“And if we
do
believe them, then there’s every possibility that Rublev, who’s obviously quite close to her, might also be involved in what Mulligan and Warner claim she is.”
“Still, a code? Let me read it again.”
Room service arrived while Vaughan carefully studied the note. I poured coffee for us and waited for Vaughan to finish. He gave me the note; I, too, gave it a second read.
“Well?” I asked.
“A lover’s note, Jess. Sorry, but I don’t read anything else into it.”
“You’re probably right. But there’s a look on your face that says you might be thinking what Mulligan thought, that I’ve been reading too many cold war spy stories. Too active an imagination.”
“I wasn’t thinking that at all.”
“Good. Because that’s not what’s behind my fast-developing paranoia since this trip began. There’s got to be a link between the sudden deaths of Ward Wenington and Vlady Staritova. In both cases it’s been said that they didn’t die of natural causes. It’s also no coincidence that I was chosen to carry a note from Rublev to Alexandra Kozhina. When I returned here last night, I discovered that someone had searched my suite.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that earlier?”
“I just thought of it.”
“I mean, why didn’t you call me last night the minute you realized it? You could have been in danger.”
“Whoever had been there was long gone by the time I arrived. I think the person was looking for that note.”
“Makes sense. Nothing missing?”
“No. I had the note with me last night. It’s always been with me.”
“Good. Jess, maybe we should—”
The ringing. phone jarred us.
“It’s her,” I said.
He nodded.
“Use the phone in the bedroom.”
“All right.”
“As soon as I pick up, do the same.”
“Right.”
Vaughan stood in the door to the bedroom, the phone in his hand. I picked up the receiver. So did he.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Yes, Ms. Kozhina. They told me you’d be calling again. Glad we finally connected.”
I glanced at Vaughan, who indicated he was on the line.
“I am sorry to have been so ... how shall I say? ... so elusive, yes? ... to be difficult to reach.”
“That’s quite all right,” I said. “I’m glad we finally have this chance to talk. You mentioned you have this mystery writers’ group.”
“Da.
Yes.”
“And you’d like me to speak to your group.”
“Yes. Again, yes.”
“Well, I hadn’t known about that until you mentioned it, but that shouldn’t be a problem. I spoke with an official with our trade mission. He says it will be fine for me to meet with you.”
“That is good. Very good news.”
“I’m not sure what our schedule is tomorrow—we’ll be in Moscow only for another two days. When were you thinking of having me?”
“Tonight? Yes? Once a week we meet. Tonight is our meeting.”
I looked to Vaughan. He shrugged. “I believe tonight will be all right, Ms. Kozhina, but I’ll have to confirm it. I have your address but not your phone number. I could call you after I clear it and—”
“My phone does not work, Mrs. Fletcher. The system. Something about a central station. I am sorry. I call from a friend’s flat.”
“May I call you back there?”
“Nyet.
Perhaps you would be good enough to leave a written message for me.”
“All right. Where shall I leave it?”
“At the hotel desk. I will come by at noon. Yes?”
“I should know by then. I’ll hear from you about the time and where I’m to go?”
“Yes. I will leave that information at the desk when I find out whether you will come.”
“That sounds fine, Ms. Kozhina.”
“Please, call me Alexandra.”
“And I’m Jessica. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other later. Thank you for calling. Good-bye.”
Vaughan hung up in the bedroom and joined me in the living room.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“She sounds... well, harmless enough. Hard to believe what Mulligan and Warner say about her.”
“I suppose we’d better call Mr. Mulligan. Or is it Warner?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I suppose—”
The phone rang. I picked up. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Fletcher. Karl Warner.”
“Good morning, Mr. Warner. I was just about to call you.”
“Were you? Then I’ve saved you the trouble. Had breakfast yet?”
I looked at the plate of uneaten toast. “No,” I said.
“Be my guest?”
“I—I’m with Mr. Buckley.”
“He’s invited, too, of course. Say, fifteen minutes. Downstairs? In the restaurant?”
“I’ll have to ask him.”
“Mrs. Buckley, too, if she wishes to join us.”
I held my hand over the mouthpiece and asked Vaughan.
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll fetch Olga.”
“We’ll meet you in the restaurant, Mr. Warner. Any special reason for this invitation?”
He laughed. “Just thought we should go over some things before your meeting tonight with Ms. Kozhina. See you in fifteen.”
He hung up.
“Why does he want to have breakfast?” Vaughan asked.
“To talk things over before I meet tonight with Ms. Kozhina.”
“To talk things over before—How the hell does he know about it? You just hung up on her.”
I smiled. “Remember when we were in Washington and you explained all the strange goings-on by saying, ‘This is Washington?”’
“Yes.”
“Well, this is Moscow. Enough said?”
“The phone.”
“The room.”
“Everything?
Everywhere?”
“I certainly hope not.”
Chapter Fifteen
Warner was already seated when we arrived at the restaurant. He sprang to his feet and held out chairs for Olga and me.
Once we’d placed our orders, I said, “Mr. Warner, I would really appreciate it if we could be totally honest with one another.”
“I wasn’t aware we hadn’t been, Mrs. Fletcher.”
I didn’t allow him to get away with that. “You know I’ve made tentative plans to meet with Ms. Kozhina tonight. You also know that I’m to leave a note for her at the desk, and that she’ll leave a note for me with instructions on where and when we’re to meet. It’s obvious that every word I utter in my suite is heard by people, evidently including you. Now, having said that, let’s discuss why you really want me to meet with Alexandra Kozhina, and the result you hope will come from that meeting.”
Warner listened impassively. When I finished, he said, “Enjoy your breakfast. Then we’ll go to some place I
assure
you is secure.”
Before leaving the hotel for our ten o’clock meeting, I left a note at the front desk for Alexandra Kozhina advising her that I was free that evening to address her writers’ group. I also mentioned that my American publisher, Vaughan Buckley, would accompany me.
Following the meeting, we attended a luncheon hosted by a relatively new newspaper,
Nezavisimaya Gazeta,
founded, we were told, by Yeltsin supporters, but becoming more disillusioned with him and the government with each passing day. At least that’s what Pyotr Belopolsky, our Russian host, had said.
A certain sadness about Russia became increasingly obvious the longer we were there. The country had shucked its oppressive Communist yoke, yet was having so much trouble adjusting to suddenly becoming a democracy and free market. There was constant talk of millions of citizens not being paid for months, primarily because the new government hadn’t instituted an effective, corruption-free tax collection system, or a legal structure through which wrongs could be righted. And always organized crime lurked behind every business deal, every bank, every government agency. I thought of Ivan, our driver the previous day, who said he had to fork over a large percentage of his income to mobsters, or else his car, and undoubtedly himself, was in physical jeopardy. I found myself saying a silent prayer that the people of this vast country would find a way to prosper in peace, not only for their sake, but for the rest of the world as well.
After lunch Vaughan, Olga, and I swung by the Savoy to check whether Ms. Kozhina had picked up my note and left one for me. She had. Her message said: “I am pleased you will speak to us tonight. The meeting is at eight o’clock. A car and driver will pick you and Mr. Buckley up at quarter before eight at front of hotel. Thank you. A. Kozhina.”
“I still say there’s something wrong with all of this,” Olga said after reading the note.
“Maybe there is,” her husband said. “We’ll find out soon enough.”
“And you’re adamant about my not going with you,” she said.
“That’s right.”
“But you didn’t hesitate ringing me in on everything leading up to it.”
“Because I didn’t think it would amount to anything. Just a fascinating bit of intrigue for us to share,” Vaughan said. “But now that Jess is going through with it, I insist you stay here at the hotel.” His laugh was a little forced. “It will all probably end up a big nothing. All Jess has to do is make an offer to this mysterious Kozhina lady, get her reaction, and report it back to Warner. Hardly the sort of clandestine mission likely to get anyone hurt.”
“Then I should be able to go with you,” Olga said.
“She’s right,” I offered.
“Jess. I—”
“Of course I’m right,” said Olga. “Besides, why should you two have all the fun? I’d love to attend a Russian writers’ meeting, see how they think, what they’re up to. The next Pushkin or Chekhov or Tolstoy might be there.”
“Unlikely,” Vaughan said, resignation in his voice.
“Then it’s settled,” Olga said. She looked at her watch. “Time to get to the afternoon meeting.” She smiled sweetly at Vaughan. “I never knew the publishing business was so much fun.”
That afternoon’s gathering was not what I would term “fun.” A panel of Russian publishers—we were told there were an estimated three thousand independent publishers in Russia; the panel represented the few who were solvent—droned on about their business woes, some speaking in fractured English, others-filtering their remarks through a translator. Their ultimate message was clear enough, no matter in what language it was presented. They wanted American publishers to buy their way into the Russian book market through partnerships forged with the Russians.
“At the profit margin we operate under, the last thing Buckley House needs is a Russian partner tottering on the brink of bankruptcy,” Vaughan whispered to me. “And with the Russian mob as a not very silent partner.”
I chuckled. I was thinking the same thing. I was also pondering how lucky I was to not be in business, with all its intrigue and pressures and perpetual eye on the bottom line. Running my own little, one-person writing factory was quite enough, thank you.
The ubiquitous cocktail party followed the meeting, with caviar and smoked salmon and an unending supply of vodka. I wasn’t surprised to see the ever-present Karl Warner at the party. But the arrival of Tom Mulligan of the American Embassy was unexpected. He came directly to where I chatted with a group of Russians, one of whom made an enthusiastic pitch for the rights to my books. “Poor Vlady,” the Russian said. “He would have been a good publisher for you, Mrs. Fletcher. But, alas, poor Vlady is no longer with us, which means there is no one at his publishing house to do your works justice. I, on the other hand, have a fine staff who would—”
“Mr. Mulligan,” I said, happy for the intrusion. “How nice to see you again.”
The Russian publishers drifted away, leaving Mulligan and me alone.
“Learning a lot about your Russian colleagues?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. This has been a fascinating, as well as informative experience.”
“Glad to hear it.”
I looked past him to where Warner stood with a small cluster of people. Although he was engaged in conversation with them, I had no doubt his attention was on us.
“Have a pleasant evening planned?” Mulligan asked.
I wasn’t sure how to answer. Did he know about my date to address Alexandra Kozhina’s writers’ group? Probably. On the other hand, maybe he wasn’t in Warner’s loop. We’d been told at lunch that the performance of the LenKom Theater and the Russian nightclub visit, both having been cancelled due to Vlady Staritova’s death, had been rescheduled for that evening. Was Mulligan referring to those plans?
I replied to his question in my best noncommittal, bureaucratic, governmental manner: “Yes,” I said.
He gave me a wide smile. “Good. I want to be sure our distinguished American visitors enjoy themselves. Hope to see you again before you leave, Mrs. Fletcher. And thank you again for signing the books for me and my wife. Much appreciated.”
He sauntered away, his walk that of a man sure of himself in any situation.
His departure left me looking directly at Warner, who also smiled, nodded in a way that said everything would be fine, and left the room.
“Dinner plans?” Marge Fargo asked, coming up behind me.
“Ah, no. Well, yes, actually. I promised some people we’d get together tonight.” Which I had done, although it didn’t involve dinner. The whitest of lies.
“Oh, sorry,” she said. “I was hoping to catch some quiet time with you during the trip. Happy with Buckley House?”
Her question caught me off-guard. “Pardon?” I said.
“Are you happy with Buckley House publishing your books?”
“Why, yes.”
“Good to hear. You know, Jess, sometimes even the best of relationships in this business run their course. A staleness sets in. I’ve just established a new division devoted exclusively to murder mysteries. You’d be the crown jewel of that division. Plenty of money to put behind your books.”
A wave of pervasive discomfort swept over me. I didn’t know Marge Fargo very well, hardly at all, actually, aside from her reputation in the publishing world, which was a fine one. Here I was being wooed away from my publisher of many years, Buckley House, not the biggest in the business but one of the most respected. I’d developed a strong friendship with Vaughan Buckley and had always been blissfully pleased with the job he did publishing and marketing my books. It was an awkward situation Marge Fargo was putting me in, one I was anxious to escape.