“We were worried about you.”
“Well, nothing to worry about now, is there? May I go to my room?”
“Of course. You must be tired.” She added, “It has been some time since I met an American who traveled by auto from the West. The young are so adventurous.”
“And stupid.”
“Perhaps.” She handed him his papers minus his passport and visa, then gave him a green hotel card. “This is your propusk. Carry this always with you. Your passport and visa will be returned when you check out. You must produce the propusk when anyone in authority asks for it.”
“Maybe I should just tape it to my forehead.”
She seemed to appreciate the joke and smiled. She leaned across the counter and said softly, “You have been here long enough to know that it is not easy for a Westerner traveling without a tour group, Mr. Fisher. Don't call attention to yourself”
Fisher didn't respond.
“Avoid barter, currency deals, prostitutes, political talk, and itinerary violations. I give you good advice because you seem a pleasant young man.”
Fisher thought he'd been anything but pleasant. “Thank you. I'll be good.”
She stared at him awhile, and Fisher had the disturbing thought that she knew he was already in trouble and was worried about him. He suddenly liked her. He asked, “Where is my luggage?”
“It will be along.”
“Shortly?”
“Presently.”
He thought it was being searched by now. He asked, “Will they park my car safely?”
“Of course. Who could steal an American car?”
Fisher smiled. “Couldn't get too far.”
A bellhop suddenly appeared who Fisher thought looked like Genghis Khan's nephew. He motioned Fisher to follow him to the elevator bank. They waited nearly five minutes before an elevator came. Fisher rode up with the Tartar to the seventh floor. The elevator doors opened to reveal a small vestibule where a pretty young woman sat at a desk. In Paris or Rome, Fisher would have been pleasantly surprised to find a floor concierge in attendance. But in Moscow, Fisher knew this woman was the floor's dezhurnaya, a guardian of public morals, and according to a Pole he'd met in Warsaw, also a KGB snoop.
The blond woman looked up from a copy of Cosmopolitan, “Allo. Your propusk, please.”
Fisher gave it to her. She handed him his room key. “Give me key when you leave. I give you propusk.”
“Sounds fair.”
The bellman pointed down the hall, and Fisher found himself leading the way. At a turn in the corridor Fisher saw his room, 745, and opened the door with his key. He went in, followed by the bellman. Fisher said, “Your room, sir.”
“Please?”
“Forget it.” Fisher looked around. It was a medium-sized room decorated in stark Scandinavian blondewood. The two single beds were undersized, and the mattress would be thin foam rubber, and the sheets, coarse cotton. The rug was brick-red, but that didn't hide the fact that it needed a shampoo. He doubted, however, that such a thing existed east of Berlin. Oh, the things we take for granted. The rest of the room looked clean enough except for the window. He had not seen a single clean window in the whole of the Soviet Union. “Windex. I'll sell them Windex.” A smell of pine disinfectant reminded him of his side trip to Borodino.
The bellman said, “Good room.” He tried a lamp switch and seemed surprised that it worked. “Good light.”
“Excellent fucking light. Volts, watts, lumens, the works.”
The bellman ducked into the bathroom for a second, opened the closet, pulled out a few bureau drawers, then held out his arms as if to say, “It's all yours.”
Fisher sighed and rummaged through his satchel, finding a small sampler of Aramis cologne. “This drives the women wild.”
The Tartar took it and sniffed. “Ah.” The man beamed, his slanted eyes narrowing. “Thank you.” He turned and left.
Fisher examined the door. As in all other rooms he'd stayed in east of the curtain, this door had no peephole, no bolt, or security chain. He walked to the bed, fell back onto it, and kicked off his Reeboks. He stared at the ceiling awhile, then sat up and looked at the telephone. The hotel service directory was a single sheet of typed paper. He dialed a three-digit number, got room service, and ordered a bottle of vodka. “First thing that went right all day.”
He considered the events of the last few hours. He had managed to suppress his fear in front of the police and to act natural and a bit cocky as he checked in. But his resolve was draining away fast in the quiet, empty room. He began to shake, then bounded out of bed and paced the room. What if they come for me now? Maybe I should try to get to the embassy now. But that bastard said to stay in the hotel. They're watching me. Can thy know what happened at Borodino?
He stopped pacing. “This is not a business problem. This is life or death.” He realized he had to calm down before he could think. Don't think about getting arrested or shot. Then you can go through the bullshit of problem solving.
He walked to the window and looked out through the grime. From his corner room he could see toward Red Square. The Kremlin was to the left, and he could look down into it. St. Basil's ten phantasmal onion domes seemed to hang suspended like giant helium balloons above the dark cobbled pavement, and beyond them lay the huge GUM department store. The streets looked deserted, the buildings were dark, but the monuments were bathed in floodlight. A night fog, like a vapor, rolled off the Moskva and swirled around the streetlights, rolled over the Kremlin walls, and seemed to turn covers, as if it were looking for something. There was a sinister essence about this city, Fisher decided. Something unnatural about its cold, dead streets.
There was a loud rap on the door, and Fisher turned with a start. Another knock. Fisher took a breath, went to the door, and threw it open. A matronly woman stood there with an ice bucket from which protruded a liter of Moskovskaya. Fisher showed her in, gave her a tube of toothpaste, and showed her out.
His hand shook as he poured a half tumbler of the chilled vodka. He drank it down, and it made his eyes water. He refilled his glass and continued pacing. The next knock will be my luggage or the KGB. “The fucking K—” He stopped. He'd heard and believed that every room was bugged. He'd read somewhere that some rooms had a fiber optic embedded in the wall or ceiling and everything in the room could be seen. He put his glass on the nightstand, turned off the light, put on his shoes, and took his shoulder satchel. He went into the bathroom, flushed the toilet, and shut the light. As the toilet was still flushing, he left the bathroom and slipped quietly out of his room into the hallway. He looked both ways, then retraced his path and found the elevator lobby. The dezhurnaya's face was hidden by the copy of Cosmopolitan. She didn't seem to know he was there or didn't care. Fisher read the string of subheads on the cover: Beating the Man Shortage! Cosmo Finds the Best Place to Meet Them; The Shy Girl—How She Can Compete; Why Friends Make the Best Lovers; The Joy of Resuming an Old Romance.
Fisher put his keys on her desk. She looked up. “Allo, Mr. Fisher.” She gave him his propusk.
He pushed the elevator button and prepared for a long wait. The vodka finally reached his brain. He said to the woman, “Good magazine?”
“Yes. Very sexy.”
“Right.”
“American women have too much.”
“I hadn't noticed.”
She tapped the magazine. “They have so many problems with men.”
“Cosmo women have more problems than most.”
“Ah.”
Fisher hesitated, then took a tube of lip gloss from his satchel. It was a frosted pink and seemed to match her coloring.
She smiled as she examined it. “Thank you.” She took a compact mirror from her bag and went to work immediately.
Fisher noticed it wasn't really her color, but she didn't seem to care. He liked the way she puckered her lips. The elevator came, and he stepped in. Two Russian men who smelled of salami stood quietly behind him. Fisher fel
t perspiration under his arms.
Fisher stepped out into the lobby and felt somewhat better in a public place. He found the foreign exchange window, but it was closed. He went to the front desk and asked the clerk if she would cash an Intourist voucher for five rubles. She said she wouldn't. Fisher asked for the Intourist woman and was told she was gone.
He looked around. All he needed was a lousy two-kopek piece, for want of a nail… “Damn it.” He saw that the French couple was still there, and he approached them. “Pardon, monsieur, madame. J'ai besoin de… deux kopeks. Pour le telephone.”
The man gave him an unfriendly look. The woman smiled nicely and searched through her bag. “Voila.”
“Merci, madame. Merci.” Fisher moved off and found a single telephone booth in a short corridor that led to the Beriozka. He went inside, pulled the door closed, and took his Fodor guide from his satchel. Fisher found the number of the American embassy, inserted the two-kopek piece, and dialed.
Gregory Fisher listened to the short, distant ringing signals, very unlike the ones he was used to at home. He cleared his throat several times and said “hello” twice to try his voice. The blood was pounding in his ears. He kept his eyes on the corridor. The phone continued to ring.
* * *
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 attache.”
Her eyebrows rose. “A defense attache. 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 attache. 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 attache?”
“Do you know what a defense attache 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 attache. 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 attache.”
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 attache—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 attache 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 crosscountry 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 attache, 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.”