Authors: Nelson Demille
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Suspense, #Espionage, #Mystery fiction, #Fiction:Suspense, #Detective and mystery stories, #Soviet Union - Fiction, #Soviet Union
The Charm School (26 page)
Hollis answered, “From a guy named Burov. KGB type. Colonel.” Hollis described him. “Know the man?”
“Maybe. I’ll ask around. Okay, please be in the sixth-floor safe room in thirty minutes. Both of you. Can you do that?”
Lisa said, “I need an hour.” She turned and walked into the chancery.
Alevy stared at Hollis, who stared back. Alevy said, “You know, it was my fault for letting you take her along.”
“I think I cured her of her fascination with espionage.”
“On the contrary, I think. Did you get along all right?”
“She was an asset.”
“Maybe I should recruit her,” Alevy said.
“She has what it takes. And we have no female types now.”
“I’ll wire Langley. What was her strongest asset?”
“Humor in the face of danger.”
“We must discuss this soon.”
“Fine. But not out in the open where the directional microphones can eavesdrop.” Hollis turned and walked into the chancery. He went through the lobby and came out onto the rear terrace. She was there waiting for him. She said, “What were you talking to Seth about?”
“Your assets.”
They walked on the birch-lined path beside the quadrangle toward her unit. She said, “I wondered if I’d see this place again.”
“No more bitching about your unit.”
“No, sir. I love my bathroom. Kiss the tile.”
Hollis looked out on the quadrangle. John Uhlman from the consular section was teaching his son how to ride a two-wheeler. The scarecrow had been built in their absence, and there were three oddly shaped pumpkins at its feet. Hollis observed, “No corn stalks.”
She followed his gaze. “No corn stalks.”
“Well . . .” He glanced at his watch.
“Last chance for a pear.”
“I’ll take one.”
She held out the bag. “Take the honey too. I’m off sugar.”
“I’m off too, sweets.”
They both smiled. Finally Lisa asked, “How do we stand?”
Hollis put his hands in his pockets and shrugged.
“Is that an answer?”
“How do you stand with Seth?”
“It’s over.”
“Then what’s he angry about?”
She threw the bag over her shoulder. “Well, think about it.” She turned and walked down the path.
Hollis stood awhile, then made his way across the quadrangle.
13
Seth Alevy said to Charles Banks, “John Uhlman from the consular section is headed for Sheremetyevo to take care of the business that Colonel Hollis did not complete.”
Hollis noticed that Alevy was talking mostly to Banks, ignoring him and Lisa.
Hollis saw that Banks was wearing his Sunday best, though since it was Sunday in Moscow, everyone else was dressed casually. Hollis had showered and put on jeans and a flannel shirt. Alevy wore pleated slacks and a V-necked sweater. Lisa, he thought, looked good in a white turtleneck and tight jeans, though she was somewhat cool to him. Hollis sat at the far end of the conference table in the ambassador’s safe room; Banks sat at the opposite end, and Lisa and Alevy sat in the center facing each other. Hollis noticed for the first time a framed piece of calligraphy hanging on the wall and read it:
The issues of diplomacy are of ever greater importance, since a stupid move could destroy all of us in a few minutes.
L
ORD
H
UMPHRY
T
REVEYAN
, 1973
Hollis thought that Banks and the ambassador would probably prove that true in the next few weeks.
Alevy continued, “Obviously we can’t retrieve the rented Zhiguli, so we called the Intourist Hotel and told them it was broken down at Gagarin railroad station. We’ll get a hell of a bill for that.”
Hollis knew that Alevy was not in the least interested in these petty administrative matters, but Charles Banks was. It was the nature of the diplomat to never break a local rule or offend a host country. Even if you were handing the foreign minister a note with a declaration of war on it, you were polite about it. Hollis perceived that Alevy was trying to make points with Banks at Hollis’ expense, so Hollis thought he’d be helpful for a change. He said, “The car needs a lot of body work too.”
Banks turned to him. “Body work?”
“Just hit a tree. Damage to the tree was minimal.”
“Good.” Banks cleared his throat and said, “So . . .” He looked at Lisa, then back to Hollis, and he put a stern tone in his voice. “Neither of you returned to your quarters last night, and neither of you informed this embassy of your whereabouts. That is contrary to regulations as well as a dangerous breach of security, not to mention the element of personal danger to yourselves.” Banks looked from one to the other. “Do either of you have an explanation for this? Miss Rhodes?”
Lisa replied, “We were together obviously. We were unable to finish our business in Mozhaisk by nightfall. There was no room at the inn—actually there was no inn—so we spent the night on a
kolhoz
—that’s a collective farm, Charles. There was no telephone there.”
Banks said, “I appreciate the special conditions that exist in the countryside here. But it is your obligation to keep in contact with this embassy, not vice versa.”
Hollis spoke. “As the senior person, I’ll take responsibility for the breach.”
Banks nodded, satisfied.
Alevy said, “I don’t quite understand how you two got such a late start and failed to complete this routine assignment before dark.”
Hollis replied, “Lot of paperwork involved, Seth. Drop it.”
But Alevy continued, “How did you wind up on a collective? Why didn’t you call from Mozhaisk?”
Hollis looked directly at Alevy. “I don’t think Mr. Banks wants to be bored with those details.”
Alevy nodded. “Right. Perhaps later you can bore me.” He looked at Lisa a moment, then turned back to Banks. “Sir?”
Banks addressed Lisa. “The ambassador is writing an official letter of condolence to Mr. Fisher’s parents. I would like you to write a personal note indicating that you were involved with the disposition of the remains and the personal effects and so forth. And that the Soviet authorities assured you that Gregory Fisher died instantly and suffered no pain and so forth. There are sample letters on file.”
“Sample letters of personal notes from me?”
“No,” Banks replied coolly. “Sample personal condolence notes. . . .” Banks seemed to grasp the contradiction in that, so he said, “Personalize the sample.”
Lisa tapped her fingers on the table, then replied, “Shall I tell them I spoke to their son before his death? That he called this embassy from the Rossiya Hotel and asked for help?”
“Certainly not. I just told you what to write, Miss Rhodes.” Banks added, “Perhaps Colonel Hollis will write a similar letter to the deceased’s parents.”
Hollis replied, “I’ll study the samples.”
Lisa looked at Hollis, then at Alevy and Banks. She said, “I have phone messages on my desk from Peter Stills of
The New York Times
, Faith Lowry of
The Washington Post
, Mike Salerno of the Pacific News Bureau, and four or five other news agencies. Apparently in my absence someone in my department issued a press release regarding Gregory Fisher. Apparently, too, some journalists smell a bigger story.”
Banks leaned toward her. “There is no story beyond the fact that an American tourist died in an automobile accident.”
“If the auto accident had happened in France or England that would not be news,” Lisa said. “But in the Soviet Union, people get curious. This is a curious country, Charles. You may have noticed.” She added, “That’s why we sit in windowless rooms like this when we talk. It’s not paranoia; it’s reality, though no one in the West would believe half of it.”
At length Charles Banks responded, “Your office has indeed issued a press release. They may issue another if new facts warrant it. Kay is handling the press on this. You are not assigned to this story.”
Lisa drew a deep breath. “Why didn’t the press release give all the facts? The call from the Rossiya—”
Alevy cut in. “We may reveal that in time. For now, we’re not going to. We’re as aware as you are that there is more to this. But we’re trying to get the facts before we make any accusations. You appreciate the current diplomatic thaw. Trust us.”
Lisa nodded reluctantly.
Hollis took a piece of paper from his pocket, a decoded radio message. “I sent a query to Defense yesterday asking if a Major Jack or John Dodson was on the Vietnam MIA list. They replied in the negative.” He threw the paper on the table.
Charles Banks said, “We made the same inquiry of State and also received a negative. So right there we have to wonder about Mr. Fisher’s story.”
“Do you?” Hollis continued, “We were talking about trust. In my business, as in Seth’s, rule number one is trust no one, including your own people.” Hollis poured himself a glass of mineral water and added, “So I went to our library here yesterday and found a book written by a former Navy flier who was a POW in Vietnam. In the book was an appendix listing some one thousand men who are still unaccounted for. Among them is an Air Force major, named Jack Dodson.”
No one spoke.
Hollis said, “I know my query elicited a negative, but I don’t know if yours did. I think someone is playing games.”
Alevy said, “Sam, leave it alone.”
Charles Banks added, “Colonel, we are conducting an official investigation through diplomatic and other channels. In the meantime, neither you nor Miss Rhodes are to concern yourselves with this unless requested to give testimony. This is obviously beyond your respective duties.” He added, “The ambassador would like a written report of your activities and whereabouts from the time you left Moscow yesterday afternoon. Thank you for taking care of the remains.”
Hollis stood. “Mr. Banks, please tell the ambassador that unless or until I receive orders from my superiors to the contrary, I will pursue my own line of investigation into this matter.”
Lisa stood also. “Charles, an American citizen named Gregory Fisher died under mysterious circumstances in the Soviet Union. Furthermore, Gregory Fisher told me on the telephone of another American citizen whom he met in a pine forest north of Borodino and who was apparently on the run from Soviet authorities—”
Seth Alevy interrupted. “I recall on the tape that Mr. Fisher mentioned the woods, but I don’t recall him saying anything about a pine forest.” He tilted his chair forward and looked at her, then at Hollis. “
What
pine forest?”
Hollis replied, “We must compare notes one of these days.” Hollis left.
He waited for Lisa at the elevator. He gave it two minutes, then five, then took the elevator down alone.
14
Sam Hollis walked up Kalinin Prospect, Moscow’s answer to Fifth Avenue. At the corner of Tchaikovsky Street, a line of hopeful diners waited in front of the popular Arbat restaurant, and Hollis had to make his way around them. Moscow’s rush hour was in full swing, everyone lugging bags, trying to buy anything that was for sale. Muscovites, peasants, and townsmen from the hinterlands descended on central Moscow daily for what they called shopping, though Hollis thought it more resembled the sack of the city.
Hollis stopped in front of the window of
Podarki Pyatero
—Gift Shop Five—and examined his reflection. His dark blue overcoat of wool was Moscow-standard as was his narrow-brimmed black hat and his oversize briefcase, which was useful for carrying fresh produce and meat when available. He supposed he blended in superficially, but he knew that Muscovites picked him out as a Westerner. Aside from his facial features he knew he carried himself differently than the people around him, and he remembered what Lisa said about how Russian men walk and a joke someone in the embassy told him when he’d first arrived: Two Muscovite men were walking down the street. One was carrying a huge bundle on his back and was bowed and stooped by the weight, taking each step as though it were his last. The other Muscovite was carrying nothing at all and was bowed and stooped, taking each step as though it were his last.
Hollis went inside the gift shop. It was not crowded as were the shops selling necessities, and the section in the rear that accepted only Western currency was empty.
Hollis picked out a carved wooden bear balancing a ball on its foot and a small aluminum
znachok
—a lapel pin—on which was a profile of Lenin. He handed over six American dollars, and the clerk, claiming she had no American coins for change, pushed some foil-wrapped chocolate toward him. Hollis had a dresser drawer full of chocolate change. “I’ll take pence.”
“Nyet.”
“Centimes.”
“Nyet.”
“Green stamps. Anything, but no more chocolate.”
“Nyet.”
Hollis stuck his purchases in his overcoat and went back into the chilly dusk.
Kalinin Prospect was a recently widened thoroughfare of twenty-story glass and concrete flats with shops on the ground floors. It cut through the quaint Arbat district, and Hollis, though he did not share Lisa’s fondness for old Moscow, didn’t think much of new Moscow either. The street was as wide as an expressway and the shops too far apart, which might be just as well.
Hollis stopped again, this time at the window of a woman’s clothing store named
Moskvichka
, which translated to something like “Miss Moscow,” a name that always amused him for some reason. He looked at the passing crowd reflected in the window but couldn’t spot his tail. He continued north, crossing October Square.
Hollis walked over a stone footbridge that led to the gate beneath the Troitsky Tower set in the red brick wall of the Kremlin. Two green-uniformed guards looked him over but said nothing. Hollis entered the sixty-acre complex of magnificent cathedrals, monuments, and public buildings, the heart of Soviet power and the soul of old Russia. Sam Hollis, who was not easily impressed, was still impressed by the Kremlin.
He walked past the Arsenal across Ivanovsky Square, threading his way through hundreds of tourists snapping pictures in the last light of day, the time when the Kremlin photographed best. He spotted two men engaged in conversation near the Troitsky gate. Like him they wore narrow-brim hats and dark overcoats. The two men stood out because they carried no briefcase or bags. Their hands were stuffed in their pockets, much like policemen everywhere, and you never knew what was in those hands. Hollis walked toward Spassky Tower on the northeast wall of the irregularly shaped citadel. The tower gate was not meant for pedestrian traffic and in fact was closed as he approached. But soon a black Volga sedan pulled away from the Presidium building, and Hollis followed it, quickening his pace. The wooden gates were pulled open by two sentries, and Hollis followed the Volga out, noticing the sentries exchanging nervous glances, but no one challenged him.