The Charm School

  “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.”

  Banks leaned forward across the table. “Dead?”

  Alevy replied dryly, “Yes, sir. I believe that’s why he’s in the morgue. Peterson, in the consular section, got the call about twenty minutes ago. The call came from a gentleman who identified himself only as an official of the Soviet government. Mr. Fisher had a car accident.”

  Banks said, “How terrible!”

  “Yes, sir.” Alevy shuffled some papers in front of him and glanced at a blue sheet. “According to the militia report, Mr. Fisher’s car, which they call a Transamerikanets sportivnyi avtomobil, was found at daybreak this morning by peasants, eighteen kilometers west of Mozhaisk in a ravine off the Minsk–Moscow highway. The car apparently had been heading toward Moscow and went off the highway during the night, crashing into a tree. The damage indicates the car was traveling at excessive speed and could not navigate a sudden turn in the road. Mr. Fisher was not wearing a seat belt and suffered chest and head injuries. He died of his injuries before the peasants discovered the accident. We are requested to take charge of the body for shipment out of the Soviet Union.”

  Banks seemed to be pondering all this, then said, “That would indicate that Mr. Fisher never got to Moscow.”

  Hollis added, “Nor to Borodino, since according to my map, the accident occurred some kilometers before the Borodino turnoff.”

  Banks looked at Alevy. “There is certainly some inconsistency here. Is it at all possible that Mr. Fisher never reached Moscow? That he made this call from the road and that he was perpetrating some sort of hoax or prank?”

  Alevy replied, “Fisher’s call came through without operator assistance, meaning it was made from metropolitan Moscow. In addition we have the voice-stress test and the witnesses. What else do you need, Charles? Videotape?”

  “One has to be absolutely certain.” Banks glanced at his watch and stood. “You’ve both done an admirable job of detective work considering the difficulties here. I’m quite proud of you. I think the ambassador should alert the Soviet authorities to these facts and tell them that we suspect foul play and that we want a full investigation.”

  Alevy and Hollis glanced at each other. Alevy said, “Mr. Banks, what we are suggesting is that it was the Soviet authorities who murdered Gregory Fisher.”

  “Oh.” Banks nodded slowly. “Yes, I see. Because of what Mr. Fisher said regarding this Major Dodson.”

  Alevy studied Banks’ face, then said, “Charles, are you jerking us around, or are you that dense?”

  Banks winked in reply, then said, “Well, I’ll speak directly to the ambassador about this. I trust you’ll both keep in mind the political considerations that may arise as a result of this incident.”

  Alevy stood. “As a political affairs officer, that will be foremost in my mind, sir. Foremost.”

  “Splendid. Colonel Hollis?”

  Hollis remained seated and didn’t reply.

  “Colonel?”

  Hollis said to Banks, “Once I bombed only politically approved targets. We lost the war.”

  Banks responded in a soothing voice, “As you know, in the Soviet armed forces there is a political commissar attached to every command. The military officers resent this, but they recognize that today war is too important to be left to the generals and colonels. Especially cold war. Good day, gentlemen.” Banks went out the door.

  Alevy said to Hollis, “Why didn’t you just say okay? That’s all he wanted to hear.”

  Hollis stood. “An American citizen has been murdered, and I’m a little pissed off.”

  “They get murdered in America all the time,” Alevy observed. “Do you feel partly responsible for Fisher’s death?”

  “I suppose. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Maybe. Look, Sam, I’m not a politician or a diplomat, but you have to see their point of view as this thing heats up. Some dorks are trying to crank up détente again, and that’s the numero uno consideration right now. If I found two KGB men in the basement planting a bomb, the ambassador would tell me to forget it.”

  “What if you found a KGB man in bed with the ambassador’s wife?”

  Alevy smiled. “Same thing. One can’t become personally involved. Détente. Think peace.” He held up two fingers. “Peace.”

  “Okay, forget that Fisher was murdered. Why was he murdered?”

  “You know. He saw something. Heard something.”

  “Something big.”

  “Apparently,” Alevy replied.

  “We’re supposed to find out what it is. That’s why they put us here.”

  “Yes. That’s true. Let’s see what comes down from Washington.” Alevy walked to the door. “If you have nothing further of a sensitive nature, let’s go. The snack bar has croissants from Paris this morning. If you stick one in your ear, you can hear the sound of a sidewalk cafe.”

  “I’m going to go for the body.”

  “Wrong. Someone in the consular section is going for the body. That’s their job.”

  “I don’t think you heard me. I am going.”

  Alevy looked annoyed but said nothing.

  “I’ll need two passes from the Foreign Ministry.”

  “Two?”

  “I’m taking company.”

  “Who?”

  “Lisa Rhodes.”

  “Is that so? How do you know she wants to go?”

  “Everyone here would like to get out of Moscow. Even picking up a corpse is a treat.”

  “You understand that the Foreign Ministry will inform the KGB that they have issued a pass in your name.”

  “I think I understand that,” Hollis replied.

  “The Komitet does not like you any more than they like me. They may not be able to resist the temptation to get you to the Mozhaisk morgue on their terms.”

  “Let me worry about that.”

  “I’m not worried about you. You’re a pain in the ass. I’m worried about Lisa Rhodes.” Alevy added, “Keep in mind, I can’t cover you out in Mozhaisk.”

  “You can’t cover me fifty yards from the embassy. Two passes in my office before noon.”

  Alevy opened the door to leave, but Hollis closed it. Hollis asked, “Did you find out if a Major Jack Dodson is listed as an MIA in Vietnam?”
br />   “Checking on it.”

  “And how about our friend in seven forty-five? Schiller. Any such American in country?”

  “I’m checking on it, Sam. I’ll keep you fully informed.”

  “I know you will, Seth. It’s a joy working with the CIA.”

  Alevy patted Hollis’ shoulder. “Try not to get killed on the Minsk–Moscow highway.” Alevy left.

  Hollis looked at his watch: ten A.M. He’d been up all night with this thing. Brennan was in the infirmary, the Besniers were packing to leave Russia, Fisher was in the morgue, Charles Banks and the ambassador were burning the wire to Washington, and Alevy was having croissants in the snack bar. “I’ll try not to get killed on the Minsk–Moscow highway. I want to see how this thing ends.”

  8

  Sam Hollis pulled on his blue jeans, then his leather boots. He slipped his knife in the left boot and strapped an ankle holster above his right boot. Hollis checked his Soviet Tokarev 7.62mm automatic. It was basically a Colt-Browning design, slightly modified by a Russian armorer named Tokarev who put his name on it and probably forgot to pay Colt or Browning a licensing fee. The Tokarev’s advantages were that Hollis found it to be reliable, he was familiar with the American original, and lastly, if he had to shoot someone, it was better to leave a Soviet-made slug in the body.

  Hollis screwed a short silencer into the muzzle and stuck the automatic into his ankle holster, pulling the jeans down over it. He put on a black turtleneck sweater and over that his leather jacket, which held four extra magazines of eight rounds each.

  Sam Hollis left his apartment and walked across the wide quadrangle. The grass was soggy beneath his boots, but the sky was clearing, and a weak sun was visible between the rolling clouds.

  Three boys in their mid-teens were tossing around a football. Hollis recognized the passer as Larry Eschman, son of Commander Paul Eschman, the Naval attaché. Another boy, Tom Caruso, son of the consul general, was running short patterns. The third boy was named Kevin, son of Jane Lowry, a commercial officer. Kevin Lowry was defensive back. Saturday morning normality. Sort of. The Eschman boy called out, “Colonel Hollis! Ready?”