Free Murder in Moscow by Jessica Fletcher Page B

may be over, but our two countries are still in a very competitive posture. Unfortunately, the old Soviet spying apparatus is still in place, and used in virtually every circumstance. The point is, your hotel rooms, conference facilities, and even the restaurants you’ll enjoy will probably be bugged. Keep that in mind whenever you decide to say something to a colleague you’d just as soon not have the Russians know.”
    I looked at Vaughan. “He makes it sound as though only the Russians are still spying. But he wants us to—”
    I was interrupted by an announcement that we were to leave the room. As we stepped out onto the street, the young Washington Post reporter, Bob Woodstein, stood near where our limousines lined up. Two Washington MPD squad cars had now joined the entourage, one at the rear of the limo line, the other at the front. Eight uniformed officers were spread out along the sidewalk. Woodstein tried to approach me, but an officer kept him from doing so. I looked in the other direction to where a mobile television transmission truck was parked, a long telescoping antenna protruding from the roof, a video camera trained on the scene as we exited the building.
    Across the street stood Karl Warner. He was with two other men in suits.
    Amazing, I thought. The day before it was Ward Wenington. Now it was someone named Karl Warner. Interchangeable suits. But with the same mission?
    What was that mission?
    That was uppermost in my mind as we climbed into the limos and headed for the bridge that would take us across the river into Rosslyn, Virginia, for lunch with top executives of the newspaper USA Today.
    I started to comment to Vaughan again about my reaction to what Sam Roberts had said about Russian spying, and that our hotel rooms and restaurants might be bugged. But I stopped myself and looked about the limousine’s passenger compartment. Was there a hidden microphone in it? Was a secret video camera recording everything we said and did?
    “Upsetting, what Mr. Roberts had to say about being careful what we say when in Russia,” Olga said.
    “Traditions die hard,” Vaughan said.
    “Thank God we live here,” Olga said. She leaned forward and looked at me. “Know what I mean, Jess?”
    I nodded. But I was really thinking that the old adage, “Silence is Golden,” should be our rule—no matter where we were.

Chapter Eight
    Lunch with executives of USA Today was pleasant, although I was asked by a top editor to comment on the death of Ward Wenington because of my having been there. Vaughan answered for me. “Mrs. Fletcher said everything there is to say to the police.”
    I managed to add, “Naturally, although I didn’t know him, I extend my sympathy to his family.”
    “But it came over the wire just before you arrived that you’d had lunch with him yesterday in the English Grill at the Hay-Adams.”
    “I meant to say I didn’t know him well.”
    “The purpose of the lunch was—?”
    “Nice meeting you,” Vaughan told the editor, placing his hand on my elbow and moving me to another group of people standing near a portable bar, including my Russian publisher, Vladislav Staritova.
    “Ah, my dear Jessica,” he said, extending his arms to embrace me. I kept my distance.
    “Life imitates art, huh?” he said. “You are supposed to write about finding bodies, not trip over them yourself.”
    “Jess would just as soon not talk about it, Vlady,” Vaughan said.
    “I understand. Better to forget it, huh? You need some vodka, Jessica. Vodka helps to forget.”
    “Thank you, no, Vlady,” I said.
    “I insist.”
    He handed me a glass filled with vodka and held up his replenished glass in a toast. “To you, Jessica Fletcher, and a hope there are no bodies for you to find in Moscow.” He laughed heartily at what he’d said, and downed the contents of his glass. I discreetly placed my glass on the end of the bar and said I needed to find the ladies’ room.
    “Enjoying lunch, Mrs.