The Charm School (9 page)
“I hear it. What kind of car?”
“A Lada.”
“A fucking joke. About as much power as an electric shaver.”
“Nevertheless, he’s on our tail.”
“Not for long.”
The Ford shot forward, and Hollis watched as the Lada lost ground. The police car had no siren or revolving lights, and the horn grew more distant, though Hollis knew it was still sounding because the Lada’s headlights dimmed every time the driver hit the horn.
Brennan took the narrow bridge at eighty miles per hour, and Hollis saw a blur of pedestrians staring at them from the bridge walkway. The Ford sailed off the bridge, bounced hard, then tore across the embankment road, cutting diagonally past the Kremlin’s corner tower. As they barreled up the approach lane to the Rossiya, Brennan asked, “East side?”
“Yes. You keep going. Back to the embassy.”
Brennan pulled the Colt .45 from his shoulder holster. “You need this?”
“No. You keep it or ditch it. Your choice.”
Brennan swung around toward the east entrance of the hotel. “Ready?”
Hollis saw that the small parking area did not have a Trans Am in it, and he took this as a bad sign. “Ready. Nice job.”
Brennan slowed the car in front of the hotel. “Good luck.” He popped a big bubble.
“You too.” Hollis jumped out of the moving car and slammed the door as Brennan accelerated out the exit ramp.
Hollis pushed through the front doors of the Rossiya, and the doorman said,
“Propusk.”
“Propusk.”
“Komitet,”
Hollis replied as he brushed past him.
Hollis replied as he brushed past him.
The man literally jumped back and tried to open the second door, but Hollis was already through it. Hollis went directly to the elevator and hit the top floor button.
Komitet.
Committee. The Committee for State Security—the KGB. Magic words. Open sesame. The fact that he’d arrived in an American car, wearing American clothing, made no difference to the doorman. No one else would dare utter that word.
Komitet.
Committee. The Committee for State Security—the KGB. Magic words. Open sesame. The fact that he’d arrived in an American car, wearing American clothing, made no difference to the doorman. No one else would dare utter that word.
The elevator arrived. Hollis rode up to the tenth floor and began the long trek to the west-facing side.
The Rossiya, for the uninitiated, was a confusing amalgam of four separate wings containing over three thousand rooms, attached to form a square around a central court. The east wing was the Intourist hotel, the west wing was a hotel for Soviet and East Bloc citizens only, while the north and south wings were residences for favored communists. The wings were connected at a few floors though not at the ground floor. To pass from one wing to another, Hollis knew, you had to have a good reason. East was east, and west was west, and most Western tourists were not even aware of the presence of the others. Here on the top floor however, east and west nearly met in this Byzantine and schizoid building. Hollis approached the entrance to the restaurant and bar, where one of the ubiquitous angry ladies who seemed to guard every door in Moscow sat at a desk. She looked him over.
“Bar,” Hollis said.
She nodded curtly and pointed to the doors. Hollis went through into a large foyer. To the left was a black, closed door marked with the English word
BAR
. Straight ahead, two open doors revealed a huge restaurant filled to capacity. Hollis could tell by the din, the toasts, the laughter, and the attire that they were mostly Russians. He looked inside. A band played American jazz, and the dance floor was crowded with people who seemed to have trouble just standing. A wedding party occupied a large round table, and the bride, a pretty young girl in white, was the only person still sitting upright. Hollis had the fleeting impression she was having second thoughts. Hollis surveyed the room and satisfied himself that Fisher would not have gone in there. A man came toward him shaking his head. The man pointed over Hollis’ shoulder. “Bar.”
BAR
. Straight ahead, two open doors revealed a huge restaurant filled to capacity. Hollis could tell by the din, the toasts, the laughter, and the attire that they were mostly Russians. He looked inside. A band played American jazz, and the dance floor was crowded with people who seemed to have trouble just standing. A wedding party occupied a large round table, and the bride, a pretty young girl in white, was the only person still sitting upright. Hollis had the fleeting impression she was having second thoughts. Hollis surveyed the room and satisfied himself that Fisher would not have gone in there. A man came toward him shaking his head. The man pointed over Hollis’ shoulder. “Bar.”
“Spasibo.”
Hollis went through the black door and entered the bar, where, for Western hard currency, you could buy Western hard liquor and brand name mixers; a night spot of capitalist decadence, high above Red Square. Hollis scanned the dark lounge.
Hollis went through the black door and entered the bar, where, for Western hard currency, you could buy Western hard liquor and brand name mixers; a night spot of capitalist decadence, high above Red Square. Hollis scanned the dark lounge.
The bar was full, but in contrast to the Russian restaurant, the drunken chatter was more subdued and less lusty. The clientele, Hollis knew, were mostly Western Europeans, and nearly all were guests at the hotel. The Rossiya attracted few Americans, and he wondered how Fisher wound up here. Mixed with the Europeans were always a few Soviet high rollers with access to Westerners and their money. Every hard currency bar in Moscow also had a resident KGB snoop who could eavesdrop in ten languages.
Hollis walked around the lounge but didn’t see anyone who could be Gregory Fisher. This, he decided, was not good.
There was a service bar where patrons were obliged to get their own drinks. Hollis elbowed through the crowd and spoke to the bartender in fluent Russian. “I’m looking for my friend. An American. He is young and has on blue jeans and a short, black jacket.”
The bartender glanced at him quickly but continued to make drinks as he replied, “American, you say? No, I didn’t see anyone like that.”
Hollis left the bar and walked quickly to the east-wing elevators. He rode down to the seventh floor and got off. The
dezhurnaya
looked at him curiously.
“Gost?”
dezhurnaya
looked at him curiously.
“Gost?”
“No. Visitor.” He leaned over her desk, looked the blond woman directly in the eye, and said, “Fisher.”
She looked away.
“Gregory Fisher. American.”
She rolled a tube of lip gloss in her fingers, then shook her head.
Hollis looked at the keyboard behind her desk and saw that the key for 745 was missing. He walked past her and she called after him, “You may not go there.”
Hollis ignored her. He found room 745 and knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again, harder.
A voice from behind the door said, “Who is it?”
“I’m from the embassy.”
“Embassy?”
Hollis heard the lock turn, and the door opened. A paunchy, middle-aged man with sleep in his eyes, wearing a robe, peered out. “Is everything all right?”
Hollis looked at him, then past him into the room. “I’m looking for Mr. Fisher.”
The man seemed relieved. “Oh, I thought something happened at home. My wife. My name is Schiller. Everything’s all right, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Hollis stared at him.
Schiller said, “I heard ‘embassy,’ and you know—”
“Mr. Fisher just called me and said he was in seven forty-five.”
Schiller’s manner went from worried to slightly annoyed. “So? He’s not here, pal. I don’t know the guy. Try four fifty-seven. Anything’s possible in this fucked-up country.”
Which, Hollis thought, was not only true, but offered another possible explanation. “They may have assigned you a roommate. They do that sometimes.”
“Do they? Christ, what a place.”
“Could there be anyone’s luggage in your closet?”
“Hell, no. I paid extra for a fucking single, and there’s no one here. Hey, is he with that American Express group? Did you see that little Intourist guide they have? Christ, she looked edible. Maybe your friend is talking politics with her.” He laughed. “Well, see ya at the Bolshoi.” The man closed the door.
Hollis stood there a moment, then walked back to the elevators. The
dezhurnaya
was gone. Hollis went behind her desk and found the drawer full of
propusks.
He flipped through them but could not find one with 745 on it.
How did Schiller get the key to 745 without turning in his propusk
?
dezhurnaya
was gone. Hollis went behind her desk and found the drawer full of
propusks.
He flipped through them but could not find one with 745 on it.
How did Schiller get the key to 745 without turning in his propusk
?
Hollis took the elevator down to the lobby, which was deserted. He went to the front desk and rang the bell. The clerk appeared at the door behind the counter. Hollis said in Russian, “What room is Gregory Fisher in?”
The clerk shook her head. “Not here.”
“Who is in room seven forty-five?”
“I cannot tell you.”
“Is there an Intourist representative here?”
“No. Tomorrow morning at eight. Good evening.” She turned and disappeared into the inner office. He looked toward the foyer and saw there was a different doorman on duty. “People are disappearing left and right, before my very eyes. Amazing country.”
Hollis thought a moment. Several possibilities came to mind, including the possibility that this was all a KGB
provokatsiya,
a ruse to draw him into some sort of compromising situation. But if they wanted to entrap him, there were less elaborate schemes. If they wanted to kill him, they’d just pick a morning he was jogging along the Shevchenko Embankment and run him over.
provokatsiya,
a ruse to draw him into some sort of compromising situation. But if they wanted to entrap him, there were less elaborate schemes. If they wanted to kill him, they’d just pick a morning he was jogging along the Shevchenko Embankment and run him over.
Hollis thought about Fisher’s voice, the words, the very real fright in his tone. “Fisher is real.” But Hollis had to prove that Fisher had reached this hotel alive and had fallen into the hands of the KGB. For if he could prove that, then what Fisher had said about Major Jack Dodson was probably true.
Hollis reached over the clerk’s counter and took her telephone. He dialed 745 and let the phone ring a dozen times then hung up. “Not good.”
Hollis looked around. He realized he was alone and exposed. They could take him anytime they wanted now.
He walked quickly across the lobby, his footsteps echoing on the stone floor. He entered the dark passage that led to the Beriozka shop, drew his knife, and slid into the phone booth that Fisher must have used. Hollis thought that if the Rossiya was causing people to disappear, it might be a good idea if he proved that
he
had reached the Rossiya alive. He inserted a two-kopek piece and dialed the embassy. The Marine duty man answered, and Hollis asked to be put through to the duty office. Lisa Rhodes answered quickly.
he
had reached the Rossiya alive. He inserted a two-kopek piece and dialed the embassy. The Marine duty man answered, and Hollis asked to be put through to the duty office. Lisa Rhodes answered quickly.
Hollis asked, “Have you heard from our friend?”
“No. Isn’t he there?”
“Apparently not.”
There was a silence, then she said, “Are you returning here?”
“That is my plan.”
“Do you need assistance?”
Hollis did, but he did not want this thing to escalate. He, Seth Alevy, and the other men and women in their profession had been made to understand by the ambassador that their shenanigans were their own business and should never embarrass the diplomatic mission. Hollis continued in that cryptic and stilted way they all spoke over the telephone. “Have my car and driver returned yet?”
“No. Isn’t he with you?”
“No, I let him go on. I thought he should be back there by now.”
“I’m sure he’s not. Could he have had an accident or a breakdown?”
“He could very well have. You may be hearing from the authorities on that.”
“I see.” She drew a deep breath. “Can I send transportation for you?”
“No. I’ll find public transportation. Is your friend back from his party yet?”
“He should be here within minutes. Do you want him to join you?”
“No need for that,” Hollis replied.
“Can he call you there?”
“No. But I may call you again.”
“What shall we do here if I don’t hear from you?”
“Let him make that decision when he arrives.”
“All right.” She added, “I’ve replayed that tape we both like. It sounds realistic.”
“Yes. I’ve thought about that. I’ll do what I can to find the original.”
“Good luck.”
Hollis hung up and went back down the dark corridor, knife in hand. He reached the lobby and slipped the knife under his jacket. “Well, if I don’t make it back, the ambassador can raise a little stink about it.” His estranged wife, Katherine, would get his pension and life insurance. He kept meaning to write to his lawyer in Washington to change his will. The complications inherent in international matrimonial problems were endless. “Endless.” There were times when he wished he were in his old F-4 Phantom with nothing more to worry about than MiGs and missiles converging on his radar screen.
Hollis considered the evidence. Fisher’s phone call to the embassy had tipped the KGB, but they would have needed time to react. “Therefore Fisher made it to the lounge.”
Hollis took the elevator back up to the top floor and went to the lounge. He ordered a Dewar’s and soda at the service bar and said to the bartender in Russian, “Have you seen my friend yet?”
“No. I’m sorry. Three dollars.”
Hollis paid him.
A well-dressed man next to Hollis thrust his glass toward the bartender and said with a British accent, “Gin and tonic—Gordon’s and Schwepps. Slice of lemon this time,
spasibo.
”
spasibo.
”
Hollis said to the man, “They’ve been out of lemons since the Revolution.”
The Englishman laughed. “What a place this is, eh, Yank?”
“Different.”
“Bloody right. Here on holiday, then?”
“Business.”
“Me too.” The man’s drink came without the lemon, and the bartender asked for three pounds. Hollis moved away from the service bar, and the Englishman followed. The man said, “They haven’t had cocktail waitresses since the Revolution either. You fetch your own drinks here, and they make their own exchange rates as they go along. Three dollars, three pounds, all the same to them. But I think my gin cost me more than your whiskey.”
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