“That’s correct,” Banks replied.
Lisa asked, “Do you believe that Greg Fisher was murdered?”
Banks considered a moment. “The circumstantial evidence seems to point in that direction. I’m no idiot, Lisa, and neither is the ambassador.”
“That’s reassuring.” She added, “I do appreciate your position.”
Banks smiled tightly. “Do you? Let me tell you that I personally admire your sense of integrity and moral courage. And entre nous, the ambassador is similarly impressed. However, I’m here to restate to you in the strongest possible terms that if either of you so much as breathes a word of this incident back in the States, you will both be unemployed and unemployable and perhaps subject to legal action. Is that clear?”
Hollis moved closer to Banks. “I don’t think you or anyone outside the Pentagon is in a position to tamper with my military career.”
“On the contrary, Colonel. And as for Miss Rhodes, while you have the option of a private career in journalism, you might find it more difficult than you think to ever be accredited to cover any agency of the United States government.”
She put her drink down. “I think, Charles, that you’ve been in the Soviet Union too long. We don’t make threats like that in my country.”
Banks seemed somewhat abashed. “I apologize… I’m passing on information.”
There were a few moments of awkward silence, then Banks extended his hand. “I’ll see you both at your farewell party.”
Lisa took his hand. “You probably will, if you come. We have to be there.” She smiled. “I like you, Charlie.” She kissed his cheek.
Banks smiled awkwardly, then took Hollis’ hand and said, “The least free people in a free society are people like us who have a sworn duty to defend the constitution.”
“It’s one of the ironies,” Hollis agreed.
After Banks had left, Lisa commented, “He hit us with the carrot and tried to make us eat the stick.”
“He’s having a rough time of it.”
“Who isn’t these days?”
25
Sam Hollis gave his uniform a quick once-over, then strode into the large diplomatic reception hall.
The protocol of a farewell party didn’t require that he or Lisa stand in a receiving line, nor was there a head table, which suited him fine. Protocol did demand however, that, as a married man whose wife was temporarily out of town, he arrive without a woman. Lisa had gone on ahead, and he saw her across the room, talking to some people from her office.
The reception hall was an elegant, modern wing off the chancery building, with tall windows, walls of Carrara marble, and three large contemporary chandeliers of stainless steel hanging from the high ceiling. The floor was parquet, which for some reason the Russians equated with elegance, hence its choice for the hall.
Of the approximately three hundred men and women living in the compound, nearly all had been invited, and Hollis guessed that most of them had shown up. He would have been flattered by such a Saturday night turnout for him in London or Paris, but in Moscow you could get five hundred Westerners to a Tupperware party if you had music and food.
Hollis assumed that the staffers whose turn it was to use the Finnish dacha for the weekend had wisely done so. Missing also was most of the thirty-man Marine contingent. Some had duty, but the rest, Hollis figured, were in a nearby foreign-residents apartment house where they had somehow secured a suite of rooms that they called Studiya 54. Hollis understood it was mostly disco, drinking, and devitski, the latter being an infraction of the rules. But since the great sex-and-spy scandal, the Marine Corps had concluded that though their men were made of iron, their libidos were not. The Studiya 54 gatherings were actually encouraged so as to keep the Marines and Russian women in one place. Unknown to any of them, but known to Hollis, four of the Marine guards were actually Marine counterintelligence officers. It struck him that the world was full of professional snoops, and it was sad that Americans didn’t even trust Americans anymore.
Hollis noticed that round tables had been placed along the walls, but most people were standing in groups, glasses in hand. There was a long buffet table against the far wall where a few people helped themselves. Early in his tour of duty, Hollis had been advised that if he went to an embassy reception where Russians were present, he should not stand near the buffet table when the food was uncovered, or he would be trampled.
Hollis glanced at his watch. The party had been in progress about an hour, and he figured everyone was three drinks ahead of him by now. He scanned the room to see where the bar had been set up and saw James Martindale, the protocol officer, making his way toward him.
“Hello, Sam.”
“Hello, Jim.” Hollis had a perverse liking for the man despite his inane job and decorous manner.
Martindale announced, “We have a nice turnout for you, Colonel.”
“I see that. I’m very flattered. I would have thought everyone would rather have seen the changing of the guard at Lenin’s tomb.”
Martindale seemed to miss the humor and continued, “You understand, I hope, that we did not invite any Soviet air force personnel with whom you’ve become acquainted, nor any other Soviet officials because of the circumstances under which you are leaving.”
Hollis thought that was self-evident. “You didn’t want to feed them, did you?”
“Also I did not send invitations to certain other embassies so as not to put them in an awkward position.”
“You’re a very sensitive man.”
“However, I did extend verbal and informal invitations to your friends and counterparts in the British, Canadian, Australian, and New Zealand embassies.”
“We Anglo-Saxons have to stick together against the Slavic hordes.”
“Yes. And some other NATO military attachés will drop in to say good-bye.”
“You mean my spy friends from the rest of Christiandom? I hope you invited the Irish.”
“I did. It’s best to keep this sort of thing informal so as not to give the host country the impression that we are insulting them.”
“But we are, Jimbo. Do you think I’d have any party if I’d been kicked out of England or Botswana?”
“Well, from the strict standpoint of protocol—”
“Where’s the bar?”
“In the far corner there. Also I’ve invited the thirty or so American resident press people and their spouses as a courtesy. Most of them will stop by, but they are not to talk business.”
“Good thinking.”
“I explained to Ms. Rhodes all of what I’ve just told you, and she understands.”
“Was I supposed to wear sackcloth and ashes?”
“No, this is business dress.”
“May I go to the bar now?”
“I’d like to take this opportunity to extend to you my best wishes and my appreciation for the work you’ve done here.”
“Thank you. I—”
“This was the best I could do under the circumstances.” He waved his arm around the room.
“Look, I didn’t get caught buggering a militiaman. I just got caught spying. No big—”
“The ambassador and his wife will put in an appearance of course, but they should not be detained as they have another engagement.”
“Are you drunk?”
Martindale smiled a lopsided grin. “I’ve had a few.”
Hollis laughed.
Martindale took Hollis’ arm. “Come with me.”
Hollis was led to the front of the reception hall where there was a raised platform on which stood a podium and microphone. A four-piece combo of volunteer musicians were grouped around the big Steinway piano. Hollis recalled that the Steinway had once been in the ambassador’s official residence, Spaso House, where it had been vandalized a few hours before the performance of Vladimir Feltsman, a prominent pianist and Jewish dissident. The KGB were strong suspects, and Alevy sent a copy of the repair bill to Lubyanka. Some KGB wag there sent
a return note saying, “Check is in the mail.”
Hollis stepped onto the wooden platform, and Lisa, escorted by Martindale’s secretary, joined him. Hollis and Lisa exchanged brief smiles.
Martindale nodded to the combo, and they struck up a few bars of “Ruffles and Flourishes,” which got everyone’s attention. Martindale tapped the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming. May I present our guests of honor, Colonel Sam Hollis and Ms. Lisa Rhodes.”
There was a round of applause, and Hollis could see a lot of silly smiles out there. Clearly, everyone was in a merry mood for the occasion.
Martindale said, “I must issue a reminder that this is not a secure room and that everything you say is being heard across the street. So I urge you to observe talk security, not to make derogatory remarks about our host country, and to keep in mind that the expulsion of Colonel Hollis and Ms. Rhodes is an occasion of great shame.”
A few people chuckled.
Martindale reached behind the podium and produced two lengths of blue satin, which he unfurled and held up. Everyone laughed. Hollis saw they were bogus ambassadorial sashes on which was written in red glitter: Persona non grata.
Lisa put her hand over her mouth and laughed.
Martindale turned to them and ceremoniously draped the sashes across their chests. Martindale said into the microphone, “For the nondiplomats here who don’t know Latin, persona non grata means ‘someone who doesn’t tip.’”
Lisa whispered to Hollis, “This is embarrassing.”
“You’re lucky Martindale didn’t pin a scarlet A on you.”
“On me? On you.”
Martindale announced, “Before we begin the music and dancing, and especially before the ambassador and his wife arrive, we’ll have the presentations and speeches. I would like to introduce our first presenter, Comrade Vladimir Slizistyi.”
The people who understood Russian laughed at the word for “slimy.”
One of the young consular officers, Gary Warnicke, came through the door, wearing a brown suit about six sizes too big. His hair was slicked back, he had a red tie painted on his shirt, and he was barefoot. There was a burst of loud laughter.
Warnicke stepped onto the platform, kissed Hollis perfunctorily on both cheeks, then planted a long kiss on Lisa’s lips. Hollis got the feeling it was going to be a long night.
Warnicke addressed the audience. “Comrade American swine, thank you for here me inviting. I make now presentation to Colonel Hollis.”
Martindale led Hollis to the podium as Warnicke bellowed, “Colonel, by order of Central Committee, I present now to you, for consistently inferior work product, Order of Lemon.” Warnicke hung a red ribbon around Hollis’ neck from which was suspended a pear. Warnicke explained, “Sorry, no lemons.”
“I understand.”
Everyone applauded. Warnicke motioned Lisa to the podium. “And for you, sexy lady, by order of Central Committee, I present Medal of Socialist Loafing, for spending whole year sleeping in supply closet.” Warnicke reached into his jacket and produced another red ribbon from which hung a red plastic alarm clock. Warnicke said, “Wakes you at quitting time.”
Lisa said, “I’m honored to have done my part.”
Warnicke took the opportunity to give her an intense kiss on the neck.
The guests, who hadn’t interrupted their drinking for the show, began to hoot and whistle.
Warnicke barked, “Silence, comrades! Serious business here.” He took two pieces of paper from his pocket and said to Hollis and Lisa, “Here two putyovki—worker vacation passes—for five-year stay in Siberian Gulag of your choice. Separate rooms.”
This brought some guffaws from the crowd.
Warnicke made a few more light remarks, then said, “Now I have pleasure of calling to podium, great American diplomat, great statesman, peace-loving friend of Soviet peoples, good dresser, expensive shoes, Comrade Charles Banks.”
Everyone applauded as Banks stepped onto the platform. “Thank you very much, comrade, ladies, and gentlemen. As you know, every year about this time, we present the Barlow award to one or more deserving individuals. This coveted award is named in honor of Joel Barlow, American Ambassador to the court of Napoleon, who in the year 1812 accompanied the French army into Russia in order to maintain diplomatic contact with the emperor. After the burning of Moscow, Mr. Barlow found himself caught up in Napoleon’s retreat and, tragically, died of exposure, making him the first American diplomat to freeze to death in Russia.”
Banks’ timing was good, and everyone laughed.
Banks held up his hand. “So each autumn to commemorate that sad event and to honor Mr. Barlow’s memory, we pay tribute to one or more of our compatriots who made it through the previous winter without bitching and griping and without running off on thirty-days’ leave to the Bahamas. This year it is my honor to present the Joel Barlow award to two people who have demonstrated a unique ability to work together in keeping warm. Ladies and gentlemen, this year’s recipients of the Joel Barlow award, Colonel Sam and Miss Lisa.”
The guests applauded and laughed as Charles Banks retrieved a full ice bucket from behind the podium and handed it to Hollis and Lisa. “Congratulations.”
Lisa said, “Thank you, Charles. This is a dubious honor but a nice bucket.”
Hollis found himself holding the dripping ice bucket.
Banks said into the microphone, “Now for more serious business, may I present Colonel Hollis’ aide, Captain Ed O’Shea.”
Captain O’Shea, carrying a small parcel, took over the podium from Banks, who stepped aside. O’Shea said, “It has indeed been a rare opportunity to work for such a talented officer.” O’Shea made a few more salutatory remarks, then said, “On behalf of the military attachés here and their staffs, I would like to present Colonel Hollis with a farewell gift.” O’Shea opened the box he was carrying and withdrew a small plaster bust of Napoleon. O’Shea said, “Colonel, this is courtesy of the French embassy. As you pass from duty station to duty station and wherever your service to your country takes you, let this be a reminder of your time here in Moscow and of your last interesting weekend in the Russian countryside.”
Hollis held out the ice bucket, and O’Shea stuck the plaster bust in it.
The guests applauded, and there was some subdued laughter. Hollis assumed there were at least a dozen versions of the itinerary-violation weekend going around, and most of them somehow included Borodino, hence the Napoleon bust. Hollis said to O’Shea, “I’m very grateful for the memento, and I’ll have it on my desk when I write your last efficiency report.”
The military personnel in the crowd laughed.
O’Shea smiled weakly and introduced Kay Hoffman, who climbed onto the platform carrying a beautifully hand-painted balalaika. Kay Hoffman smiled at Lisa and said into the microphone, “In all my years with the United States Information Service, I have rarely encountered an individual who had such a profound knowledge of the host country, its language, its culture, and its people.” Kay Hoffman delivered a short tribute to her assistant, then said, “On behalf of everyone in the USIS here and also in our Leningrad consulate, we would like to present to Lisa this going-away present. Obviously this is not a joke gift, but a very special piece of Russian art, which, though it was difficult to come by, was worth the search because it is passing into the hands of a very fine lady who appreciates such native craftsmanship. Lisa…” Kay Hoffman held out the balalaika. “May I present you with this exquisite electric samovar.”
The joke caught everyone off guard, and there was a silence followed by a burst of laughter and applause.
Kay Hoffman continued, “You loosen these three strings here and shove them into an electrical outlet. The tea goes in this big hole here. I’m not sure where you put the water.”
Lisa took the balalaika. Kay embraced and kissed her, saying in her ear, “Don’t let that stud get away, honey.”
Lisa winked and wiped a tear from her eye. She sai
d, “I don’t play it—the samovar—but I love its music, and I promise to learn to play it in memory of the thoughtfulness of my coworkers.”
James Martindale stepped back to the podium carrying a display easel on which was mounted a blowup of a newspaper article written in Russian. Martindale said, “For those of you who want the truth about the unfortunate incident that has brought us here, I direct your attention to the Soviet free press. For your convenience we’ve had the Pravda article blown up and mounted. Pravda, as you know, means ‘truth,’ and Izvestia means ‘news,’ and I’ve heard it said that there is no news in the Truth and no truth in the News. Nevertheless I’ll read you the English translation of this incisive Soviet reporting.” Martindale read from a piece of paper. “‘The Soviet Foreign Ministry has announced the expulsions of S. Hollis and L. Rhodes, a man and a woman, American embassy employees, for activities inconsistent with their diplomatic status. This is yet another example of American agents hiding behind their diplomatic immunity to engage in anti-Soviet activities. However, the organs of State Security had been watching this S. Hollis and L. Rhodes for some time and finally put an end to their abuse of Soviet hospitality.’” Martindale looked up from the translation and shook his finger at Hollis and Lisa. “Bad, bad.”
Warnicke called out, “Let this be lesson for all of you. Three cheers for organs of State Security.”
Martindale turned back to the microphone. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to introduce our first guest of honor, holder of the Order of Lemon, not to mention a chestful of real medals, our departing air attaché, Colonel Sam Hollis.” The people who were still sitting at the tables stood, and everyone clapped loudly. The four-piece combo struck up “Off we go into the wild blue yonder” as Hollis put the bucket down and waited at the podium. Unexpectedly Lisa came up beside him and squeezed his hand momentarily.
Hollis said into the microphone, “Thank you all for that very nice welcome. And thank you, Jim Martindale, chief of protocol, alcohol, and Geritol, for the sash and the introduction. I want to express my appreciation also to Gary Warnicke for making a fool of himself in public, and my deepest gratitude to Charles Banks for arriving here sober. And of course, warm thanks to Captain O’Shea and my staff for their personal devotion, which they will transfer to their next boss without skipping a beat.” Hollis made some serious farewell remarks, then concluded on a lighter note. “When I get home, and as I’m tooling down the highway in my ’Vette through the glorious Virginia countryside, listening to the Air Force–Army game and eating a banana, my thoughts will be of you here, drinking your breakfast vodka as you watch the snow rise over your windowsills.”