Free Murder in Moscow by Jessica Fletcher Page A

the State Department? Or is it the Defense Intelligence Agency?”
    Roberts and Warner exchanged a quick glance.
    “I’ll be going with you to Moscow,” Warner said, ignoring my question. Evidently, that’s the way things are done in Washington, I decided. Tell people only what you wish to tell them, regardless of what you’ve been asked.
    “Are you involved with the Commerce Department’s division that deals with publishing and other creative areas?” I asked.
    “We work closely with Commerce on such trade missions,” Warner answered.
    Another evasion.
    The question that naturally came to my mind was why I’d been singled out from the rest of the Americans to have this one-on-one chat. As far as I knew, the others were all still in the briefing room. I was about to ask when Warner said, “You’ll have to excuse me. I have to be at another meeting.”
    Another meeting? I didn’t realize I’d been summoned to a meeting.
    “A pleasure, Mrs. Fletcher,” Warner said, again taking my hand in his large, hairy mitt. “I’m sure we’ll have an opportunity to have many good conversations over the next week.”
    “Yes, I’m sure we will.”
    Warner left. Sam Roberts said to me, “Karl will pick up where Ward Wenington left off, Mrs. Fletcher.”
    “Meaning what? That he’ll be ‘debriefing’ me after we return?”
    “Something like that. In a sense, hell be assigned to you for the duration of the trip. There are others in similar capacities who’ll be staying close to your American colleagues.”
    “I get the feeling, Mr. Roberts, that people like Ward Wenington, and now this Mr. Warner, play a role quite apart from people on your staff.”
    “Well, I suppose I’d better get this briefing over with. Thanks for giving me a few minutes of your time. If you need anything, just holler.”
    With that, he opened the door and stood aside for me to rejoin the others. No doubt about it. I was becoming increasingly annoyed at the refusal of people to answer simple, direct questions. I suppose it has to do with my Maine heritage. In Cabot Cove questions are answered, usually with honesty and directness. But this wasn’t Cabot Cove. This was Washington, D.C., the center of power for the most powerful and influential nation in the world, the United States of America, of which I was a proud citizen.
    Better get used to it, I silently reminded myself as we took seats.
    Sam Roberts stepped to a podium with a microphone.
    Vaughan Buckley leaned over to me and said, “What was that all about?”
    “I have no idea,” I whispered back. “He said he was sorry for what I experienced last night.”
    Our hushed conversation ended as Roberts began his briefing, which consisted primarily of comments on Russian etiquette, the sort of meetings and social events we would be attending once we got to Moscow, and a warning about not going off on our own there. He ended with, “I’m sure you’re all aware of the death of a government official here in Washington last night. Many of you met Ward Wenington at various functions. As tragic as his death is, it’s at least comforting to know that he died of natural causes.”
    I sat up straight. Roberts had indicated to me in the other room that he knew nothing of how Wenington died.
    “You probably know by reading the papers that we have a significant crime problem here in the District of Columbia. But it pales in comparison to the problems the Russians are having with crime in their major cities. My point is that we’re asking you to stay together, even when you have free time. We’ve worked closely with the Russians to make sure that any sightseeing and shopping excursions will be done as a group. Other than that, I again thank you for lending your valuable expertise and time to this very important trade mission. You’re providing a significant service to your country.”
    He started to move away from the podium, stopped, returned, and said, “Oh, one other thing. The cold war