The Charm School (16 page)

“Sure will.”

He asked, “And your parents?”

“They both still live in that house in Sea Cliff. My father is a banker; my mother, a teacher. They can see the harbor from their porch, and in the summer they sit out there and watch the boats. It’s very lovely, and they’re very happy together. Maybe someday you can stop by.”

Hollis didn’t know what to say to that, so he asked, “Brothers or sisters?”

“An older sister, divorced and living back home. I have a niece and nephew. My parents seem happy for the company. They want me to marry and move close by. They’re proud of my career in the diplomatic corps but aren’t too keen on my present assignment. Especially my mother. She has a phobia about Russia.”

“You look like you can take care of yourself. You know, my father was stationed on Long Island in the mid-fifties. Mitchel Air Force Base. I vaguely remember it.”

“Yes. It’s closed now.”

“I know,” Hollis replied. “What’s become of the place?”

“It’s been parceled out to Hofstra University and a community college. Part of the land was used to build the coliseum where the Islanders play. Do you follow hockey?”

“No. Like my parents, I’m not much of an American. It’s ironic, considering I’ve devoted my life to the service of my country. I’m a patriot, but I’m not plugged into the pop culture. For years I thought Yogi Bear and Yogi Berra were the same person.”

Lisa smiled. “So you wouldn’t pass the friend-or-foe test if someone asked you who plays center field for the Mets? You couldn’t pass for the American that you are.”

“No, I’m afraid I’d be shot on the spot.”

Lisa poured the last of the wine into their glasses. She looked at Hollis. “Well, now we know something about each other.”

“Yes. I’m glad we had a chance to talk.”

The food arrived, and Hollis inquired, “What the hell is this?”

“That’s
dovta,
a soup made of sour milk and rice. This cuisine is similar to Turkish. It’s somewhat complex, with more depth than Slavic cuisine. And the shit on the chipped blue plate is called
gulubtsy.
” She laughed.

Hollis smiled and helped himself. They ate in silence. More plates of spiced food arrived. They washed the meal down with weak Moscow beer. Hollis glanced at his watch.

She noticed and asked, “Do you have time to see the Train of Mourning?”

“The what?”

“The actual engine and coach that brought Lenin’s body back to Moscow. It’s on display at Paveletsky Station.”

“Oh,
that
train. I’ll pass.”

“Just kidding anyway. I don’t really go to places like the Marx-Engels museum either,” Lisa said. “I think it’s a joke how they try to create a secular religion in place of the one they destroyed. But if you
are
free this afternoon, perhaps we can do something.”

“Sure. How would you like to take a ride in the country?”

“Don’t joke.”

“No joke,” Hollis replied.

“Where? How?”

“I have to go to Mozhaisk on official business. I have a pass with your name on it.”

“Do you? I’d love to go. What sort of business?”

“Bad business, Lisa. Gregory Fisher is in the Mozhaisk morgue.”

Lisa stopped eating and stared down at the table for some time. She cleared her throat and said, “Oh, God, Sam. That poor boy. . . .”

“Do you still want to go?”

She nodded.

The proprietress brought strong Turkish coffee and honey balls. Hollis had the coffee. Lisa sat silently. She lit a cigarette and said to Hollis, “Was he . . . trying to escape or what . . . ?”

“No. They say he was heading
toward
Moscow. They say he had a car accident before the Borodino turnoff. They say he never got to the Rossiya.”

“They’re lying.”

“Be that as it may, it’s their country. I’ll brief you in the car. But I want you to understand now that if you come with me, I can’t guarantee your safety.”

“Safety?”

“I
think
the KGB is satisfied that they’ve contained the problem. They probably don’t think they have to engineer another accident. On the other hand, they’re not logical in the way we understand logic, therefore they’re not predictable.”

She nodded.

Hollis added, “They know you took Fisher’s call, and they know your name is on the pass. That shouldn’t make you a target, but you never know what they’ve talked themselves into. Still want to go?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Why are
you
going, Sam? Anybody from the consular section could go.”

“I’m going to snoop around. You know that.”

“And that’s why I’m wearing dark, casual clothes and why you have a gun in an ankle holster.”

“That’s right.”

“Well . . . I’ll help you snoop. I enjoy your company.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Also, I guess I feel I was in at the beginning of this . . . you know?”

“Yes.” He stood and put six rubles on the table. “Well, the food wasn’t so bad. The place has ambience and no electronic plumbing like at the Prague or the other top twenty. Two and a half stars. Send a letter to Michelin.”

She stood. “Thanks for being such a good sport. My treat next time.”

“Next time I pick.”

“Can you top this for ambience?”

“You bet,” Hollis said. “I know a KGB hangout.”

“Are you kidding?”

“No.”

“Neat. Take me.”

They left the restaurant, and Hollis found himself in an agreeable frame of mind for the first time in a long while.

9

Sam Hollis and Lisa Rhodes came out of Arbat Street into the square of the same name. They walked past the statue of Gogol toward the star-shaped pavilion of the Arbatskaya metro station on the far side of the square. The Prague Restaurant was to their left, where a long line of people still waited for their lunch. On the north side of the square was Dom Svyazi, a glass and concrete post office and telephone exchange. Lisa said, “That’s where the church of Saint Brois used to stand, and over there was the seventeenth-century church of Saint Tikhon. The communists demolished both of them. I have old pictures though.”

“Are you trying to publish a book or draw up an indictment?”

“Both.”

They entered the metro pavilion and jostled their way through the crowd toward the escalators. At the last moment Hollis took Lisa’s arm and led her toward the opposite doors of the pavilion. They came back out onto the square behind a fountain. She said, “What are you doing?”

“We’re not taking the metro to the embassy.”

“Oh . . . don’t we have to pick up a car?”

“Follow me. Walk quickly.”

Hollis moved rapidly toward the east side of the square. Lisa followed. They passed a number of kiosks and cleaved through lines of people queued up for
kvass,
soft drinks, and ice cream. Lisa said, “Where are we going?”

He took her wrist and pulled her up to a black Zhiguli parked with its engine running at the curb in front of the Khudozhestvennyi Art Cinema. “Get in.”

Hollis went to the driver’s side, and a man whom Lisa recognized from the embassy got out immediately. Hollis slid behind the wheel, and the man closed the door. The man said, “Full tank, linkage is a bit sticky, your briefcase is in the backseat. Luck.”

“Thanks.” Hollis threw the Zhiguli into gear and pulled out into Kalinin Prospect, then made a sudden U-turn and headed west. He looked in his rearview mirror.

Lisa said nothing.

Hollis accelerated up the broad avenue and within two minutes crossed Tchaikovsky Street, then crossed the Moskva River over the Kalinin Bridge and passed the Ukraina Hotel, continuing west on Kutuzov Prospect. A few minutes later they drove by the Borodino Panorama and left the inner city at the Triumphal Arch. Hollis accelerated to fifty kilometers per hour. He commented, “How many cities of eight million people can you get clear of in ten minutes? Moscow is a driver’s paradise.”

Lisa didn’t respond.

Hollis reached under his seat and pulled out a black wool cap and a dark blue scarf. He put the cap on and handed Lisa the scarf. “A babushka for madam. Please try it on.”

She shrugged and draped the scarf over her head, tying it at her throat. She finally said, “I saw this in a movie once.”

“A musical comedy?”

“Yes.”

Some minutes later they passed scattered highrise projects, looking like grey concrete ships adrift in a sea of undulating grassland. Lisa said, “It’s against the law for us to drive cars without diplomatic plates.”

“Is it?”

“Where is this car from?”

“The Intourist Hotel. Rented and paid for with an American Express card.”

She said in a sarcastic tone, “Then you’ve provided them with hard currency to use against us in Washington. Some spy.”

“It was only forty dollars. A K-man could barely buy a defense worker lunch.”

Again she shrugged.

Hollis observed, “Moscow is getting too big for the KGB. Too much Western influence. Rental cars, AMEX, a couple of Western banks. It’s easier for us to operate now.”

“You sound like him.”

“Who?”

“Seth. Very narrow perspective.”

“I know.” Hollis could sense that her good mood had become subdued. Probably, he thought, she was nervous as well as upset over Fisher’s death.

Hollis thought too that bringing an amateur along, an innocent, might not be the brightest thing he’d done all week. But in some vague way he felt it would be good for her. Alevy had understood that. And from the standpoint of pure tradecraft, a woman who had no known intelligence connections was good cover. If Alevy and Hollis had applied for the passes together, the KGB would have called for an armored division to follow them.

Hollis realized that he
was
thinking like Alevy. How else could he explain the logic of asking Lisa Rhodes to take a drive with him from which she might not return alive? He said aloud, “Sorry.”

“For what?”

“For sounding like Seth.”

She smiled. “Boy, that’s a loaded one.”

He didn’t respond.

Lisa looked out the window and said thoughtfully, “If Greg Fisher came in from Smolensk and Borodino, this is the road he took.”

“Yes, it was.”

“He drove right by the embassy.”

“I know.”

They crossed the Outer Ring highway, and Lisa informed him, “There used to be signs on this road reading ‘Forward to Communism.’ But I suppose the authorities realized the unfortunate imagery of that slogan on a road that goes in circles.”

Hollis smiled. “You’re a good guide. I’ll speak to Intourist about a weekend job for you.” Hollis pulled a piece of flimsy greyish paper from his pocket and handed it to her. “Your pass.”

She glanced at the red Cyrillic letters and the Foreign Ministry stamp, then stuffed it in her bag. “It’s only good until midnight.”

“We’ll be there and back before then.”

“I thought we could stay in the country overnight.”

Hollis did not reply immediately, then said, “I don’t have a toothbrush.”

Lisa smiled at him, then turned her attention to the countryside. A small village of about two dozen houses sat starkly in an open field. Rough fences sectioned off garden plots from poultry and swine, and mud paths connected dilapidated dwellings to outhouses. The cottages were roofed with corrugated sheet metal, and she imagined that a hard rain must drive the inhabitants crazy. She wondered, too, how they kept the heat in when the windchill factor got to fifty or sixty below. “Unbelievable.”

He followed her gaze. “Yes. It’s striking, isn’t it? And fifteen kilometers back is the capital of a mighty nuclear power.”

“This is my first trip into the country.”

“I’ve been around a bit, and it gets worse when you head east toward the Urals or north toward Leningrad. Over half the rural population is ill-housed, ill-clothed, and ill-fed, though
they
grow the food.”