“What?”
“The earth. You don’t smell that in Moscow.”
“No,” he replied, “you don’t.”
She looked out the window at the Russian countryside, listened to the stillness of the late autumn, smelled the dank, rich earth. “This is it, Sam. Russia. Not Moscow or Leningrad. Russia. Look at those white birches there. See the small leaves, all red, yellow, and gold. Watch what happens when a breeze comes along. See that? What could be more Russian than that—tiny colored birch leaves blowing across a grey sky, across a lonely landscape? It’s so desolate, it’s beautiful, Sam. The Kremlin can’t change this. It’s immutable, timeless. My God, this is it. This is Russia!”
Hollis glanced at her as she turned to him, and their eyes met. He looked back out the windshield and for the first time felt the presence of the land.
She said with growing excitement, “Look at the smoke curling out the chimneys in that village. The clouds are gathering in the late afternoon. The fires are lit against the dampness. Tea is brewing, potatoes and cabbage are boiling. Father is mending a fence or a plow in the drizzle. The black mud clings to his felt boots. He wants his tea and the warmth of his cabin. I can see horsemen, I can hear balalaikas, I see lonely birch log churches against the purple horizon… . I can hear their clear bells pealing over the quiet plains… .” She turned to him. “Sam, can’t we stop in a village?”
He replied softly, “I think you might be disappointed.”
“Please. We won’t have this opportunity again.”
“Maybe later… if there’s time. I promise.”
She smiled at him. “We’ll find time.”
They continued on in companionable silence, two people in a car, traveling west into the setting sun, cut off from the embassy, the city, the world, alone.
Hollis glanced at her from time to time, and they exchanged smiles. He decided he liked her because she knew what she liked. At length he said, “I give that kid credit. I hope he had the thrill of a lifetime.”
“What do you know about him? His family, home, how he died.”
Hollis told her what little he knew.
She said simply, “They murdered him.”
They drove past small villages, collective farms, and state farms. About halfway to Mozhaisk she asked, “Is this going to be dangerous?”
“Very.”
“Why me?”
“I had the impression you think this stinks. I thought you might want to follow through on your convictions.”
“I’m… not trained.”
“But you’re a spy groupie.” He smiled. “You thought East Berlin was exciting. This is a chance to mix it up a bit.”
“You’re baiting me, Colonel.” She poked him in the side good-naturedly. “You didn’t even know I was a spy groupie before you decided to ask me.”
“Good point. You see, you’re thinking like an intelligence officer already.” Hollis checked his watch, the odometer, and his rearview mirror.
She asked, “Hollis, are you one of those men who bait liberated women? I’m not one of those women who think that women can do everything a man can do.”
“This is neither a sociological experiment nor a personal matter, Ms. Rhodes. I think you can be helpful and you are good cover.”
“Okay.”
Hollis added, “And good company.”
“Thank you.”
The small Zhiguli was one of the few private cars on the highway, but Hollis knew it would attract far less attention than an American Ford with diplomatic plates. He knew too that he and Lisa could pass for Ivan and Irina out for a weekend drive. The embassy watchers, Boris, Igor, and company, sitting in their cars outside the embassy gates, had by now realized that Hollis had given them the slip again. They were probably very upset with him, and their bosses were very upset with them. Everyone was upset. Except Fisher. Fisher was dead.
She said, “I guess you can tell I’m not as sprightly and scintillating as I was at lunch.”
“Well, hearing of a death, even of someone you didn’t know, is upsetting.”
“Yes, that, and—”
“You’re a bit nervous.”
“That too—”
“And you’ve discovered I’m not as interesting as you first thought.”
“On the contrary. May I speak? I was going to say that I’m worried about this whole mess. I mean, I was sitting in my office last night, before Greg Fisher’s call, thinking that we’re getting it together with them again. Glasnost and all that. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“I said to myself, ‘Please, God, no more Afghanistans, no KAL airliners, no Nick Daniloffs this time.’”
“That’s like praying for an end to death and taxes.”
“But why does it always have to be something? This thing is going to ruin it all again, isn’t it? We’ll be kicking out each other’s diplomats and staff again, canceling cultural and scientific exchanges, and heading further down that fucking road to the missile silos. Won’t we?”
Hollis replied, “That’s not my area of concern.”
“It’s everybody’s area of concern, Sam. You live on this planet.”
“Sometimes. Once I was high above it, sixty thousand feet, and I’d look around and say, ‘Those people down there are nuts.’ Then I’d look into the heavens and ask, ‘What’s the big plan, God?’ Then I’d come in and release my bombs. Then I’d dodge missiles and MiGs and go home and have a beer. I didn’t get cynical or remorseful. I just got narrowed into my little problem of dropping my bombs and getting my beer. That’s the way it is today.”
“But you talked to God. You asked Him about the big plan.”
“He never answered.” Hollis added, “For your information, however, the word still seems to be détente. Think peace. Subject to change without notice.”
She pulled a pack of Kents from her bag. “Mind?”
“No.”
“Want one?”
“No. Crack the window.”
She lowered the window and lit up.
Hollis cut off the highway onto a farm road and continued at high speed, churning up gravel as the Zhiguli bounced along a narrow lane.
She asked, “Why did you leave the highway?”
Hollis referred to a sheet of paper in his hand and made a hard left onto another road, then a right. He said, “A Brit some years ago fortunately charted back routes to bypass a lot of major towns around Moscow. This route bypasses Mozhaisk. No road names, just landmarks. Look for a dead cow.”
She smiled despite her growing anxiety. She said, “You’re committing an itinerary violation.”
“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”
“We’re going to Borodino, I suppose.”
“That’s correct.” Hollis continued to navigate the intersecting farm lanes. He passed an occasional truck or tractor and waved each time. He said to Lisa, “The damned linkage does stick, but the car handles alright. They’re Fiats, you know, and this one handles like its Italian cousin. Good trail cars.”
“Men. Cars. Football. Sex.”
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing.”
They crossed the Byelorussian railroad tracks, and a short time later Hollis saw the utility poles of the old Minsk–Moscow road and the town of Mozhaisk in the distance. “Well, we got around Mozhaisk. I wonder if Boris and Igor are pacing up and down Main Street waiting for us.”
“Who are Boris and Igor?”
“Embassy watchers.”
“Oh.”
Hollis crossed the main road and continued on the farm roads. Within fifteen minutes he intersected the poplar-lined road to Borodino Field and turned onto it. Ahead he saw the stone columns and towering gates that led to the battlefield. The gates were closed, and as they drew near they could see the gates were chained.
Lisa said, “I think these outdoor exhibits and such close early this time of year.”
“That’s what I counted on.” Hollis swung the Zhiguli bet
ween two bare poplars and into the drainage ditch. He followed the ditch that skirted the gates, then cut back onto the road and proceeded toward the museum. “You’ve never been here?”
“As I said, I’ve never been able to get a pass out of Moscow… except to stay at the Finnish dacha.”
Hollis nodded. The Finnish dacha—so named because of its architecture and saunas—was a newly built country house for American embassy staffers on the Klyazma River, about an hour’s drive north of Moscow. The ambassador’s dacha for senior staff such as himself was nearby. An invitation to spend a weekend at the ambassador’s house was very nearly a punishment. But the Finnish dacha had quickly earned a reputation, and families did not go there. One night, from his bedroom window in the ambassador’s place, Hollis had listened to the happy noises of men and women and splashing hot tubs coming from the Finnish dacha in the woods until dawn. Katherine, who had been with him then, had commented, “Why are they allowed to have so much fun and we have to drink sherry with stuffed shirts?” Within the month she had departed on her shopping trip. Hollis asked Lisa, “Go there much?”
She glanced at him. “No… it was sort of like the office Christmas party and on Monday morning everyone avoided everyone else. You know?”
“I think so.” Hollis saw the gravel parking field ahead with the museum to the right. He said, “I was here once. A reception of military attachés last October on the anniversary of the German-Russian battle here in 1941. Interesting place.”
“It looks it.” They kept silent as the car continued through the lot onto a narrow lane. The sun was gone, and the night had become very still. She noticed bright twinkling stars between scattered clouds. The deep, dark quiet of the countryside at night surprised her. “Spooky.”
“Romantic.”
She smiled despite herself. The moon broke through the clouds and revealed a dozen polished obelisks standing like shimmering sentries over the dead.
“Borodino,” Hollis said softly. “Fisher would have come this way, past the museum. The trick is to retrace how he got lost. Reach back in my briefcase and find the aerial survey map.”
She did as Hollis said. “This it?”
“Yes. Unfold it and put it on your lap. If we’re stopped, hit it with your cigarette lighter. It’s flash paper and will go up in a second without too much heat, smoke, or ash.”
“Okay.”
“Under your seat should be a red-filtered flashlight.”
She reached beneath her seat and brought out the light.
Hollis said, “We know he drove through the battlefield, then he said he found himself on a road in the woods north of Borodino Field, about this time at night. Further north is the Moskva River and the power station and reservoir. So he must have been between here and the river. The only woods on that aerial map is the bor—the pine forest. See it?”
“Yes.” She looked up from the map. “I see pine trees there in the hills. See?”
“Yes. Those are the hills just south of the Moskva. Now I’m coming to a fork in the road.”
She shone the red light on the map. “Yes. I see it here. If you take the left fork it will loop back and begin to climb that hill.”
Hollis nodded. The left fork appeared to head back toward the museum but did not. This was where Fisher must have made his fatal error. Hollis took the left fork.
With the headlights off they drove on, and the land began to rise. A few pines stood on the grassy fields, then the road entered the thick tree line, and it became very dark. Lisa cleared her throat. “Can you see?”
“Just shine the red light out the window once in a while.”
She rolled down the window, letting in a cold blast of air. The red light picked out the narrow road, and Hollis followed the beam. He said, “How you doing?”
“Okay. How’re you doing?”
“Fine,” Hollis replied. “Nice woods. I like that word—bor. Very evocative, very Russian. I think of a deep, dark pine forest of old Muscovy, woodcarvers and woodcutters, log cabins, pine pitch boiling over fires of crackling logs. Sort of fairytalish. Bor.”
She looked at him but said nothing.
They continued up the ridge line, the Zhiguli moving very slowly, its high rpm engine whining in first gear. Lisa said, “Can I smoke?”
“No.”
“I’m getting shaky.”
“Want to go back?”
She hesitated before replying, “Later.”
Ten minutes later they approached a sign, and Hollis stopped the car. Lisa shone the light on the sign, and they both read the words: STOP! YOU ARE ENTERING A RESTRICTED AREA. TURN BACK!
“This,” Hollis said, “must be the place. I was getting worried that we might have taken the wrong road.”
“We did take the wrong road.”
Hollis got out and looked around, discovering the small turnaround off the right side of the road. He opened the trunk and ripped out the wires for the back-up lights and the brake lights, then got in the car. He drove into the turnaround, but instead of backing out, continued between the pine trees until the Zhiguli was some twenty yards into the forest. He turned the car so it pointed back toward the road, then killed the engine.
Lisa said nothing.
Hollis whispered, “Keep a sharp ear and eye out. Be ready to make a quick getaway. If I’m not back within the hour, you go on to Mozhaisk and take care of the morgue business. Tell whoever asks that I didn’t come along. Get behind the wheel and lower the window. See you later.” Hollis got out, softly closed the door, and began walking through the woods on a course parallel to the road.
Lisa came up beside him. “You’re crazy.”
“Go back.”
“No.”
They walked side by side. The forest floor was springy, covered with a carpet of pine needles and cones. The spaces between the trunks were clear except for clumps of ferns and pine saplings. There was no wind, and the resinous pine scent was overpowering. There was little sound except for the soft tread of their shoes on the needles and the occasional crunch of a pine cone. The forest was very dark. Lisa whispered, “Sam, we have no business here… no… cover… even with diplomatic immunity.”
“Our cover is that we’re gathering mushrooms. The Russians are great mushroom gatherers. They’ll relate to that.”
“There are no mushrooms in pine forests.”
“Really? Then we’re on a sexual escapade.”
“Then we should be in the backseat of the Zhiguli.”
“Well, think of a cover yourself then. In the meantime, let’s not get caught. I assume you’re coming with me.”
“Yes.”
Within a few minutes they saw signs nailed to the trees at intervals. Hollis and Lisa approached one, and she turned the red-filtered flashlight on it and read: STOP! GO BACK. YOU ARE IN A RESTRICTED AREA. YOU ARE SUBJECT TO ARREST.
Hollis put his mouth to Lisa’s ear and whispered, “There may be sound sensors. Step lightly, like a deer.”
She nodded.
Hollis put his hand on her shoulder and felt her shaking. “Do you want to go back to the car?”
She shook her head.
Hollis drew his Tokarev pistol from his ankle holster and slipped it into his pocket. They continued through the forest. A half moon was rising and cast a weak blue light into the patches of clearing, which they avoided. Occasionally they saw signs with the same message, then Lisa pointed to a new sign in a clearing. They approached it cautiously and read: STOP! ARMED GUARDS HAVE ORDERS TO SHOOT.
Hollis whispered, “We’re almost there.”
They heard a noise behind them and spun around. Hollis dropped to one knee and brought out his automatic. Lisa crouched beside him. The pine boughs on the far side of the small clearing moved, then parted. A small doe entered the clearing and came toward them, then abruptly stopped not ten feet away, sniffed the still, heavy air, turned, and ran.
Hollis holstered his pistol and stood. They moved on. Within five minutes they found
themselves facing an eight-foot-tall fence of barbed wire, tipped with coiled razor wire. A metal sign on the fence warned: HIGH VOLTAGE.
On the other side of the wire, the pine trees had been cut to a depth of about fifty meters. Hollis could see an inner ring of more barbed wire at the far edge of the treeless zone. A watchtower rose up from the inner wire. He whispered, “Mrs. Ivanova’s Charm School.”
She nodded. “Not charming.”
Hollis peered at the watchtower, then scanned the inner fence, beyond which he could make out the glow of lights. He took Lisa’s arm, and they walked carefully along the barbed wire, coming across the decomposed carcass of a deer that had been electrocuted. Lisa said, “Sam, let’s go now.”
He pulled her down. “Listen.”
The stillness of the forest was broken by the sound of a diesel engine, then they saw headlights coming toward them. Hollis whispered, “Get down.” They both dropped onto the pine carpet, facing the wire. The headlights grew brighter, and they could see the vehicle moving slowly through the raked sand of the clear zone between the barbed wire fences. The vehicle got closer and louder. Hollis could see it was a half-track with an open troop compartment in the rear. There were two men in the cab, and in the rear he saw six helmeted soldiers. Two were manning a swivel-mounted machine gun, two manned a searchlight, and two stood at port arms as though ready to spring from the vehicle. Hollis hoped it was a random patrol, but the soldiers looked too tense and alert. As the vehicle drew within ten yards of them, Hollis could make out the special green uniforms of the KGB Border Guards. He whispered to Lisa, “Pull the scarf over your face and cover your hands.”
Hollis pulled his knit cap down, and it became a ski mask. He put on black nylon gloves and waited. The half-track drew abreast of them on the other side of the wire, not fifteen feet away. Hollis assumed that the sound or motion sensors had picked up something and the patrol was sent to determine if it was a four- or two-legged animal. He could hear the men talking to one another, then heard a radio crackle in the truck’s cab. A transmitted voice said, “Well, are you all awake out there? What are you doing, Grechko?”