The Charm School (9 page)

“Okay.” Brennan accelerated up the dark, quiet side street and cut right onto the wide, well-lit Tchaikovsky Street. Traffic was sparse and Brennan made good time. He asked, “Do I stop for police?”

“No, you run them.” Hollis added, “Don’t take the direct route up Kalinin.”

“Gotcha.” The Ford picked up speed in the outside lane, passing buses and trams, and sailed past the Kalinin Prospect intersection. Brennan stuffed his mouth with bubble gum, chewed, and blew bubbles until they popped. “Want some?”

“No, thanks. Do you know the Rossiya?”

“Know the traffic patterns, parking, and all. Not the inside.”

“Fine.” Brennan knew the streets of Moscow better than a Moscow cabbie, but Hollis thought that Brennan cared not a whit about Moscow. He was into streets, and he claimed he’d never seen Red Square, because he couldn’t drive through it.

Brennan asked between chews, “Is this going to be messy?”

“Maybe. American national up the creek at the Rossiya.”

“How’d the
Komitet
know you were going there?”

“Well, the kid—the U.S. national—called the embassy and said he was in trouble.”

“Oh.”

Hollis thought about Fisher’s call. He assumed the traffic police had indeed stopped Fisher for nothing more than an itinerary violation. But Fisher had gotten paranoid because of the Borodino thing. If he’d kept his cool, he would have been able to come to the embassy and tell his story. Instead, Gregory Fisher’s two-kopek phone call might have already cost him his freedom—or his life.

Yet, Hollis thought, it was a brave thing to do. Stupid, but brave. Hollis would tell him that without making him feel bad. How to get Fisher out of the country was tomorrow’s problem.

Brennan asked, “What kind of trouble is he in?”

“Itinerary violation.”

“Am I asking too many questions?”

“Not yet.”

“Okay, why am I tear-assing across Moscow with a military attaché in my car to rescue a kid who went to the fucking zoo instead of the fucking park or whatever?”

“You’re asking too many questions.”

“Right.”

Neither man spoke for a while. The popping gum was getting on Hollis’ nerves. Hollis thought about the phone call. Who was Major Jack Dodson? What, in the name of God, was a POW doing in the woods at Borodino? Only Gregory Fisher could answer that.

Brennan said, “I just passed a parked cop car.”

Hollis glared back. “He’s on a break.”

“Right.”

Hollis looked at the speedometer and saw they were doing seventy miles per hour. Tchaikovsky Street changed names several times as it curved south and east in what was generally known as the Second Ring Road. They crossed the Moskva at the Crimea Bridge, skirted Gorky Park to the right, and continued east up the wide, six-lane road. Hollis glanced at his watch. It had been twelve minutes since they’d left the embassy.

“Do you see him?” Brennan asked.

Hollis looked out the rear window. “Not yet.”

“Good.” Brennan suddenly cut hard left with squealing tires through Dobrynin Square and headed up Ordynka Street, straight north on a run that would take them to the center of Moscow and the Rossiya Hotel. Hollis knew that Brennan’s route may have taken them a few extra minutes, but it had avoided any KGB who were out to intercept them and avoided the militia posts around the Kremlin.

Brennan said, “If I get nabbed speeding, they kick me out of the country.”

“That bother you?”

“No . . . but I have the Colt .45. That can get sticky. My diplomatic immunity status is a little shaky.”

“I’ll take the gun and the rap if they nail us.”

“Nah . . . that’s okay. I’m tired of this fucking country anyway.”

“Drive on.”

Brennan accelerated up Ordynka Street. He added more bubble gum to the already large mass, and the bubbles got bigger.

Hollis hiked up the left leg of his blue jeans, reached into his boot, and pulled out a grey Air Force survival knife. He slipped the knife under his jacket and into his belt. Brennan watched him out of the corner of his eye but said nothing.

Hollis could see the Moskvoretsky Bridge about a half kilometer ahead, and beyond the bridge he saw the Rossiya getting bigger with every second. The few cars on the road seemed to be standing still. Hollis heard a continuously honking horn behind them. He looked out the rear window. “The fuzz.”

“I hear it. What kind of car?”

“A Lada.”

“A fucking joke. About as much power as an electric shaver.”

“Nevertheless, he’s on our tail.”

“Not for long.”

The Ford shot forward, and Hollis watched as the Lada lost ground. The police car had no siren or revolving lights, and the horn grew more distant, though Hollis knew it was still sounding because the Lada’s headlights dimmed every time the driver hit the horn.

Brennan took the narrow bridge at eighty miles per hour, and Hollis saw a blur of pedestrians staring at them from the bridge walkway. The Ford sailed off the bridge, bounced hard, then tore across the embankment road, cutting diagonally past the Kremlin’s corner tower. As they barreled up the approach lane to the Rossiya, Brennan asked, “East side?”

“Yes. You keep going. Back to the embassy.”

Brennan pulled the Colt .45 from his shoulder holster. “You need this?”

“No. You keep it or ditch it. Your choice.”

Brennan swung around toward the east entrance of the hotel. “Ready?”

Hollis saw that the small parking area did not have a Trans Am in it, and he took this as a bad sign. “Ready. Nice job.”

Brennan slowed the car in front of the hotel. “Good luck.” He popped a big bubble.

“You too.” Hollis jumped out of the moving car and slammed the door as Brennan accelerated out the exit ramp.

Hollis pushed through the front doors of the Rossiya, and the doorman said,
“Propusk.”

“Komitet,”
Hollis replied as he brushed past him.

The man literally jumped back and tried to open the second door, but Hollis was already through it. Hollis went directly to the elevator and hit the top floor button.
Komitet.
Committee. The Committee for State Security—the KGB. Magic words. Open sesame. The fact that he’d arrived in an American car, wearing American clothing, made no difference to the doorman. No one else would dare utter that word.

The elevator arrived. Hollis rode up to the tenth floor and began the long trek to the west-facing side.

The Rossiya, for the uninitiated, was a confusing amalgam of four separate wings containing over three thousand rooms, attached to form a square around a central court. The east wing was the Intourist hotel, the west wing was a hotel for Soviet and East Bloc citizens only, while the north and south wings were residences for favored communists. The wings were connected at a few floors though not at the ground floor. To pass from one wing to another, Hollis knew, you had to have a good reason. East was east, and west was west, and most Western tourists were not even aware of the presence of the others. Here on the top floor however, east and west nearly met in this Byzantine and schizoid building. Hollis approached the entrance to the restaurant and bar, where one of the ubiquitous angry ladies who seemed to guard every door in Moscow sat at a desk. She looked him over.

“Bar,” Hollis said.

She nodded curtly and pointed to the doors. Hollis went through into a large foyer. To the left was a black, closed door marked with the English word
BAR
. Straight ahead, two open doors revealed a huge restaurant filled to capacity. Hollis could tell by the din, the toasts, the laughter, and the attire that they were mostly Russians. He looked inside. A band played American jazz, and the dance floor was crowded with people who seemed to have trouble just standing. A wedding party occupied a large round table, and the bride, a pretty young girl in white, was the only person still sitting upright. Hollis had the fleeting impression she was having second thoughts. Hollis surveyed the room and satisfied himself that Fisher would not have gone in there. A man came toward him shaking his head. The man pointed over Hollis’ shoulder. “Bar.”

“Spasibo.”
Hollis went through the black door and entered the bar, where, for Western hard currency, you could buy Western hard liquor and brand name mixers; a night spot of capitalist decadence, high above Red Square. Hollis scanned the dark lounge.

The bar was full, but in contrast to the Russian restaurant, the drunken chatter was more subdued and less lusty. The clientele, Hollis knew, were mostly Western Europeans, and nearly all were guests at the hotel. The Rossiya attracted few Americans, and he wondered how Fisher wound up here. Mixed with the Europeans were always a few Soviet high rollers with access to Westerners and their money. Every hard currency bar in Moscow also had a resident KGB snoop who could eavesdrop in ten languages.

Hollis walked around the lounge but didn’t see anyone who could be Gregory Fisher. This, he decided, was not good.

There was a service bar where patrons were obliged to get their own drinks. Hollis elbowed through the crowd and spoke to the bartender in fluent Russian. “I’m looking for my friend. An American. He is young and has on blue jeans and a short, black jacket.”

The bartender glanced at him quickly but continued to make drinks as he replied, “American, you say? No, I didn’t see anyone like that.”

Hollis left the bar and walked quickly to the east-wing elevators. He rode down to the seventh floor and got off. The
dezhurnaya
looked at him curiously.
“Gost?”

“No. Visitor.” He leaned over her desk, looked the blond woman directly in the eye, and said, “Fisher.”

She looked away.

“Gregory Fisher. American.”

She rolled a tube of lip gloss in her fingers, then shook her head.

Hollis looked at the keyboard behind her desk and saw that the key for 745 was missing. He walked past her and she called after him, “You may not go there.”

Hollis ignored her. He found room 745 and knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again, harder.

A voice from behind the door said, “Who is it?”

“I’m from the embassy.”

“Embassy?”

Hollis heard the lock turn, and the door opened. A paunchy, middle-aged man with sleep in his eyes, wearing a robe, peered out. “Is everything all right?”

Hollis looked at him, then past him into the room. “I’m looking for Mr. Fisher.”

The man seemed relieved. “Oh, I thought something happened at home. My wife. My name is Schiller. Everything’s all right, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Hollis stared at him.

Schiller said, “I heard ‘embassy,’ and you know—”

“Mr. Fisher just called me and said he was in seven forty-five.”

Schiller’s manner went from worried to slightly annoyed. “So? He’s not here, pal. I don’t know the guy. Try four fifty-seven. Anything’s possible in this fucked-up country.”

Which, Hollis thought, was not only true, but offered another possible explanation. “They may have assigned you a roommate. They do that sometimes.”

“Do they? Christ, what a place.”

“Could there be anyone’s luggage in your closet?”

“Hell, no. I paid extra for a fucking single, and there’s no one here. Hey, is he with that American Express group? Did you see that little Intourist guide they have? Christ, she looked edible. Maybe your friend is talking politics with her.” He laughed. “Well, see ya at the Bolshoi.” The man closed the door.

Hollis stood there a moment, then walked back to the elevators. The
dezhurnaya
was gone. Hollis went behind her desk and found the drawer full of
propusks.
He flipped through them but could not find one with 745 on it.
How did Schiller get the key to 745 without turning in his propusk
?

Hollis took the elevator down to the lobby, which was deserted. He went to the front desk and rang the bell. The clerk appeared at the door behind the counter. Hollis said in Russian, “What room is Gregory Fisher in?”

The clerk shook her head. “Not here.”

“Who is in room seven forty-five?”

“I cannot tell you.”

“Is there an Intourist representative here?”

“No. Tomorrow morning at eight. Good evening.” She turned and disappeared into the inner office. He looked toward the foyer and saw there was a different doorman on duty. “People are disappearing left and right, before my very eyes. Amazing country.”

Hollis thought a moment. Several possibilities came to mind, including the possibility that this was all a KGB
provokatsiya,
a ruse to draw him into some sort of compromising situation. But if they wanted to entrap him, there were less elaborate schemes. If they wanted to kill him, they’d just pick a morning he was jogging along the Shevchenko Embankment and run him over.

Hollis thought about Fisher’s voice, the words, the very real fright in his tone. “Fisher is real.” But Hollis had to prove that Fisher had reached this hotel alive and had fallen into the hands of the KGB. For if he could prove that, then what Fisher had said about Major Jack Dodson was probably true.

Hollis reached over the clerk’s counter and took her telephone. He dialed 745 and let the phone ring a dozen times then hung up. “Not good.”

Hollis looked around. He realized he was alone and exposed. They could take him anytime they wanted now.

He walked quickly across the lobby, his footsteps echoing on the stone floor. He entered the dark passage that led to the Beriozka shop, drew his knife, and slid into the phone booth that Fisher must have used. Hollis thought that if the Rossiya was causing people to disappear, it might be a good idea if he proved that
he
had reached the Rossiya alive. He inserted a two-kopek piece and dialed the embassy. The Marine duty man answered, and Hollis asked to be put through to the duty office. Lisa Rhodes answered quickly.

Hollis asked, “Have you heard from our friend?”

“No. Isn’t he there?”

“Apparently not.”

There was a silence, then she said, “Are you returning here?”

“That is my plan.”