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Authors: NELSON DEMILLE

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Hollis said, “Sounds like bullshit to me.” Hollis added, “What was Dodson doing in the pine forest at night when Gregory Fisher came upon him? Picking mushrooms?”
“And,” Lisa added, “why did Gregory Fisher leave the Rossiya, after Colonel Hollis told him to stay there, and go back to Borodino, where he got himself killed in an auto accident? Come now, Colonel Burov.”
Burov helped himself to some wine. He said, “Mr. Fisher’s accident is not relevant to the subject of Major Dodson. However, as I did have the opportunity to listen to the tape of Mr. Fisher’s conversation with you and Miss Rhodes, I think we can all agree that he sounded agitated. The militia report says that he was also drunk. My theory is he panicked and got back in his car with the idea of . . . well, who knows what a drunk man thinks? As for Major Dodson, he was hiking, as was his custom. He met Mr. Fisher, quite by chance, and out of nostalgia perhaps, told him something about himself. But he did
not
tell Mr. Fisher he was a prisoner, because he is not.”
Burov took a sheet of folded paper from his pocket and handed it to Hollis. “This is a letter in Major Dodson’s hand, dated January of 1973, requesting asylum in the Soviet Union. Your government has now been made aware of this, and what both governments are trying to do is to avoid any embarrassment that Major Dodson’s defection would cause. It was a silent defection, and that is the way we all want it to remain.”
Hollis pushed the letter back without looking at it. Hollis said, “I want to speak to Major Dodson and hear all this from him.”
Burov nodded. “Yes, all right. If he’s agreeable.”
“I don’t care if he’s agreeable or not. You will make him speak to me. Tomorrow. Here in Moscow. I suggest the International Trade Center hotel as a somewhat neutral site.”
Burov lit a cigarette and exhaled. “Well, I’ll take it up with the proper authorities.”
“Lacking a prompt decision, which is not unusual here, I want to see a photo of Major Dodson holding tomorrow’s
Pravda
.”
“That’s very clever.”
Hollis leaned toward Burov. “If you can’t produce the man or a picture of him, I’ll conclude that you’ve killed him or that he is not under your control. In fact, I believe he is on the run from you and may surface soon in his own way.”
Burov looked at Lisa, then at Hollis. “Westerners who come to the Soviet Union are often paranoid, filled with the drivel they read about us. They observe things through yellow eyes and misinterpret what they see. However, I expected more sophisticated judgment from people such as yourselves.”
“You’re blowing smoke,” Hollis said. “Call me at my office tomorrow regarding Major Dodson.”
“I’ll try. But tomorrow I’ve got other things on my agenda, as you Americans say. Specifically, I’m involved with the investigation of a murder of two guards in that restricted area I told you about. Two young men, shot in the chest, left to die in agony. Who would do such a thing?” He stared at Hollis, then Lisa.
Hollis poked Burov in the chest and said through clenched teeth, “Two young men”—he poked Burov again—“left to die in agony? You bastard. You and your thugs have murdered a million young men, women, children—”
Lisa held his arm. “Sam. It’s all right. Easy.”
Every head in the restaurant was turned toward them, and Burov’s face seemed frozen. No one spoke or moved for a full minute, then Burov said softly, “What a fool you are. To come here like this . . . accuse me of murder—”
Hollis interrupted, “By the way, who was the man who answered the door of Mr. Fisher’s room at the Rossiya?”
“How do I know?”
“That man,” Hollis said, “looked and talked like an American. He was, in fact, a Russian, a KGB man working in the First Chief Directorate, probably the Service A section. He was a graduate of the Institute of Canadian and American Studies in Moscow, among other schools.”
Burov stared at Hollis.
Hollis continued, “The guy was perfect, Burov, so don’t fire him. But he was too perfect. Better than your schools usually put out. I knew he didn’t belong in that room, so I concluded he was one of yours. But at first I figured he was a real American working for you. Then I got to thinking about Mrs. Ivanova’s Charm School and Major Jack Dodson and such. And I started coming to some mind-blowing conclusions.” Hollis poured wine in Burov’s glass. “You look like you need a drink, Colonel.”
Burov cleared his throat and said stiffly, “I would like you both to accompany me so we can continue this talk in private.”
Hollis said, “I think we’ll finish our dinner. Good evening.”
“Come. A short walk to my office.”
“Go to hell.”
Burov said tauntingly, “Are you frightened? There are two ways to go to Lefortovo. One is voluntary.”
Hollis glanced around the dining room and saw several men rise. Some of the seated men were smiling.
Lisa said, “Our embassy knows where we are tonight.”
“No, Miss Rhodes. They knew where you were headed. Do they know if you arrived?” Burov stood. “Come with me. Stand.”
Hollis put his napkin on the table, stood, and took Lisa’s arm. They followed Burov to the door. Three KGB men fell in behind them. They retrieved their coats in the foyer and stepped out into the cold. Burov said, “To the left.”
Hollis replied, “I think we’ll say good-bye here.” He took Lisa by the arm and turned away.
Burov motioned to the three men, one of whom was Viktor. Viktor shoved Hollis, sending him slamming into a parked car.
Lisa shouted, “You bastard!” She kicked Viktor in the groin.
One of the other KGB men slapped Lisa across the face and pulled her to the ground by her hair.
Hollis spun around and caught Burov’s jaw with his fist, then went for the man who still had Lisa by the hair. The man drew a pistol and barked, “
Stoi!
”
Hollis stopped.
Burov got to his feet, and Viktor, somewhat recovered from the kick to the groin, drew his pistol. Burov dabbed at his bleeding jaw with a handkerchief and said calmly, “You are both under arrest.”
Hollis helped Lisa to her feet. “Are you all right?”
“Yes . . .”
Burov snapped, “Start walking. You know where you’re going.”
Lisa and Hollis walked down the dark, quiet street toward Lefortovo prison, Burov and the three KGB men behind them. Burov said to the men in Russian, “Viktor got kicked in the balls, so he gets to search her.”
They all laughed.
About a hundred meters from the prison a car turned into the street and put on its bright lights. Another car came from the opposite direction. Hollis identified the cars as medium-sized Volgas. They drew close and stopped. The doors opened, and four men in black ski jackets and ski masks got out.
Seth Alevy, not wearing a ski mask, stepped onto the sidewalk, passed by Hollis and Lisa, and went directly to Burov. “Good evening. Colonel Burov, I presume.”
Burov looked at the black-clad men who had deployed around him.
Alevy said, “They’re all carrying silenced automatics. I wanted you to know that.”
Burov’s eyes came to rest on Alevy. “You’re under arrest.”
Alevy added, “I’d like to kill your three friends and kidnap you right here, in front of Lefortovo. However, if you want to be reasonable, we’ll call this one a draw and part company until we meet again. Don’t dawdle. Yes or no?”
Burov nodded.
“Tell them to put their guns away. Now.”
Burov told them.
Alevy stared at Burov’s face as though committing each feature to memory. Alevy said, “Do you know who I am?”
“Oh, yes. You’re the dirty little Jew who is the CIA station chief here.”
“Well, we won’t quibble about definitions. I just want you to know that you’re having a serious career crisis. You understand the idiom?”
“Fuck you.”
Hollis joined Alevy and said to Burov, “I still expect a call from you tomorrow regarding Dodson.” Hollis and Alevy ushered Lisa into the backseat of one of the Volgas. The other security men piled into the cars, and they all headed back toward the center of the city.
Lisa said, “I
need
a cigarette.”
“Crack the window,” Alevy said.
Lisa lit the cigarette with a shaky hand. “Jesus. . . .”
“You okay?” Hollis asked.
“Yeah. Want a cigarette?”
“Not right now.”
Alevy said to Hollis, “I don’t think punching a KGB colonel in the face was a good idea.”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
The two security men in the front laughed. The driver said, “That was for Brennan, right, Colonel?”
“Half for Brennan, half for me.”
Alevy said curtly, “It’s best to avoid physical violence. This is not personal.”
Hollis thought it was and knew that Alevy was sure it was.
Alevy added, “That’s how these things start. Now he’s going to break your jaw next chance he gets.”
“If he gets a chance, I deserve to have my jaw broken.”
Lisa interjected, “They were manhandling us, Seth. We had a right to defend ourselves.”
Alevy snapped, “Not here you don’t.
You
are on their list too. I couldn’t see exactly what you did—”
“I kicked fat Viktor in the balls.”
Again the two men up front laughed. The man in the passenger’s seat said, “Way to go, Miss Rhodes.”
Alevy shrugged. He said to Hollis, “I’ll bet you thought for a moment there I was going to let them take you inside.”
“I think your timing was a bit slow,” Hollis replied. “I expected you sooner.”
Lisa said, “This was all planned?”
No one answered.
“You two are crazy. Now I really feel used. I’m not bait.”
Again no one responded.
Lisa sat back and drew on her cigarette. She said, “Look, I’ll help. But in the future I want to be kept informed or it’s no deal. Agreed?”
Alevy and Hollis both agreed. Hollis said, “I’m convinced now that Burov is a main player.”
Alevy nodded. “I didn’t recognize him, but I’ll go through our mug shots. Did you learn anything else?”
“I learned that when you say Mrs. Ivanova’s Charm School, you go to jail.”
“Interesting.”
“These are desperate men, Seth. I’ve never seen them get so agitated and take so many risks, like trying to kidnap Americans with diplomatic immunity, not to mention murder.”
Alevy nodded again. “Very desperate men.” He added, “They’re breaking the rules, so we can do the same. Things are going to get hot in old Moscow. Unfortunately we can’t match their resources. We have to resolve this soon, before we wind up expelled or dead.”
Hollis replied, “If we go public, that will buy us a little protection.”
“Yes, but the word from Washington is for the diplomats to work it out quietly.”
“Work
what
out?” Lisa asked.
Alevy answered, “The repatriation of Major Jack Dodson.”
“What if he doesn’t want to be repatriated? Burov said he was a defector.”
Hollis replied, “We’ll want to speak to him about that.”
The car approached the embassy gates, and Hollis saw there were three Fords parked on the street near the Chaikas. He said, “We’re on full alert.”
“Oh, yes,” Alevy answered.
Lisa said, “There’s more to this, isn’t there? It’s not just Dodson. What is the Charm School? A place where they brainwash people? Does Burov really have Dodson, or is Dodson on the run? Is anyone going to answer me?”
No one was.
Lisa announced, “I have ways of making men talk.”
18
Hollis, Alevy, and Lisa stood in the lobby of the chancery.
“Come in for a drink,” Lisa offered. “I need one.”
Alevy replied, “I have to do some night sending before five, D.C. time. See you tomorrow.” He turned and headed for the elevator.
Lisa said to Hollis, “How about you? Night sending?”
“No. I’ll have a quick one.”
“Quick drink?” She smiled.
“Whatever.”
They walked out onto the rear terrace, then along the path to the housing units. She opened her door and put their coats in the hall closet, then showed him upstairs to the living room. “What can I get you?”
“Scotch, neat.”
Lisa made the drinks.
Hollis looked around. The apartment was modern, a living room-dining room combination, and a galley kitchen. Upstairs would be the bedroom. The furniture, like most of the odds and ends, was from Finland, the closest and easiest Western country from which to import quality consumer goods. It was the apartment of a mid-level American government employee, but it would be the envy of any senior Soviet bureaucrat.
Lisa gave him his drink, and she toasted, “Another good date.”
She put Rachmaninoff on the tape deck and they talked. Hollis examined an icon on the wall. “Is that real?”
“Yes. My grandmother’s. I’m going to have a tough time trying to get it back out of the country.”
“I’ll put it in the diplomatic bag.”
“Would you? Thanks, Sam.”
“You planning on leaving?” he asked.
“No . . . but somehow I have the feeling my days here are near an end.”
Hollis nodded.
Lisa sat on the couch, and Hollis sat at the far end. She said, “It’s not just Dodson. There are hundreds of them, aren’t there? That’s what you were saying . . . when we . . . in Pavel’s bedroom.”
Hollis glanced at her. He finally replied, “I might have said too much.”
“I don’t repeat what you tell me.” She asked, “Don’t you and Seth compare notes?”
“We
trade
notes. You don’t get nothin’ for nothin’ in this business. My outfit, Defense Intelligence, is sort of junior to the CIA. So I have to protect my turf. All very petty. But competition is very American.”
“But you do get along. Personally.”
“Yes. He’s my friend too.”
She nodded.
“Can we change the subject?”
She stood and went to the window that looked north over the brick wall. A huge banner had just been strung between two buildings across the street in anticipation of the celebration of the Great October Revolution, whose anniversary was actually November 7 by the Gregorian calendar. She said, “Look at that. ‘Peace-loving Soviet peoples demand an end to American aggression.’ Do I have to look at that?”
“Call the zoning commission.”
She grumbled, “They’re getting all worked up for their big day—those bloody red banners all over the damned place, exhorting, cajoling, boasting—like state-subsidized graffiti, for God’s sake. And you know, Sam, when I first got here, the hammers and sickles all over the place were jarring, almost scary, because we’re so conditioned, like with swastikas, to react to certain symbols. A Party official once told me that the crosses on the Kremlin give him the creeps, and the Great Seal on our embassy wall makes him see red.” She laughed without humor and added, “I wish we could stop pumping adrenaline when we see red stars or Stars of David or whatever. But we’re like Comrade Pavlov’s mutts, Sam. They’ve got us drooling.”
“Who are
they
?”
“They are what we will be twenty years from now. We are in training to be them.”
“You may have something there.”
“Another?”
“Sure. Less glass this time.”
She poured him a triple scotch, then sat close to him. “Can I tell you something? I was damned frightened at Lefortovo. That’s twice you’ve done that to me.”
“Tomorrow night we’ll see the movie. They’re showing
Rambo—Part Eight
.”
She laughed. “Hey, remember when that Russian kid scaled the wall, got into the theater, and watched a whole feature before anyone knew he was there?”
“I remember. The ambassador chopped some heads at Security.”
“The kid wanted to see that movie. What was it?”
“
Rocky Nine.
”
“When are these people going to break loose, Sam? I mean, they need two hundred million of those kids. When’s that going to happen?”
“Probably never, Lisa.”
“Don’t say that. The human spirit—”
“Lighter topic, please. Did you enjoy dinner?”
“We never got dinner.” She jumped up. “I’m starved. I made
rasolnik
the other night. I have some left.”
“What’s that?”
“Pickled vegetable soup.”
“I’ll stick with the scotch.”
“I’m trying to learn traditional Russian cooking.”
“Let me know how you make out.”
She went to the refrigerator and took out a section of cold kolbassa and began eating it. “Do you like garlic? This is loaded with it.”
Hollis stood. “You sleep with your clothes on, and you eat garlic before bed. I think I’ll go home now.”
“No. Stay. Talk to me. I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
“You’re perfectly safe in the compound.”
“I know that.” She chewed thoughtfully on the sausage, then added, “I’ve smiled at you a dozen times in the damned lobby, in the elevators—”
“Was that you? Was that a smile?”
“You don’t remember, Sam, but I was at that little bon voyage they gave for Katherine. Did you know then that she wasn’t coming back?”
“I suspected when I saw her packing everything she owned.”
“Ah, good intelligence work. Are you divorcing her?”
“I’m trying to figure out who has jurisdiction. I may fly to the States and file or something. But I can’t figure out what state I live in. Probably Siberia, if I don’t watch my step.”
“So you’re in the process of divorce.”
“Yes. But what married couple isn’t?”
“Do you want to know about Seth?”
“Not while you’re gnawing on eight inches of sausage.”
She put the sausage on the breakfast bar. “Do you want to see my photographs?”
“Sure.”
Lisa went to the cabinet beneath the bookshelves and retrieved two albums. She put one on the coffee table, sat beside Hollis, and opened the one in her lap. “This is the first picture I took the day I got to Moscow. Those are the last of the wooden houses that used to line the road to Sheremetyevo Airport. They’re gone now.” She flipped through the pages, and Hollis saw that all the photos had typed captions below them. Most of the pictures were black and white, but there were some color shots taken in the spring and summer. Hollis looked at churches and cathedrals with their dates of destruction noted, and in some cases, pictures of the actual wrecking crew followed by a photograph of the new building on the site. Hollis was no architectural romantic, but the photography made the point jarringly well.
In nearly all the photos of old wooden homes, there were people about, leaning out windows, hanging laundry in the yards, or talking over picket fences. The people seemed weathered like the unpainted wood, and like their homes they seemed to fit in well, to belong to the narrow streets, the tangle of Russian olive trees, and the giant sunflowers hugging the fences. There were dogs and cats in the pictures, though Hollis couldn’t recall ever seeing a dog or cat in his two years in Moscow. Surprisingly, he didn’t recognize any of the locales, and if he hadn’t known it was Moscow, he would have guessed it was some small provincial town out on the steppe. It was as if there were another city lurking among the concrete behemoths that Moscow had become. “This is very good, Lisa. Incredible shots.”
“Thank you.”
“Where are these places?”
“They’re all within the Outer Ring Road, since I can’t get out of the city. Some of these places were villages that are now within the city. Some are old districts in the central city that haven’t been torn down yet, hidden between apartment projects.”
Hollis observed, “Many American cities are undergoing the same sort of ugly growth.”
“Yes,” she replied, “but that’s a debate between aesthetics and profit. Here the goal is to get everyone into apartment blocks where they can be
watched
. And it’s not just the cities; the countryside will one day look like that
sovkhoz
we saw.”
Hollis replied, “It’s not our problem.”
“You probably think I’m obsessed, and maybe I am. But I don’t see what right these bureaucrats have to destroy other people’s homes or cultural and religious monuments that in some ways belong to the world. Look at these shots. The Maly Theater next to the Bolshoi, Stanislavsky’s Moscow Art Theater, St. Nicholas’ Cathedral. They were all slated for destruction, but some Moscow artists and writers got wind of it and actually made a protest. Same with the Arbat district. The wrecking crews are on hold, but no one is really able to stop this onslaught on the past. They’d rip down the Kremlin if they thought they could get away with it.”
“Maybe they could sell it to an American businessman who would make a theme park out of it.” Hollis turned a page of the album and saw a picture of Lisa standing on the veranda of what could have been her own Victorian house in Sea Cliff, except that there was a very Russian-looking family standing around, and the adults were drinking Moskovaya beer from bottles. Also in the picture, his hand for some reason on Lisa’s head, was Seth Alevy, wearing a rare smile. The typed caption read:
Seth and I, house hunting with real estate brokers in Tatarovo.
She said, “Silly,” and flipped the page. She went through the remaining photographs, but Hollis was no longer paying attention. She seemed to sense this and put the book on the coffee table. After a minute or so of silence, she said, “That was a Jewish family. Dissidents.”
Hollis got up and made himself another drink.
Lisa said, “So, do you think a New York publisher would be interested in the theme?”
“Maybe. The pictures are very good. You have a good eye.”
“Thanks. Can I take a picture of you for my book?”
“No.”
“Are you sulking?”
“Quite possibly.”
“Well . . . I’m sorry . . . I shouldn’t even tell you this, but he was very interested in my work, in the project. He said he had contacts in a few publishing houses . . . so we went picture taking once in a while.”
“Good.” Hollis could well believe that Alevy had publishing contacts. In fact, the CIA had many such contacts, the purpose of which was to get anti-Soviet books published with mainstream publishers. Hollis didn’t know what kind of incentives the CIA offered or if the publisher actually knew with whom they were dealing, but he’d heard it was a successful program. Lisa, he suspected, had no idea she was the subject of another one of Alevy’s little side schemes. Whether or not the book had merit, Hollis knew that someday he’d see it in a bookstore, courtesy of Seth Alevy and company. The man certainly knew how to mix business with pleasure.
Lisa broke into his uncharitable thoughts. “You
did
say it would be dangerous.”
Hollis looked at her. “What?”
“Whatever is going on. Dangerous.”
“Yes. Dangerous.”
“Can you give me any more facts?”
Hollis had a further uncharitable thought: that Lisa was reporting to Seth Alevy. But if that were true, then everything he thought he knew about people was wrong. He said, “You have the outlines. I’ll brief you on a need-to-know basis.”
She smiled. “I’ll play the game, Sam, but I won’t talk the talk. Talk English.”
He smiled in return, then said, “Whenever you want to quit, just say ‘I quit.’ Nothing further is required.”
“Do you really need me?”
“We’re short on red-blooded Americans here. I know this violates the USIS rules, not to mention Pentagon rules. But yes, I need you.”
She nodded. “Okay. You got me.” She smiled suggestively. “What can I do for you now?”
Hollis ignored the suggestion and said, “I’ll bet
you
know where Gogol’s grave is.”
“Sure.” She laughed. “Doesn’t everyone?”
“Not the cultural illiterates I work with, myself included. Where is it?”
“Why do you want to know? Is there a party there?”
“Oh, you’ve been asked that already?”
“Sure have.”
“Well?”
She hooked her finger under his belt. “First things first. I’d feel awful if I thought I was a one-night stand.”

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