Private Moscow (Private 15)

“Different architecture”—I gestured to the brightly lit bronze dome of an Orthodox church—“but it’s much the same. Fast-food joints everywhere, just like here, fewer European cars on the streets, same freezing weather in the north, heat in the south. Cities full of people just trying to get by. Beneath the surface, I don’t think any country is that different, because people aren’t that different. Most want health, happiness and a good life for their family.”

“And you?” she asked pointedly. “What do you want?” Her eyes shone in the light cast by oncoming cars.

“I want people to have justice.”

“And family?” Dinara pressed. “For yourself?”

“I don’t know,” I replied honestly. “Maybe one day.”

The rest of the journey passed in silence, and when we reached the Residence, I asked Dinara whether she’d help me try to identify the key. A building full of former cops was as good a place as any to start the search.

We went into one of the recreation rooms that lay off the lobby and spoke to half a dozen residents. A couple spoke English, but most needed Dinara’s translation. They didn’t recognize the key and couldn’t help, but when we sat opposite the seventh ex-cop, and showed it to him, his eyes flashed knowingly.

“It’s for a Mauer keylock. They use them on Kaso safes,” the man said in fluent English.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Of course,” he replied, almost insulted. “I worked burglary for fifteen years. Valentin Popel,” he said, offering me his hand, which I shook.

Popel must have been in his mid-fifties and had curly gray hair that fell around his ears. He’d been sitting alone, reading a book when we’d approached him, and was wearing slippers, slacks and a cardigan. He looked more like someone’s grandfather than a hardboiled cop.

“How big is one of these safes?” I asked.

“About the size of a small refrigerator. Maybe bigger,” he said.

I glanced at Dinara. There was nowhere in the apartment Ernie Fisher could have concealed something that size.

“Are these things rare?” I asked hopefully.

“Kaso? No. They sell t

hem all over the world. It’s a very good safe.”

“Could it be in the American embassy?” Dinara asked.

Popel shook his head. “American embassies only trust American safes. No, this thing would not be there. Unless it was unofficial.”

“Spying?” Dinara suggested.

“A spy with a four-foot-tall safe,” Popel scoffed. “Not very subtle. This is a big thing to hide. Not something anyone would be able to conceal in an embassy.”

I glanced at Dinara. “Thank you, Mr. Popel,” I said to the man. “Please excuse me. I need to make a call.”

I left him and Dinara and went to my room where I phoned Justine. I brought her up to speed and told her about the key, which I hid in a crack beneath my windowsill.

“We think it’s for a safe,” I explained. “We need to find out where it’s located. Can you ask Mo-bot to go through Ernie Fisher’s personal history and employment records for any possible sites? Also check his bank accounts and credit cards. See if there’s a record of him buying a safe. Also look for anywhere he’s visited regularly.”

“Will do,” she replied.

There was a brief pause.

“How are you coping out there, Jack?”

“Fine,” I replied. “I’m with good people.”

“Dinara?” she asked, her voice strained with jealousy.

“I thought we weren’t going to complicate things,” I said.