When Iris awoke after the jet engines had finally lulled her into a fitful sleep, her first thought was that she was thirsty. Her next was: What the hell am I doing? But it was too late to turn back.
Her tendency to act first and think second had usually served her well. If she’d thought too hard about some of the bold steps she’d taken in her life, she probably would have talked herself out of them. Her blue-collar background and dicey family life provided little guidance for navigating the hardscrabble world of high finance where she’d desperately wanted to be a player. Without a mentor’s firm hand to guide her, she’d had to rely on her gut instincts.
Now, as the jet flew through dense clouds as it made its descent to Sheremetyevo International Airport over a landscape of forests broken by farmland and towns, that little internal voice was coming through loud and clear. Swept away by the promise of adventure, she’d ignored it until now. Coming to Moscow was a bad idea, Iris , it chided.
She defiantly shook her head and whispered aloud, “It’s going to be great.” Since she’d already broken her first rule about following her instincts, she’d follow her second: never look back.
Sheremetyevo airport was ragged around the edges and too small for the traffic that passed through it. Iris waited in a long line to retrieve her luggage from a scant number of carousels, then stood in another line queuing at too few passport-control kiosks.
The official there wore the same stern, skeptical expression that she’d seen at ports of entry from Los Angeles to the Virgin Islands. Iris couldn’t take her eyes off this one though—he bore an uncanny resemblance to a young Jack Nicholson. He scowled at her papers, which she knew were in order, and barked a few questions at her in passable English. She responded with a silly smile on her lips, which didn’t improve his demeanor, but she was unable to keep from picturing him wearing Ray Ban Wayfarers. He stamped her passport and slid it across the counter.
She entered the crowded terminal, pulling her wheeled suitcase and searching for Todd Fillinger. People surged around her with no regard for personal space. She was accustomed to the standoffish attitude of Los Angelenos, except when driving, of course. To have strangers so close always made her feel wooden and suspicious, adding to her distress when she didn’t immediately see Todd.
The crowd was comprised of the same cultural cross-section that passes through any major airport, but here she’d seen more fur coats in ten minutes than she’d seen in twenty years in L.A. Everyone seemed pallid, but that’s how Iris saw most of the rest of the world. Living a lifetime in L.A. had permanently skewed her perceptions. There was one constant—the teenagers here also wore urban gangsta outfits of grossly oversized clothing and backward ball caps.
She held her suitcase close and more tightly clutched the strap of her shoulder bag as she pressed through the crowd, suppressing a wave of panic. She exhaled in relief when she saw an outstretched hand above the crowd and glimpsed Todd’s face behind it. Pushing and shoving with the best of them, she finally reached him.
Todd squeezed her in a bear hug that lifted her feet off the ground.
“Hi, you!” she exclaimed.
“You’re here!” he enthused.
“Yes!” was the only response that came to her mind.
He put his hands on her shoulders, held her at arm’s length, and looked her over. She was vividly reminded of why she’d fallen in love with him.
“You look great,” he said.
“You don’t look too shabby yourself.”
He took the pull-handle of her suitcase and put his other arm around her waist. She put hers around his in a long-unused gesture that seemed completely natural.
“You grew a beard,” she said.
“It’s cold in Russia.” He grinned and scratched his cheek. “I need all the fur I can get.”
“I like it. I never imagined you with a beard.”
“You look great. Just like I imagined you.” He hugged her tighter.
She felt his ribs through his cashmere pullover sweater. “You’ve lost weight.” She ran her fingers down his side. “You’re a lot thinner than you were in Paris.”
“Been busy.”
“Look!” Iris touched a ring that he wore on his left pinky finger. “My class ring. You’re still wearing it.”
He self-consciously closed his fist. “I told you I’d never take it off.”
Iris gleaned the unspoken message: And I follow through on my promises. She let the topic drop.
They walked through the concourse past the usual conglomeration of airport concessions. Todd pushed open the outside door and Iris stepped into a chilly, gray day.
“Brrrr,” she said.
He helped her put on her coat. “It’s been in the fifties. We had a little rain, but it’s supposed to have passed through.”
“It’s been in the nineties in L.A. Typical hot and dry Indian summer.”
“I haven’t been in L.A. in…probably fifteen years. How is it?”
“Always changing and always the same.”
Walking again, they passed tour directors counting heads and herding their charges onto buses, businessmen filing into a stream of waiting taxis, and college students with backpacks studying maps.
“Everything looks fairly normal so far,” Iris commented. “If you go by what’s on the news, Russia’s going to pieces.”
“There’s definitely instability, but she’s gonna make it. There’s still plenty of money to be made.”
A slender man in jeans and a black leather jacket who’d been leaning against a large Mercedes sedan moved toward them, his lit cigarette still between his fingers.
“There’s Sasha,” Todd explained. “My driver.”
With his buzz cut hair and fresh complexion, Sasha looked like a Boy Scout, which made the handgun that Iris spotted stuck in his waistband at the small of his back even more discordant.
He muttered, “Hello. Welcome to Moscow,” and shook Iris’s hand, then stuck the cigarette between his lips to better fumble with the release on the suitcase handle.
Seeing Iris’s eyes widen at the sight of the gun, Todd explained, “He’s also my bodyguard.”
“Part of doing business in Moscow?”
He smiled wryly as if she’d guessed correctly.
While Sasha stowed Iris’s coat and suitcase in the trunk, Todd held the Mercedes’ rear door for her. Walking around to the opposite side, he reached in to remove a tan camelhair coat from the back seat, then climbed in after her.
“We have about a half-hour ride to the city. You hungry?”
“Starving.”
He smiled fondly at her. “That’s my Iris. I thought I’d take you to a little bistro I know for a snack. For dinner, we’ll get dressed up and do the town.”
“Sounds great.” Iris ran her hand across the black leather seat. “Nice steel.”
“Like I wrote in my letter, Moscow has been very good to me.”
Iris was glad to see Sasha toss his cigarette on the ground after one last, long drag. He climbed into the driver’s seat with a squeal of leather on leather. He turned the key in the ignition and unnecessarily gunned the car’s big engine.
“Mercedes six hundred,” Iris observed. “The car of choice for Moscow’s wealthy businessmen and mobsters. I read that Mercedes six hundreds are such frequent targets of car bombings, mothers warn their children not to play around them.”
Todd laughed. “If you’re afraid of Moscow, why did you come?”
She smiled. “It’s more a fascination with the sensational.”
“So why did you come?”
“To look at investing in your art galleries, primarily for myself but also for my clients.”
“Come on, Iris.” He cocked his head at her. “I want you to invest in my business, but I’m surprised you came halfway around the world just for that.”
She looked at him coyly. “What other reason could there be?”
“From what you said on the phone, it sounds like things between you and your boyfriend are getting serious.”
“Yeah. So?”
“So maybe you came for one last fling with your favorite bad boy. Your rogue across the waters.” He smiled crookedly and drew his fingertips across the back of her hand. The atmosphere grew prickly. “We hit that clear, singing high note, didn’t we?”
She blushed, moved her hand to her lap, and tried to make light of it. “That’s why you thought I came here, huh? Sorry to disappoint you, but, no dice.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and sighed. “Well, like my sister used to say, ‘Live in hope and die in despair.’”
She had to grin. “Isn’t just being friends okay?”
“Oh, sure. I love being friends,” he replied sarcastically.
She pointedly glowered at him.
“Then my guess is you came to see if you still have feelings for me before you wander into the sunset with whatsisname…Herb, Beowulf…”
“Garland ,” she corrected him, laughing.
“Garland. How could I forget?”
She jabbed him with her index finger. “You think you know all about me, don’t you?”
“Sure.”
“You’re still a smug son of a bitch.”
He slid his arm around her waist and pulled her close. “That’s what you love most about me.”
As his eyes traveled her face, she looked at his lush, dark brown hair, expressive lips, and deeply set sable eyes that gleamed with devilishness. In the cool light provided by time and distance, the depth of her attraction to him had come to seem irrational. Now, she had to agree—there was nothing rational about it. She removed his arm and slid to the opposite side of the car. “Look, Todd, I hope I didn’t say anything to mislead you. I’m in love with Garland. But I am happy to see you again.”
“You didn’t. Just thought I’d try. All fooling around aside, I’m sincerely glad you’ve found someone.” He looked at her affectionately. “However, I do have a brilliant investment opportunity for you.”
“I hope so. How else am I going to deduct this trip on my taxes?”
He chuckled and she looked out the window. The broad highway cut a path through a landscape of dry fields and low forests broken by clusters of boxy, run-down buildings.
“So tell me about your business,” she said.
His eyes were bright with enthusiasm. “Fillinger and Lazare, dealers in fine art. I’ve known Enrico Lazare for years. Actually, he was around when we were in Paris, but I don’t think you ever met him.”
Iris replayed the name in her mind and shook her head.
“He’s this crazy Corsican, always wheeling and dealing. Anyway, in his travels, he started picking up pieces of art. In my travels, I came across people who wanted to buy art. A year ago, I came to Moscow on a whim and discovered that the novie bogatie , the new rich, have an insatiable appetite for Western art to decorate their homes…”
Two men on a motorcycle sped past the Mercedes, then slowed until they were even with it.
A look of concern flitted across Todd’s face. “And offices.” He touched the driver’s shoulder. The man nodded once in response and floored the Mercedes, quickly leaving the motorcycle behind.
“The novie bogatie are very big on keeping up with the Godunovs…” Todd glanced out the back window. He relaxed only when the motorcycle was a dot in the distance. “The logical next step is to open a chain of mid-priced galleries like you see in some of the better shopping malls in the U.S. It’s a completely untapped market. Iris, whoever gets in on the ground floor will make a ton of money.”
“I’m impressed by this entrepreneurial side of you that I’ve never seen before.”
“Who would have thought that a small-time freelance photographer would become one of Moscow’s top art dealers?” Confidentially, he leaned closer to her. “Lazare and I are about to close our biggest deal yet on a very rare piece of art. Worth megabucks.”
“Really?”
“It’ll set me up big time.” He jerked his chin toward the window. “We’re entering the city limits. That wooded area is called the Sparrow Hills, and that skyscraper is Moscow State University. I’ll show you around tomorrow.”
The traffic and buildings grew denser the farther they drove into the city. Clutches of people, both young and old, were selling vegetables, bread, vodka, and cigarettes from impromptu shops set up on blankets on the sidewalks.
“Sasha, go to Mziuri.” Todd glanced at a gold, antique watch that had a large, curved face.
Iris admired it. “Nice watch.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you doing any photography?”
“A lot, actually. Built up a good business here. Moscow’s wealthy like to do everything Western-style, so they’re into the lavish weddings, big birthday parties for kids, and so on. I’ve hired a couple of guys to do videos. It’s growing. I’ve also done a little magazine work. Life is good.”
“I’m happy for you, Todd.”
“You haven’t done too poorly yourself. That job that you left Paris to start has turned out well.”
“I’m branch manager now, running the whole office. Hard to believe I only started working for McKinney Alitzer five years ago.”
“A lot can happen in five years.”
“Indeed.”
Sasha wove the big car through the busy streets with little regard for lane markings. Iris had no idea where they were going, but sensed the driver was forced to take a circuitous route to avoid huge sink holes, building construction, and streets closed for no apparent reason. The air rang with the din from car horns and power drills. Shabby Soviet-era gray-block structures stood next to McDonalds and Pizza Huts. Aging babushkas and gangs of children panhandled near exclusive members-only clubs. Gold leaf was everywhere.
Sasha stopped the car in front of an elegant but faded building where laborers were working to melt grime from the façade. He cut the engine and started to open the car door when Todd touched his shoulder and said, “Wait.” They both watched as two men dressed in dark suits walked toward them on the sidewalk.
Sasha turned his head slightly and raised an eyebrow at Todd, then watched the men ascend the steps and enter the building.
“Let’s go to King’s Head,” Todd said to Sasha who sped away from the curb. “You mind, Iris? It’s a British-style pub, few Russians go there. You’ll have ample opportunity to sample the real Moscow before you go home.” His expression suddenly became bitter. “You’ll be gagging on it.”
“Todd, what’s up?” Iris asked. “Is somebody after you?”
He pursed his lips and hesitated, then reluctantly admitted, “Yeah. I got crosswise with the Russian Mafia.” He shook his head. “Every time Lazare and I did a deal, a henchman for the local boss came calling, wanting a cut. I finally refused to pay. It wasn’t too smart, but I just got fed up.”
Iris glanced at Sasha. “At least you’ve hired protection.”
“It’s something, but I can’t fool myself. If they want you, they’ll get you.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Go about my business,” he replied, a bit cavalierly in Iris’s view.
They got out of the car in front of a plain building and descended a set of stairs that led to a basement entrance. The smoke-filled pub was dark, loud, and lively, full of Brits and Americans. Several dartboards were seeing heavy use. Iris and Todd sat at a corner table and ordered Cornish pasties, fish and chips, and draft Guinness.
Todd laughed at Iris’s grave expression. “Come on. I’ve been in worse fixes. If it gets too hot, I’ll just leave. Won’t be the first time I’ve blown a town.” Changing the subject too quickly, he asked, “Tell me about this boyfriend, Garland.”
“He’s a partner in a small venture capital firm. Been married before, has two kids that are almost grown, and he lives in New York.” Speaking of Garland made Iris realize how much she already missed him.
“New York? She likes distance between her and her men.”
She didn’t respond to his all-too-accurate observation. He seemed to enjoy skewering her.
“Does he know about us?” Todd asked. “I mean our history?”
“More or less.”
“I’m surprised he let you come here by yourself.”
“He would have joined me, but he had meetings he couldn’t change. I don’t mind. I wanted to see you alone.”
“You do?” He was glib. “A few minutes ago, you reminded me that we’re just friends.”
“We are. But you’re right about what you said earlier. I didn’t come here only for business. You’re a loose end in my life, the source of many what-ifs, regrets, and above all, shame. I want closure on our relationship.”
“Ahh, closure. Psychobabble from a genuine Californian.” He surveyed the crowd and drummed his fingers on the table.
“Todd, I came to apologize to you.”
When he looked at her again, he was smiling but it seemed forced. “Iris, what’s past is past. No hard feelings. Closure has been achieved.” His rigid posture belied his flippant comment. He quickly tipped back the glass of beer, leaving a foamy residue on his moustache, which he blotted with a square paper cocktail napkin. He carefully smoothed the napkin against the table top, folded a narrow pleat down one side, then folded another next to it.
Iris took a breath, steeling herself, determined to say what she had traveled here to say. “I’m sorry I ran out on you.” She paused and he didn’t look up, absorbed in folding the napkin. She went on, “The three months we spent together in Paris, they…” She blinked at the memory, gazing at the smoke-filled room as if it were a window into the past. “I don’t have a good reason for why I left. All I can say is that it was too intense, too unreal. It seemed to be something that couldn’t go on, that was bound to self-destruct.”
He methodically folded pleat after pleat into the napkin, creasing each one with his thumbnail. She continued unreeling her limp explanation, knowing it didn’t make any sense as soon as the words hit the air. She kept putting them out there anyway.
“I could have handled it much differently. Should have.”
The napkin now completely folded, he released it on the table, the accordion folds bursting open. He closed it again, held the folds together at one end, letting the other end open in a fan. Now tired of it, he flicked the napkin across the table where it rested against glass salt and pepper shakers.
She opened her hands toward him in a gesture of supplication. “I’m sorry.”
When he didn’t respond, she went on. “A few weeks after I left, I tried to explain in a letter. Did you get it?”
He met her eyes. “No.”
“That’s odd. I sent it to your Paris apartment. When it came back, I sent it to your sister’s house in Bakersfield.”
“I didn’t get it.” He smiled stiffly. “Iris, like I already said, no need to explain. If I was still angry with you, I wouldn’t have invited you here, would I? Let’s just enjoy the next few days and live for the moment. That is my specialty, you know.” He winked at her.
A waitress brought their food and Iris dug in, relieved to have voiced the regret that she’d held in for five years. She couldn’t predict Todd’s response. He’d been a little strange, but she thought it had turned out fine.
Iris took her time dressing for dinner in the room Todd had reserved for her at the elegant, Art Nouveau-style Metropolis Hotel. The ceiling was twelve feet high and decorated with elaborately carved molding brushed with gold paint. A crystal-and-brass chandelier hung from the center. Thickly looped wall-to-wall carpeting covered the floor. The furniture was heavy, made of dark wood, upholstered in rich fabric. Carved wood trim outlined in gold divided the walls into panels. It was elegant and old-world, a style, Iris recalled, that Todd appreciated.
She gave Garland a call, surprised at the speed of the connection. Sipping Russian champagne and nibbling crackers spread generously with caviar, she told him the events of her day, leaving out Todd’s situation with the Russian Mafia, not wanting to give him anything more to worry about.
“I’m glad I finally smoothed things over with Todd.”
“I’m glad you’re glad.”
“You wish I’d come home.”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I do.”
“I changed my flight. I’ll be home Thursday instead of Saturday.”
“Iris, that’s only three nights in Moscow. Don’t change your plans on my account.”
“It’s plenty of time to have a look at what Todd has in mind for these art galleries and to see some of the sights. It’s a little weird here.”
“Is it Todd? Is he treating you all right?”
“No, he’s great.”
“How do you mean, weird?”
She back-pedaled. “I just mean…I’d rather be here with you.”
“Have a good time, sweets. Make the most of it.”
They said their good-byes. She threw her coat over her arm and grabbed her unusually light purse. She’d stored her money, passport, and wallet in the hotel safe, carrying only a lipstick, California driver’s license, two credit cards, one hundred dollars in small bills, and enough rubles for small expenses.
At the end of the hallway, she gave her room key to the dezhurnaya , a sort of concierge stationed on each floor of the hotel. She had long, dark hair and wore a pink dress that reminded Iris of a waitress in a U.S. diner. But this girl was tall and had the bone structure of a fashion model.
Iris descended in a highly polished wood-paneled elevator to the lobby where she was to meet Todd in the bar. The elevator stopped several times until it was full of businessmen and tourists of many nationalities.
She walked through the plush lobby, attracting stares from both men and women. She at first thought the stares were because she looked fetching in her black cocktail dress, which she did, but then realized the larger reason—she was a woman alone. She pulled herself taller and kept walking.
Entering the bar through doors inset with beveled glass, she looked for Todd and didn’t see him. She went to a corner table by a window and slid into a banquette.
A waiter wearing a short, red jacket and a stiff apron asked her something in Russian.
She assumed he wanted to know what she’d like to drink. “Champagne,” she said, hoping it was part of the international language. She’d liked the Russian champagne she’d had in her room.
Just then, Todd breezed into the bar, looking handsome in a dark suit and tie, his tan camelhair overcoat draped rakishly over his shoulders. “Sorry I’m late, Iris.” He didn’t move to sit down.
“You’re not late. I barely got here myself.”
“And I have to leave again. I need to make a quick phone call.” He shrugged apologetically. “It never ends.”
“Take your time. I’m not on a schedule.”
“I won’t be but ten minutes, then I’ll be yours for the entire evening.” He smiled and turned, the hem of his coat swirling out, and left the bar.
Several minutes later, the waiter brought Iris’s champagne. She sipped it appreciatively and entertained herself by eavesdropping on a group of American tourists at a nearby table.
Suddenly, there was a flurry of popping noises outside the hotel. The din in the bar decreased slightly as the patrons cast worried glances at one another. Someone started screaming.
Iris turned to look out the window and saw a crowd gathering on the hotel’s front steps. Panic shot through her when she spied a tan overcoat draped haphazardly there. She kneeled on the banquette and pressed both hands against the glass. A man with a beard was crumpled next to the coat.
“Todd!” she screamed. She clambered from behind the table, knocking over the glass of champagne and forgetting about her purse and coat. Whimpering, she pushed through the people gathering in the lobby and made her way out the front door. She clasped both hands over her mouth at the sight of Todd sprawled across the hotel’s front steps, his blood running down the worn marble.
The crowd maintained a safe distance from the fallen man, no one offering assistance.
“Oh my God!” Iris rushed to kneel next to him. His body was riddled with bullets, his face covered in blood. His labored breathing made small bubbles in the blood trailing from his lips. She took his hand and tried to remain calm.
“It’s going to be okay, Todd. Hang on.” She lost her composure and started to sob. “Hang on, Todd,” she cried. Through her tears, she saw his eyes flutter. He exhaled a long breath. His chest didn’t rise to take another.
“Todd!” She watched and waited, praying for him to breathe. He didn’t. She laid his hand, which still bore her class ring, against his chest and sat back on her heels, keening. She became of aware of someone behind her pulling her arm. She jerked away. Then strong hands slid underneath her armpits and raised her to her feet.
“Wait a second!” She turned to see two men in blue-gray uniforms with red lapels and red bands around their hats.
One of them said to her, “ Edyomtye samnoy .”
She tried to struggle from their grasp. “I don’t understand. I don’t speak Russian.”
They began pulling her away from the scene.
“Wait!” she protested, dragging her heels and thrashing back and forth. “Where are you taking me? My purse—”
They lifted her off the ground and carried her into a waiting Jeep.