“Shove them? Where?”
Hollis had the distinct impression that Burov knew the idiom well enough to know exactly where.
Burov shrugged and continued, “All Intourist vouchers will be redeemed and a Western bank draft sent to the embassy for forwarding to Mr. Fisher's next of kin. I have six hundred and eighty dollars in American Express traveler's checks, seventy-two dollars in American currency, and small assorted sums of European currency, which I will give you now. There were also thirty-two rubles and seventy-eight kopeks, which I can also give you.”
Hollis thought of Fisher's words on the tape. I gave him maps and money. And the French woman's statement that Fisher had borrowed two kopeks from her. Hollis concluded that Burov had thrown the Russian money in the kitty so as not to raise any questions. Hollis said, “I don't see any maps listed on this inventory.”
Burov did not reply.
“Fisher surely had maps.” Hollis studied Burov's face. “Perhaps someone took them.”
Burov waved his hand. “They would be of small monetary value.”
“Nevertheless, I'll bet you'd like to know where those maps are now, Colonel Burov.”
Burov stared at Hollis.
Hollis was fairly convinced now that Dodson was not in KGB hands, dead or alive. Hollis pressed on. “If the maps should somehow turn up at the American embassy, I'll let you know so you don't worry yourself about them.”
Burov pursed his lips thoughtfully as if he was considering that possibility and finding it somewhat distressing. He said, “I'll bet you we find those maps before you do.”
“I'll take that bet. What are the stakes?”
“Very high, Colonel Hollis.”
Hollis nodded. If Dodson made it to the embassy or to a Western reporter in Moscow, his story would effectively end Soviet-American relations for about a decade.
Burov seemed to understand what Hollis was thinking and said bluntly and not too cryptically, “The stakes are peace.”
“Indeed they are.”
Burov went back to the business at hand. “We are holding the exposed film we found. We will have the film developed and will send the prints to your embassy. You understand that the KGB could not possibly let exposed film pass through its hands without a peek.”
Hollis looked up and saw that Burov was grinning at his own bad joke. Hollis replied, “I don't see anything amusing about this. A young man is dead.”
Burov continued to grin, and Hollis had the impulse to smash his fist into those ripe cherry lips. Lisa began to say something, but Hollis laid a hand on her arm and said to Burov, “And of course you returned the key or propusk to the Rossiya.”
“There was no key or propusk, Colonel Hollis. Gregory Fisher never got to Moscow.”
“You know he did. We know he did.”
The paperwork and unpleasantness continued for another half hour. Finally Burov leaned back and abruptly observed, “You have been walking in the woods.”
Hollis looked up from a document and replied, “Picking mushrooms.”
“Really? You are real Russians now. Can you tell which are the poisonous gribi?”
“I guess so. I'm still alive.”
Burov laughed with real mirth, then leaned forward across the desk and still smiling asked, “May I see the mushrooms? I'm a fancier of them myself.”
“I'm afraid we weren't very lucky.”
“I should think not in a pine forest.”
Hollis assumed that Burov had noticed a few pine needles or smelled the scent that clung to them, or perhaps he had more solid information. It was difficult, Hollis had learned, to know what these people knew for sure and what they were guessing at. They knew too much about each person in the embassy right down to the staffers in the USIS such as Lisa. On the other hand, Hollis knew very little about the Soviets with whom he came into contact, and he knew nothing about Colonel Burov, which was a distinct disadvantage. Hollis stood. “Will you find us a truck and driver now? We'd like to set out for the airport.”
Burov remained seated. “That's not possible at this hour. You'll have to spend the night.”
“Do you mean to tell me,” Hollis asked with a touch of sarcasm, “that a colonel of the KGB can't round up a truck and driver because it's after six o'clock?”
“I mean to tell you, Colonel Hollis, that unescorted night driving in the countryside is not permitted for foreigners. Diplomats included.”
“Then get us an escort.”
“Secondly,” Burov continued, “when your car arrived, I noticed that neither your taillights nor your brake lights were working. You must see to that in the morning. Unfortunately there is no service station in Mozhaisk, nor a hotel. However, there is a sovkhoz—a state farm—two kilometers from here. They will find you rooms in the commune building. There is also a mechanic there. I will write you a note, and they will be pleased to give you accommodations.”
Hollis glanced at Lisa, then said to Burov, “I don't see that we have any choice. But I require a truck and driver here at eight in the morning.”
Burov laughed. “This is not America, and I am not an American boss, only a colonel in State Security. Expect the driver between nine and ten.” He gathered the paperwork into his attache case, then made a notation on their travel passes. “This is valid now until noon tomorrow and also will give you entry to the state farm. See that you're within the Moscow city limits by noon.” Burov indicated the way out.
Hollis said, “I want to call my embassy.”
“I don't think there's a phone here. Follow me, please.”
Burov snapped off the light in the cubicle and led them through the dark morgue.
They stood outside on the front steps of the morgue, and Burov gave them directions to the farm. Burov added, “There will be a large wooden sign over the entrance to the farm road that will read 'Forty Years of October; Grain and Livestock Enterprise.' You read Russian of course.”
Hollis supposed the name had something to do with the Great October Revolution, but there were only so many constructions you could make out of the words Red, October, Revolution, and Great before you had to start stretching it a bit. Hollis said, The Red Livestock . . . what?
Lisa suppressed a laugh.
Burov said curtly, “The October—no, the Forty Years of October—”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“How do I know?” snapped Burov. “The farm was probably founded on the fortieth anniversary of the October Revolution.” He glared at Hollis. “You damned people are so superior, aren't you? So smug and so glib. Well, one day we'll see who…” Burov seemed to realize he had let himself be baited and recovered his composure. “Well, I'm sure you won't have trouble finding it. An old couple sleeps in the administration building. Knock loudly.”
Lisa said, “Where can we find a telephone?”
“On the state farm. And showers, so you can get that resin off you.” Burov touched his finger to a sticky smudge on her hand.
Lisa jerked her hand away.
Burov walked to the Zhiguli and looked at the license plate. “A rental car?”
“There were no embassy cars available.”
“Even so, Colonel Hollis, it is not legal for you to drive this car.”
“Don't sweat the small stuff, Colonel. Do you know what that means?”
Burov walked around the car. “This car has been driven roughly… mud, pine twigs…” He pulled a cluster of pine needles from the chrome and twirled it in his fingers. “And the doors and fenders are newly dented. They will charge you for that. Where did you rent this?”
“My staff rented it for me.”
“May I see the rental papers?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.” Hollis opened the driver's-side door. “Good evening, Colonel Burov.”
Lisa opened her door and got in the car, but Burov put his hand on the door so she couldn't close it. He said, “There are three main sights around Mozhaisk—Sain
t Nicholas' Cathedral, Luzhetsky monastery ruins, and Borodino. You may have time to drive by all three, if you are early risers. Borodino is especially interesting to Westerners because of War and Peace.”
Hollis replied, “I have no interest in battlefields.”
“No? It's a passion with us, I'm afraid. Too much war in this land. We keep having to teach people lessons.”
Hollis observed undiplomatically, “I don't think either side learned anything at Borodino.”
Burov looked at him quizzically. “You must reread your history. It was a great Russian victory.”
Hollis studied the man across the roof of the car. Hollis believed that the one fatal flaw in the Soviet system was not economic, political, or military, but informational. Soviet facts had replaced truth and reality. Hollis said to Burov, “If you have nothing further, please close Ms. Rhodes' door.”
Burov moved away from the car without closing the door, and Lisa pulled it shut, locking it.
Burov stood on the sidewalk and called out to Hollis, “Don't get lost. And be careful on the highway. We don't have room for two more bodies in the freezer.”
Hollis said, “Go fuck yourself, Colonel.”
“And yourself as well, Colonel.”
Then, as they both understood the rules of the game, they saluted simultaneously and bade each other good-evening.
* * *
11
As Hollis drove away from the morgue, he saw a black Chaika in his rearview mirror. He drove slowly through the dark, quiet streets of Mozhaisk, and the Chaika stayed with him. Lisa said, “Colonel Burov was a nasty son of a bitch.”
“He must have had a fight with his wife this morning.”
“Did he know about our side trip to Borodino or not?” “He made the correct deduction. Soon, however, when they find the two Border Guards, he will have no doubt.”
“Will he try to kill us for that?”
Hollis considered a moment before replying, “No, not for that. Burov understands that.”
“But for what we saw.”
“Perhaps,” Hollis replied. “Anyway, I told you in Moscow, these people are unpredictable. Our best defense is to be as unpredictable.”
“Meaning we shouldn't go to the state farm.”
“Precisely.”
“Can we get back to Moscow?”
“Not a chance.” Hollis glanced in his rearview mirror again. “We have company, as we say.”
Lisa nodded. “Then let's go someplace where we can be alone.”
Hollis smiled. He entered the center of town, a collection of two-story wood and stucco buildings around a traffic circle. There was streetlighting but not much other evidence that the town was inhabited. The main street of Mozhaisk was the old Minsk—Moscow road, and Hollis headed west on it toward the state farm. The Chaika followed. Hollis wondered if it was Boris and Igor in the car.
The road curved away from the Moskva River, and soon they found themselves traveling a very dark stretch of bad pavement, utterly alone on the vast Russian plain. Hollis could not see a single light from a dwelling, only the headlights of the Chaika in his mirror.
“What's faster,” Lisa asked, “a Chaika or a Zhiguli?”
“Don't ask.”
“You don't have any more guns on you, do you?”
“No.”
“They could kill us pretty easily out here.” “Not that easily.”
“Maybe they just want to see that we get to the state farm.”
“Probably.” Hollis, in fact, couldn't determine what they were up to. He was sorry he'd thrown away the pistol, but in the Soviet Union he was a criminal, and criminals ditched the evidence. And in truth, if the people in the Chaika pulled him over and found the Tokarev pistol, the least they would do is charge him with murder, diplomatic immunity notwithstanding. More likely they'd kill him. On the other hand, if he had the Tokarev, he could eliminate the men in the Chaika.
Lisa looked through the envelope stuffed with papers and traveler's checks that Burov had given them. “Even if they did murder that boy, they are very correct when it comes to legalities.”
“When it suits them. Did you get the impression Colonel Burov was worried about Major Jack Dodson?”
“Oh, yes. Major Dodson is still out there somewhere with Gregory Fisher's rubles and maps.”
“That's right. And if Dodson makes it to the embassy, which is where I suppose he's heading,” Hollis added, “then tons of shit will hit the fan and splatter everything from here to Washington. We'll all be home in a week, leaving the night porter as charge d'affaires.”
Lisa didn't respond.
Three kilometers out of town, Hollis and Lisa spotted the huge wooden sign set on two poles over the entrance road to the sovkhoz—the state farm. Beneath the name of the sovkboz was the inspirational message: We will strive to meet the quotas of the Central Committee.
Lisa said, “Well, pardner, welcome to the Lazy Red Revolution October Ranch.”
Hollis managed a smile and turned into the gravel road, then proceeded toward the state farm. They could make out a large group of stark wooden farm buildings, corrugated metal sheds, and a three-story concrete building that Hollis took to be the commune, which housed the salaried workers of the state farms and their families, the single and transient workers, and the technicians, all under one roof. There were individual sitting rooms and bedrooms in the apartments, but the kitchens, dining rooms, and bathrooms were communal. It seemed to Hollis that there was something of Brave New World in those prefab apartment blocks rising out of the farmland, something unnatural about people who worked the soil having no yard and garden of their own, climbing stairs to their apartment.
Lisa looked back and announced, “I see the Chaika's headlights turning onto this road… he just killed his lights.”
Hollis drove on past the commune and spotted the small brick structure that Burov told them was the administration building. There was a single light in one window. Hollis shut off his headlights, drove past the building, and continued on.
Lisa said, “You think it's a setup?”
“Quite possibly.”
“What are we going to do now?”
Hollis replied, “Our little Zhiguli didn't have much chance on the main road, but back here on the farm lanes we can give the Chaika a run.”
“Is this another itinerary violation?”
“Quite possibly.” There was not much available light, but Hollis could pick out the dirt and gravel road from the surrounding fields of the famous Russian black earth. Hollis sped up, hitting the brake whenever he saw an intersecting lane and turning onto it. Without brake lights or headlights the Zhiguli was virtually invisible, and after fifteen minutes of random turnings Hollis announced, “We've lost the Chaika. Unfortunately we're lost.”
“No kidding?”
“Did you notice any Holiday Inns back there?”
“Way back. Like two years and ten thousand miles back. Say, Sam, you really know how to show a girl a good time. Let me buy lunch next time. Okay?”
“I'm glad you've maintained your sense of humor, Miss Rhodes, as vapid as it may be. Well, better lost than dead, I say. I think we'll pull into a tractor shed and wait until dawn.”
Lisa shut off the car heater and rolled down her window. “It's nearly freezing, and it's only nine o'clock.”
“It is a bit nippy. Do you have long Johns?”
“We have to find shelter, Sam.” She thought a moment, then said, “I think we're off that state farm by now. If we can find a kolboz—a collective farm village—we can get a peasant to take us in for a few rubles, no questions asked.”
“No questions asked? In Russia?”
“A collective is different from a state farm. In a collective village you'll see Russian peasant hospitality. I'd trust them to keep quiet.”
“You've never even been in the countryside. How do you know the peasants are friendly?”
“Instinct.”
“Too many n
ineteenth-century Russian novels, I think.” He shrugged. “All right. I'll trust you on this.” He added, “You get your wish to see a village sooner than we thought.”
The road had gone from gravel to dirt and was deeply rutted by farm vehicles. They drove on in a westward direction and within fifteen minutes saw the silhouettes of utility poles against the horizon. They followed the poles and came to the first izba of a small hamlet. Hollis slowed the car on the dirt track that ran between two rows of log cabins. He said, “I don't see any lights.”
Lisa replied, “It's past nine, Sam. They're in bed. They're peasants. This is not Moscow.”
“True. In Moscow they turn in at ten.” Hollis stopped the car and looked out the window. “I think we turned left into the last century.” He shut off the engine, and they listened to the dead silence. Hollis got out of the car and scanned the narrow lane. Like most of rural Russia, this village boasted electricity, but Hollis saw no sign of telephone lines nor was there a vehicle in sight or a structure large enough to hold one. There was no evidence that the village even possessed a single horse. It was nicely isolated. Lisa came up beside him, and Hollis said, “They don't show this place to the foreign dignitaries.”
A light went on in the front window of an izba, then a few more lights came on. The door of a cabin opened, and a man stepped out onto a dirt path. Hollis said to Lisa, “You talk.”
The man approached, and Hollis could see he was somewhere between forty and sixty, wore felt boot-liners, and had probably dressed hastily.
Lisa said in Russian, “Greetings. We are American tourists.”
The man didn't reply. A few other doors opened, and more people came out into the dirt lane.
Hollis looked around. There were about ten izbas on each side of the road, and behind them Hollis could see pigpens and chicken coops. Each kitchen garden was fenced in, and in the corner of each was an outhouse. Ten meters down the lane was a single well and next to it a hand pump. The whole place had a look of extreme neglect about it and made the villages outside of Moscow look prosperous by comparison.
A crowd of about fifty people—men, women, and children—were standing around Hollis, Lisa, and the Zhiguli now. Hollis said to Lisa in English, “Tell them we come from Earth with a message of peace and to take us to their vozhd.”