Private Moscow

Chapter 41

In the end, I managed a couple of hours’ sleep on the plane, but by the time I arrived, my eyes were gritty and my body ached with the ground-in fatigue that was commonplace after transatlantic flights. But no matter how rough I felt, I knew I didn’t look as bad as my two employees. I’d hired Dinara Orlova because she was highly experienced and extremely intelligent. Every time I’d met her she’d been exceptionally composed and immaculately presented. But right now her long dark hair was lank and matted, and her normally flawless skin was scratched and marked by dirt. Her trousers and coat were soaked with ugly stains. Her companion, Leonid Boykov, a grizzled former cop who oozed roguish charm, looked even worse.

I crossed the Sheremetyevo arrivals hall, which was busy with the early-morning crowds associated with the arrival of a flurry of transatlantic red-eye flights. As Dinara and Leonid came to meet me, I noticed the former Moscow cop was scanning the terminal nervously.

“Thanks for coming,” I said, shaking Dinara’s hand.

“Good to see you, Mr. Morgan,” she replied in English. “I’m sorry for our condition. We just escaped an abduction attempt.”

“Abduction for you,” Leonid said. “Murder for me.”

The former cop had been Dinara’s hire and I didn’t know him well enough to be certain he wasn’t joking. I glanced at Dinara, who confirmed the statement with an emphatic nod.

“What the hell happened?” I asked. “Where’s the car?”

“About seven kilometers that way,” Leonid replied. “Blocking a major exit on the highway.”

Dinara frowned at him. “We need to take a taxi.”

She ushered me toward one of the doors, and I glanced at Leonid, who was looking from wall to wall, like a bird of prey. As I studied him, I finally registered the holes in his jacket.

“Are those—”

“Yes,” he cut me off. “Bullets. Three of them.”

“We were lucky,” Dinara said.

“A bulletproof vest is not luck,” Leonid responded. “It is the correct preparation.”

Struggling to get my head around the news, I steered them away from the doors to a quiet part of the arrivals hall where we wouldn’t be overheard.

“You’d better tell me what’s going on,” I said.

With the occasional interjection from Leonid, Dinara briefed me on the death of Yana Petrova, their meeting with the Kremlin-connected oligarch Maxim Yenen, and the discovery of Yana’s second life as the conspiracy blogger Otkrov. Then they told me about Grom Boxing and Dinara’s belief that one of their assailants was a boxer she’d seen at the gym the previous night. After months in the wilderness, it sounded as though Private Moscow had finally scored a truly challenging case.

“And why are you here?” Leonid asked when Dinara had finished.

I didn’t know either of my Russian employees well enough to trust them with full disclosure, but saying nothing would have been counterproductive.

“I’m investigating the murder of Karl Parker,” I replied. “He was a friend.”

“I’m sorry,” Dinara offered.

“I appreciate it,” I replied. “We’d better go. It sounds like you’ve got to clear up this morning’s mess.”

“Not a problem,” Leonid said. “The police in Moscow are experts at making things vanish. My old friends on the force will know how to handle this. As long as I can get my car insurance to pay up. I’m not sure it covers hijacking and gun fights.”

“If it doesn’t, I’ll make sure you don’t lose out,” I said.

“Thank you, Mr. Morgan,” Leonid replied. “That means a lot.”

“Not a problem. And please, both of you, call me Jack.”

I followed Dinara and Leonid through the terminal and we were soon outside with the ice and snow. I couldn’t say whether Moscow or New York was colder. Both had been hit by vicious snowstorms and were still in the grip of a big freeze.

The cab driver took my suitcase and put it in the trunk of his Volkswagen Passat while Dinara and I climbed in the back, and Leonid took the front passenger seat.

The driver jumped behind the wheel and slammed the door. He removed his gloves and blew on his hands, before saying something in Russian.

“Where to?” Dinara translated.

“The American embassy,” I replied.