The Charm School (13 page)

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?”

“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?”

“Sure.” Hollis ran toward the opposite sideline until Caruso and Lowry moved into defensive positions, then Hollis cut down-field in a deep fly pattern. The two boys were close, and Hollis could hear their cleats slapping on the sodden turf. Without a prearranged play Hollis thought he should hold the same pattern for Eschman. He held out his arms, glanced back over his right shoulder, and saw the ball as a brown blur hanging in the air, wide and long. He put on a burst of speed and felt the ball hit his fingertips, then got control of it and pulled it to his chest. His boots lost traction, and he shoulder-rolled forward, the ball tucked securely between his right hand and the crook of his elbow. He heard Eschman holler, “Complete! Way to go, Colonel!”

Hollis sat up as Caruso extended his hand toward him. “Nice going, Colonel.” Hollis pulled himself up by Caruso’s hand.

Lowry walked over and also put out his hand. As Hollis reached toward Lowry, he saw that Lowry was holding an automatic pistol. Hollis took the gun and slipped it back into his ankle holster, pressing hard on the Velcro strap.

Lowry said, “You move pretty fast, Colonel. Even with an iron ankle weight.”

Caruso stifled a grin.

Hollis said, “When I played end at the Academy, I shot three defensive backs.”

Both boys laughed.

Hollis looked at the boys. It must be lonely for them, he thought. No high school dances, no Saturday nights, no beaches, skiing, friends, girls. No America. He said, “Get something out of this tour of duty, guys. Get out into Moscow and meet the Russians.”

They nodded.

“Don’t let Vanya see you with those cleats,” Hollis warned, referring to the Russian groundkeeper who was obsessed with the lawn and actually called Scotts in Columbus, Ohio, for advice.

Hollis continued his walk across the quad. He approached the housing units, found Lisa Rhodes’ door, and pressed her buzzer. The brick row houses for singles were narrow, but they were three stories high. The first floor, that in the States might have a garage, was a laundry and storage room. A foyer with a staircase led up to the living room, dining area, and kitchen. The third floor held one or two bedrooms, sometimes a study or home office, depending on the rank of the officer. Lisa was in a one-bedroom unit along the east wall. Hollis heard her footsteps on the stairs, then the door opened. She smiled. “Hello. I thought you were running to me, then I saw the football.”

“Were you looking for me?”

“Just checking the weather. What did you drop?”

“My wallet.”

“Oh.” She stepped outside and did a complete turn. “Is this casual enough?”

Hollis glanced her over. She was wearing ankle-high boots, black corduroy slacks, and a dark blue quilt jacket that the Russians called a
vatnik.
From the collar of the jacket rose a black turtleneck like his own. He said, “Very nice.”

“Are you going to tell me why you requested I dress in casual clothes of dark colors?”

“I have a fetish. Let’s go.”

They walked on the path that ran parallel to the residences toward the pedestrian gate in the rear of the compound. She said, “Seriously, Sam . . . can I call you Sam?”

“Of course.”

“Why
dark
?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

They passed through the rear gate where the Marine barracks were located, and the single Marine watchstander saluted. Hollis walked up to the Soviet militia booth on the sidewalk and greeted the two young men in Russian. They returned the greeting stiffly. Hollis said, “When you get back to your barracks, you tell the two men who were at the main gate last night that Colonel Hollis apologizes for not acting correctly.”

Neither man spoke, then one of them said, “We will be sure to tell them, Colonel.”

“Good day.”

Hollis and Lisa walked up Devatinski Street. Lisa asked, “What was that about?”

Hollis replied, “I got a little nasty when they asked me for my passport. I guess I was on edge after the Rossiya.”

She said, “That was good of you to apologize.”

“It was militarily correct.” He added, “Also I don’t want the bastards to think they can get to me.”

They came into Tchaikovsky Street where the old embassy stood. Lisa said, “Where are we going for lunch?”

“The Prague.”

“Then we can walk up Arbat Street. I have to make a stop.”

They turned right and walked along the wide boulevard. Lisa said, “The sun is shining, for a change.”

“I see.”

“Do you go to the Prague often?”

“No.”

“Read any good books lately?”

“Can’t think of any.”

“Someone told me you were shot down over North Vietnam.”

“That’s right.”

“But you weren’t a POW.”

“No, I was rescued at sea.”

“This Major Dodson business has special meaning for you.”

“Perhaps.”

“You’re not into complex sentence structures, are you?”

“Depends on the subject.”

“Sorry.”

They walked in silence awhile, then crossed Tchaikovsky Street and turned up Arbat Street where it began at the massive Foreign Ministry building, another Stalinist skyscraper of pinnacles and spires. Lisa asked, “Have you ever been in there?”

“A few times.”

“What’s it like?”

“Have you ever been to the State Department building?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s what the Soviet Foreign Ministry is like, except the twaddle and bunkum is in Russian.”

They walked up Arbat, an old Moscow street that had recently been made into the Soviet Union’s first and only pedestrian shopping street. There were hundreds of people out on this promising Saturday, every one of them carrying a big bag. The street had been repaved with brick, and young trees struggled to take hold in concrete planters. There were benches, decorative streetlamps, and flower boxes running the length of the kilometer-long street that wound through the old Arbat district.