“Not for the record.”
“But Seth…”
Hollis felt himself getting somewhat annoyed but answered, “Yes, Seth probably knows.”
She seemed to sense his irritation and added, “We don’t need him to get us out of here. We can do it ourselves. You got us away from Mozhaisk and that state farm.”
“Right. We’ll work on it together.”
She looked at the newspapers spread out on the coffee table, stood, gathered them up, and threw them in the fire. The blaze lit up the room, and Hollis watched her face in the sudden light. She seemed, he thought, to be finding herself again. And he noticed too that somewhere between the Arbat and here she had gotten much older.
She sat beside him again, and they held hands on the love seat. The VCR continued to play, the fire burned, and the brandy took effect. They both slept.
Hollis was awakened by a knock on the door and sat up. The videotape had run out, and the fire was dying. The mantel clock showed 10:15 P.M. Hollis stood.
Lisa awoke and mumbled, “Where’re you going?”
There was another knock on the door. Hollis went to it and opened it. A man of about fifty, dressed in a ski parka, stood in the cold. “Sorry to bother you, Colonel. We met earlier in the woods. I’m Lewis Poole. May I come in a moment?”
“That depends. Were you born Lewis Poole, or are you one of Burov’s flying worms?”
Commander Poole smiled. “I guess that meeting on the path could have been a setup. But I can take you to fifty guys here who were in the Hanoi Hilton with me.”
“Come in.”
Poole stepped in and greeted Lisa. He stood by the fire and warmed himself, then said, “Can we play a little music?”
Lisa put on one of Dodson’s tapes in a portable player, and the voices of black gospel singers filled the room.
Poole said, “They’ve about given up on house bugs because we find them and squash them. Also, we play music or just use writing and sign language. Every one of us here can communicate by signing. Someone found a book on it in the library years ago, and by the time the Russians realized it, we were all pretty adept at signing.”
Lisa nodded. “We used a simple sign language in the embassy.”
“Right. You know what it’s all about. This cottage is probably all wired for you. Soviet technology. But I don’t think they’ve invented a simple one-family house furnace yet.”
“Brandy?” Hollis asked.
“Fine.”
Hollis poured him some brandy.
Poole took a drink and continued, “Also, you have to be extremely aware of the directional microphones outdoors. They’re in the watchtowers. You have to get low, into gullies and ravines, and swish pine branches around when you speak.”
Hollis commented, “I suppose there are a lot of things we have to learn.”
“Yes. I can set up a briefing session for you both in the next day or two.”
“That’s very good of you, Commander.”
“Lew. Let me introduce myself a bit further. I’m the aide-de-camp for General Austin. Do you know the name?”
Hollis replied, “Of course. He was the commander of the Eighth Tactical Wing at Cu Chi. The only American Air Force general shot down. Missing, believed dead.”
“Yes. But he’s very much alive. According to camp rules, there is no senior man among us and no aide-de-camp or any command structure. But we’re all military, are we not? So we’ve set up a sub-rosa POW camp organization as we were trained to do. You understand.”
Hollis nodded.
“It may surprise you, Colonel Hollis, to discover that the spirit of resistance is still alive here after nearly two decades. But I hope it doesn’t surprise you.”
Hollis did not respond.
Poole continued, “Though to be perfectly frank, we have not accomplished very much aside from sabotaging the curriculum as often as possible. In real terms—that is, bottomline breakout—Jack Dodson is only the second man we’ve gotten out of here. The escape committee has tried virtually everything known in the annals of prison-camp escape, including a hot-air balloon. But there are either a few turncoats among us or perhaps it’s the Russian wives, though they aren’t supposed to know anything about escape plans. Maybe it’s just good KGB intelligence work. Whatever it is, we’ve been damned unsuccessful.”
Lisa asked, “What happened to the first man who escaped?”
“That was Gene Romero, an Air Force captain. He was recaptured and shot on the athletic field along with five other men as an example. That was nine years ago.”
“And Dodson?” Hollis asked. “How did he get out?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“All right.”
Poole glanced at Hollis and Lisa and said, “Your presence here has sparked a lot of hope.” His eyes searched Hollis’, and he asked, “Right or wrong?”
Hollis replied, “I’m not prepared to comment at this time.”
Poole seemed to take this as a positive statement, Hollis thought. Poole said, “Well, the reason I’m here is to invite you to meet General Austin.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Now.”
Hollis considered a moment, then replied, “You understand that I don’t accept the authority of General Austin under these circumstances.”
“I think I understand that.”
“Well, Commander, let me be blunt so that you do understand. I hold an active and honorable commission as a full colonel in the United States Air Force. The status of you men is somewhat questionable.”
Poole stared at Hollis, then turned away and looked at the fire. “All right. I think General Austin knew you might say that. His invitation is not an order. In fact, if you wish, I’ll ask him to come here.”
“That won’t be necessary if you acknowledge my point.”
“I do.”
Hollis took the parkas from the wall hook. “Lead on, Commander.”
Hollis, Lisa, and Poole walked out into the cold night, Poole holding a flashlight to their front.
Hollis said, “Isn’t there a curfew here?”
“No. There used to be a lot of rules. There are very few rules now.” Poole added, “The Russians are a bit slow in the head, but they finally realized that totalitarianism doesn’t suit their purposes here and takes a lot of their time. They can run the rest of this benighted country with terror and fear, but this is the most free square mile in the Soviet Union.”
“I see. That was Burov’s idea?”
“Pretty much. He lived in the Scandinavian countries for a few years and learned that a well-fed and free population could be as cooperative and productive as a terrorized population. That’s a big leap for a Russian.” Poole laughed without humor.
They came up to the main road near the VFW hall and turned right, east toward the headquarters, walking on the shoulder of the unlit road. Poole said, “We follow world events closely, and we’re probably better informed about Soviet-American relations than the average stateside American. Certainly we know more than any Russian below the Kremlin level.”
As they walked, headlights approached from up the road, and the vehicle slowed as it drew closer to them, then stopped, its headlights glaring in their faces.
Hollis, Lisa, and Poole moved toward the driver’s side of the vehicle, out of the glare of the lights, and Hollis saw that the vehicle was a Pontiac Trans Am. Sitting behind the wheel was Colonel Burov. Burov said, “Good evening, Ms. Rhodes, Commander Poole, Colonel Hollis.”
Only Poole returned the greeting.
Hollis saw that the Trans Am’s windshield was intact, and there didn’t seem to be any body damage to the vehicle.
Burov said, “Yes, Mr. Fisher’s car. I suppose he didn’t get into an accident after all. Not in this car anyway.” Burov patted the steering wheel. “Nice machine.”
Lisa came up beside Hollis and looked at Burov. “You bastard.”
Burov ignored her and spoke to Hollis. “The seats are rea
l leather, and there is even an air conditioner in the car. Do you all drive cars like this?”
Hollis looked at the low, sleek car, its engine humming on the lonely road in the Russian bor with a uniformed officer of the KGB behind the wheel.
Burov saw he wasn’t going to get a reply and continued, “I’m going for a drive. I’d ask you to come along to give me some pointers, but I’m leaving the camp. I want to get it out on the Minsk highway and see if it can really do a hundred and forty miles per hour.” Burov added, “Unfortunately I can only take it out at night when there are no foreigners about. Someone might see it and put two and two together, as you say.”
Lisa said, “I hope you kill yourself in it.”
Burov looked at her. “No, you don’t. I am the best thing that has happened to this camp. After me—who knows?” He looked back at Hollis. “I assume you are on your way to pay a courtesy call on General Austin. Or are you going to pick mushrooms?”
Hollis said, “General Austin. How about a lift?”
Burov laughed. “I’m afraid if I let you in this car, the temptation to try something stupid would be too great for you. You and Ms. Rhodes are slippery characters, as I discovered.” Burov raised his right hand and showed an automatic pistol. “So you will have to walk. It’s good for your heart. Good evening.” Burov let up on the clutch and hit the accelerator. The Pontiac chirped, lurched, then stalled. Burov restarted it and managed to leave a little rubber. Hollis watched the taillights disappear toward the main gate. Beneath the lighted license plate was a bumper sticker that read: POWs and MIAs—not forgotten.
Lisa said, “I still hope he kills himself.” She turned to Hollis. “That’s ghoulish. Driving the car of the man he killed. He’s sick.”
Poole asked, “That was the car of the American boy killed in an accident? Fisher?”
“Yes.”
“We read about it in the American newspapers. And Landis told us that you know about Jack Dodson through Fisher. They met? And Fisher contacted the embassy?”
Hollis said, “I can’t discuss this now.”
Poole nodded, then asked, “Where are we exactly?”
Hollis looked at him. “Where do you think you are?”
Poole replied, “A few kilometers north of Borodino battlefield.”
Hollis nodded.
Poole continued, “We know from the flight that took us from Hanoi that we were landing in European Russia. We’ve also done some star and sun plotting to confirm that. The climate too is probably mid-Russian and not Siberian. The biggest clue is all those aircraft we see descending to the southeast. The traffic has grown over the years. We figured that had to be Moscow.”
“And Borodino?”
“The cannon fire,” Poole replied. “Every September seventh and October fifteenth and sixteenth, we can hear a twenty-one-gun salute a few kilometers to the south. Those are the anniversaries of the two battles of Borodino. Correct?”
Hollis nodded again. He had actually attended the September ceremony the previous year.
“Well,” Poole said, “I guess the question is, did Jack Dodson make it to the embassy?”
“That,” Hollis replied, “is the question.”
They continued their walk. As they passed in front of the massive grey headquarters building, Poole said, “You spent some time in the back rooms there, did you?”
Hollis answered, “Not long by Russian standards.”
“Almost everyone here has done time in the cooler. But Burov has more subtle means of punishment. It’s counter-productive to throw instructors in the cells, so he throws the Russian wives or girlfriends in if one of us commits an offense. Most of us have wives or children now—hostages to fortune—so it makes it difficult for us to act.”
The road curved and dropped as they rounded the bend, and Hollis realized it had become darker. He looked up at the sky and saw nothing but blackness.
Poole said, “Camouflage net.”
Hollis thought this was the camouflaged area he’d seen from the helicopter.
Lisa said, “Look, Sam!”
Hollis looked ahead and saw dim lights suspended from lamp poles. As they got closer Hollis saw he was looking at a paved parking lot, complete with white lines. Set back from the parking lot was a row of about ten darkened storefronts, looking very much like a suburban shopping plaza. The main store in the row was a large 7-Eleven complete with the distinctive white, green, and red sign. Hollis said to Lisa, “See, there’s the Seven-Eleven we were looking for on the road to Mozhaisk.”
Lisa stared at the stores. “Incredible.” She moved across the dimly lit parking lot toward the row of red brick shops. Hollis and Poole followed.
To the left of the 7-Eleven was a laundromat, a Bank of North America complete with logo, a place called Sweeney’s Liquors, a barbershop called Mane Event, and a beauty parlor named Tresses. To the right of the 7-Eleven was Kruger’s Hardware store; a stationery and tobacco shop, Main Street Pharmacy; a bookstore that also carried audio- and videotapes; and at the end of the row, a sort of luncheonette-coffee shop called Dunkin’ Donuts.
Hollis asked, “Is that a legitimate franchise?”
Poole laughed. “No. But we’re trying to get an American Express travel agency here.”
Hollis walked past the luncheonette and peered into the bookstore.
Poole said, “To varying degrees these stores are all functioning operations. You need camp scrip to buy things at all of them except this book and tape store. Everything there is only for loan. It’s sort of the camp audiovisual department, though it’s set up as a retail bookstore for training purposes. We get a wide selection of publications, videotapes, and some decent cassettes and albums.”
Lisa looked at the window display of recent American and British hardcover fiction and nonfiction. “I couldn’t find some of this stuff in the embassy bookstore.” She saw a copy of John Baron’s classic, KGB, and the Soviet defector Arkady Shevchenko’s exposé, Breaking with Moscow. “And they let you… and the so-called students read this stuff?”
“They don’t have any choice, do they?” Poole replied. “If they don’t read it now, they’ll read it stateside, where it might blow their minds. They’re inoculated here with the truth.”
Hollis peered through the windows of the pharmacy and stationery store. “You men don’t lack for anything here, do you?”
“Not in the material sense, Colonel. You know what we lack.”
Hollis didn’t reply but moved over to the hardware store. “Mostly American brand name goods here.”
“Yes,” Poole replied. “Most of the hardware and housewares in the camp are American. Keeps things standard and easy to fix. That’s why the plumbing works.”
“You do your own repairs?”
“Yes, with our students. Most Soviet men aren’t very handy, as you know. I guess that’s because they all live in government housing that’s falling apart. We teach them how to be weekend handymen.” Poole smiled. “So someday when their American wives nag them to replace a leaky washer, they don’t have to call a plumber.” Poole added, “Or as we say—How many Russians does it take to change a lightbulb? Ten. Nine to fill out the requisition forms for the bulb and one to screw it in.”
Hollis, Lisa, and Poole moved to the plate glass windows of the 7-Eleven. Poole said, “We get most of our packaged and canned food here. Some of it is American, some Finnish, some Soviet. Supplies vary. For fresh meat and produce, we go to a warehouse near the main gate and get whatever is available on a rationed basis. That is the same as everywhere else in this country.”
Hollis asked, “But you actually get paid here?”
“Yes. This scrip… .” Poole took a five-dollar bill from his wallet and handed it to Hollis.
Hollis and Lisa examined it in the dim light of a lamp pole. The note looked like a five-dollar bill and in fact was a color photocopy of one. The only difference was the poor quality paper and the reverse side, which was blank.
Poole
said, “That’s part of the psychology of keeping us from becoming complete zombies. We have to balance our personal budget and all that. The students do too. They pay to board with us for instance. Banking transactions and finance are one of the most important parts of the curriculum. It’s more difficult than you might think to teach these people a sense of fiscal responsibility. They’re used to blowing a month’s pay on the first consumer items they see on the way home from work.” Poole added, “It’s still not a completely realistic economic model here. For instance, we don’t pay taxes.” He smiled.
Lisa asked, “Where do they get all the American-style fixtures and such for these stores? The Seven-Eleven sign for instance.”
Poole replied, “That came from Mosfilm. Their prop shop, I guess you’d call it. Same with the Bank of North America accoutrements. The smaller items, consumer goods and so forth, come through the diplomatic pouch or through the International Center for Trade in Moscow. I saw a picture of that place in a magazine. Built by Armand Hammer. Looks like a Trump building in New York. All glass, brass, and marble. Now that’s real Little America, isn’t it? You people been there?”
“Yes,” Lisa replied. “It’s quite a place. An opening to the West.”
Poole commented, “More so than you know. They send the students to stay in the hotel there as a graduation present. They spend a month living it up and mingling with Western businessmen and VIPs. Sort of a halfway house. Then they head West.”
Hollis moved down the row past the laundromat and the bank and stopped in front of Sweeney’s Liquors, examining the stock and the window displays of various Western distilleries and vintners. There was a professionally done display of world-class Italian wines with posters of sunny Italy and cardboard Italian flags. A wicker basket held bottles of Principessa Gavi and the Banfi Brunello di Montalcino, both popular wines that were widely imported in America.
Lisa said, “These are very good wines. Can you buy these?”
Poole replied, “We can buy the wines before they turn. Sometimes we can buy the Western liquor. Depends on supply. We can buy all the Soviet stuff we want.” He added, “Everyone here was amused when we started reading that Stolichnaya had become something of a trendy drink in America. I’ll take Kentucky bourbon any day.”