Alexandra smiled demurely. “I am afraid so,” she said.
Harrison Monroe boarded, along with two other men I hadn’t seen before. One of them joined the pilot in the cockpit and took the right seat. The cockpit door remained open, allowing us to observe the two men manipulate controls, causing the sleek jet to move.
“We’re cleared for an immediate takeoff,” the copilot said over the intercom. “Please fasten your seat belts and secure any loose objects.”
I held my teacup as the pilot applied thrust. The twin engines whined, then roared to life, and we were on our way. In what seemed only a second, the nose tilted up and we were airborne, slicing our way through the night sky to altitude, and destination, unknown.
“Any idea where we’re headed?” Vaughan asked.
“They told me London,” I replied, “but I wouldn’t count on it.”
Once we reached cruising altitude, the copilot, who didn’t look older than a high school senior, acted as our flight attendant, offering drinks and packaged snacks. I asked who owned the plane.
“It’s a beauty, isn’t it?” he replied.
Another question deflected.
“You should have something stronger than tea,” Vaughan said after he and Olga ordered vodka, and Alexandra asked for her second drink. “After what you’ve been through.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I said.
While the copilot was busy at the bar, Vaughan leaned over the table and said, “You obviously persuaded Ms. Kozhina to come over to our side.”
Alexandra lowered her head, then raised it, looking at me and smiling. “I am sorry to disappoint you, but what you say is not true.”
“But you’re with us on this plane,” Vaughan said.
“That is true,” she said. “But—”
Monroe, who sat with his colleague at the other table, suddenly joined us, cutting off what Alexandra was about to say.
“Everyone comfortable?” he asked.
“Ms. Kozhina was about to answer a question,” I said.
“Plenty of time for that,” Monroe said. “Ms. Kozhina, would you be good enough to join us at the other table? We have some things to discuss with you.”
“Plokha,”
I said.
“Pardon?” Monroe said.
“It means bad in Russian, I think,” I said. “It’s the worst Russian word I learned. If I’d learned a few more, I’d—”
“Enjoy your drinks,” Monroe said. “Pleasure to have you with us.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Alexandra’s defection to the plane’s other table—no pun intended—allowed Vaughan, Olga, and me to catch up on our respective adventures of that night.
“After the men pushed me aside and made you a captive in the limo,” Vaughan said, “Olga and I really feared for our lives. They were mobsters, no doubt about that.”
“How did you get away from them?” I asked.
Olga answered, “Truth is, Jess, we didn’t get away from them. They let us go.”
“Immediately?”
“Yes,” said Vaughan. “They said something to us in Russian and walked away.”
“Just like that?” I said.
“Not quite,” Olga said. “One of them spoke some English. He said their expenses had to be paid.”
“Expenses? Paid by you? That’s outrageous.”
Olga laughed. “Sure it was,” she said. “A shake-down.”
“What did you do?” I asked.
“Paid them, of course,” Vaughan said. “Gave them every cent we had in cash. You saw them. Not people to be trifled with.”
“You were smart,” I said. “At least you’re alive. Where did you go after that?”
“We went directly to the embassy,” Olga said.
Vaughan chimed in, “We told Mulligan what happened to us, and to you. He didn’t seem too concerned. Frankly, I think the man is lacking to be in such a job. A typical bureaucrat waiting for the pension. But enough about us. What happened to you? How did you hook up with her?” He indicated Alexandra, who continued to huddle with Monroe and his colleague.
“It’s a—well, I’m not sure I’m capable of telling you with any accuracy. The whole night’s a blur.”
“You delivered the message to her from Mulligan and Warner, I assume,” Olga said.
“Yes, although she already knew what the message was.”
“How did she know?”
“How do people know anything in Russia?” I said. “I had the feeling she wasn’t interested in working for us. Us. I mean the government. The United States. At any rate, she dismissed it until she received a message on her answering machine. An American male voice said, ‘Your eyes are like stars in the night.’ ”
“Where have I heard that before?” Vaughan asked. “In the note I carried to her.”
“That’s right,” Vaughan said. “Why would that line change her mind about cooperating with the U.S.?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “That’s only one of a hundred questions I want answered.”
Alexandra rejoined us. “I am sorry,” she said. “They had things they wanted me to know. I am also sorry about what happened to all of you. It was not my intention to see you inconvenienced.”
My laugh was purely involuntary. “I’m afraid that ranks with one of the great understatements, Alexandra.”
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said.
I glanced at the other table where Harrison Monroe and his colleague were deep in hushed conversation. Since they didn’t seem especially interested in us, it was a good time to ask Alexandra a few questions. I leaned close to her and asked, “What does the message, ‘Your eyes are like stars in the night’ mean?”
She thought before answering. “It was a way of letting me know that I was no longer safe with my people.”
“I’ll need a little more explanation than that.” I said as Vaughan and Olga leaned forward to pick up on our conversation.
“I was told that I would receive instruction from Dimitri on what code word, or words, would be used to alert me to danger.”
“Danger? Danger from whom?”
“My Communist comrades.”
“Why would you be in danger with them?”
“Because they learned of what I have been doing for your people.”
“Wait a minute,” Vaughan said, keeping his voice low. “How could your so-called comrades know that you’d decided to cooperate with the Americans? Jess just made the offer tonight. As I understand it from her, you were warned of being in danger before you’d ever decided to cooperate.”
A small, satisfied smile crossed her pretty lips. She slowly shook her head, looked at me, then said to Vaughan, “That is not true, Mr. Buckley. I made my decision two years ago.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Alexandra’s statement that she’d decided two years ago to cooperate with the United States left us stunned. I started to probe her for details, but Monroe again interrupted by ushering her back to his table. It was at that moment that the night caught up with me. I couldn’t keep my eyes open, and stopped trying.
When I awoke, Vaughan, too, was sleeping. Olga had moved to the bench seat where she read a fashion magazine, one of many publications available on the plane.
“We’re beginning our descent into London,” the pilot said over the intercom. “I suggest you tidy up your area in preparation for landing. We should be touching down at Gatwick in about twenty minutes. I’ll give you a heads-up when we’re a few minutes out.”
His announcement woke Vaughan, who yawned, stretched and smiled. “Almost over,” he said. “London will be a pleasant change from where we’ve been.”
“And what we’ve been through,” Olga added as she rejoined us.
Flying into London naturally generated thoughts of George Sutherland, Scotland Yard chief inspector and my dear friend. Scottish by birth, George had been with The Yard in London for many years. We’d met there when I was visiting another friend, Majorie Ainsworth, then the world’s reigning mystery writer. She was murdered during my visit, which was the catalyst for coming into contact with the dashing, urbane Inspector Sutherland.
We’d maintained our relationship since then, and I’d been a guest at his family’s castle in Wick, Scotland, a few summers ago. Some of my close friends back home are convinced George and I were enjoying a romantic relationship. That wasn’t true, although I’d be less than honest not to admit that the contemplation was not unpleasant. George had made his feelings known to me during that summer in Wick. But we both knew that if something deeper and more meaningful were ever to develop between us, it could result only from a careful navigation of our individual lives, and what the melding of them would potentially represent. Neither of us had reached that point.
I looked to the other table where Alexandra napped in one of the four chairs. Harrison Monroe and the other man read newspapers.
“Interesting,” Vaughan said, “what Ms. Kozhina said about having made up her mind two years ago to change sides. Your delivering that message to her, Jess, seemed to be the catalyst for her to act on her decision.”
“I suppose so,” I said. “Still, why would she wait so long?”
Monroe joined us. “We’ll be landing in a few minutes,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll be happy to get into a comfortable hotel and catch up on your sleep.”
“I have other things on my mind besides sleep,” I said.
“Oh? A writer’s mind at work?”
“Nothing to do with being a writer,” I said. “More a matter of being a citizen of the United States.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, Mr. Monroe, that what we’ve been put through since agreeing to be part of a trade mission hardly represents what any citizen should be subjected to. No one responds to questions. We’re told to do things without any explanation, any justification. Here we are on a private jet flying to London after being spirited out of Moscow. Our personal belongings are left behind. My friends here are accosted by Russian hoodlums. I was kidnapped, chased through the streets, hustled from car to car, and taken on mad rides in and out of Moscow, all because I was, as they say, a good soldier, doing what I was asked to do by my government.”
Monroe listened quietly, his chin resting on a tent formed by his hands.
Vaughan said, “I think what Mrs. Fletcher is saying, Mr. Monroe, is that some simple answers would go a long way to salving the resentment she’s feeling—that we’re all feeling.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Monroe said.
“Exactly,” I said. “It shouldn’t be a problem. But it seems to be a big one.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re about six minutes from touchdown,” the pilot announced. “Please take your seats and buckle up, secure any loose items.”
Monroe stood. “There’s a meeting scheduled first thing in the morning,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll have all the answers you need. Excuse me.”
The landing was so smooth we barely felt the wheels touch the runway. As the pilot taxied to a hangar on the perimeter of the airport, I saw through the window two limousines with their headlights on, and what appeared to be a police vehicle. A number of people milled about as the plane was maneuvered to position the boarding stairs close to the vehicles.
The pilot stepped into the passenger compartment, but Monroe held up a hand. “We just need a few minutes,” he said. The pilot quickly retreated into the cockpit, shutting the door behind him.
Monroe addressed us: “I understand the frustration you’ve felt the past few days. All I can say at this juncture is that everything was done with your best interests uppermost in mind. Tomorrow morning you’ll be meeting with the people who are authorized to explain what has happened, and to answer your questions. Until that meeting, I ask that you put aside any preconceived notions, not discuss the matter with anyone except among yourselves, enjoy a good dinner and the rest of the evening, and be ready to go to tomorrow’s meeting at nine sharp.”
“What about clothing?” Olga asked. “And toiletries.”
“Our London people were contacted before we left Moscow. We gave them our best estimate of what you would need until your belongings arrive tomorrow afternoon. You have sleepwear, toiletries, and fresh undergarments and other items of clothing in your hotel rooms. If we were off on our estimate of your sizes, I apologize. Any other questions?”
“Where are we staying?” Vaughan asked.
“One of London’s finest,” Monroe replied. “Nothing too good for citizens like you.”
Monroe knocked on the cockpit door, and the pilot emerged. “Ready to go,” Monroe said.
The passenger door opened, and the boarding stairs were lowered. Monroe and his colleague kept Alexandra behind with them as Vaughan, Olga, and I descended the stairs to the tarmac, where we were greeted by a young woman in a tailored brown business suit. She was flanked by a half-dozen men.
“This way, please,” she said in a clipped British accent, and led us to one of the limos.
I looked back to see Alexandra come down the boarding stairs, Monroe in front of her, the other man taking up the rear. They were ushered into the second limousine.
“Why wouldn’t he at least tell us where we’re staying?” Olga asked.
Vaughan answered, “Because it’s the government, my dear.”
“But it’s
our
government.”
“Precisely.”
Gatwick, the second of the two major London airports, is thirty miles south of the city, approximately twice as far as the more frequently used Heathrow. It took us about an hour to reach our hotel, which I recognized immediately—the Athenaeum, on Piccadilly, one of my favorite London hotels.
But instead of pulling up to its entrance, the driver stopped a half block away, in front of a row of stately town houses belonging to the Athenaeum. I’d been given a tour of one of them during my last stay; they define elegance and privacy. Guests staying in them have their own entrance, yet enjoy the full array of services offered by the hotel itself.
The two limousines had been followed into the city by three other cars. Now, with all five vehicles lined up at the curb, we got out and were immediately led up the stairs of the town houses. I stood on the small landing and looked to where Vaughan and Olga were entering the house next to me. On my other side, Alexandra Kozhina and the British woman who’d greeted us at the foot of the aircraft stairs were about to go into that building.