The Charm School (8 page)
“What was?”
“The car. A Trans Am sticks out—”
“Yes. All right, tell me briefly why you need help and why you would like to speak to a defense attaché.”
She heard what sounded like a sigh, then he said softly, “In case you can’t get here in time . . . I’m going to tell you all I can . . . before they get me.”
Lisa Rhodes thought that Gregory Fisher had a good grasp of the situation. She said, “Then you’d better speak quickly.”
“Okay. I was in Borodino, about five
P
.
M
. tonight—visiting the battlefield. I got lost in the woods—”
P
.
M
. tonight—visiting the battlefield. I got lost in the woods—”
“Were you stopped by the police?”
“No. Yes, but in Moscow.”
“Why?”
“For driving in the country at night.”
She thought that this wasn’t computing. A travel itinerary violation was one thing. Asking to speak to a defense attaché—a person who was more or less an intelligence officer, a spy—was quite another. “Go on, Mr. Fisher.”
“On the road, north of Borodino, I think, I met a man, an American—”
“An American?”
“Yes. He said he was an American Air Force pilot—”
“And he was on the road, north of Borodino, at night? Alone? In a car?”
“Alone. On foot. He was hurt. Listen, I don’t know how much time I have—”
“Go on.”
“His name was Major Jack Dodson.”
“Dodson.” Lisa had thought that it might have been a defense attaché at the embassy, but the name was unfamiliar.
“Dodson said he was an MIA—a POW—shot down in Vietnam—”
“What?” She sat up in her chair. “He told you that?”
“Yes. And he said he had been a prisoner here in Russia for almost twenty years. A place he called Mrs. Ivanova’s Charm School. Near Borodino. He escaped. I gave him maps and money. He didn’t want us to travel together in my car. He’s heading cross-country to Moscow. To the embassy. There are other Americans held prisoner who—”
“Stop. Hold the line.” She hit the hold button. In the duty book she quickly found the apartment number of the air attaché, Colonel Sam Hollis, whom she knew casually. She rang him, but there was no answer. “Damn it, and Seth is at his damned Sukkot party. . . .” She considered putting out an all-points page for Hollis but instead tried Hollis’ office two floors above. The phone was picked up on the first ring, and a voice answered, “Hollis.”
She said in a controlled voice, “Colonel Hollis, this is Lisa Rhodes on the duty desk.”
“Yes?”
“I have a U.S. national on the line, calling from the Rossiya. He sounds very distraught. He also says he wants to speak to a defense attaché, preferably an Air Force attaché.”
“Why?”
“I’ll play the tape for you.”
“Go ahead.”
Lisa Rhodes transferred the playback to Hollis’ line. When it was finished, Hollis said, “Put him through.”
She put the phone on conference call and released the hold button. “Mr. Fisher? Are you there?”
There was no answer.
“Mr. Fisher?”
“Yes. . . . There’s someone standing—”
“Here is the gentleman with whom you asked to speak.”
Hollis’ voice came on the line. “Mr. Fisher, you say you are calling from the lobby of the Rossiya?”
“Yes. I’m—”
“Is the lobby crowded?”
“No. Why?”
“Who is standing by the phone booth?”
“A man. Listen, should I try to get to the embassy—”
“No, sir. You stay there. Do not leave that hotel. Do not go back to your room. There is a restaurant on the top floor. Go to the lounge there and introduce yourself to some Westerners—English-speaking, if possible—and stay with them until I arrive. Is that clear?”
“Yes . . . yes.”
“What are you wearing?”
“Blue jeans . . . black windbreaker—”
“Okay, son. Get to the lounge quickly. If anyone tries to stop you, kick, scream, yell, and fight. Understand?”
“Yes . . . yes, I . . .” Fisher’s voice sounded strained. “Oh . . . God . . . hurry.”
Hollis’ tone was soothing. “Ten minutes, Greg. Get to the lounge.”
Lisa heard the phone click as Fisher hung up. Hollis’ voice came on. “Ms. Rhodes, I need a car—”
“I’ve already called for one, Colonel. With driver.”
“I’ll be bringing Mr. Fisher here. Have a visitor’s room ready in the residency and alert the appropriate security people.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Stay in the duty office.”
“Of course.”
There was a silence, then Hollis said, “Nicely handled, Ms. Rhodes.”
She heard him hang up before she could respond. Lisa Rhodes put the phone back in the cradle. “You, too, Colonel Hollis.”
Colonel Sam Hollis, American air attaché to the Soviet Union, left his office and took the elevator to the ground floor of the chancery building. He went directly to the duty office adjacent the empty lobby and opened the door.
Lisa Rhodes turned toward him. “Yes?”
“Hollis.”
“Oh. . . .” She stood. “I didn’t recognize you in civvies.”
“Have we met?”
“A few times.” She regarded him a moment. He was wearing a leather bomber jacket, jeans, and leather boots. He was in his late forties, tall, and lanky. She thought he was rather good-looking in a tough sort of way. She remembered his pale blue eyes and unmilitary-length sandy hair. She also remembered that he and Seth had business dealings.
Hollis said, “I don’t want you to breathe a word of this to anyone.”
“I know that.”
“Good. There is someone however . . . do you know Seth Alevy? Political affairs officer.”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Alevy is attending a party in town—”
“I know that.”
“How do you know that?”
“He invited me.”
“I see. So you know how to reach him?”
“Yes, through his people here.”
“That’s right. Please do that.”
She hesitated, then said, “I’ve already asked his people to get him here.”
Hollis gave her a close look.
She returned his stare. “I guess I know he’s involved with things like this.”
Hollis went to the door, then turned back to her. “Are
you
involved with things like this?”
you
involved with things like this?”
“Oh, no. I’m just a PIO. Seth and I are social friends.”
They looked at each other a moment. Hollis guessed she was in her late twenties. She was lightly freckled, with reddish auburn hair. She was not the type of woman you forgot meeting, and in fact, he had not forgotten the times they’d met in the embassy. He also knew that she and Alevy had been recent lovers. But by instinct and training he never offered information, only solicited it. “Hold the fort. See you later.” He left.
Lisa moved to the door and watched him walk quickly through the lobby to the front doors. “Strong, silent type. Silent Sam.”
Sam Hollis pushed through the glass doors into the damp, misty night. He zipped his leather jacket and headed toward a blue Ford Fairlane that sat in the forecourt with its engine running. Hollis jumped in the passenger side. “Hello, Bill.”
The driver, a security staff man named Bill Brennan, drove quickly through the court, around the traffic circle that held the illuminated flagpole, and moved toward the gates. “Where we going, Colonel?”
“Rossiya.” Hollis looked at Brennan. He was a man in his mid-fifties, heavyset and balding, and his nose had once been broken. Hollis always had the impression that Brennan wanted to break someone else’s nose. Hollis said, “You carrying?”
“Yup. You?”
“No. Didn’t have time to get it.”
“Loan you mine if you promise to kill a commie.”
“That’s all right.”
The gates swung open, and the car moved past the Marine guard post, then past the Soviet militia booth on the sidewalk. Brennan kept the speed down so as not to attract the attention of the KGB embassy watchers in the surrounding buildings, but Hollis said, “Step on it. They know where I’m going.”
“Okay.” Brennan accelerated up the dark, quiet side street and cut right onto the wide, well-lit Tchaikovsky Street. Traffic was sparse and Brennan made good time. He asked, “Do I stop for police?”
“No, you run them.” Hollis added, “Don’t take the direct route up Kalinin.”
“Gotcha.” The Ford picked up speed in the outside lane, passing buses and trams, and sailed past the Kalinin Prospect intersection. Brennan stuffed his mouth with bubble gum, chewed, and blew bubbles until they popped. “Want some?”
“No, thanks. Do you know the Rossiya?”
“Know the traffic patterns, parking, and all. Not the inside.”
“Fine.” Brennan knew the streets of Moscow better than a Moscow cabbie, but Hollis thought that Brennan cared not a whit about Moscow. He was into streets, and he claimed he’d never seen Red Square, because he couldn’t drive through it.
Brennan asked between chews, “Is this going to be messy?”
“Maybe. American national up the creek at the Rossiya.”
“How’d the
Komitet
know you were going there?”
Komitet
know you were going there?”
“Well, the kid—the U.S. national—called the embassy and said he was in trouble.”
“Oh.”
Hollis thought about Fisher’s call. He assumed the traffic police had indeed stopped Fisher for nothing more than an itinerary violation. But Fisher had gotten paranoid because of the Borodino thing. If he’d kept his cool, he would have been able to come to the embassy and tell his story. Instead, Gregory Fisher’s two-kopek phone call might have already cost him his freedom—or his life.
Yet, Hollis thought, it was a brave thing to do. Stupid, but brave. Hollis would tell him that without making him feel bad. How to get Fisher out of the country was tomorrow’s problem.
Brennan asked, “What kind of trouble is he in?”
“Itinerary violation.”
“Am I asking too many questions?”
“Not yet.”
“Okay, why am I tear-assing across Moscow with a military attaché in my car to rescue a kid who went to the fucking zoo instead of the fucking park or whatever?”
“You’re asking too many questions.”
“Right.”
Neither man spoke for a while. The popping gum was getting on Hollis’ nerves. Hollis thought about the phone call. Who was Major Jack Dodson? What, in the name of God, was a POW doing in the woods at Borodino? Only Gregory Fisher could answer that.
Brennan said, “I just passed a parked cop car.”
Hollis glared back. “He’s on a break.”
“Right.”
Hollis looked at the speedometer and saw they were doing seventy miles per hour. Tchaikovsky Street changed names several times as it curved south and east in what was generally known as the Second Ring Road. They crossed the Moskva at the Crimea Bridge, skirted Gorky Park to the right, and continued east up the wide, six-lane road. Hollis glanced at his watch. It had been twelve minutes since they’d left the embassy.
“Do you see him?” Brennan asked.
Hollis looked out the rear window. “Not yet.”
“Good.” Brennan suddenly cut hard left with squealing tires through Dobrynin Square and headed up Ordynka Street, straight north on a run that would take them to the center of Moscow and the Rossiya Hotel. Hollis knew that Brennan’s route may have taken them a few extra minutes, but it had avoided any KGB who were out to intercept them and avoided the militia posts around the Kremlin.
Brennan said, “If I get nabbed speeding, they kick me out of the country.”
“That bother you?”
“No . . . but I have the Colt .45. That can get sticky. My diplomatic immunity status is a little shaky.”
“I’ll take the gun and the rap if they nail us.”
“Nah . . . that’s okay. I’m tired of this fucking country anyway.”
“Drive on.”
Brennan accelerated up Ordynka Street. He added more bubble gum to the already large mass, and the bubbles got bigger.
Hollis hiked up the left leg of his blue jeans, reached into his boot, and pulled out a grey Air Force survival knife. He slipped the knife under his jacket and into his belt. Brennan watched him out of the corner of his eye but said nothing.
Hollis could see the Moskvoretsky Bridge about a half kilometer ahead, and beyond the bridge he saw the Rossiya getting bigger with every second. The few cars on the road seemed to be standing still. Hollis heard a continuously honking horn behind them. He looked out the rear window. “The fuzz.”
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