The Charm School (12 page)

“Let me worry about that.”

Hollis thought a moment, then nodded. “Okay. From the beginning. I was in my office doing the report you asked for earlier. The phone rang. It was Ms. Rhodes.” Hollis related the events of the evening, leaving out what the French woman had told him. A half hour later he poured himself a glass of mineral water and said, “So, as I approached the embassy, I expected to be met. By friends. But apparently you thought it would be good for me to get up close and personal with the
Komitet.
”

Alevy replied dryly, “You have diplomatic immunity.”

“Yeah, Seth, but the KGB has a different take on diplomatic immunity.”

“Well, you’re here, and a little peroxide will clean up those cuts nicely. I’ll even pay for your dry cleaning.”

Hollis began to say something, but Lisa interjected, “Colonel, what do you think happened to Gregory Fisher?”

“We should assume he is right now in a room with KGB interrogators.”

No one spoke for a while, then Alevy said, “By the way, Sam, no one is faulting you for anything. You acted as quickly as possible.” He added, “It’s their town.”

Hollis didn’t respond.

Alevy changed the subject. “I’m interested in the man in room seven forty-five.”

“So am I,” Hollis replied.

Alevy asked, “Was he definitely an American?”

Hollis considered a moment before answering, “Yes. Right down to the Mennen after-shave lotion.”

“But,” Alevy speculated, “he could have been an American in the employ of the KGB.”

“Could have been. But maybe Fisher just got his room number wrong.”

Alevy stood and hit a button on the electronic console in the corner. Gregory Fisher’s voice filled the room, and they listened again to the entire conversation.

Lisa remarked, “I think he knew his room number.”

Seth Alevy lit a cigarette and paced around the room in thought. He said finally, “Well, I’ll handle it from here.” He turned to Lisa. “Of course you’ll discuss this with no one.” He said to Hollis, “I’ll take a report from you and forward it to Langley. You’ll want a copy sent to your section in the Pentagon.”

Hollis stood. “That’s right.”

Alevy added, “We’ll have to tell the ambassador something since we’ve got a car wrecked and a man in the infirmary. I’ll handle that of course.” Alevy turned to Hollis. “I don’t see any military intelligence angle here, Sam.”

“No.”

Alevy regarded Hollis keenly and said, “You might think this Major Dodson thing concerns you because Major Dodson, if he exists, was or is a POW and so on. But I’ll let you know if I need you.”

Hollis walked to the door. “Thank you, Mr. Alevy.”

Lisa said, “What I want to know is, what is Mrs. Ivanova’s Charm School? And where is Major Dodson? Is he still out there somewhere? Can we help him? Can we help Greg Fisher?”

Alevy looked at his watch. “It’s very late, and I have some sending to do. So good night and thank you, Sam. Lisa, will you stay a moment?”

Hollis opened the door.

Alevy called after him, “Do you want your caviar?”

“Put it some place warm, Seth, where the sun doesn’t shine.” Hollis left.

As Hollis stood waiting for the elevator, Lisa joined him. The elevator came, and they both rode down to the ground level in silence. They walked out the rear of the chancery into the cold October night. Sam Hollis and Lisa Rhodes stood a moment on the covered stone terrace. Lisa said, “My unit is to the left.”

“Mine’s to the right.”

“Will you walk me?”

They took the path to the left, which was bordered by newly planted trees, Russian birches, all bare now. To the right was the quadrangle formed on three sides by the row house residences and the Marine barracks, and on the fourth side by the chancery building. The grass of the quadrangle held the faint outlines of impromptu softball games and fainter evidence of a short touch-football season. The embassy’s few children sometimes played in the quadrangle, and in fact, Hollis saw a few toys lying on the wet grass. The first snow would bring snowmen and snowball fights, and the spring would bring kite-flying, followed by sunbathing. This little patch of ground—about three acres—was the village commons, a little piece of the America they all missed and had learned at last to love.

Lisa followed his gaze. She said, “We’re building a scarecrow out there as soon as we get the stuff together. Someone in the consular section has located pumpkins in the free market on Mira Prospect. Well, sort of pumpkins. Can you carve a jack-o’-lantern with that knife of yours?”

Hollis replied, “That’s why I carry it.”

“In case you see a pumpkin in the market? I doubt it.”

They kept walking. Lisa said, “I’m not sure I like living and working in the same place—in a compound. It’s like a fort . . . or a jail.”

“It’s better for everyone.”

“Is it? The old place at least had charm, and it was right on Tchaikovsky Street, not far from the American Express office.” She smiled. “And we all lived in that delightfully grim apartment house off Gorky Street. My bathroom—they were prefab, remember?—was pulling away from the rest of the building. There was a six-inch gap and I could actually see into the bathroom below.”

“Was that you?”

She laughed. They walked on in silence awhile, then Lisa said, “But I suppose this is better. We have the quadrangle. I guess you’re used to this institutional living. I mean, you lived on Air Force bases.”

“Sometimes. Depended on the assignment.”

Lisa stopped. “This is my cell. Actually, they’re quite nice. Just a bit sterile.”

“Eight million Muscovites would trade places with you.”

“Oh, I know. I’m just getting cabin fever.”

“Take a leave.”

“In January. There’s a place called Jumby Bay, a small island off the coast of Antigua. Very private and very lovely. I may defect there.”

They stood in the cold mist, and he noticed in the dim lamplight that her face and hair were wet. He noticed, too, she was about twenty years younger than he was.

Lisa said, “I’ve never seen you at the Friday night follies.”

“I usually wind up at some embassy reception on Fridays.”

“Right. The follies are for the rank and file. But I get to go to a lot of cultural events. Do you like the ballet?”

“Only at the end when the fat lady sings.”

“That’s opera.”

“Right. I get them mixed up.” He took his hands out of his jacket pockets. “Well, I suppose we’d better get out of the rain.” He held out his hand.

She seemed not to notice and said, “Seth is very intense.”

“Is he?”

“Yes. Some people would mistake it for abrasiveness.”

“Would they?”

“Do you know him well?”

“Well enough.”

“You both seemed short with each other. Are you enemies or just rivals?”

“Neither. We enjoy each other. It’s just our way of speaking.”

“Like when you suggested he shove the caviar up his ass?”

“Yes, like that.”

She considered a moment. “He never mentioned that he knew you.”

“Why should he?”

“I suppose there were a lot of things he didn’t discuss with me.” She added, “He is very professional. There was no loose pillow talk.”

“But you know he’s not a political affairs officer.”

“Yes, I know that. And I know that most defense attachés are military intelligence.”

“How do you know that?”

“One knows these things. Didn’t you know I was seeing Seth Alevy?”

“He never mentioned it.”

“I thought it was hot gossip in the lunchroom. Oh, well, as a French philosopher once said, ‘People who worry about what others think of them would be surprised at how little they did.’”

“Precisely.”

She asked, “Do you have antiseptic for those cuts? You have to be careful in foreign countries.”

“I had three glasses of Russian antiseptic.”

“Be serious. I have some witch hazel. . . .”

“I’m going to the infirmary to see Brennan. I’ll get something there.”

“Good. Be sure you do.”

“I will. Good night.”

“I have tomorrow off. I usually sleep late after night duty.”

“Good idea.”

“I wanted to go to the Marx and Engels museum tomorrow. I haven’t seen it yet. Have you?”

“It’s not on my list.”

“Anyway, I’m a little . . . concerned now. About going out alone, I mean. I guess they know who I am now. From the tape. Right?”

“Yes. But I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

She reached out and picked a wet twig from his fleece collar and handed it to him.

He examined the twig thoughtfully, then spoke in a soft voice. “You see, Ms. Rhodes, you can’t let them dictate how you are going to live. They are not omnipotent, nor omnipresent. They want you to think that. It makes their job easier.”

“Yes, I know that, but—”

“But you may be right. Perhaps you ought to stay in the compound until we get a better fix on this.”

She replied in an impatient tone, “That is not what I had in mind, Colonel. I’m asking you if you would like to come with me tomorrow.”

Hollis cleared his throat. “Well . . . why don’t we have lunch and save the Marx-Engels museum for a special occasion?”

She smiled. “Call for me here at noon.” She turned and walked to her door.

“Good night, Colonel Hollis.”

“Good night, Ms. Rhodes.”

7

“Yes . . . yes, I . . . Oh, God . . . hurry.”

“Ten minutes, Greg. Get to the lounge.”

Seth Alevy hit the stop button on the tape player.

Charles Banks, special aide to the American ambassador to the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, sat at the head of the long mahogany table in the ambassador’s safe room, a worried look on his face.

Sam Hollis sat to his right, across from Alevy. Hollis had been in the room a number of times and was always struck by its patina of age, though the room was barely a year old. Apparently everything in the room, including the wainscoting and moldings, had been taken from somewhere else and reconstructed here. The ambassador, a wealthy man, was supposed to have paid for it himself. Hollis would have wondered why, except that everyone in this loony place had an idiosyncrasy that defied explanation.

Alevy said to Charles Banks, “A voice-stress analysis was done on the tape early this morning. Our expert says that Gregory Fisher was most probably telling the truth and was under actual stress.”

Banks looked curiously at Alevy. “Really? They can tell that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Amazing.”

Hollis regarded Charles Banks, a man near sixty, with snow-white hair, a ruddy, avuncular face, and sparkling blue eyes. Hollis remembered last Christmas when Banks dressed as Santa Claus for the embassy children. When not wearing his Santa suit, Banks favored dark, three-piece pinstripes. He was a career diplomat, with the standard Eastern credentials, easy social graces, and the voice of a 1940s radio announcer. Yet beyond the Santa facade and the diplomat’s polish, Hollis recognized a kindred spirit; Hollis thought that Charles Banks was the third spy in this room. But Hollis did not know for whom Banks was spying.

Alevy continued his briefing for Banks. “And as I’ve indicated, Colonel Hollis believes he can establish that Mr. Fisher was at the Rossiya last night.”

Banks turned to Hollis. “You have this Englishman, the French couple, and the black-market fellow.”

Hollis replied, “I don’t actually
have
them. I spoke to them.”

“Yes, of course. But they could identify Mr. Fisher?”

“I hope so. We’re getting facsimiles of passport photos transmitted here from the State Department’s files of all passport applicants with the name Gregory Fisher. There are about a dozen.”

“And you will show the photos to these people?”

“I called my counterpart in the French embassy this morning,” Hollis explained, “and he found out for me that a Monsieur and Madame Besnier have contacted their embassy, stating they were involved in a difficulty at the Rossiya. They are leaving the country on today’s Finnair flight out of Sheremetyevo at twelve forty-five. If we miss them there with the photos, we can locate them in Helsinki or in France. Keep in mind, sir, the woman did know the name ‘Gregory Fisher.’”

“Yes, but I would like her to identify a photograph.”

“Of course. And the Englishman, Wilson, is still at the Rossiya, according to John Crane at the British embassy. Mr. Wilson is here on the gas pipeline business. The black marketeer, Misha, said that his friends saw only the car, but I believe that was Mr. Fisher’s car. There are few Pontiac Trans Ams in Moscow. Probably none. So that is my hard evidence, if we should need it, sir.”

Banks nodded. “Thank you.” He turned to Alevy. “So, despite the fact that the Rossiya and Intourist say Mr. Fisher was never at the hotel, you two are convinced he was and that he called the embassy from there. Let me ask you this: Are you sure there is an American Gregory Fisher in the Soviet Union?”

Alevy answered, “The Soviet Foreign Ministry has been suspiciously quick to confirm that it issued a visa to a Mr. Gregory Fisher of New Canaan, Connecticut, age twenty-four, and Intourist has been helpful for a change, informing us that this Mr. Fisher crossed the frontier at Brest seven days ago. He spent a night in Brest, three nights in Minsk, a night in Smolensk, and was on the road in between.”

“And,” Banks asked, “you believe this is the same Gregory Fisher who called our embassy?”

Alevy seemed somewhat impatient. “He’s the only Gregory Fisher we have in country at the moment, sir. Intourist also confirms that Gregory Fisher was to have checked in at the Rossiya. The evidence seems conclusive, sir.”

“Has anyone contacted this man’s family?”

“That would be premature,” Alevy answered. “There is no use upsetting them at this stage.”

Banks added, “And until we are sure he has vanished, as you are suggesting.”

“Actually,” Alevy replied, “he has not vanished. I think we can tidy up all these questions shortly. We know where Gregory Fisher is now.”

“Where is he, Mr. Alevy?”

“He is in Mozhaisk, sir. In the morgue.”