The Charm School (26 page)

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Authors: NELSON DEMILLE

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The train made short stops at suburban stations, Setun, Kuncevo, Fili, then Testovskaya. Lisa said, “Why don’t we get off here? We can walk to the embassy from here.”
“We’re supposed to be going on to Leningrad, so we get off at the Byelorussian terminal.”
“I want to get off
here
. I’ve had it.”
“Sit down.”
Lisa sat back in her seat. “Sorry. Getting edgy. I trust you. You did a magnificent job. Even if something happens and we don’t get into the embassy. . . . How
are
we going to get into the embassy if the watchers are waiting for us near the gate?”
“I’ll show you a spy trick.”
“You’d better.”
The Byelorussian Express from Minsk pulled into Moscow’s Byelorussian Station at ten minutes to noon. Hollis and Lisa left quickly and pushed through the throngs packed into the hundred-year-old station. Hollis noticed that the people returning to the hinterlands had not appreciably lightened their loads, but were burdened now with plastic bags filled with clothing, new shoes, cooking utensils, and all manner of Moscow’s bounty. The most worthless thing they had on them were the leftover rubles in their pockets. A few passing Muscovites, well-dressed by comparison, gave the country folk hard looks to show they didn’t like the competition for consumer goods by peasants.
Hollis and Lisa passed pairs of KGB Border Guards, who were at every transportation hub in the Soviet Union but were nonetheless intimidating to foreigner and native alike.
Hollis and Lisa came out of the station into Gorky Square, dominated by a huge statue of the writer. The sky was the usual grey, and the air seemed filled with fumes compared to the fresh air of the countryside.
They crossed the square and walked down Gorky Street, Moscow’s main street, toward the Kremlin. Hollis led Lisa into the Minsk Hotel, and he entered a phone booth off the lobby. He dialed the embassy, spoke to the Marine watch-stander, then the Sunday duty officer, who turned out to be his own aide, Captain O’Shea. “Ed, this is me. Okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“This is a photoflash,” Hollis said, using the word for a personal emergency. “Get a car to me at location delta. Ten minutes.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll go myself.”
“No, stay there and find me Mr. Nine. I want to see him.”
“Mr. Nine was very worried about you. He’s in his office.”
“Ten minutes.”
“Yes, sir. Welcome home.”
Hollis hung up the phone and said to Lisa, “Seth is very worried about you.”
Lisa didn’t reply. They left the Minsk Hotel and continued down Gorky Street. She said, “That was neat. Where is location delta?”
“I forgot.”
She looked at him. “Are you jerking me around?”
“Yeah. It’s Gastronom One. You know it?”
“Sure. But we Muscovites still call it Yeliseyevsky’s, its pre-Revolution name. Best gourmet store in Moscow. The
only
one actually.” She added, “We’re going to make it, aren’t we?”
“Looks like it.”
They passed the Stanislavsky Drama Theater, walked through Pushkin Square, and crossed the Garden Ring, which once had been the outer wall of the city. They came to the ornate facade of Gastronom One, then doubled back. Hollis said, “I’m assuming the KGB doesn’t know location delta from Times Square. We change the locations every time we have to use one. So there should be no one here from the KGB to meet us. However, they will have a car or two close behind the embassy car. As soon as the embassy car slows down, you jump in the rear, scoot over quick, and I follow. Okay?”
“I saw this in a movie once.”
They waited. Lisa lit a cigarette. “This is my last one. But I have a pack in my office. Or my room.”
“That’s good news.”
A black Ford came at a good pace up Gorky Street, and Hollis saw two security men in the front and a man who looked like Seth Alevy in the back. Behind the Ford was a black Chaika. The Ford suddenly swerved to the curb and braked hard. The back door flew open, Lisa slipped in beside Alevy, and Hollis got in, then slammed the door as the car accelerated. Lisa said, “Hello, Seth.”
Alevy addressed Hollis directly, “You had better have a good explanation, Colonel.”
Hollis didn’t reply.
“Where is the car?” Alevy asked.
“At the railroad station.”
“
What
railroad station?”
“Gagarin.”
“
Gagarin?
What the hell were you doing there?”
“Getting the train to Moscow.”
Lisa opened her burlap bag. “Seth, do you want a pear?”
“No.” Alevy folded his arms and looked out the side window.
The Chaika got up close behind them, and the security driver sped up until another Chaika appeared in front of the Ford and boxed them in. The American driver pulled out, and the three cars continued their dangerous game, weaving through central Moscow and down Kalinin Prospect.
Within ten minutes the Ford reached the embassy and shot past the militia booth, crossed the sidewalk, and entered the gates. The Chaika behind them sounded its horn, and the man in the passenger side put his arm out the window and extended his middle finger. The security men in the front of the Ford returned the salute of the KGB men in the Chaika, while Hollis returned the salute of the Marine watchstanders. The Ford went around the flagpole and stopped at the entrance to the chancery. Hollis, Lisa, and Alevy piled out. Alevy said, “No offense, but you both smell.”
Lisa said, “I think I’ll go and shower.”
“Not a half-bad idea.”
Hollis said to Alevy, “Get a call through to the Mozhaisk morgue. Tell them not to wait for an escort and have them drive the body to Sheremetyevo airport freight terminal. Send a consular officer to the airport to take charge of the remains.” He took the manila envelope from his briefcase. “Here’s all the paperwork, including the export permit and a charge for the coffin that they want paid before they’ll ship it out.”
“I thought you were
in
the damned coffin. I called the Soviet Foreign Ministry, the KGB—”
“That’s like dialing M for murder, Seth.”
“Where did you spend the night?”
“Is that a professional question?” Hollis inquired.
Lisa interjected. “We hid out in a village called Yablonya—”
“Hid out? From whom?”
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.
As the gates closed behind him, Hollis walked into Red Square opposite St. Basil’s Cathedral. Only Kremlin vehicles were allowed in the square, and pedestrian traffic was heaviest now at rush hour, which was why he liked this place and this hour to lose people. Hollis darted through the throng, diagonally in front of the Lenin mausoleum where a long line of people waited to view the embalmed corpse. He walked quickly past the huge GUM department store at the north end of the square and glanced back but didn’t see the two men in overcoats. Hollis went down a set of steps in the sidewalk, and the stairs split—metro to the right, an underground passage beneath Red Square to the left. He went right, put five kopeks in the turnstile, and jumped on the fast-descending escalator. He stepped off into the huge marble station with crystal chandeliers. A train came within a minute, and he squeezed on with the commuters, taking the train north one stop to Dzerzhinsky Station.

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