Murder in Moscow (A Fiona Figg & Kitty Lane Mystery) by Kelly Oliver

Author:Kelly Oliver [Oliver, Kelly]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Boldwood Books
Published: 2024-03-19T00:00:00+00:00

KITTY’S INTERLUDE

10 MARCH, 8.30 A.M.

Kitty paced the office. The Bolsheviks were late. They were supposed to be at the Kremlin half an hour ago. The ambassadors would be freezing their arses off waiting outside for her signal. She dusted the typewriter for the tenth time. Where were they? She wanted to get this mission over and get back to Poppy. Crazy how much she missed the pup. Usually, she took Poppy along. But a housekeeper with a dog would be a dead giveaway. Especially today. Security was extra tight. No one was supposed to know the Bolshevik leaders arrived today. They’d told the newspapers that they would arrive tomorrow. But British intel was good. Best in the world.

She dropped into the desk chair and fiddled with the ink blotter. Come on, dammit. There was nothing she hated more than waiting.

“How are you doing in there? Still alive?” She bent over the trunk.

Archie’s muffled voice answered. “Barely.”

Footfalls and then a jingling sound outside the door made her jump. She adjusted her maid’s outfit, smoothed a loose hair back into her chignon, and readied her feather duster. The moment of truth. Duster in hand, she stood at attention, listening. Men’s voices. She darted to the window and ran the duster over the windowsill. As soon as the door to the office opened, she gave the signal. A quick wave of the duster and then back to wiping the sill.

Two men entered the room. She recognized them immediately as the Bolshevik leaders. She’d seen plenty of photographs in newspapers and in intelligence briefings. Vladimir Lenin entered first, followed by Leon Trotsky.

Lenin wore an ushanka fur cap and a heavy wool overcoat. He had a well-groomed mustache and beard, both lightly streaked with silver. There was an asymmetry to his face that made one eye look kindly and the other extremely stern. His brows were uneven too. The left arched into an upside-down letter V, while the right cut a slash across his forehead. He removed his coat and hat, revealing an impressive bald head and a pressed three-piece suit.

Trotsky had enough hair for both of them—it must have stood five inches high. He wore a messier version of the same mustache and beard. His prominent nose, vivid eyes, and tiny wire-rimmed glasses gave him the look of a predatory bird, a hawk maybe. As if to display the contradictions of Bolshevism, he wore a flawless olive peasant jacket that looked like it had never been worn. Kitty chuckled to herself. Hypocrites.

Ignoring her, Lenin sat behind his desk and Trotsky leaned against it. They were deep in conversation. They didn’t even have a look around. It was obvious it didn’t matter where they made their headquarters. Whatever was happening with them happened inside their minds and their words. They didn’t need tables and chairs. Their world was furnished with ideas and speeches.

Ears pricked, she continued fake dusting. The Bolsheviks were discussing a parade scheduled for April. Nothing top-secret, unfortunately. A knock at the door indicated the arrival of the telephone installation crew.

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