The Moscow Affair Page 3

  Before she could pick up the phone, she heard shouting below. She looked around for her coat before realizing she was still wearing it. By the time she got to the main deck, a crowd was gathering. The others must have heard the man’s cry and rushed out of their cabins, men and women in their robes and slippers, a few shivering in pajamas and bare feet. Among them were some whose names and photos Davies had given her. One of them, Mary Haworth, was leaning over the railing. She looked like a Midwestern suburban housewife in a pink chenille robe and pink bunny slippers with curlers in her hair.

  As Nicole glanced around, she spotted one of the pair who’d thrown the other man overboard. This one’s name, she now recalled, was David Wynn. His accomplice wasn’t in sight. Wynn was standing some distance from Mary. They didn’t exchange greetings or acknowledge each other. Wynn was tall and thin with a dour expression on his long face. Leaning heavily on a walker, he appeared to be very ill, dying perhaps. Yet, less than a half hour before, Nicole had seen him help throw a solidly built man—kicking and fighting—over the ship’s railing.

  Just then, a third person Nicole recognized climbed down from the level where Nicole’s cabin was located. Tyler Brandt, in his early to mid-twenties, appeared dressed to emphasize his role as a representative of youth culture. His baseball cap faced backward. He was dressed in a white, V-neck T-shirt and sweatpants. His feet were bare. These three illustrated something Nicole hadn’t noticed before. The people she was supposed to observe were so diverse in age and personal style, it was hard to imagine them interacting, much less working as a team. Maybe that was why they’d been chosen.

  The passengers—from the size of the crowd, practically everyone on board was here— were pressed against the deck’s railing, staring down at the water. From the chatter, Nicole gathered these people knew someone had gone overboard. She pushed her way to the rail so she could see for herself. He wasn’t visible at the surface of the dark water. Perhaps he was under the ship or another one anchored nearby.

  Three crew members wearing diving gear and scuba diving cylinders pushed their way through the crowd, climbed over the rail, and descended the ladder fastened to the side of the ship. The night was freezing, and Nicole could imagine how cold the water must be. The men splashed into it and dove under the surface, looking for the victim. She wondered how long they had before he was beyond saving. Perhaps it was already too late. Once again, the grim spectacle of the man being thrown overboard replayed in her head.

  The spectators waited silently, watching for the rescue crew to reappear. It was a good ten minutes before the two swam to the surface, hauling what looked like a lifeless body. They lifted him up the ladder and laid him on the deck as one of the men pulled off his breathing gear and prepared to begin CPR.

  Nicole had shoved her way through the crowd so she could get a closer look. She was stunned when she saw that the victim’s face was familiar. He was another of her assigned targets. His name, she recalled, was Derek Swan, a former professional ball player. Now, at middle age, his muscles had given way to fat. The two rescuers who weren’t engaged in CPR were shouting in Russian, shaking their fists at the crowd and waving them back. Few, if any, understood their words, but it was clear that they were being told to step back from the victim and the man trying to save him.

  Sirens could be heard drawing closer. Moments later, an ambulance and three police cars pulled up to the wharf. Orders were shouted over bullhorns, and lights went on in the ships anchored between Queen of the Volga and the dock. The ships unlocked their gates to allow police and medics to pass through. Passengers of those ships hurried out of their cabins to see what the fuss was about.

  It took several minutes for Russian paramedics and cops to reach the ship. They were led by a short, barrel-chested man in a trench coat who was clearly in charge. After consulting with the captain—who’d just appeared on deck—the man shouted orders at the uniformed police officers. Some headed for the spot where the man had gone overboard; others went to question the rescue team and view the body.

  The chief detective, if that’s what he was, turned to the passengers and addressed them in heavily accented English, shouting for them to be quiet so he could be heard. His accent—which might have been amusing if delivered by a comedian—sounded menacing, or perhaps it was his tone.

  “I am Colonel Vladislav Kolkov of Moscow Police,” he boomed. “Go to your cabins. Wait for police to question you. We need to know if someone saw this man killed.”

  A murmur went through the crowd. Was he saying the man was murdered? Or was this a misstatement because of his imperfect command of English? No one moved. Kolkov shouted again, this time louder.

  “Do as I say, or we arrest you for police obstructing.”

  With that, Nicole and her fellow passengers returned to their cabins. Now sleep was completely out of the question. Nicole got out her book and tried to read, but even that was impossible. In her agitation, she felt anger bubbling up. She’d been stupid to accept this assignment. At the time, she’d suspected Ian Davies was being less than truthful when he’d said it would be easy. She should have turned him down, but the idea that she might see Reinhardt again had blinded her to any peril she might face. Now it was clear that the people she was spying on were dangerous—killers, to be precise. It made her realize that Reinhardt would never have suggested her for a job like this. He would have known how risky it was and wouldn’t want her involved. But her biggest mistake had been to imagine there was any chance she’d meet up with him in Moscow.

  Glancing at her watch, she remembered why she was here and what was expected of her. She had to report the murder to her contact. She went into the bathroom, and after turning on the light, she flipped on the fan to provide background noise. Then, she followed the instructions for the call feature of her watch, pulling out the knob on its side while pushing the smaller button next to it. With her face close to the watch, she spoke softly, explaining what had happened, the names of the men involved, and the identity of the victim. She pushed the tiny button again, and the face of the watch flashed twice, which meant the message had been received.

  She walked back into the entry hall and, after taking her suitcases off the luggage rack, rolled them into the sitting room. There, she stopped and looked around, taking note of her cabin for the first time. The sitting room was spacious, perhaps ten feet by fourteen. The color scheme was white and gold with chrome and black accents. The most noticeable feature was a huge, wall-mounted TV. Two easy chairs sat on either side of a gray velvet couch. Behind the couch was a round, glass dining table with seating for two. The outer wall of the cabin, which was covered with drapes, ran the length of the room. Pulling it aside, she saw that the viewing deck she’d looked at earlier was much bigger than she’d realized. It was furnished with two deck chairs and a chaise lounge.

  She wondered how much this suite was costing the British government and why MI6, or whoever was in charge of this investigation, thought it was necessary. Perhaps it was the only space left since—according to Davies—they had only a few days to prepare for her arrival. But logic told her they must have had a cabin reserved for whoever she replaced, the spy who, as he said, had become unavailable. Was that story even true? Nicole was beginning to doubt what Davies had told her.

  She continued into the bedroom, which featured another, equally large TV and the king-sized bed where she’d spent too brief a time sleeping. She lifted her bags onto the bed then couldn’t resist the urge to explore the rest of the cabin. The bathroom, done in white marble and black tile, had a full-sized bathtub and a separate shower as well as two sinks. Next to it was a small walk-in closet. On the other side of the bed was an alcove with a vanity table fitted with a makeup mirror.

  She unpacked her things, using less than a third of the closet’s hanger rack and drawer space. Back in the sitting room, she found a credenza with a built-in refrigerator, which was too big to be called a minibar. Along with several bottles of wine, it held soft
drinks, mixed cocktails, and candy bars. This left plenty of room for other items in the unlikely event she decided to go grocery shopping. Next to the refrigerator was a wet bar. An espresso machine sat on the counter. She got a china cup and saucer from a glass-fronted cupboard above the bar and pressed a button on the espresso machine to brew an Americano. While she waited, she noticed an assortment of hard liquors sitting at the opposite end of the counter.

  When her Americano was ready, she settled on one of the chairs in front of the TV and turned it on. She flipped through the channels, but the only show on the air with English subtitles was RT News, a propaganda arm of the Kremlin. The story of the day was a civil disturbance in New York, which RT portrayed as a race riot. She’d read about it in a British newspaper she’d bought at Heathrow and knew it was no such thing. She turned the set off and went into the bedroom to continue reading her book.

  The ship was quiet, and time passed slowly. Every ten minutes or so, the murder would replay in her head, the scene so disturbing that she had to get up and pace around, wondering about the crime she’d just witnessed. Why would two people in the group she was following want to kill Swan, who was one of their associates? Perhaps they thought he’d betrayed them in some way. Maybe he was scheming to get more than his share of the loot they were after. Or they might have suspected him of being a cop who’d infiltrated the gang.

  Finally, after waiting more than two hours for the police to show up, she decided to go to the dining room. She was hungry, and the breakfast buffet would be open by now. Colonel Kolkov hadn’t said how long they were to remain in their cabins. For all she knew, the police had already talked to enough people and left.

  Nicole made her way to the dining room and placed an order at the omelet bar. She found a tray and picked up a cup of coffee, a few slices of bacon, and a Danish pastry. The dining room was empty except for a couple eating in a far corner. Nicole found a small table with a view of the water and sat, waiting for the chef to call her number when her omelet was ready.

  She jumped when a voice behind her said, “Why you leave cabin, Miss Graves?”

  She swiveled her chair around to see Colonel Kolkov. “I didn’t know how long you expected us to wait. I was hungry, so I came down here for breakfast.”

  “My order was stay until questioned,” he said. “You come.” She glanced over at the chef, who was flipping her omelet. He gave her and Kolkov a quick glance then looked away. The detective led her back to her cabin, where he gestured at the door and said, “Open.” He spoke in a growl, clearly annoyed at having to track her down.

  Kolkov wasn’t a big man, but his aura took up a lot of space. Although his chest was expansive, he was barely taller than Nicole. Most notable were his amber eyes, which were both piercing and all knowing. He had a broad face, prominent cheekbones, and heavy eyebrows. She wasn’t easily intimidated, but this little man, with his puffed-up sense of authority, made her uneasy. Perhaps it was the murder she’d witnessed and her directive not to tell the police about anything her targets did.

  More likely it was what she’d read about the Russian police. She followed the news and hadn’t needed Davies’ warning about law enforcement in Russia. The reputation of Moscow’s police would make anyone wary of attracting their attention. Many of them were corrupt. While they’d take a report when a tourist was robbed, they were more likely to throw it away than investigate. On cases involving their own citizens, they were known to disregard established police regulations, as well as ignore international laws safeguarding human rights. They jailed people without charging them, only to slap them with serious charges later. These might include murder, espionage, or treason. They refused prisoners access to lawyers. They were known to extract confessions through torture. And most chilling of all, the conviction rate in Russian courts was 99 percent, a figure that had stuck in Nicole’s mind. Not that she ever thought she’d personally have anything to worry about. Until now.

  “Where were you at 3:00 this morning?”

  She didn’t think it was a good idea denying she’d left her cabin. For all she knew, the ship was equipped with security cameras.

  “My plane arrived late last night. I couldn’t sleep, so I took a walk around the deck. I thought the fresh air would do me good. I went down to the main deck for a walk.” She did her best to look Kolkov in the eye, speak in a low voice, and appear calm. He was sure to recognize the body language of someone who was lying.

  “And who else you see on this ‘walk’?”

  “No one.”

  “You hear anything?”

  “I heard a scream when I was on my way up to my cabin. That’s why I turned around and went back to the main deck.”

  He gave a grunt that could have meant anything. “What your occupation?”

  “I’m a private detective.”

  “You help police solve crimes?”

  She was pretty sure he knew what she did, but she explained anyway. “No. I’m not in law enforcement. I do work for law firms and corporations. Sometimes we track down money people have hidden to avoid paying court-ordered judgments. We find and interview witnesses for lawsuits. We’re called in to investigate when a company is accused of misconduct.”

  “No crime work?”

  “Rarely. We usually leave that to the police.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “I see.” He stared at her for a good long while, saying nothing. Her face felt hot, and she wondered if she was blushing. Was he making up his mind about her or waiting for her to say something that might be incriminating? Finally, he stood, pulled out a business card, and jotted something on the back before handing it to her. “You remember more, you call.”

  “Of course.” She stood and, heart thumping in her ears, walked him to the door.

  As soon as he was gone, she went into the bathroom and sent another message describing his visit.

  “I have a hunch he’ll be back, and I’m feeling pretty vulnerable here. Please call me.”

  The interview with Kolkov had felt ominous, especially since she had to deny that she’d witnessed the murder. She wondered what the intelligence agency was prepared to do to protect her. This was a question she should have asked in the first place. She thought about Davies and his description of this assignment as so benign that she’d have plenty of time to enjoy the tour. As far as she was concerned, witnessing the murder had already ruined the trip. These were dangerous people she’d been assigned to spy on, and the police were more dangerous still. What had she gotten herself into?

  Chapter Three

  The group’s first tour had been scheduled for that day, a bus ride through Moscow for a historic overview, but it had been cancelled so the police could finish interviewing everyone on board. After Kolkov left, Nicole took a stroll around the deck, checking on the people she was supposed to be observing. All were accounted for, which meant Kolkov had finished interviewing everyone on A deck, and they were free to go about their business. A steady flow of police and crime scene techs visited the spot where the victim had been pushed to his death.

  Her persons of interest were either eating alone in the dining room or on deck, buried in reading material or snoozing on a deck chair. No one was socializing with each other or fellow passengers with one exception—Mary Haworth, the woman she’d seen on deck the night before wearing a pink robe and matching slippers. Mary was carrying on a one-sided conversation with a woman in the next chair, who’d closed her eyes and appeared to be asleep.

  Nicole was feeling groggy after her sleepless night. All at once, she was pulled out of her lethargy with the realization that she hadn’t picked up her phone messages since she’d last left her office. She’d been so distracted getting ready for her trip, traveling, and dealing with the fallout from Swan’s murder that she’d forgotten all about them.

  Normally she checked her messages three or four times a day, hoping against all reason that she’d finally hear from Reinhardt. She pulled her cell out of her purse and put in the code f
or retrieving messages. A recorded message came on, explaining that her attempt to get messages could not go through because it came from a foreign country active in hacking electronic devices. To retrieve her messages, it said, she first had to call customer service to prove her identity. It gave an 800 number for her call.

  When she tried the number, it wouldn’t connect. That’s when she realized an 800 number was for domestic calls and wouldn’t work from Russia. This made her cranky. What fool had arranged this? If she was out of the country—for example, in Russia—she’d need an international number to reach customer service.

  She tried using the cell’s browser to find an overseas number for her mobile provider. There were several possibilities. She tried them all but each time got a hiccup-y sound that she assumed was either a busy signal or an indication she’d gotten the numbers wrong.

  She spent nearly an hour pursuing this, but no matter what number she tried, it refused to go through. At last she gave up. She realized it was probably an issue with the international country code she was using and would take more research to figure out. It was too much to deal with when she was so sleepy. She promised herself she’d get back to it after she took a nap and had a clear head.

  On her way up to her room, she felt her watch vibrate. The sensation was so slight, she wondered if she’d imagined it. Still, she went inside and pushed the buttons to receive a call. The sound that came out was barely audible. She pressed the watch to her ear and said, “Could you please repeat that?”

  “Ms. Graves?”

  “Yes.”

  “We received your report.” The sound was so tinny, it was impossible to tell if the speaker was male or female. “We’re most impressed with your attention to detail, which is invaluable to us. Carry on. Don’t worry about the police. These officers can be full of bluster. Rest assured that, in this case, the detective in charge knows nothing. You’re perfectly safe. I have to keep this short, so I’m ringing off.”