“Oh, no,” I said. “No problem. There’s an official there who enjoys my books. Just a courtesy call.”
Marge grinned. “You have admirers everywhere you go, Jess. See you at lunch.”
Our driver was waiting outside when we exited the building. The sky was low and leaden. Rain was imminent. The driver, a young man in a black uniform and cap, opened the rear door of his BMW sedan, closed it after we were in, and asked where we wished to go.
“The American Embassy, on Novinsky Bulvar,” Vaughan said, consulting a piece of paper.
“Yes, sir,” said the driver, slipping the car into drive and pulling away from the curb.
“Are you from Moscow?” I asked as he navigated heavy traffic.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, glancing at me over his shoulder. “Bom and raised here.”
“You’ve seen lots of changes, I assume,” Vaughan offered.
“Very big changes,” the driver said.
“For the better?” I asked.
He looked back at me again. “To be honest, no. But I am lucky. I have this car and can make a living. Others—so much hard work and no pay. The government fails. No taxes collected. The crime, it is terrible. I give almost half of what I earn each month to the
mafiya
—for protection. To not pay, I find the windshield smashed, the tires slashed. No, things are not good here.”
Vaughan and I rode the rest of the way in silence. How sad, I thought, for an enterprising, hard-working young man to be the victim of common thugs, using threats of force to squeeze money from him.
We pulled up in front of an imposing yellow-and-white building that housed the American Embassy. A tall black, wrought-iron fence secured it from passersby.
“We’re early,” I said, checking my watch. We had a half hour before our appointment.
“I’m sure there’s a comfortable place inside to wait,” Vaughan said. “Or we can stay in the car.”
“How about a walk?” I suggested.
Vaughan looked through the window. Rain hadn’t yet started to fall. “All right.”
“I will be here when you want me,” the driver said after opening the door for me. “My name is Ivan.”
“Thank you, Ivan.”
“Where to?” Vaughan asked.
“Wherever we can talk privately. How about that little park over there across the street?”
We waited until there was a sizable break in traffic before attempting to cross. Once we did, we stepped into a small grassy area dotted with trees. Two benches faced each other, fifteen feet apart. One was occupied; we took the other.
“Gotten over last night?” Vaughan asked.
“No.”
“Sorry. You look agitated, nervous as the proverbial cat.”
I kept looking about, from the buildings across the street to the trees, and to the couple on the other bench.
“Looking for someone?” Vaughan asked.
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Anyone and everyone.”
“jess—”
I turned to him. “Vaughan, my suite is bugged.”
He laughed. “We were told it probably would be.”
“But it is. It
really
is.”
“Then you’ll just have to be careful what you say.”
“I get the feeling everything in Moscow is bugged,” I said.
“Even here? In this park?”
“Even here.” I pointed to the highest floor of the embassy building. “There are microphones that can pick us up whispering from way up there.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“From even farther,” I added.
“Okay, Jess. You’re right. But why is it so important to you? Is there something you want to tell me that you don’t want anyone else to hear?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I was told last night by Karl Warner—he’s the one who took Ward Wenington’s place—he told me that Vlady Staritova didn’t die from natural causes.”
Vaughan’s brow creased, his eyes narrowed. “Say that again.”
“Vlady didn’t die of a heart attack or stroke. At least not according to Warner.”
“How did he die?”
“I don’t know.”
Vaughan sat back and looked up through the trees into the darkening sky. He asked without moving, “Why did Warner tell
you
this?”
“That’s another thing I want to discuss with you. When we had dinner at the National Gallery in Washington, I sat next to a Russian writer, Dimitri Rublev.”
“I met him.”
“He’s a mystery writer.”
“So he said.”
“He asked me to do a favor for him when I got to Russia. He has a lady friend here in Moscow. I call her that, although I really don’t know what their relationship is. At any rate, her name is Alexandra Kozhina. Rublev gave me an envelope to deliver to her.”
“What’s in the envelope?”
“I don’t know. It’s sealed.”
“An unusual request, wouldn’t you say?”
“I didn’t think so at the time. In retrospect, maybe it is.”
“Have you met this woman?”
“No. She called me. Twice.”
“And?”
“They were abbreviated conversations. She said I was supposed to speak to her writers’ group. I checked with Mr. Belopolsky. He didn’t know of any such plans for me.”
“Strange.”
“I thought so. Anyway, when Karl Wamer visited me last night, he brought two Russian men with him. One is a high-ranking police officer. I don’t know what the other man does. Warner wants me to meet with Ms. Kozhina.”
“How did he know about her?”
“Obviously, my phone is tapped. Maybe the entire room.”
“We were warned about that.”
“A warning easily forgotten, at least for an American.”
“Why would Warner want you to meet with her, Jess?”
“I don’t know. I asked him, but received the usual evasive nonanswer.”
“How did you leave it with him?”
“I believe I said I’d think about it. No, I said I was under no obligation to do anything except as required by being part of the trade mission.”
“And you’re right,” Vaughan said.
“When I told Warner that, he reminded me that Vlady was dead, and so was Ward Wenington. He said he didn’t want to see anyone else killed.”
“A veiled threat, I’d say.”
“That’s the way
I
took it.”
I looked across to the couple on the facing bench. They seemed uninterested in us and what we were saying. But my paranoia antenna was fully extended.
“What’s that old saying?” I asked Vaughan. “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean someone isn’t following you?”
He laughed gently. “Maybe we’d better check beneath this bench.”
“Maybe we should.”
“Time to get inside,” he said, checking his watch.
As we poised to cross the wide boulevard, I saw that our driver, Ivan, had left his car and stood talking to a man in a heavy black overcoat and black slouch hat pulled down low over his forehead.
“Let’s go,” Vaughan said, taking my hand and leading us through a break in the traffic. We reached the sidewalk and approached a young Marine in uniform standing at attention at the gate. Vaughan told him who we were and why we were there. The Marine used a phone in a covered box to call within. A moment later, we were inside the American Embassy. A man at a desk verified who we were, issued us badges, and instructed another young Marine to take us to Mr. Mulligan’s office on the fourth floor.
The embassy was a busy place that morning. Our uniformed escort remained ramrod-straight as he guided us to a sizable anteroom. A stylishly dressed woman sat behind a large wooden desk. The floor was partially covered by a huge circular red-white-and-blue rug.
“Mr. Buckley,” the receptionist said, standing and extending her hand. “Mrs. Fletcher. Mr. Mulligan is expecting you. Please wait a moment.”
She disappeared inside Mulligan’s office, then returned a few seconds later with him at her side. He was a tall, handsome man I judged to be in his early sixties. Although his hair was mostly gray, his mustache was black, and was shaped to come down the sides of his mouth. He wore a tight double-breasted navy blazer, gray slacks with a razor crease, white shirt, and red-and-white striped tie.
“Ah, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, breaking into a toothy smile and shaking my hand. “What a pleasure.”
“This is my publisher, Mr. Mulligan, Vaughan Buckley of Buckley House.”
They shook hands. “I spoke with you last evening, Mr. Buckley,” Mulligan said. “Good of you to come by this morning.”
“Our pleasure,” Vaughan said.
“Please, sit down,” Mulligan said, indicating a pair of red leather wing chairs flanking his highly polished mahogany desk, on which there was only a small stand from which a miniature American flag protruded, a leather writing pad, and a framed photo of what I assumed was his family.
“Coffee, tea?” he asked. “Something stronger? Vodka? We are, after all, in Russia.”
Vaughan and I declined.
Mulligan sat, formed a tent beneath his chin with his fingers, looked at me, and said, “I believe I’ve read all of your books, Mrs. Fletcher. In fact, I brought a couple of them to the office this morning. Would I be too forward in asking you to sign them?”
“Not at all.”
“Now,” said Mulligan, “I assume the problem of last night was resolved to your satisfaction.”
“I suppose it was,” I said.
It occurred to me that the only thing Vaughan knew about my situation when he called the embassy last night was that I was being detained from leaving my suite. Yes, my unwanted visitors had left, and the equally unwelcome gentlemen in the hall had also departed. But that was a minor issue compared with other matters raised during the evening, the ones I’d just confided to Vaughan in the park across the street.
Dilemma: Do I confide those same things to Mr. Mulligan?
My answer was no. It had finally sunk in that when dealing with government officials of any ilk, discretion was vastly superior to valor.
“Our Russian friends do things a little differently than we’re used to,” Mulligan said, falling into a teaching voice. “They’ve come out of a closed society and are trying to loosen up their system. But old ways die hard. I suppose what I’m saying is that we have to be understanding where certain events are involved.”
Vaughan and I waited for his next comment.
“The business last night with Mr. Staritova was most upsetting.”
“It certainly was,” I said.
“It caused me to reflect on the death of Mr. Wenington back in Washington.”
I sat up a little straighter. Where was he going with this?
“I understand you were the unfortunate one to be there when Ward’s body was discovered, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“That’s correct.”
“Ward was a good man. It’s a real loss.”
“Did he work for the embassy?” I asked.
“Not directly. But he acted as liaison on some very important trade missions put together by Commerce.”
“Did he work directly for the Commerce Department?” I asked.
“He—I understand you’ve made some friends while here in Moscow, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“I certainly hope so, although I really haven’t gotten to know many people aside from the Russian publishers who came to Washington. But I’m looking forward to meeting as many Russians as possible.”
“That’s a good attitude,” Mulligan said. “Too many Americans shy away from getting to know the citizens of countries they visit. It must be exciting for fledgling Russian writers to have the opportunity to learn from someone of your stature.”
“Actually, I haven’t met any Russian writers yet, Mr. Mulligan. But I—”
I stopped short, realizing I was about to mention Alexandra Kozhina.
I needn’t have been concerned because Mulligan raised her name. “I understand you’ll be addressing a Russian mystery writers’ group,” he said.
“That’s news to me.”
His eyebrows arched. “Oh? I was told it had been arranged through one of the group’s members, a Ms....”
I shot a furtive glance at Vaughan, whose lips displayed the slightest trace of a smile.
“Ms. Kozhina?” I ventured.
“Yes. I think that’s her name. Kozhina. Her first name is....”
“Alexandra,” I said.
“You’re way ahead of me,” Mulligan said. “But you say you aren’t aware of your talk to them.”
“Mr. Mulligan,” I said, drawing a breath, “would you be good enough to tell me why you, an official at the embassy, would know about Alexandra Kozhina and my supposed relationship with her?”
“Part of my job, Mrs. Fletcher, keeping in touch with what Americans are doing here in Russia.”
“I understand that,” I said. “But Ms. Kozhina has come up through other channels.”
“Oh?”
I had the distinct feeling that his surprise was feigned.
Vaughan said, “I think we’ve taken enough of Mr. Mulligan’s time, Jess.”
“I’m sure he’s willing to spare us a few more minutes,” I said.
Mulligan nodded.
“The situation you helped with last night was unpleasant for me,” I said. “I was present when a very nice man, and my Russian publisher, died suddenly. I was sitting next to him when it happened. I was rushed from the restaurant and told to remain in my hotel room. There were guards outside my door. The man who took me from the restaurant, a Mr. Karl Warner, brought two Russian gentlemen to my room. They obviously knew about Ms. Kozhina because—”
I looked to Vaughan to see what he thought of my continuing. He shrugged and gave me a small nod.
“It’s obvious, Mr. Mulligan,” I said, “that anything I say in my hotel room, and on the phone there, is being listened to by others.”
Mulligan adjusted his lanky frame in his chair. “Mrs. Fletcher, no offense, but I think you might be reading too many cold war spy novels.”
“I take no offense, Mr. Mulligan. Yes, I do read spy novels and enjoy them. But I
know
what I say is true. We were briefed before we left Washington to be careful about what we say in our rooms, what we say anywhere, for that matter.”