Hotel Moscow (27 page)

After Olga scribbled it, Brooke asked for a copy for herself. While Olga wrote it for her, Brooke wrote down Belgorov’s phone number in Norcress’s book. The Russian had done as he had promised, and last night had delivered the note to Norcress, anonymously. “Here is your other lead. He has lots of good material.”

“If we don’t break this story, I may still want to do a profile on you when you announce your candidacy for the Duma,” Norcress told Olga.

“Thanks, but that won’t be necessary.”

He laughed. “It’s campaigning American-style.” Norcress kissed Brooke’s cheek. “Get the hell out of Moscow.”

“I’ll probably make it out tomorrow.”

“If I were you, I’d be at the airport now, sitting on my suitcase to catch the first flight out when air traffic opens—even if it were to Kathmandu.”

B
ROOKE CRANED HER
neck to see whether Olga had returned to the auditorium. Where was she? The Russian had been summoned by an attendee during the coffee break, but that had been an hour ago. Perhaps she was consulting additional people about running for the Duma.

The auditorium on the ground floor of Olga’s institute must have been refurbished in recent years. Brooke scanned the rows of custom-made oak tables equipped with built-in microphones, and the interpreters sitting behind a glass divider at the back of the room, speaking into the attendees’ headsets. A giant tapestry in swirling yellow, orange, and red dominated the front wall, a rare abstract public decor with no Soviet theme.

The crowd’s anguish over the war downtown thickened the air as people accustomed to sitting still so as not to draw attention fidgeted and whispered. Nevertheless, Olga had been right: They had shown up. Brooke plugged her headset into the portable transmitter, but quickly lost interest as the pathos-filled,
canned speeches of the male representatives continued. The one hundred women who had traveled from distant places to this symposium deserved a lot more than what they were getting. The
apparatchiks
were wasting everyone’s time. The event was nothing like the hands-on day of workshops Amanda had organized in which dozens of Irinas acquired new insights and skills, nor was there any speech of business substance that called for the American guests’ response as originally planned.

Brooke glanced at her watch. Where was Olga?

Fifteen minutes later, she unplugged her earphones and walked out of the auditorium.

In the large foyer, artisans had set up tables to sell handmade dolls, jewelry, embroidered shirts, painted bowls, crocheted napkins, and mosaic pictures. As Brooke rushed through, none of the women met her gaze, and the gloom of the day lingered on their faces, more grave than the usual dour Russian expression. Looking around the lobby for a glimpse of Olga, Brooke made a mental note to buy a matryoshka doll later for the wife of her superintendent back in New York as thanks for watching Sushi.

The bathrooms on the ground floor were empty, but smelly. Olga wasn’t there. Back in the foyer, a large wall clock struck the hour. In thirty minutes, according to the translated typed schedule, Olga would give the morning’s closing remarks, and the program would break for lunch. Where was she? Clammy fingers of dread touched Brooke’s skin. She hurried to the elevator, took it to the fourteenth floor, and marched down the corridor toward Olga’s office.

A man’s mocking laughter rushed adrenaline into her veins. She pushed the door open.

The combined odor of alcohol, vomit, and cigar smoke reminded her of a cheap pub. Nikolai Sidorov sat in Olga’s desk chair, a cigar dangling from the corner of his mouth, ringlets of blue-gray smoke swirling lazily over his head. Unhurriedly, he raised his eyes to meet Brooke’s stare. Brooke immediately broke eye contact. She scanned the room.

Between the two large windows stood a tall, broad young man in a colorful jogging suit. Olga was slumped like a puppet in one of the upholstered chairs, her legs splayed. Her right arm almost touched the floor, and her chin had dropped onto her high bosom. Clumps of her hair stood up as though electrified.

Brooke started toward her, shouting, “What have you done to her?”

The bodyguard blocked her way.

“She’s drunk,” Sidorov said. “Go back to where you came from.”

Brooke tried to step around the bodyguard, but his pointed index finger almost punctured her collarbone.

“I’m not going anywhere until I know what’s wrong with Dr. Rozanova.”

“You know us Russians.” Sidorov smirked. “She’s had too much vodka.”

A bottle of brown liquid sat on the desk. Brooke recognized the Cyrillic letters for vodka. But vodka was clear. . . . “What have you forced down her throat?”

Sidorov puffed on his cigar. The bodyguard stepped closer to Brooke until his broad chest touched her face. It felt like an iron gate.

“Get away from me,” she growled through clenched teeth. “Who do you think you are?”

Sidorov said something in Russian, and the man clomped back to his spot by the wall.

“She’s been drinking and talking.” Slowly, Sidorov laid his cigar in the ashtray. “But since you’re here, there are a couple of things you can clarify for me.”

Olga’s skin was sickly gray. She moaned. Brooke moved toward her, but Sidorov’s voice stopped her.

“You’d better ‘spill the beans,’ as you say in America, or you’ll be very thirsty, too.” He chuckled. “That Chinese girl who leads your group—”

“Amanda Cheng is an American.”

“A liar, like all of you. Did she really think I’d believe that each of you would pay from her own pocket to come teach business to our
women
?” He shook his head in pity. “Americans think Russians are stupid.”

The turn in the conversation startled Brooke. “I don’t follow you.”

“Who sent you? Your government? The C.I.A.? Your boyfriends?”

“Aren’t you the host who invited us?”

“Don’t play with me.” He banged the table with his fist. “Some women’s organization came asking for you. Dykes, all of them. Who selected each of you? Answer me! I want to know about the conspiracy behind all this.”

“I see.” She was on familiar grounds again. “Women can’t help other women unless there’s some conspiracy? Whether you
understand it or not, volunteerism is an American ideal.” She walked toward Olga. This time the bodyguard didn’t stop her.

“American ideal is dollars.”

Brooke ignored him and gently touched the Russian woman’s clammy cheek. “Olga?”

Olga’s hooded eyes opened to reveal unfocused irises. With effort, they came to rest on Brooke. In a split moment of clarity, an understanding passed between them. The two of them were in this together, undeterred.

Sidorov spoke behind Brooke’s back. “Either she talks or you talk, or our little friend Svetlana will. But you are the best person to tell me the name of the client you’re snooping around for.”

Brooke rose from her crouching position. “You’re wrong. There’s no such client.”

“Well, let’s find out.” His finger beckoned the bodyguard who picked up the bottle and approached Olga. “She’s still thirsty.”

“Don’t you touch her!”

From behind the desk, Sidorov brought up a vodka bottle—this one filled with clear liquid—and two tiny glasses. Unhurriedly, he filled them, slid one toward Brooke, and placed the other on the back of his hand. Brooke made no move to take the glass. As she had seen him do at dinner a couple of nights before, Sidorov tipped the glass to his mouth and gulped the contents. “To Russian–American friendship.” Then, slowly, deliberately, he pulled an envelope from his inside pocket. “What will the new management at NHB think about this?”

Brooke’s scalp tightened with shock. She recognized the envelope. That goddamned letter from Seattle, lost at customs.
Her nude photos. She felt as vulnerable as if she were standing unclothed in front of him.

Sidorov stretched forward as if to hand it to her. “Here.”

She stepped forward and reached for the envelope, but he quickly withdrew it. His raucous laugh, guttural, insolent, was punctuated by snorting. Her cheeks burned.

“Come and get it.” He waved the envelope. The expression of pleasure on his face was like Sushi’s when toying with a bug.

Brooke’s mouth felt full of ashes. She crossed her arms. “What do you want?”

“Now we’re talking.” He wiped his eyes, then refilled his glass. “First, tell me what you’ve been sniffing around for in Moscow. Second, you could help our business interests in New York. You know, some financial transactions you could handle for us.”

“Laundering your money? You’re delusional.” Belgorov had been right about Sidorov’s recruitment tactics. For a split second, through the blood pounding in her temples, she wavered. What if she pretended to agree as long as he gave her the letter back?

Too dangerous. He’d find her anywhere. And while he wanted her sober now to discuss his business, when she refused to reveal the results of the investigation—or confirm it if he’d got it out of Olga—his bodyguard would force that concocted drink down her throat. And there was every chance he would also discover her Star of David, tucked under her blouse.

Sidorov put the envelope back into his breast pocket and tapped on it.

Without warning, Brooke rushed out of the room. The body
guard didn’t come after her, but rather than feeling relief, she was rattled by Sidorov’s confidence. What had she done? What hubris had led her to employ guerrilla tactics in an enemy territory? If only she could wrap things up, reach Belgorov, and get the hell out of this cursed country.

But she couldn’t just leave Olga upstairs. They might poison her to death.

Following the smell of food, Brooke raced from the main floor down a flight of stairs leading to the basement dining room. She burst in and noticed the crowd was just sitting down.

She caught Amanda’s eye and ran to her. “This is an emergency,” she whispered. “Gather the others and come up to the fourteenth floor. On the double.”

“Why?” Amanda asked. “What’s going on?”

“Please. I need you all to come now.”

Nearby, Russians who might have noticed her frantic state pretended not to see; they’d been trained over a lifetime to mind their own business.

She ran toward the elevators again, Amanda and some of the others at her heels.

When she entered Olga’s office, Sidorov and his bodyguard were gone. Olga was lying face down on the floor. Desk drawers had been pulled out, a bookcase was tipped forward, and files and papers were strewn everywhere. Olga’s samovar table lay on its side with its legs thrust out, like bloated roadkill. Behind her, Brooke heard gasps and shocked murmurings from Amanda and the others.

She knelt beside Olga. A puddle of vomit gelled next to her mouth and stuck to the ends of her mussed hair. She was un
conscious but her pulse was accelerated. “Water,” Brooke called out. “And please make strong coffee.”

Amanda handed her a wet cloth napkin. She turned Olga over and began to clean her up.

“My God! Look at that!” Amanda cried.

On Olga’s upper thigh was an ugly welt, the size of a quarter. A foot away lay Sidorov’s half-smoked cigar. “Lucky they didn’t kidnap her to finish the job,” Brooke said as she removed Olga’s shoes and tucked a soft, crocheted pillow behind her head.

“Who?” Amanda asked.

“Sidorov.”

“Sidorov?” Amanda stammered. “How do you know?”

“He was here ten minutes ago. In this room.” Brooke wanted to cry. This was a nightmare, and Sidorov was not done with them yet.

From the samovar came the hissing sound of boiling water. The scent of coffee rose behind Brooke.

“I don’t get it. What’s happening, Brooke?”

“You’d be safer not knowing.”

“It certainly looks like
you
are not safe here,” Amanda said. “You should leave as soon as the airport opens.”

“I can’t desert Olga and Svetlana.”

“Svetlana? What does she have to do with this? Brooke, I’m afraid that you are over your head in something.” Amanda lowered her voice. “Is the rest of the group safe from whatever you’re not telling me?”

“If I were you I’d question Sidorov’s agenda in inviting us all.”

“Why? You need to level with me.”

“I really shouldn’t.”

“I’ll set up a meeting with Sidorov to guarantee our safety in the presence of some heads of American companies,” Amanda said.

“Good. When?”

“As soon as possible. We’re leaving the symposium now, anyway. We’ve been cut out of the agenda. Those bureaucrats hijacked our time slots with their nonsense.”

T
WO HOURS LATER,
a cough ravaged Olga’s chest. When the fit was over, she rubbed her eyes and opened them. She looked around her office. “What happened?” Her hand felt the couch on which she was lying, then traveled to her thigh, now bandaged. She groaned. “My symposium?”

“Some leaders of women’s organizations took over and continued with the program,” Brooke said. “How do you feel?” She handed Olga a coffee mug and two tablets of Tylenol.

“Where is my Dukat?”

Brooke pulled a cigarette out of a packet, put it between Olga’s lips, and lit it. “Where did you hide the folder?”

Olga inhaled and tapped the back of the couch. “There’s a zipper.”

Brooke crouched. “It’s still closed.”

“Call Viktor, please,” Olga said, and dictated his office phone number. Brooke dialed and handed her the receiver. Olga said only a few words in Russian, then handed the receiver back to Brooke, who hung up.

“Olga,” Brooke said. “Next time you won’t be so lucky. We need help.” She paused. “There must be some sort of enforcement somewhere.”

“Sure.” Olga said in a rare moment of sarcasm. “Yeltsin made a big announcement about a division set up to handle mafia crimes. But—” She coughed.

“Let me guess: There’s no listed phone number.”

“No one believes it even exists.” Olga sipped her coffee. “I know people in high places who can help.”

“Make sure they get to Sidorov tonight.”

Thirty minutes later, Viktor arrived. His face looked flustered. Brooke decided to let his wife do the explaining. She supported Olga’s left side, Viktor the right, and they took the elevator down.