The Charm School (8 page)

4

Lisa Rhodes sat at the night duty officer’s desk on the first floor of the chancery building. The wall clock showed 8:45. The phone had been quiet all evening. This was not an embassy that was likely to be surrounded by angry mobs or blown up by a terrorist. Nor was Moscow a city where the police called to inform you they had a dozen of your compatriots in the drunk tank. She lit a cigarette as she crossed out a line of the press release she was working on.

The door opened, and Kay Hoffman, Lisa’s boss, stuck her head into the small office. “Hello. Anything exciting happening?”

“Yes, but it’s happening in Rome. Hello, Kay. Come on in.”

Kay Hoffman entered the office and sat on the windowsill air register. “Ah, that feels good on my buns. Cold out there.”

Lisa smiled and regarded Kay Hoffman a moment. She was a woman near fifty with thick chestnut hair and large brown eyes. She could be described as pleasantly plump or perhaps full-figured. In any case, men seemed to like her lustiness and easy manner.

Lisa said, “I can’t offer you a drink.”

“That’s all right. I thought I’d drop in on the Friday night follies.”

Lisa nodded. The Friday night cocktail reception, given by the ambassador, was a sort of TGIF affair, except that the weekends were worse than the weekdays. Traditionally all visiting Americans in Moscow were invited to the reception, and in the days when you could count the Americans on two hands, they were contacted individually. Now, with increased trade and tourism, it was sort of an open invitation that you had to know about. The embassy staff seemed to enjoy seeing new faces, and the visiting Americans were usually thrilled to be there. Sort of like sitting at the captain’s table, Lisa thought.

Kay said, “Come with me. Call the guard post and tell them where you’ll be.”

“No, thanks, Kay.”

“Sometimes there are interesting men there. That’s why I go. You’re young and good-looking, Lisa. You attract them, and I’ll pounce on them.”

Lisa smiled.

“Last week,” Key continued, “I met a single man who was in Moscow to see about exporting Armenian cognac to the States. He comes in about once a month. Stays at the Trade Center Hotel, so he must have money and connections.”

“Was he nice?”

“Yes. Very.” Kay grinned.

Lisa forced a smile in return. “I’m not up to it tonight.”

Kay shrugged. She said, “What are you working on?”

“Oh, that rock group, Van Halen, who played at the Kolonnyi Zal.”

“How were they?”

“I got a headache from them. But you’d have thought by the crowd that John Lennon had returned from the dead with free Levis for everyone.”

“Write something nice.”

“I’m trying.” Lisa went back to her work.

“What happened with that political affairs officer? Seth Alevy.”

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

“All right.” Kay looked at her watch. “I can make the last half hour. Then I’ll be downstairs in the bowling alley bar. Unless I get lucky.”

Lisa smiled. “Maybe I’ll see you later.”

“You need a man, sweetie.” Kay Hoffman left.

A few minutes later, the phone rang, and Lisa saw the red light flashing, indicating that the Marine post was calling her. She picked up the receiver. “Rhodes here.”

“This is Corporal Hines, ma’am. I have a call from a man who says he is a U.S. national. Says he wants to speak to a defense attaché.”

Her eyebrows rose. “A
defense attaché.
Why?”

“Won’t say. Sounds like a young guy. Won’t say where he’s calling from either.”

“Put him through.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The phone clicked, and she heard Corporal Hines say, “Go ahead, sir.”

A male voice said, “Hello . . . ?”

“This is Ms. Rhodes speaking. Can I help you?”

There was no response for several seconds, then the voice said, “I have to speak to a defense attaché. Air Force, if possible.”

“For what reason, sir?”

“It’s important. National security.”

She checked the recording device to make sure it was activated. “Then perhaps it’s not a good idea to speak on the phone.”

“I know that. But I don’t have any choice. I have to tell you now—before they come for me.”

“Who is going to come for you?”

“You know who.”

“All right. . . .” She thought a moment. There was a possibility this was a setup or a prank, but her instincts said it was neither. “What is your name, sir?”

“Why can’t I speak to a defense attaché?”

“Do you know what a defense attaché is?”

“No . . . but I was told to speak to one.”

“Who told you that?”

“Is your phone tapped?”

“You must assume it is.”

“Oh, Christ. Can you send someone to get me? I need help.”

“Where are you?”

“Maybe I can get there. Can I get through the gate?”

Lisa Rhodes thought he was sounding more distraught and perhaps a bit drunk. “Listen to me,” she said with a tone of authority. “Talk to me, and if I think it advisable, I will locate a defense attaché. All right?”

“Yes . . . yes, okay.”

She found the duty officer’s procedure manual in a drawer and flipped through it as she spoke. “Are you an American citizen?”

“Yes, I—”

“What is your name?”

There was a pause, then the voice answered, “Fisher. Gregory Fisher.”

“Where are you now?”

“The Rossiya Hotel.”

“Are you checked in there?”

“Yes.”

“Did they take your passport when you checked in?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you can’t get past the mili-men—the Soviet militia outside the embassy—without it.”

“Oh.”

“Room number?”

“Seven forty-five. But I’m not in my room.”

“Where are you?”

“In a phone booth in the lobby.”

“What is your business in the S.U.?”

“S.U. . . . ?”

“Soviet Union.”

“Oh . . . no business—”

“Tourist?”

“Yes.”

“When did you arrive in country, Mr. Fisher?”

“Last week.”

“What tour group are you with?”

“Group? No group. I drove—”

“You
drove
to Moscow?”

“Yes, my own car. That was part of the damned problem.”

“What was?”

“The car. A Trans Am sticks out—”

“Yes. All right, tell me briefly why you need help and why you would like to speak to a defense attaché.”

She heard what sounded like a sigh, then he said softly, “In case you can’t get here in time . . . I’m going to tell you all I can . . . before they get me.”

Lisa Rhodes thought that Gregory Fisher had a good grasp of the situation. She said, “Then you’d better speak quickly.”

“Okay. I was in Borodino, about five
P
.
M
. tonight—visiting the battlefield. I got lost in the woods—”

“Were you stopped by the police?”

“No. Yes, but in Moscow.”

“Why?”

“For driving in the country at night.”

She thought that this wasn’t computing. A travel itinerary violation was one thing. Asking to speak to a defense attaché—a person who was more or less an intelligence officer, a spy—was quite another. “Go on, Mr. Fisher.”

“On the road, north of Borodino, I think, I met a man, an American—”

“An American?”

“Yes. He said he was an American Air Force pilot—”

“And he was on the road, north of Borodino, at night? Alone? In a car?”

“Alone. On foot. He was hurt. Listen, I don’t know how much time I have—”

“Go on.”

“His name was Major Jack Dodson.”

“Dodson.” Lisa had thought that it might have been a defense attaché at the embassy, but the name was unfamiliar.

“Dodson said he was an MIA—a POW—shot down in Vietnam—”

“What?” She sat up in her chair. “He told you that?”

“Yes. And he said he had been a prisoner here in Russia for almost twenty years. A place he called Mrs. Ivanova’s Charm School. Near Borodino. He escaped. I gave him maps and money. He didn’t want us to travel together in my car. He’s heading cross-country to Moscow. To the embassy. There are other Americans held prisoner who—”

“Stop. Hold the line.” She hit the hold button. In the duty book she quickly found the apartment number of the air attaché, Colonel Sam Hollis, whom she knew casually. She rang him, but there was no answer. “Damn it, and Seth is at his damned Sukkot party. . . .” She considered putting out an all-points page for Hollis but instead tried Hollis’ office two floors above. The phone was picked up on the first ring, and a voice answered, “Hollis.”

She said in a controlled voice, “Colonel Hollis, this is Lisa Rhodes on the duty desk.”

“Yes?”

“I have a U.S. national on the line, calling from the Rossiya. He sounds very distraught. He also says he wants to speak to a defense attaché, preferably an Air Force attaché.”

“Why?”

“I’ll play the tape for you.”

“Go ahead.”

Lisa Rhodes transferred the playback to Hollis’ line. When it was finished, Hollis said, “Put him through.”

She put the phone on conference call and released the hold button. “Mr. Fisher? Are you there?”

There was no answer.

“Mr. Fisher?”

“Yes. . . . There’s someone standing—”

“Here is the gentleman with whom you asked to speak.”

Hollis’ voice came on the line. “Mr. Fisher, you say you are calling from the lobby of the Rossiya?”

“Yes. I’m—”

“Is the lobby crowded?”

“No. Why?”

“Who is standing by the phone booth?”

“A man. Listen, should I try to get to the embassy—”

“No, sir. You stay there. Do not leave that hotel. Do not go back to your room. There is a restaurant on the top floor. Go to the lounge there and introduce yourself to some Westerners—English-speaking, if possible—and stay with them until I arrive. Is that clear?”

“Yes . . . yes.”

“What are you wearing?”

“Blue jeans . . . black windbreaker—”

“Okay, son. Get to the lounge quickly. If anyone tries to stop you, kick, scream, yell, and fight. Understand?”

“Yes . . . yes, I . . .” Fisher’s voice sounded strained. “Oh . . . God . . . hurry.”

Hollis’ tone was soothing. “Ten minutes, Greg. Get to the lounge.”

Lisa heard the phone click as Fisher hung up. Hollis’ voice came on. “Ms. Rhodes, I need a car—”

“I’ve already called for one, Colonel. With driver.”

“I’ll be bringing Mr. Fisher here. Have a visitor’s room ready in the residency and alert the appropriate security people.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Stay in the duty office.”

“Of course.”

There was a silence, then Hollis said, “Nicely handled, Ms. Rhodes.”

She heard him hang up before she could respond. Lisa Rhodes put the phone back in the cradle. “You, too, Colonel Hollis.”

5

Colonel Sam Hollis, American air attaché to the Soviet Union, left his office and took the elevator to the ground floor of the chancery building. He went directly to the duty office adjacent the empty lobby and opened the door.

Lisa Rhodes turned toward him. “Yes?”

“Hollis.”

“Oh. . . .” She stood. “I didn’t recognize you in civvies.”

“Have we met?”

“A few times.” She regarded him a moment. He was wearing a leather bomber jacket, jeans, and leather boots. He was in his late forties, tall, and lanky. She thought he was rather good-looking in a tough sort of way. She remembered his pale blue eyes and unmilitary-length sandy hair. She also remembered that he and Seth had business dealings.

Hollis said, “I don’t want you to breathe a word of this to anyone.”

“I know that.”

“Good. There is someone however . . . do you know Seth Alevy? Political affairs officer.”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Alevy is attending a party in town—”

“I know that.”

“How do you know that?”

“He invited me.”

“I see. So you know how to reach him?”

“Yes, through his people here.”

“That’s right. Please do that.”

She hesitated, then said, “I’ve already asked his people to get him here.”

Hollis gave her a close look.

She returned his stare. “I guess I know he’s involved with things like this.”

Hollis went to the door, then turned back to her. “Are
you
involved with things like this?”

“Oh, no. I’m just a PIO. Seth and I are social friends.”

They looked at each other a moment. Hollis guessed she was in her late twenties. She was lightly freckled, with reddish auburn hair. She was not the type of woman you forgot meeting, and in fact, he had not forgotten the times they’d met in the embassy. He also knew that she and Alevy had been recent lovers. But by instinct and training he never offered information, only solicited it. “Hold the fort. See you later.” He left.

Lisa moved to the door and watched him walk quickly through the lobby to the front doors. “Strong, silent type. Silent Sam.”

Sam Hollis pushed through the glass doors into the damp, misty night. He zipped his leather jacket and headed toward a blue Ford Fairlane that sat in the forecourt with its engine running. Hollis jumped in the passenger side. “Hello, Bill.”

The driver, a security staff man named Bill Brennan, drove quickly through the court, around the traffic circle that held the illuminated flagpole, and moved toward the gates. “Where we going, Colonel?”

“Rossiya.” Hollis looked at Brennan. He was a man in his mid-fifties, heavyset and balding, and his nose had once been broken. Hollis always had the impression that Brennan wanted to break someone else’s nose. Hollis said, “You carrying?”

“Yup. You?”

“No. Didn’t have time to get it.”

“Loan you mine if you promise to kill a commie.”

“That’s all right.”

The gates swung open, and the car moved past the Marine guard post, then past the Soviet militia booth on the sidewalk. Brennan kept the speed down so as not to attract the attention of the KGB embassy watchers in the surrounding buildings, but Hollis said, “Step on it. They know where I’m going.”