Private Moscow

Chapter 45

I’d had the royal treatment for almost twenty-four hours. The police had cuffed me, and when Dinara had come up to the roof to see what was happening, they’d arrested her too. The cops had tried to take Master Sergeant West, but he’d flashed his diplomatic credentials, which were respected no matter what the state of relations were between Moscow and Washington. No beat cop would risk a diplomatic incident.

Dinara had told me we were being arrested on a murder charge before we were put in separate vehicles and taken away. She’d been pushed into a patrol car, while I’d had a disorientating ride in the back of a windowless van. I don’t know if she was taken to the same place as me, but I saw no sign of her when I was booked, stripped of my belongings and left to stew in a cell for the best part of a day and a night.

Finally, late Tuesday morning, the door to my cell opened and a uniformed police officer barked a command in Russian and gestured at me to get off the fold-down metal bunk. If I never saw the rusting toilet, or tasted the overly boiled food ever again, it would be too soon.

I followed the officer through the cell block. He unlocked a clanging metal gate and took me into a long corridor with rooms either side. The cop stopped at the first door and knocked. A voice inside replied in Russian and the cop opened the door and waved me in.

I walked into a windowless interview room and found two women sitting at a metal table that had been scored with graffiti.

“Please sit down, Mr. Morgan,” the younger of the two women said. “My name is Anna Bolshova and I am an officer with the Criminal Investigations Department currently assigned to the Interior Ministry.”

I had no idea what that meant. Was she a cop? Or a spy? She wore a severe dark blue, almost black jacket, and a pencil skirt. Her companion was an older woman who was in a skirt and blazer that looked as though they could have been beamed from the 1980s. The navy blue jacket had huge shoulder pads, brass buttons and gold brocade, and beneath it was a busy floral blouse.

“This is Zoya Popova, our official translator,” Anna said. “My English is good, but just in case.”

Zoya looked decidedly unhappy; perhaps she was annoyed at being made redundant.

“Please sit.”

Anna gestured at a chair opposite the two of them, and I took a seat.

“No lawyer?” I asked.

“Do you need one?” Anna responded. “It’s early days. We should get to know each other first.”

I smiled. Her short black hair was styled with a parting that made her look tomboyish, but her features were soft and her makeup accentuated her femininity.

“I didn’t realize we were here to make friends,” I said. “I thought I’d been arrested for murder.”

“Even so,” Anna replied. “This is an opportunity for you to tell your story without a lawyer confusing fact and fiction.”

“Is that what they do?”

“Sometimes.”

“Is this standard Moscow police procedure?” I asked.

The translator shifted in her seat.

“Nothing about this investigation is standard, Mr. Morgan,” Anna replied. “You worry about your rules and I will worry about mine. Shall we begin?” She reached into her jacket pocket and took out a digital dictaphone. She put it on the table and pressed record. After a preamble in Russian, she said, “State your name.”

I stayed silent.

“Your name, please,” she tried.

I said nothing.

“I’m with Mr. Jack Morgan, the owner of Private,” Anna spoke into the recorder. “Mr. Morgan, why don’t you tell us in your own words what happened in the apartment of Mr. Ernest Fisher, chief of staff to the American ambassador here in Moscow?”

“I have no comment,” I replied. “I would like to see a representative of the US embassy or a lawyer.”

Anna smiled, but I could tell she wasn’t happy. She ignored my response and reached beneath the table. After a short time spent ferreting in a large satchel, she produced a sheaf of print-outs which she pushed toward me.

“This is the translation of an article that was published today on the Otkrov blog, stating that Private is working with a group called the Ninety-nine to target members of America’s elite,” Anna said.

I glanced at the printout of the original piece before turning to the translated article and reading it with growing dismay. A mix of conjecture and wild allegation, it suggested that after years investigating and covering up the excesses of the very wealthy, I’d had enough and had secretly conspired with the Ninety-nine to assassinate members of the 1 percent. The article pointed out that I’d been caught at the scene of both murders that the Ninety-Nine had claimed responsibility for and said that members of the Private team were colluding to help me in my objective.

“As you can see, the article says you murdered Mr. Fisher because he had evidence linking you to the conspiracy,” Anna said, fixing me with a triumphant stare. “Now, Mr. Morgan, perhaps you would like to comment?”