The Moscow Affair Read online

  Praise

  Praise for

  Nancy Boyarsky’s

  Nicole Graves Mysteries

  “full of page-by-page surprises”

  –Kirkus Reviews

  “…nail-biting adventure whose thralls are difficult to escape”

  –Foreword Reviews

  “a hold-onto-the-bar roller coaster of a mystery”

  –RT Book Reviews

  “Nicole Graves is the best fictional sleuth to come down the pike since Sue Grafton’s Kinsey Millhone.”

  –Laura Levine, author of the popular Jaine Austen Mysteries

  “a charming and straight-shooting heroine”

  –Foreword Reviews

  “Well written, non-stop, can’t-put-it-down suspense.”

  –Charles Rosenberg, bestselling author of Death on a High Floor

  “Well developed characters in a rich English setting brings ample twists throughout and all the way to the final pages.”

  –Eric Hoffer Award Gold Medal Winner 2018 for The Swap

  Title page

  The

  Moscow AffaiR

  a Nicole Graves mystery

  Nancy Boyarsky

  Durham, NC

  Table of Contents

  Praise

  Title page

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  The Nicole Graves Series

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2021, by Nancy Boyarksy

  The Moscow Affair: A Nicole Graves Mystery

  Nancy Boyarsky

  www.nancyboyarsky.com

  [email protected]

  Published 2021, by Light Messages

  www.lightmessages.com

  Durham, NC 27713 USA

  SAN: 920-9298

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-61153-381-1

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61153-382-8

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2021938194

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 International Copyright Act, without the prior written permission except in brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Dedication

  For my wonderful and amazing granddaughters,

  Anabelle and Lila

  Chapter One

  Nicole had decided that a brisk walk on her lunch hour would take her mind off her troubles. She’d strolled along the Miracle Mile, named by boosters who’d once held great hopes for this stretch of Wilshire Boulevard.

  The sky was an impossible shade of blue—free of smog, not a cloud in sight. It was a typical April day in Los Angeles. A few minutes before 1:00, the temperature was a perfect seventy-two degrees with a light breeze.

  The outing, even on this beautiful day, had failed to lift her spirits. Reinhardt, her fiancé, had been gone for eight months now. Where was he? What had happened to him? Was he even alive?

  As Nicole entered her building, her phone rang. She stepped back outside to answer it.

  “May I speak to Nicole Graves?” The man had an English accent, posh like Reinhardt’s, but it was definitely not him. Her scalp tingled, and she felt a sudden chill. This was the call she’d been dreading, the fear that kept her up at night. Something had happened to Reinhardt, and they—whoever it was he worked for—were finally calling with the news.

  “Hello?” the man said. “Are you there?

  “Yes, sorry,” she said. “This is Nicole.”

  “My name is Ian Davies, and I’m with the British government. I need to speak to you. I wonder if there’s somewhere we can talk in private. It’s a matter of some importance.”

  The feeling of her tingling scalp was replaced by the feeling she was about to throw up. “Of course.” She took in a deep gulp of air. “Why don’t you come to my office? The address is—”

  He cut her off. “I’m afraid that won’t do. Our conversation must be completely private, not at your workplace where people know you. You’re near the La Brea Tar Pits, yes?”

  “It’s five minutes away.”

  “Can you meet me at the entrance to the museum there? By the way, I’ll have an associate with me. We’ll find an unoccupied bench on the grounds where we can talk freely. I’m hoping we can meet today.”

  “Yes, all right.” Her words came out in a croak.

  “If you’re free, I can be there in, say, half an hour.”

  Thirty minutes. How could she endure waiting that long? “Can you give me an idea of what this is about?”

  “Not on the phone, I’m afraid. Can I count on you to be there?”

  “Of course,” she said. “How will I know you?”

  “Don’t worry about that. I’ll recognize you from your photo in the news.”

  She winced. She hated the publicity some of her cases had generated and the fact that people she didn’t know sometimes recognized her and wanted to ask questions she didn’t want to answer. “All right. In thirty minutes, at 1:30.”

  After dropping her cell back in her purse, she took the elevator up to Colbert & Smith’s new penthouse offices. Fighting back tears, she hurried through reception and went straight to her office, closed the door, and sat down at her desk. The red light on her phone was blinking. Another new hire with a question, she thought. They were always wanting her help with things they should be able to figure out themselves. Whoever it was would have to wait; she couldn’t bother with voicemail now. Later, she would think of that message light and imagine how differently things would have turned out if she hadn’t ignored it.

  “Now, the waiting would be over,” she told herself. She wouldn’t have to worry about him anymore. Her eyes welled with tears, and she grabbed a tissue before checking her watch. Only five minutes had passed since Davies called. That meant she had to sit here with her terrible thoughts for another twenty minutes before she could leave to meet with him.

  She couldn’t help thinking of the events that had led to all her misery. First came Reinhardt’s inexplicable disappearance. When she’d met him, he’d been a detective chief inspector for the London Metropolitan Police. Later, he’d taken another job that involved a lot of travel, usually with little or no notice. His absences became more frequent and lasted longer. The worst part was that he refused to tell her anything about his new position, what he did, or who he worked for. Nicole had assumed it was MI6, the U.K.’s equivalent of the CIA. These frequent, unpredictable disappearances had broken their relationship.

  Then, he’d turned up in time to rescue her from the fallout of her last big case. For the first time, he admitted he was a “covert operative.” He still refused to say which agency he worked for, just that he’d come to realize he wasn’t cut out for the loneliness of the job and the rules that separated him from a normal life. That was when he’d proposed to Nicole. He was ready to leave the agency, find work in L.A., and settle down to start a family. He just needed a few weeks to debr
ief, hand over his cases, and finalize his resignation. As soon as he was free, he’d catch the next flight to L.A., and they could be together.

  Weeks, then months, passed with no word except for a single hand-delivered note on her birthday, five months earlier. Nicole had done her best to find him. She was a private investigator, after all, equipped with the tools and tricks of the trade. She’d tracked down the florist in London who had his standing order for her weekly floral arrangements. The shop’s manager refused to tell her anything. “Our client list is confidential, madam,” was all she’d say.

  Nicole tried a phone number Reinhardt had once given her for his personal assistant, but a recorded message told her the line was no longer in service. She’d even located the number for MI6. The woman who answered had politely explained that the line was reserved for anonymous reports of terrorism threats to the U.K. She suggested Nicole write an inquiry to a post office address in London. Nicole dutifully mailed one off. She didn’t expect a response, nor did she receive one.

  On top of this heartbreak, she got up every morning, dreading work. The job she’d once loved had taken a bad turn, and she only had herself to blame. News of her last big case had gone viral in the media in both the U.K. and the U.S., bringing Colbert & Smith Investigations a huge amount of publicity. As a result, the firm’s business had grown three-fold. Jerry Stevens, her boss, had hired a raft of new investigators.

  Many of the new clients were the superrich. Some were founders of successful Silicon Valley start-ups who’d sold their companies for hundreds of millions. A good number were connected with what L.A. calls “The Industry.” They expected Colbert & Smith to do what disreputable Hollywood PIs did: discredit people who threatened their livelihood with lawsuits and accusations of wrongdoing. Detective agencies for these people were known to engage in illegal wiretapping, hire bogus witnesses willing to perjure themselves, and dig up dirt—much of it questionable—to discredit people accusing big stars, producers, and entertainment moguls of sexual misconduct. These practices had landed some PIs in jail, but Jerry didn’t seem to care. He was starstruck, and his moral compass had pivoted 180 degrees from the straight-arrow guy he used to be.

  Nicole refused to take on assignments she considered dodgy, and this infuriated Jerry, who thought she was judging him, which—of course—she was. She was no longer his favorite investigator, even though she was the one who’d brought in his new clients. He got back at her by promoting her. She was now in charge of hiring and training the new staffers. He’d given her the title of vice president—silly in such a small organization—a raise, and new business cards, none of which she wanted. Now, instead of the challenge of digging into her own cases, she spent her time managing other investigators and handing out assignments she would have liked for herself. Six years before, she’d been the office manager at a large law firm. She’d become bored with the work and had left to take a job at Colbert & Smith doing background checks for the firm’s cases. After a few years, she earned her PI license, and she loved the work. Now she was a glorified office manager again, and she was miserable.

  She was pulled out of her spell by a fluttering sound at the window. It was the pigeon—at least she thought it was the same one—that landed on her window ledge most days around this time. She kept a bag of chips in her office drawer for him. She was reaching for it when she glanced at her watch. It was 1:27. She’d lost track of time feeling sorry for herself, and now she was going to be late meeting Ian Davies.

  She grabbed her jacket and rushed out of the office without telling anyone where she was going or when she’d be back. As she boarded the elevator, she reminded herself that no one would care since she was basically in charge.

  When she reached the street, she turned right and ran for the La Brea Tar Pits, arriving sweating and out of breath. Two men who’d been standing in front of the museum began walking purposefully toward her. Both were dressed in suits and ties, which made them stand out in this bastion of casual attire. One was older, perhaps in his late fifties. He was balding and his neck was slightly crooked, as if from an old injury, so his head tilted a bit to his left. He was carrying an attaché case and walked with a slight limp. The second man appeared to be in his mid-twenties. His fair hair was cut in a style that would have been considered conservative in the 1950s. As they got closer, Nicole took in his clenched jaw and unreadable expression.

  They met in the path’s center point. The older man offered his hand, and she reached out to shake it.

  “Ms. Graves,” he said, “I’m Ian Davies. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He turned to the other man. “And this is my associate, Kevin Smith.” Once again, hands were shaken before Davis said, “Walk with us. We’ll find a place where we can sit and talk.”

  She met his eyes. “You’ve come to tell me something, haven’t you?”

  He looked puzzled. “I’m not sure I understand. The fact is I’m here in hope of enlisting your help. But let’s find some privacy before I lay it out for you.”

  She stared at him, dumbfounded. This meeting wasn’t at all what she’d expected. She asked herself a question she should have thought of when he first called. Could this be some kind of a con?

  “Do you have ID that confirms you’re with the British government?”

  “Of course.” He gave her a smile that said he wasn’t offended by this request and stopped walking to take out his wallet. Flipping it open, he handed it over to her. The man’s photo appeared on a card identifying him by name as a trade representative for the British Consulate in Los Angeles.

  It seemed innocuous enough, but what on earth could a British trade representative possibly want from her that was so confidential? Without comment, she handed back his wallet.

  They rounded a corner of the path then another. At last, he seemed satisfied they were far enough from other people.

  “Here’s an empty bench,” he said. “We’ll sit here.” When they were seated, he observed, “You’re cautious, as I’d expect you to be. And I’m not here on behalf of the consulate. I’m acting as an intermediary. There was no time to go through normal channels. We were instructed by Her Majesty’s Government to approach you and ask if you’d be willing to take on a short-term assignment. We understand you enjoy traveling abroad.”

  “Wait a minute!” She felt herself flush. “It’s true I’ve been looking for a foreign tour, but how would you know that?”

  He put up his hand, palm out, as if to stop her. “Please don’t take offense. Our people check out anyone considered for an assignment. As a private investigator, you know something like ‘enjoys foreign travel’ would come up on any background search.

  “Our government took note of your role in breaking up that human trafficking ring last year. Of course, they would have also done a deep background check before asking for your help. We’re hoping you’ll be willing to grant it. May I go on?”

  Nicole was silent. A thought had struck her. Davies kept talking about the British government. No mention had been made of British intelligence or MI6, but she had the feeling they were the source of this request. What if Reinhardt was behind this? He might have recommended her for whatever this man was about to propose. If she agreed to it, would she see him? Beyond this possibility, her curiosity had been aroused.

  “I’m listening,” she finally said.

  “I’m authorized to offer you a riverboat tour of Russia with one of the premier cruise lines. You’ll have a deluxe cabin to yourself. It’s a low-risk assignment that will take very little of your time. Otherwise, you’ll be free to enjoy the tour.”

  “There must be more to it.”

  “You’re right. You’re to observe a group of your fellow passengers and report their activities back to a government representative.”

  She drew in a long breath. “This doesn’t make sense. I mean, why me? I’m not even British. Why aren’t they sending one of their own people who’ve been trained for this kind of thing?”

  “I’m
afraid that’s not possible. A few days ago, the person chosen for this assignment became unavailable, and the agency had to find a replacement. As I mentioned, you came to their attention because of your involvement in that case last year. The government felt, at the time, that you might become useful in some capacity in the future. The decision was made that you’d be right for this role. Your nationality is one advantage. No one would suspect an American tourist to be working for the U.K. And—if you’ll excuse what some might regard as a sexist remark—your attractive, demure appearance, as well as your skills with people, makes you perfect for this assignment.

  “Please understand that we’re not asking you to act as a covert agent. You’re simply an observer who refrains from getting involved with these persons of interest. In essence, you’re a tourist who’s keeping her eyes and ears open. That’s all. This is perfectly appropriate for someone who’s a trained investigator.”

  “I’d like a little more information. Who am I supposed to keep my eyes on? And what have they done to attract the attention of British intelligence?”

  “I want to be very clear,” he said. “Her Majesty’s Government, not intelligence, is asking for your assistance. To answer your question about why these people need to be observed,” Davies went on, “someone in government decided they warrant observation, but I wasn’t told why.

  “Rest assured that you’ll be perfectly safe. Our people will know if anything goes wrong and reach out to you. Not that there’s any chance of this. If you do accept the assignment, you’ll receive an email with your instructions, including the names and photos of the people you are to observe. You’re to memorize this information and delete it before your trip. These individuals speak English and will be posing as tourists.”

  “You mean they’re not tourists?”

  “This is all I was told. Your job will be to discreetly observe them and report back to the agency handling this. Are you willing to take on the assignment, or do you want time to think about it? I’ll need an answer soon. This is rather urgent, I’m afraid.”