The Charm School (11 page)

“Two Russians?”

“Two Russians.” Misha hesitated, then said, “The type with closed faces. You know what I mean?”

“Yes. Did you or your friends notice anything else unusual tonight?”

“Yes. About an hour ago. I myself and everyone here saw a blue Ford Fairlane going very fast over the bridge. A cop was chasing it, but the bastard never had a chance. Those Fords can move on the straightaway. The American embassy uses them. Are you from the embassy? Was that your car?”

Hollis turned and walked back toward the underpass. Misha followed. They went down the steps, and Hollis handed Misha two twenty-dollar bills. Hollis said, “I’ll take the caviar.”

Misha reluctantly took the tin of caviar from his gym bag and handed it to Hollis. Misha said, “I’ll give you three more tins and an ancient Russian cross for your jacket.”

Hollis put the caviar in his pocket and said in Russian, “Go home, Misha, and never come back to this bridge. The men with closed faces will be asking about you.”

Misha’s eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open.

Hollis climbed to the top of the stairs and walked back to the bridge. He crossed it on foot, aware of the stares of the other entrepreneurs. Capitalism, Hollis thought, like sex, was hormonal; it existed on the Moskvoretsky Bridge and behind St. Basil’s, a stone’s throw from the Kremlin. It existed around every hotel and every farmer’s market throughout Moscow, in small isolated cells that might one day spread and weaken the whole state. Like communism in czarist Russia, capitalism was the new subversive ideology.

Hollis walked out onto Ordynka Street, working out in his mind a Metro route that would get him back alive.

6

Sam Hollis got off the Metro at Smolenskaya station. He walked along the Moskva River embankment and followed the big loop of the river beneath the Kalinin Bridge. The massive Ukraina Hotel rose up across the Moskva, and a dark riverboat slid toward its dock on the Shevchenko Embankment. The autumn was not pretty in Moscow, Hollis decided; it was wet and grey. But when the first snow fell, Moscow was transformed into a sparkling white city of muted sounds and soft curves. The sun shone more often, and the night was starlit, casting iridescent blue shadows over the snowy landscape. The good fur coats appeared, and the women looked better. Children pulled sleds, and ice skaters could be seen in the parks. The snow was like white ermine, Hollis thought, cloaking the hard-featured city.

Hollis turned up a gradually rising street that came off the embankment. At the turn of the century this district, where the new American embassy was located, had been called Presnya. It was then a squalid industrial suburb and fertile ground for Marxist-Leninist ideology. During the revolution of 1905, the workers here had fought the czar’s army, and the whole area had been subject to intense artillery bombardment and—when the revolt was put down—to savage reprisals. The district was now called Krasno Presnya—Red Presnya. It seemed to Hollis that half the streets, squares, and districts of Moscow were prefixed with “red,” to the extent that the word had become meaningless, and the Muscovites in private conversation usually dropped the “red.” Presnya was largely rebuilt, but Hollis still sensed its tragedy. Russia was a very sad country.

Hollis looked up and saw the towering red brick chancery building, its windows all alight as per the ambassador’s orders. A few minutes later he saw the red brick walls and the embassy residences that rose above them. The streets were deserted, and the low ground was covered with a blanket of river fog.

Hollis could now see the lights of the main embassy gate in the wall. The compound was a sort of mini-Kremlin, Hollis thought, and the use of red brick, rare in Moscow, was supposed to make the Russians think of the red brick Kremlin walls and towers. That, in turn, was supposed to make them associate the American embassy with power, strength, and perhaps even God and sanctuary. Hollis thought the Madison Avenue subtlety might be lost on the average Soviet citizen.

The gate was a hundred meters away, and Hollis could see the Soviet militia booth, though he could not yet see the U.S. Marine guard post just inside the gates. Rising above the wall, the illuminated flagpole flew the Stars and Stripes, which now fluttered in a light breeze.

Sam Hollis heard a car drawing up behind him, and its engine had the slow rpm sound of a Chaika. The car kept pace with him just to his rear. The driver raced the engine and flashed his lights. Hollis did not turn around.

The car drew abreast of him and stopped. Hollis saw it was indeed a Chaika, a black four-door sedan, the type favored by the Committee for State Security. There were three men inside. The driver stayed behind the wheel, and two men got out. They both wore leather car coats, black pants, leather gloves, and narrow-brim hats—what Hollis called KGB evening attire. Hollis recognized them as the same two embassy watchers who had followed him one afternoon. The short, squat one Hollis had named Boris. The other one, taller and better built, Hollis called Igor.

Hollis turned and walked toward them, his hands in his pockets, his right hand through a slit in his jacket and around the handle of his knife.

Boris and Igor looked Hollis over. Boris said in English, “Hand over your wallet and watch, or we’ll beat you to a pulp.”

Hollis replied, “Is the
Komitet
so badly paid?”

Boris snapped, “You bastard, who do you think you are? Give me your wallet.”

Hollis said,
“Yeb vas.” Fuck you.
Hollis turned and walked toward the embassy. He heard the footsteps of the two men behind him. They came up very close, and Igor said, “What’s your hurry? We want to talk to you.”

Hollis kept walking. It occurred to him that the KGB had no difficulty impersonating muggers. Hollis was abreast of the embassy wall now, and the gate was fifty yards further. Suddenly he felt a powerful blow in the small of his back, and he lurched forward, sprawling across the sidewalk, breaking his fall with his hands. He rolled to the side and barely avoided a kick, then splashed into the wet gutter. Igor and Boris smiled down at him. Igor imparted to Hollis a pithy aphorism in crude Russian. “You keep drinking like that, and one of these days some queers will fuck you while you’re drunk and you’ll have a hangover in your asshole instead of your head.”

Both men laughed.

Hollis wanted to bring out the knife, but he knew that’s what they wanted too. Hollis remained where he was. Boris glanced toward the embassy gate, then stared at Hollis. “The next time, I’m going to crack your skull open.” He spit at Hollis, then slapped Igor on the back and said, “We taught this shit his lesson. Let’s go.” They turned and walked back toward the Chaika.

Hollis stood and brushed the water and filth from his jacket and trousers, noticing that the palms of his hands were bleeding. He felt a raw abrasion on his cheekbone and a dull pain in his back. The two men got into the car, and Hollis could hear them laughing with the driver. The car made a U-turn and sped off.

Hollis continued toward the embassy. As he approached the gate, a young militiaman, who had obviously seen the whole incident, stepped out of the booth and extended his hand palm up.
“Pasport.”

Hollis snapped back, “You know who I am!”

“Pasport!”

“Get out of my way, you
dristui.
”

The militiaman stiffened at the expletive.
“Stoi!”

The other militiaman came out of the booth. “What is this?”

A Marine guard appeared at the gate and called out, “What’s going on there?” Hollis saw he was armed and so could not cross the threshold of the property. Hollis called to him, “Open the gate.”

The Marine opened the gate, and Hollis brushed past the militiamen, walking the ten yards between the militia booth and the entrance to the embassy compound. He took the salute of the guard, who recognized him, and the sergeant on duty asked, “Are you all right, Colonel?”

“Fine.”

Hollis strode across the courtyard, and in the distance he could hear the bells of Ivan’s tower chiming midnight and the raised voices of the two Marines and the two Soviet militiamen shouting at one another. He entered the chancery and went directly to the duty office.

Lisa Rhodes stood as he walked in. “Oh, Colonel Hollis. We were getting worried. We—”

“Any word on Bill Brennan?”

“He’s here. In the infirmary. I don’t have the details. What happened to your face?”

“Tripped. Is Seth Alevy here yet?”

“Yes. He’s in the sixth-floor safe room, waiting for you.”

Hollis went to the door.

“May I come?”

He looked at her.

“Seth Alevy said I could, if it was all right with you.”

“Is that so? Come along then.”

They walked to the elevator in silence and rode up together. She said, “Your hands are bleeding.”

“I know that.”

She shrugged, then asked, “Is Bill Brennan a friend of yours?”

“No. Why?”

“It was the first thing you asked.”

“He was my responsibility.”

“I like that.”

He glanced at her.

The elevator stopped at the sixth floor, and they stepped across the corridor to an interior room. Hollis pressed a buzzer.

The door opened, and Seth Alevy said, “Come in, please.” He motioned them to a round oak table at which were a dozen leather and chrome chairs.

Lisa Rhodes looked around the dimly lit room. The chancery, she knew, had several safe rooms, but this was the first time she had been in the sixth-floor one. It was an interior room like all the safe rooms, and this one was lit by soft indirect cove lighting around the walls. On the table were individual reading lamps. The floor was covered in a thick royal blue carpet, and the walls and door were carpeted in a camel color. Lisa noticed that the ceiling was the same as in the other safe rooms: black acoustical foam rubber. The room was impervious to underground listening devices, cavity resonators, or directional microphones, and it was swept for bugs two or three times a day. This particular room, she’d heard, was used mostly by the intelligence types, and Lisa saw they treated themselves rather well with a bar in one corner, a sideboard, and a recessed galley counter complete with running water and a refrigerator.

Alevy said to Lisa, “Drink?”

“No, thanks. I’m still on D.O.”

“Right. Coffee then.”

Hollis said, “Vodka, neat.”

Alevy poured black coffee for Lisa and a chilled vodka in a crystal flute for Hollis.

Hollis regarded Seth Alevy a moment. He was about forty, some years younger than Hollis. He wore a nicely tailored three-piece tweed suit with a green knit tie. He was too tall and too lean and reminded Hollis of an unbearded Lincoln, though somehow better looking. He’d been married once, but no one here knew anything about that.

Hollis said, “How was your party?”

“Fine. Lots of dissidents. Good food. Sukkot is a happy holiday. You should have come.”

“Then who would have gone chasing across Moscow?”

“I’m certain,” Alevy said coolly, “that my people could have handled that.”

Hollis did not hear Alevy add the word “better,” but it was there. Hollis said, “The kid asked for a defense attaché.”

“I’m sure he didn’t know a defense attaché from a middle linebacker. I’m not sure I do either. The next time, Sam, something like this comes up, please call me or someone in my section.”

Hollis didn’t respond but recalled what he knew of Alevy. Seth Alevy was a Philadelphian, a Jew, and a Princeton graduate, not necessarily in that order. He had once told Hollis in a rare, candid moment that he hated the Soviets and had joined the CIA “to do maximum damage to the regime.” Getting into the CIA had not been difficult. Alevy had majored in Russian studies and Russian language and had thereby come to the attention of the CIA, as he knew he would.

Alevy poured himself a vodka.

Hollis threw the tin of caviar on the table. “Some
tost, maslo,
and
smetana
would be fine.”

Alevy examined the tin. “Very nice stuff.” Alevy and Lisa got crackers, butter, and sour cream. Hollis opened the tin with his knife.

Alevy regarded Hollis for some time, then asked, “They rough you up, Colonel?”

Lisa heaped a spoonful of black caviar on a buttered cracker. Hollis said to her, “I would have asked for red, but I can’t stand the word
krasnya
anymore.”

Lisa laughed. “I thought I was the only one.”

Alevy’s eyes went from one to the other. He asked again, “They rough you up?”

Hollis stared at Alevy across the table. “You know damned well what happened.”

“Well,” Alevy replied, “if they had gotten out of hand, my people would have stepped in. You were covered.” Alevy added, “They tell me you kept your cool.”

“How is Brennan?”

“He didn’t fare as well as you. The cops finally caught up with him. They kept him standing around in the rain for half an hour, then just gave him a ticket and left. But before Brennan could get back to his car, a bunch of
khuligans
appeared and beat him with iron pipes, robbed him, then smashed up the car. And there’s never a cop around when you need one.” Alevy added, “He made it back here instead of going to a hospital. He got his nose broken again, but he says he got a few licks in. Doc Logan says he’ll be okay, but he has to go West for proper care.”

Hollis nodded. Score another point for the KGB tonight, he thought.

Lisa was spreading sour cream on a plate of crackers. Alevy helped himself to the caviar. “Where did you get this? How much?”

“Moskvoretsky Bridge. Forty bucks.”

“I could have done better. You ever hear a Jew argue with a Russian about price? Anyway, I assume this black marketeering is part of your tale. If you’re feeling up to it now, we’re listening.”

Hollis glanced at Lisa.

Alevy said, “It’s all right. I had a top secret clearance done on Ms. Rhodes some months ago.”

“Why?”

“Regulations. We were dating.”

Hollis poured another vodka for himself. “What is her need to know?”