kravchenko, as well as check out the policies of the American Embassy. After that, she’d look around for someone she could ask for help.
Instead of a cat nap, she fell deeply asleep and didn’t wake until dawn was beginning to light the sky. She hurried over to the desk and hit the enter key to wake up the computer. The browser was open and ready for business. Whoever had used the computer last had neglected to sign out. Maybe nobody bothered with a password here. What good would it do if the Russian government could hack into every computer and cell in the building?
She looked up Darina Kravchenko on the search engine and was shocked to see her own photo next to Kat’s at the top of Pravda’s website. She set the translation to English. The article was brief:
The Moscow Police Department is currently looking for Nicole Graves, (above left) an American citizen who, along with Darina Kravchenko (above right), a Ukrainian national, murdered Sgt. Vladimir Ivanof, a 15-year veteran of the Moscow Police Force.
Darina Kravchenko is now awaiting trial for Ivanof’s murder and for the killing of Derek Swan, an American who drowned after being pushed from a cruise ship anchored in Moscow. It is not known if Ms. Graves was involved in Swan’s death.
Anyone who has seen Nicole Graves in the last 24 hours or who knows her whereabouts should contact the Moscow Police immediately. Police have warned the public not to approach Ms. Graves. She is considered armed and dangerous.
It was even worse than Nicole had feared. They’d made up the fictitious murder of a policeman and were trying to frame her and Kat for it. She wondered what their motive might be. Would they really cook up a murder charge because they thought she knew something about Derek Swan’s death? Of course, she had escaped their custody, but she hadn’t actually been arrested, which made this complete overkill. Kolkov was probably behind it. He must be taking some heat for letting her get away.
Next, she looked up the website of the American Embassy to see what help they offered Americans detained or arrested in Russia. She was shocked by how little they could do. Mainly, they offered services so unhelpful they were almost laughable. They would provide a list of English-speaking attorneys, contact family and friends with news of the arrest, and visit the prisoner to provide vitamins and reading materials. Even more striking was what they wouldn’t or couldn’t do, such as get U.S. citizens out of jail overseas, provide legal advice or represent U.S. citizens in court overseas, or pay their legal, medical, or any other fees.
Tarasov had been right. The American Embassy, which had been her best hope for escaping the police, would be no help at all. For all she knew, they might turn her over to the police if she showed up on their doorstep. With the smartwatch broken, getting in touch with her handler was an impossibility. The security agency—MI6 or whoever it was—hadn’t received her message about the explosives hidden in Red Square. Presumably, they were still armed and ready to go off unless someone intervened. Now, with only two days left, the job of putting out a warning had fallen to her. But how? And to whom?
The sound of footsteps in the hallway sent her scurrying from the computer to a corner where she couldn’t be seen through the window in the door. Her heart stopped racing when whoever it was passed the office and kept walking. The interruption made her wonder, once again, if someone who worked here might come in on a Saturday. She decided it would be a good idea to leave and check back later. She gathered up her things and turned out the lights. She left the door unlocked, just as she’d found it.
Nicole went to the women’s room and once again tried to make herself presentable. In her sleep-wrinkled clothes, this proved almost impossible. She gave up and left in search of some coffee. In the floor’s opposite corner, she found a break room with vending machines. Attached to the wall was a change machine where she fed in some ruble notes and got back coins. After the frustration of her morning, this very normal activity somewhat calmed the turmoil raging inside of her.
Predictably, the vending machine contained mostly candy and chips, but the last choice on the bottom row was Cadbury chocolate chip brunch bars, a special favorite of hers. She’d only been able to get them in England and wondered how they’d ended up here in Moscow. She bought three and ate two while standing by the machine, putting the third one in her purse for later. She sipped the coffee while heading back to the Miami Herald’s office. She was hoping it was still empty. With a little luck, she’d be able to use it as a hideout for the weekend while she figured out what to do next.
As she rounded the corner, she could see the office door was open and the light was on. She walked by slowly so she could look inside. A woman was at work on one of the computers. She was young, probably in her early twenties, with short dark hair. Dressed casually in jeans and a beige, long-sleeved T-shirt, she was frowning at her computer as if it were a puzzle she was trying to work out.
Nicole walked on, debating what to do. She was completely without resources. At some point, she’d have to take a leap and trust someone who might be able to help. This woman appeared to be a journalist. What better way to get her help than by offering her an exclusive story? It would be especially tempting to someone young, just starting out and trying to make a name for herself. Nicole turned and headed back to the office.
The woman didn’t seem to notice when Nicole entered. “Sorry to interrupt,” Nicole said. “Can I talk to you a minute?”
The woman turned to look at her, obviously startled. She stared at Nicole a moment before she stood up, eyes wide in surprise.
“Oh, my God!” she half whispered. “You’re the woman whose photo was in Pravda.”<
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Nicole was about to offer a defense, but the woman put her finger to her lips and waved her into the back office. She closed the door and turned the TV on with the volume up. Then she said, “The place is bugged. Tell me why the police are after you, but keep your voice low.”
“They say I’m wanted for murder, but it’s a lie,” Nicole whispered. “I didn’t kill anyone, and I doubt there’s even a murdered policeman. The real story is that they think I witnessed a murder and tried to detain me as a witness by taking my passport and locking me in a hotel room. But I escaped. They made up the murder charge hoping it will motivate someone to turn me in. I’m not armed or dangerous, just a tourist who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Listen, what happened to me could be a front-page story under your byline in the Miami Herald.”
The woman only took a moment before she smiled and held out her hand to shake Nicole’s. “I’m Abby Hewitt,” she said, her accent clearly American. “I’m not with the Miami Herald, but I’d love an exclusive interview. The Herald closed this bureau a few years ago. They rent office space to freelancers like me trying to make a name here so I can land a job back in the States. Right now, I’m barely making it as a stringer for a few small papers back home. Not the Miami Herald, though. They’ve made cutbacks and no longer use freelancers.”
Once they were seated, Abby said, “When you say the police lied, I believe you. A friend of mine was arrested a few months ago covering a protest march. They hit him with a fake charge of assaulting a policeman. He’s still locked up, awaiting trial. Believe me, I know what the police here are like.”
Nicole gave Abby a bare outline of her story, leaving out any reference to her work for intelligence or the bomb in Red Square. Then she added, “I need a place to hide for a few days. If you can help, I’ll give you an exclusive interview. It’s a cautionary tale of how an innocent tourist can be swept up in Russia’s criminal justice system. I’m sure you know their prosecutors’ conviction rate. They can arrest and try me for murder, and it won’t matter that there was never a body.”
“I know,” Abby said. “And you’re right. It will make a great story. Are you sure there’s no chance of getting back your passport?”
“Maybe, if you know a forger who’ll do it on the cheap.”
“What about the American Embassy? In a case like this, I’d think they’d issue you emergency travel papers and spirit you out of the country.”
“Not with Russia claiming I’m a murderer.” Nicole explained what she’d learned about the embassy’s policy.
Abby frowned. “That’s hard to believe. Are you sure?” Without waiting for an answer, she went to the computer and typed in something, then went quiet as she read what came up. “Oh, my God, you’re right. They’ll bring you vitamins? Seriously?
“Hm. What are we going to do with you? I have an idea, but I have to make a call first to make sure my friend is willing.” Abby disappeared into the front office and was back in a few minutes. Whoever she’d spoken hadn’t needed much persuasion.
“I’ve got a place for you,” Abby said. “But we have to take Metro to get there. Before you go out in public, you’ll need a makeover so you won’t be recognized. Let’s start by getting you out of those wrinkled clothes. It looks like you’ve been sleeping in them.”
Abby took the coat draped over Nicole’s arm and held it up to get a look at it. “Ew, that’s disgusting. Throw it away.” She gestured toward a large waste bin by the desk. While Nicole took off her wrinkled turtleneck and slacks—which had been fresh from the cleaners when she put them on the day before—and Abby opened a closet, rifling through an assortment of garments hanging inside.
“A lot of freelancers who passed through this office left stuff,” Abby said. “Some of it might belong to people who currently work here, but let’s not worry about that.” She gathered up several items and brought them over to the desk. “Do you have any makeup with you?”
The two of them went to work sitting side by side at the big desk. Nicole put out the makeup she carried in her purse, along with a small mirror. Abby supplemented this with eye shadow, eye liner, and contouring powder, which did its magic to change the shape of Nicole’s face. The clothes Abby had left on the desk turned out to be a print dress, a midnight blue coat with an imitation fur collar, a hairband with fake black bangs, and a blue-and-white scarf. The dress was big and baggy, but the coat, which had a nipped-in waist and flared skirt, fit perfectly.
Abby put the hairband with the attached black bangs on Nicole. It was all wrong with Nicole’s blond hair, but as soon as Abby tied the scarf kerchief-style around Nicole’s head, the bangs became fairly convincing.
When she was fully outfitted, she studied herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door. She looked different all right. The only problem was that the coat, with its tight-fitting waist and full, flared skirt, appeared to be part of an ice-skating costume. This, along with the kerchief, made her look as if she’d just stepped out of an earlier era, perhaps the 1930s.
Nicole took off the scarf and poked through the closet for something more contemporary. She found a dark green baseball cap with a Cyrillic word embroidered on the front. When Abby got a look at it, she gave a snort of laughter.
“What does it say?” Nicole said.
“It says ‘Shut up.’”
“Will that cause problems?”
“Not really. It is a bit jarring with your sweet little face, but it’s fine, really. Nobody pays attention to mottos on clothes here anyway. You mentioned that you just needed to hide for a few days,” Abby said. “What happens then?”
“Hopefully, I’ll be able to reach a friend who has influence in certain circles. He knows people who can arrange to get me out of the country.” She paused, considering how much of the truth she should reveal. “But he was in an accident. He was taken to a hospital, and I don’t know how to find him. Maybe you can help.”
“Sure. What can I do?”
“Could you call around to hospitals and see if a man was admitted night before last with a gunshot wound?”
“Gunshot wound?” Abby said. “Wow. This story is getting more interesting by the minute.”
“What about this?” Nicole said. “Say you’re doing a story about gun violence in the city. Ask how many gunshot victims were admitted in the last few days. If there’s a lot, narrow it down to night before last. If you could find my friend, I’d be able to visit him, and he’ll let me know how to reach someone who can help.”
“I don’t know if the hospitals will give out information like that, but I’ll try,” Abby said. “What’s your friend’s name?”
“Chet—” Nicole paused, trying to summon up his last name. She’d only heard it once, when he introduced himself. “Antonovich. That’s it. I’m so stressed out I can hardly remember my own name.”
“I don’t blame you,” Abby said. “I’m dying to hear what happened to you. Can’t you tell me more?”
“Not now. I will give you an exclusive interview, but not until I’m safely out of the country. You understand, don’t you?”
“I do. Right now I’m bringing you to a friend who’s willing to take you in,” Abby said. “She said she’s going out around noon. We’d better leave now.”
Chapter Nine
The media building was several blocks from a Metro station. As they walked, Abby described the woman who’d agreed to hide Nicole for a few days.
“At first, Olga will seem sort of—to put it bluntly— a little nuts,” Abby said. “But that’s an act she puts on in case anyone’s watching. When I mentioned you, she already knew about your problems with the police. She’d seen the story about an American tourist being wanted for murder and immediately went online to find out more about you. She definitely wants to help. I expect she’ll be waiting for us in front of her building. Don’t let it throw you when she starts talking to you in Russian. Just call her “babushka” and act thrilled to see her, like you’
re her long-lost granddaughter or something. Whatever she does, just go with it. She’ll explain once you’re inside.”
By now, they were descending a very long escalator into the Metro system. This station appeared to have been built in the era when the beauty of the subway was a major priority for the USSR. Nicole had seen another station from this period on the ship’s city tour. This one featured polished marble walls, art-deco chandeliers, and bronze bas relief artwork. The ceilings were arched as were the openings to passageways leading from the main corridor to the subway lines.
Abby took in Nicole’s awed expression as she gazed around. “Yeah,” Abby said. “It’s really something, isn’t it?” Once they boarded a train, the two limited themselves to small talk, chatting about home: L.A. for Nicole and Fort Lauderdale for Abby.
Abby made a wide gesture that took in her surroundings. “I was determined to get away from my home town, and, boy, did I.”
“Do you plan to stay in Russia?”
“No way. I’m going home as soon as I land a job at a news outlet. I’d prefer print, but I can’t afford to be fussy with so few jobs available. It seems I’ve picked the wrong century to go into journalism.
“What about you?” Abby said. “What do you do when you’re not running from the police?” When Nicole explained what she did, Abby was astonished. “A private detective? I didn’t even know they still existed. Do you, like, break into hotel rooms and take pictures of husbands cheating on their wives?”
Nicole laughed. “Private detectives used to do that, it’s true. Maybe some still work on marital infidelity, but most states have no-fault divorce now, so those cases have pretty much gone away.” She went on to explain that Colbert & Smith mainly handled cases for large corporations and law firms.
The Moscow Affair Page 12
