Midnight in Moscow: Book Two of the Isis Project

By M.D. Johnson

The ISIS Project is historically inspired fiction. The characters in this, the second of an intended five part series are wholly the product of my imagination. The newspapers and features cited in this work are also fictional, any non-fictional references are cited by source.
It is alleged by various and sundry criminologists that there are over thirty Russian Crime Syndicates in the United States centered in every major city including Baltimore, Boston, Chicago, Cleveland, Dallas, Miami, New York, Philadelphia, Portland, San Francisco and Seattle. As crime festers in an environment where individual freedom is suppressed, only time will tell to what extent the Russian Mafyia will influence the American lifestyle and economy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664176072

Book preview

Copyright © 2021 by M. D. Johnson.

ISBN:      Softcover        978-1-6641-7608-9

                 eBook            978-1-6641-7607-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 05/19/2021

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CONTENTS

Author’s Notes

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty One

Chapter Thirty Two

Chapter Thirty Three

Chapter Thirty Four

Chapter Thirty Five

Chapter Thirty Six

Chapter Thirty Seven

Chapter Thirty Eight

Chapter Thirty Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty One

Chapter Forty Two

Chapter Forty Three

Chapter Forty Four

Chapter Forty Five

Chapter Forty Six

Chapter Forty Seven

Chapter Forty Eight

Chapter Forty Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty One

Chapter Fifty Two

Chapter Fifty Three

Chapter Fifty Four

Chapter Fifty Five

Chapter Fifty Six

Chapter Fifty Seven

Chapter Fifty Eight

Chapter Fifty Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty One

Chapter Sixty Two

Chapter Sixty Three

Epilogue

Afterword

AUTHOR’S NOTES

The ISIS Project is historically inspired fiction. The characters in this, the second of an intended five part series are wholly the product of my imagination. The newspapers and features cited in this work are also fictional, any non-fictional references are cited by source.

It is alleged by various and sundry criminologists that there are over thirty Russian Crime Syndicates in the United States centered in every major city including Baltimore, Boston, Chicago, Cleveland, Dallas, Miami, New York, Philadelphia, Portland, San Francisco and Seattle. As crime festers in an environment where individual freedom is suppressed, only time will tell to what extent the Russian Mafyia will influence the American lifestyle and economy.

For the average Russian, the consequence of honesty, as always, is deprivation.

- Lydia S. Rossner – Preface to Organized Crime, The Russian Connection, Contemporary Criminal Justice

This book simply could not have been written without the background sounds of Maurice Jarre, Red Elvises, Bruno Coulais, The Karelian Folk Music Ensemble, Le Mystere des Voix Bulgares, Clannad, Swampcandy, The Alan Parsons Project, ‘1964...The Tribute’, Mr. Acker Bilk, and Kenny Ball and his Jazzmen, all of whom put me in an excellent frame of mind during my daily toil at the keyboard. I am also indebted to the following people who have always given me food for thought; Det. Sgt. Jay Kelly, Detective Ed Kornacki (Ret.) and Col. S. O. Neil Franklin (Ret), three of Maryland’s finest law enforcement professionals who could themselves write volumes about their own experiences within law enforcement. Also to David R. Fowler, M.D. Chief Medical Examiner for the State of Maryland, an utterly brilliant man who kindly has always taken time to answer my questions. My daughters-in-law Amanda Martinez Johnson and Jacki Stoner Johnson, cousins Julie and Bob Ainsworth, Tommy, Irene and David Wilkinson, and Karen Wormald, my teacher and mentor Derek Nimmo, old school chums Carol The Prim Sayle, Arthur Gorton and Ben Ralston, Pam Neubert and the designer of the face pin mentioned in this book Linda Rosshirt of Georgia, along with Janis Christie brilliant designer at Skullz of London, Tails of Hope in Mt. Airy, Maryland, a worthy animal rescue organization who matched me up with Magical Max, and Cats R Us who found Mousey Tongue, my cat of cats. I would also like to honor the memories of Hildegard Koiwai, who knew the spirit of Amina Desai in 1970, Celeste and the family of Debbie Flores Narvaez, Gary Grimes of ‘1964…The Tribute’, Paul F. Florentino, M.D., Malcolm Lester Carr LL.B, the Rev. Fr. Thomas Delaney, Theodore and Ida Jennings, John Heider and Patrick D’Atri, and my very dear cousins Harold Wormald, James Winston Wormald and Joseph Anthony Cosgrove all of whom left this life much too soon.

Finally, thanks go to Russian journalist Yaraslova Tankova, whose expose’ fueled my research, to Pam Cichon, Leigh Gruber and of all the ladies of a book club meeting in Annapolis, Maryland who invited me into their hearts to discuss Circle Around The Sun a few years ago and whose enthusiasm and support makes writing books for them to read so much fun. All writers should have such support!

Dedicated to my husband, Pete and his shadows Laika, Max and Chloe; also to Anna Politskovkaya, the uncompromising Russian journalist and special correspondent for Noveya Gazeta, who was, during her career, incarcerated, intimidated, poisoned and finally shot to death in her apartment building because she chose to write the truth. She remains even in death, a beacon for us all.

PROLOGUE

An autopsy will be performed to determine the identity of a person found Saturday night in a blazing automobile near Baltimore Washington International Airport.

Anne Arundel County Police are investigating the accident as a suspicious death. The body was discovered at about 10.00 p.m. inside a 2001 Mercury Cougar two door sports car on Science Drive near Telegraph Road. When firefighters and police arrived at the scene the car was already engulfed in flames. Rescue workers discovered the charred remains once the fire was under control. The victim’s sex and age have not yet been determined as the body was, according to police spokesman Michael Hennessey, burned beyond recognition. There is no indication that the vehicle had been involved in an accident that could have caused the fire. Officials at North County Fire department are investigating the cause of the blaze.

June 3rd, 2005 The Baltimore Star-Gazette

The body local authorities recently discovered in a blazing automobile on Science Drive near BWI Airport has been identified as European financier Hans Jurgen Freitag, 56, a resident of the Persimmon Acres Community of Kent Island, Maryland. Police are investigating his death as a probable homicide. Freitag’s badly charred body was found about 10 p.m. yesterday after firefighters extinguished his burning Mercury Cougar. A spokesperson for The Office of the Chief Medical Examiner in Baltimore said earlier today that an autopsy was being performed to determine cause of death.

June 6th 2005, The Allegany Courier

Tri-County Task Force Officials continue to investigate the identity of a woman whose body was found on Route 68 between Breezewood, Pennsylvania and Hancock, Maryland. TCTF Spokesman Rudy Eichmann said earlier today that the body is now being autopsied in Fulton County, Pennsylvania. A criminal investigation into the victim’s death is being conducted by the Fulton County Pennsylvania Police Department. The involvement of the Tri-County Task Force is based on a missing persons report filed in Berkleigh, Maryland and an abandoned vehicle alleged to belong to the victim found in Fort Ashby, West Virginia. The vehicle is registered to Anastasia Markova, a Russian immigrant whose last known address was Fort Ashby, West Virginia.

An unidentified source close to the police department confirmed that a missing persons report was filed by Leonid Markov of Berkleigh, Maryland two days ago relating to his daughter.

June 12th, 2005 The Allegany Courier

Tri-County Task Force Police Spokesman Maj. Rudy Eichmann confirmed this morning that the body found on Route 68 between Breezewood, Pennsylvania and Hancock, Maryland has been positively identified as Anastasia Markova of Fort Ashby, West Virginia.

June 13th 2005, The Allegany Courier

OBITUARY

ANASTASIA LARISSA MARKOVA

Anastasia Stacy Marx Markova, born March 27th, 1972 in Ulyanovsk, Central Russia, died as a result of homicide earlier this month. The daughter of local businessman Leonid Markov and his wife Zinaida of Berkleigh, Maryland, Ms. Markova emigrated with her parents to the United States in 1975. She graduated from Hillside High School in 1990 and attended Baltimore School of Massage, receiving her certification in Therapeutic Body and Cranial Massage in 1992. Ms. Markova, a successful business entrepreneur, was also owner of The Silver Chalice Book and Gift Store in Vale, Maryland. Ms. Markova remained an active member of The Russian Orthodox Church of St. Matrona, in Baltimore, Maryland. In addition to her parents, she is survived by one brother, Valery, and two sons, Vasily and Jacov.

A private Russian Orthodox funeral will take place in the church of St. Matrona in Baltimore on July 9th, followed by a forty day Panchida memorial service of supplication. Burial following the funeral will be private. In lieu of flowers, friends and associates are asked to send memorial contributions to the charities of their choice.

CHAPTER ONE

Cape St. Andrew, Maryland

Harrison, get the bloody phone will you? I’m still in the bathtub! Emily Cowan shouted, the infernal ringing disturbing one of her daily pleasures. Tell whoever it is that I’m asleep or something.

Yes Madam. Of course, Madam. Anything you say, her husband responded sarcastically, leaving what he referred to as his midmorning deliverance, a glass of Scotch on the bathroom sink as he padded down the hallway into the living room of their beachfront home.

Life in Cape St. Andrew was pure joy at any time of year and the dinner party the previous evening had allowed their guests to take in all of its splendor. The island that was the main view from the house had been surrounded by fog and rendered barely visible, save for the tips of the pine trees eerily poking out of the mist in the moonlight. The sight prompted their Eastern European guests to take turns entertaining the party with dark, sinister Russian folk tales and before they realized it, it was after two in the morning, leaving Emily and her husband Harrison bereft of sleep, their normal daily routine irrevocably broken.

Emily enjoyed having dinner guests as the informal gatherings made a welcome change from the daily routine of her semi-retirement and life with Harrison. Everything turned out as planned, from the simple, rustic fare to the good music and excellent conversation. Her guests had raved about the food she served and Emily, who had been depressed of late, thrived on the appreciation. She’d labored over a mushroom stew, served it with a tangy homemade fruit and nut bread, cheeses, and for the non-vegetarians a Maryland stuffed ham with sweet potatoes and kale. Her penchant for warm chocolate raspberry tart with a crème fraiche as a finale kept her basking in the sunshine of compliments from her guests, who filled themselves to capacity. Emily Cowan rested safe in the knowledge that even at the ripe old age of (Oh bugger, was she 56 or 57?) she could still pull off an informal dinner party without dropping from fatigue half way through the event.

Now, eight hours later, the same fifty-six year old Emily, sinking deeper into the silky green bath foam laden with horse chestnut and sea salt, reminisced on all that was left of her youth. In earlier days she entertained constantly. The smell of this bath stuff, she reflected aloud to no one in particular, always reminds me of Heidelberg. Life was altogether different then. Tempted by the acoustics in the only bathroom she’d ever had with a fireplace, she began singing a medley of old German pop songs. Moments later, much to her displeasure, the ringing of the telephone disturbed her reverie.

So who was it, Harrison? Emily yelled to her husband ten minutes later over the sound of the hair dryer she was using in a reckless attempt to bring order to the masses of her natural, albeit dye enhanced curls. She slathered styling gel onto her rebellious locks, each now resembling shiny, fat sausages. Christ, this hair still grows like wild mint, she said mindlessly, grabbing a coated rubber band, scrunching the unruly locks into a short ponytail and promising herself a visit to Ashley, her stylist, by the end of the week.

She entered the library to find her husband seated in a large overstuffed chair, writing with one hand and cradling the phone with the other. God, this is a terrible shock! Aye lass, I don’t know what to tell you, I mean, we weren’t that close but it’s a terrible thing nonetheless. The funeral is when now? he asked, carefully writing down the information then ending the call.

Do you remember Hans Jurgen Freitag? Harrison began, moving slowly towards his wife. "I met with him earlier this year. We may have even taken him to lunch at ‘Olivia’s.’

I’ve never been to the place. Perhaps you’re confusing me with someone else, Emily replied sharply. But I do remember him rather well from years ago. He’s the same chap, is he not, that we knew as ‘The Orchid’ in Germany? she asked carelessly, without much regard to his thoughtful stare. What’s happened? Emily, noticing his look asked him once again, more out of habit than interest in what had actually taken place, while she poured herself a Glen Livet, her favorite scotch.

That was Alison, Harrison replied, referring to one of his colleagues, Alison Hunter. It seems that Freitag’s body was found in a blazing car near the airport a few days ago. What’s left of him is at the Medical Examiner’s office in Baltimore and his widow has contacted Alison to see if she can hurry them up so she can make burial arrangements.

Alison Hunter, attorney, thirty two years old, a brilliant risk management consultant and expert in international security, spearheaded Harrison Cowan’s new company, ‘Deep Creek Security Systems’ and like many other women of a certain type, married or single, she freely basked in Harrison’s sunshine. Harrison’s resemblance to an aging Scottish film star best known for his roles in spy movies several decades ago was a frequent irritation to Emily. Unfortunately, to her current way of thinking, that certain type, pro-gun, athletic, almost Amazon in body and mindset seemed to be getting younger and younger.

Emily pondered what Harrison had said, still trying to head off her more resentful cumulative instincts. Wait a mo! Allison Hunter? then adding caustically, Allison, the wanton and the fair, has telephoned here to tell you that someone WE knew thirty years ago has been found dead at BWI? Forgive me on this one, Harry dearest, but exactly how did Allison know you had any connection to Freitag?

With perhaps too much caution in his voice, a beleaguered Harrison Cowan answered his wife. She knew his son, probably heard me talk about him as well and we did go out to lunch quite recently. Surely my dear, the issue is that the man is no more and expired, so to speak, under very strange circumstances.

The issue is Harrison, Allison probably knows more about you than is good for either of us! Emily did not add the phrase, particularly me, but thought it nonetheless and was now feeling almost enflamed with resentment.

Surely, my dear, you don’t begrudge me some semblance of camaraderie. I’m not an emotional captive you know. In point of fact Allison only called to see if we can find out what’s going on.

Harrison’s sarcasm irked his wife further and he was unknowingly digging his own grave as their marital communication sank to an all time low.

My point, Harrison! Just my bloody point! How would she know we had any connections at the OCME? referring to her friendship with the Chief Medical Examiner. I can’t just contact Penn Street and ask for information. If it’s a suspicious death then it’s an ongoing investigation and still a police matter.

Emily, exactly what is wrong with you? You’d be on the phone very quickly indeed if one of your pals from the Embassy or some Middle Eastern wanker rang with the same request. Harrison’s Scottish burr became more pronounced and his cheeks a little pinker as his blood pressure visibly began to rise. Do you have a problem with Allison? She’s my partner, for heaven sakes.

Wrong Harrison! I’m your partner, God damn it! She’s your colleague! she added spitefully, slamming her second drink on his antique roll topped desk with considerable force and deliberate malice, hoping it would make a circular stain, then storming out of the room.

I just don’t know what gets into your head sometimes, he mumbled, apparently to himself, as he wiped up the mess with a wad of tissue. Surely you can’t be jealous of a wee thing like Allison. She’s a mere girl and no doubt a bit too intimidated by the almighty Emily Cowan to ask ye to do it herself, besides which she’s had enough heartbreak in her life. He walked toward the room that served as Emily’s office and opened the door. He heard her voice on the phone. She silenced him with a wave of her hand then casually closed her conversation with the person on the other end.

Oh for Christ’s sake, stop chunnering to yourself Harrison! Someone will ring me back and let me know if it’s an ongoing case or not. It could be suicide you know. Happens all the time out at the airport. I know what you’re thinking Harrison, It’s not very likely that the man’s autocratic ghost set the car on fire after he was dead. Nonetheless I’m sure you remember what type of person Freitag was, and in all seriousness, it really could have been a timed blaze. If my memory serves me well he was an expert in munitions and military capability. He would know how to do something like that. It really could have been suicide.

But why, Emily? Freitag had a wife. They had a son who died not too long ago. They lived somewhere on the Eastern Shore, according to Allison and they were, as I understand it a very happy couple until their son’s death. Allison suggested to Mrs. Freitag that she get in touch with you to investigate the case. I told her you’d handle it.

Emily Cowan ran a small investigative research business and while she occasionally accepted assignments like this, as a rule she worked only cold cases, not wanting to overstep her boundaries with local authorities. Traditionally all branches of law enforcement hated outsiders with a passion. Emily recognized that and always offset their sentiments with the appropriate amount of respect. Needless to say, when and if she did get involved in a turf war and had to cross that thin blue line Emily Cowan invariably followed the appropriate pathway of common sense, choosing and sharing with the police any information she gathered.

Frankly, Harrison, Emily added with as much authority as she could muster while still dressed in a bath robe with a wet towel on her head, I really dislike you giving a commitment of my support to Allison Hunter or to Freitag’s wife without discussing it with me first. You didn’t tell them how I happened to make his acquaintance in Heidelberg thirty years ago, did you?

Em, I don’t remember how you met the man and I had no idea he was living so close to us in Maryland after all these years. I recall his name coming up a few times when I was after a security contract in the seventies with The Bin Laden Group. You did all the research and I lost the contract anyway but, if my memory serves me well at all, it was about that time that you introduced me to a chap from Cameroon named Julian something or other who owned a discotheque. I remember you talking much later about his recruiting students into being good Commie party members during the Cold War. Julian was a real wheeler dealer and an arms trader for some very strange people. Freitag, if you can think that far back, turned out to be Julian’s connection. They named him ‘Orchid’ because he always wore one in his lapel. Like in some old English spy flick. Actually he was a rather sinister looking fellow, I thought.

Not bad for an old bugger, Harry, Emily answered, albeit somewhat surprised at Harrison’s recall of things which had lain dormant in her own memory for decades and as he spoke, her thoughts went back to gun runner Julian Mbutu’s business front, ‘The Club Catacomb’, a long and winding cellar under a warehouse where she danced and had much fun almost forty years ago, just a few miles outside of the ancient German city of Heidelberg. Those were the days indeed. Images lingered in her mind as Emily caught her reflection in the Chippendale mirror on the cabinet across the room. In retrospect, way back then in 1970, she didn’t have deeply ingrained lines around her mouth and eyes or the extra fifty pounds which no matter how she tried still didn’t defy gravity. Clothes fit properly then, she thought. Oh those gorgeous, gorgeous clothes. ‘Ulla’s Boutique’. Where is Ulla now, I wonder? Recapturing the girl’s image as her thoughts wandered, Emily stared at her reflection in the mirror and a barely recognizable much older woman looked back, smirking in angry defense of her lost youth. Jutting out her jaw she noticed, albeit quite sadly, that a slight double chin had appeared in the past few months. It was bad enough that she had become heftier around the middle. What’s next, she wondered, rogue hairs on the chin, bifocals, slack tits, grey pubic hair? Oh Christ! I feel old. I can’t hold my own anymore, she whispered softly to herself, as she only half-listened to the dull monotone of her husband. Even if she wasn’t reed thin or a size 0 soaking wet, like titian haired beauty Allison friggin’ Hunter, she could still remember how to smile, when her face wasn’t rigid with disapproval.

She stared intently at her collection of goddess statues on the book case, lined up as if in angry defiance of any patriarchal influence in her home. Her eyes settled on a replica of The Willendorf Venus, her braided hair, her head slightly bowed as if looking down at her plush body, her pendulous breasts, swollen belly, heavy thighs and buttocks, representing fertility in all its glory. This was the oldest feminine sculpture ever discovered, dating back some 30,000 years. Emily for decades had been a devotee of the Egyptian Goddess Isis, but she’d always felt a closeness for the uncomplicated form of the Willendorf figure. A hefty woman, thought Emily, just like me, too big in the bust and bottom, head bent, desiring only worship and attention, settling for nothing less. It’s a physical maturation thing, she thought aloud. As we get older we get softer in form, we lose that fight impulse so necessary for our survival in a world controlled by men. Yet in our softness, we have nurtured and given until we are all used up. I have to find the will to fight again. Fight the aging process, the jealousy, the resentment, the sheer ache of getting older. I need a purpose. I need myself, she said in dialog with herself.

Emily observed her husband again, and attempted to acknowledge him while noting with considerable disdain that he was still handsome and hadn’t gained an ounce. Almost sixteen years older than Emily, she had always referred to him as her silver fox. Hers! Yet somehow, age-wise she had caught up with and perhaps passed him physically. Another bloody male conspiracy! The beautiful silver pony tail that had flourished just ten years ago was now undoubtedly thinning. Harrison’s hair, still stylish but now conservatively cut close to his head gave him the appearance of an ancient Roman senator, smiling now as she observed him. His grey eyes still twinkled, his broad shouldered physique, as befitted an avid sailor remained continually tanned and in the eyes of his wife, he was still most assuredly ruggedly handsome. Her husband of twenty eight years displayed the magnificence of an older man who had outgrown all semblance of boyishness and was now completely at ease with himself. Harrison Cowan was well maintained, mature, powerful, successful and most highly thought of by his peers. Particularly, believed his wife as she continued to scrutinized him, by bloody Allison Hunter. Harrison, she noticed, managed to hang on to the infernal wench’s every word whenever they were together and he had now developed a stare laced with such paternal adoration that Emily, almost thirty years Allison’s senior, felt utterly threatened, stocky and fat, rather like the statue on the bookcase. As she considered it again, she became aware of a slow burning spark of defiance.

It just wasn’t the same for men, this insidious aging process, Emily sighed. Women became slowly invisible after fifty. Men simply maintained the glamour, as the media reflected male society’s fantasy for pairing off older men with what Emily’s angry perception termed ‘day trippers’. Bloody little Allison Hunters, indiscriminately matched with leading men in movies and TV. Even teenage idols Beatle Paul and Rolling Stone Mick let Emily down with their current choice of partners. May they rot! Real women of her age of course were conveniently put out to pasture by society’s clock. We’re obsolete my baby, recalling an old sixties song as the mental tirade subsided. I, Emily Cowan, am now one of the thousands of invisible women trying to beat that insufferable clock while still remaining bloody ferocious toward any competition, sexual, physical or professional. Baby boomers my arse! It only applies to men with Viagra. Damn you Allison Hunter. Damn your hair, your eyes, your simpering frigging smile, the way you look at my husband and my inability to smack your face! Where the fuck is Dusty Springfield when you need her? She died of cancer, Emily’s inner voice replied. Just sing the songs Emily, just sing the songs. Oh shit, what the hell is he saying now? She focused, trying to be herself again. I can’t get that Hunter woman out of my mind. She dwelled on Harrison once more, vowing to trust no one under fifty, to watch more Helen Mirren, Meryl Streep and Judy Dench, to listen to more Dusty Springfield, Janis Joplin, Diana Ross or Aretha Franklin and to read more Helen Fielding or Fay Weldon, warrior women who understood the rest of her generation of scorned-by-choice women perfectly. The unquestionable reality of the situation was in finding that she, Emily Byron Cowan, lecturer, researcher and author, needed the companionship to be found in soulful lyrics, and the comfort of the written word, while her psyche battled disintegration and pre-senior depression.

Jealousy, anger and lack of battle strategy were altogether new to Emily, an otherwise emotionally strong and highly competitive woman who neither knew how to lose or share! Over thirty years ago she had trained in a terrorist camp in Lebanon, made the acquaintance of radicals who blew up people and buildings for a living and had never once been afraid. Intimidation and inadequacy were not sentiments Emily Cowan, known then as Amina Desai, had ever entertained. She had taken the risks, traded information, and been a highly trained asset working for both British and American intelligence and by twenty-three she had met some of the most notorious terrorists of the age. Yet now, in the summer of 2005 the same Emily Byron Cowan lived in almost continual apprehension of losing her husband to a woman slightly older than her daughter. A woman who in fact was considerably younger than Harrison’s biological children. The problem, she would soon come to realize wasn’t her own angst but that the greatest terror of all, bigger even than Osama bin Laden himself, was of having too much free time on her hands! What Emily Cowan really needed was more work, a new assignment! She had lost her purpose. Her life, undoubtedly had become space to fill.

My dear, are you all right? Harrison was bearing down on her, I asked you a question about Orchid?

I’m sorry Harrison. I was away with the faeries as usual. The phrase reflected her Northern English ancestry and upbringing, which was sometimes lost in the nuances of suburban Maryland. What was it you said?

Was he an arms dealer in the seventies or just involved in selling security to wealthy Arabs? her husband repeated himself, all too aware that something was bothering Emily.

Orchid was a well-paid communist party member whose cover was that of security services, Emily said as she poured herself another drink. He also dabbled, as well as I can remember, in arms trading. She spoke in the remote tone she occasionally used on her children when she was otherwise occupied, adding as afterthought, Frankly, I was very surprised to find that he was living here in Maryland. His wife is Asian, I think perhaps from Hong Kong, and I would have thought she’d be more comfortable some place with a larger Asian population. Remember, Harrison? We met them again through Dimi and Vika. Mrs. Freitag was the shorts and tank top type, loved the sun, tennis and all that stuff. You know, little drinks with the umbrellas in them by the pool. Whatever happened to Dimi and Vika after that? Emily asked, now referring to another couple from the past, Dimitri and Vika Schulkin. The Shulkins, of whom she spoke, had profited considerably by playing both ends against the middle in the aftermath of the Cold War, remaining in Germany despite the economic problems caused by the influx of East Germans and Russians.

Emily believed that those people from the liberated Eastern Bloc countries had taken over Western Europe, much to the dismay of those who previously occupied the space. Europe, while benefiting initially from the Eastern bloc diaspora, now realized fully the socio-economic impact of high volume immigration. Few had taken seriously the exacting trend analysis of experts like Emily, who had advocated then to political economists and politicians alike a strict adherence to immigration laws and quotas. Conversely, as Emily knew all too well, thousands of Russian gangsters migrated like scavengers to the U.S. after the European carcass had been picked and in return many of those American and European double agents recruited by the Soviets in the Cold War years flew the coup to Mother Russia for rest and recreation until happier times prevailed.

After the wall came down, Emily continued in a dull monotone, Hans Freitag was one of the Russians who bypassed living in Europe and came straight to the American fatted calf. In fact Harry, as I recall it, Freitag and lots of other Russian immigrants began trickling over here during the very early seventies while I was still in Germany. When Brezhnev started to empty the gulags, Orchid was one of the people who helped engineer some real heavyweights in this direction. All long-term strategy. Then came the nineties. You know, it was sort of a mass convergence after the Berlin wall fell. America for them was the last bloody frontier! Even the Crime Investigator for the Russian Attorney General made a statement like how wonderful the Iron Curtain is down but it what a great shield it had been for the West. But we still didn’t get the message. I mean, Harrison, these mobskys remain here for good and we simply don’t have the resources to stop them. They’re not like our homegrown Mafioso types. Russian organized crime is like the bloody bubonic plague. Remember ‘Brighton Beach’, as in the Neil Simon play? I understand it’s now the Mafiya Capital of the West. I’m not saying that Orchid was directly involved with them but this body in a burning car thing reeks of the KGB. Whoever did it is well trained. It could be a calling card of some sort if it’s not a suicide. I know he had a long established friendship with some of their key players in the past. To be totally honest, I’m not sure if I want to look further into this. I mean, if it helps your business I’ll see Orchid’s old lady but I really don’t want to get that involved. These bastards have no rules!

The phone rang again. It was, as once more duly noted by Emily Cowan, the most dreaded Allison Hunter!

CHAPTER TWO

Allison Hunter and Audrey Freitag arrived within the hour. Emily’s claws remained somewhat unsheathed for Allison’s benefit. Nonetheless she couldn’t help feeling sorry for the delicately featured Asian woman Allison brought with her, who looked so utterly forlorn.

Please call me Moy, most people do, Mrs. Freitag said, offering her hand to Emily, then to Harrison, who shook it gently. Looking directly at him she said, I believe we’ve met before, some years ago.

Yes, I do believe we did, Harrison answered kindly, I knew your husband only slightly. You have my condolences nonetheless Madam. Mrs. Freitag was immediately disarmed. Have you both eaten? I can send out for stuff if you’re hungry.

If it would be no trouble, yes, that would be nice. I mean if it’s alright with Allison. I, er, that is, she paused looking at her friend, if she has no other plans, I mean. She broke off mid-sentence and began to cry.

There, there, my dear. It’s all right. There’s nothing more you can do. You’ve come to the right place. Emily will help you, as of course will Allison and I. Harrison, noticing his wife’s expression change at the mention of the ill-termed reference pairing him with his colleague, became immediately quiet.

Harrison, why don’t you make some coffee first and then we can decide on food, maybe we’ll just go out afterwards. Emily warded off images of the scene she knew would follow after the women left. It was becoming difficult to concentrate and her brain was becoming addled.

Why don’t you tell me what happened from the moment you last saw your husband, Moy? Emily turned as she noticed Allison leaving to follow Harrison out of the room. Hey Allison, she shouted, Why don’t you stay here with us and help her out? After all, she might forget something important. Harrison can manage the coffee. He has loads of experience with coffee makers. He’s been using them longer than you’ve been alive, she added with a malicious grin. I’ll take Expresso or Arabic, dear, she called to Harrison, knowing it would take ten times longer to prepare than regular coffee.

Emily’s lack of subtlety was not wasted on Allison Hunter, who was smiling gratuitously. I can help him, it’s no problem. Take your time Emily.

Trust me Allison, the last thing he needs is your help in the kitchen. Please stay with us. I need your input here. She pointed to the couch with a vindictive gesture.

Her confidence restored, Emily was transformed. Now given a mission, she was no longer an insecure older woman defending her turf. However uncomfortable she might be over her embarrassingly Rubenesque proportions, which were now barely hidden beneath her white Egyptian flannel bathrobe, she managed to unleash her hidden confident interrogator. It was as if her secret self had been lurking stealthily in the wings, waiting to upstage her antagonist. Emily grabbed her yellow legal pad from the desk so recently defiled by her whiskey glass and became once more, as she began making copious notes, the warrior woman who takes no prisoners, bathrobe notwithstanding.

Reaching towards the desk once again, Emily produced her contract. The document stated clearly that a non-refundable payment of $2,500 retained her services and would be applied to the final statement of account. Her hourly fee was $250.00 with additional travel costs if required. While this appeared to be a significant amount it was still below cost for the high standard of work she generally produced. Surprisingly, Audrey Freitag signed the contract without hesitation and quickly wrote out a check. Allison Hunter seemed shocked at the formality but remained silent.

When did you last see your husband and what did he tell you about the meeting he was going to? Emily began, I understand from my husband’s conversation with Allison that he was meeting a client. She turned toward Allison rather abruptly and added condescendingly, That is correct, is it not dear?

Not waiting for Allison’s response, Mrs. Freitag continued, My husband was going to meet a man he’d met previously at a function in the Saudi Embassy. He was an Arab but not a Saudi. I don’t know his name, but there was someone else, a middle man with a German name they were both going to meet. My younger son overheard their conversation the night before he left. He said afterwards his father was on the phone confirming hotel reservations in London, and he was also going to see a fellow whom he called Borodin over there. But Borodin wasn’t his real name. The man was English and was coming in from Moscow. I think he was a big shot because my husband had talked about him many times. It used to amuse him. Borodin, he told me, had a power, He was a friend to many older families throughout Europe. His family had blood ties to old Russian royalty as well British nobility. I heard him say Borodin was even close to Downing Street. She looked down at the floor as if in embarrassment. That is to say, Mrs. Cowan, I’m sorry, Emily, I have no proof. My husband used to drink a lot and when he was happy he was talkative. You may remember that about him. You knew him somewhat, I believe? But the one with the German name that just escapes me lived here in Maryland, somewhere near the mountains. The western part, you know? My husband used to go there a lot. He would hunt there in the winter and play golf at the resort in the summer. Many of the Russians live there you see. It has quite a large Russian immigrant community. My husband had lists of business contacts with him. Long lists that he had been given. He was going to supply a lot of people with guns. That’s what he did Mrs. Cowan. He sold arms. Why should I lie, Allison?" Audrey directed her gaze towards Allison Hunter who was by now visibly displeased with the information so blatantly given out.

Forgive my rudeness, Moy, but what is your relationship to Allison. How do you know her?

Oh. I thought you knew. She was once engaged to my son, Leo.

Emily noticed she had