The Charm School

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.”

Lisa nodded. “You hear and read about this, but you have to see it to believe it.”

Hollis pointed. “Do you see that rise over there? Beyond that is a pine forest in which is hidden a very sophisticated phased-array radar site that is the command center for all the Soviet antiballistic missile silos around Moscow. For the price of that installation, half the peasants in this region could be put in decent farmhouses with indoor plumbing and central heat. Guns or butter. Some societies can’t afford both.”

She nodded. “Half our national budget and sixty percent of theirs… incredible wealth sunk into missile silos.”

“The current optimistic theory in Washington is that we’re spending them to death.” He added, “Forget what I said about the location of that ABM site.”

She nodded distractedly.

They drove on in silence for some time before she spoke again. “In my work I meet Russians who understand the contradictions in their system. They like us, and they would like to build grain silos instead of missile silos. But the government has made them believe the missiles are necessary because we want to conquer them.”

“Well, they’re right. You make a distinction between the people and the government here. But I think people get the kind of government they deserve. In this case, probably better.”

“That’s not true, Sam. The Russians may not understand democracy, but in some curious way they are passionately devoted to svoboda—freedom.”

Hollis shrugged.

“I always thought that communism is an historical fluke here. It won’t make it to its hundredth birthday.”

Hollis replied dryly, “I’d hate to think what these people will come up with next.”

“Are you really so hard-line, or are you just giving me a hard time?”

“Neither. I’m just processing information. That’s what I was told to do here.”

“Sometimes I think I’m the only person in the embassy who is trying to find some good here, some hope. It’s so damned depressing being around cynics, hawks, oily diplomats, and paranoics.”

“Oh, I know. Look, if we’re going to be friends, let’s cool the politics.”

“Okay.”

Again they lapsed into silence. The sky had become gloomy again, and drops of rain streaked across the windshield. There was a sense of quiet oppressiveness in the air, a greyness that entered through the eyes and burrowed its way into the brain, heart, and soul. Lisa said, “Out here, on the plains, I think I understand that legendary Slavic melancholy.”

“Yes, but you ought to see the endless fields of giant sunflowers in the summer. They take your breath away.”

She looked at him. “Do they?” Lisa thought that statement told her more about Sam Hollis than Hollis had intended. “You’ll have to show me in the summer.”

“Okay.”

“I wish I had a camera.”

“I’ll stop at the next camera store.”

“Okay.” She looked at her watch. “Are we going to get to the morgue on time?”

“If it’s closed, someone will open it.” Hollis suddenly cut the wheel, and the Zhiguli angled off onto a dirt track, fishtailing and throwing up a cloud of dust.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” Hollis took the car around the far side of a kochka, one of the small knobby knolls that added small terrain relief to the plains that swept west from Moscow. He brought the Zhiguli to a halt out of sight of the road. Hollis reached back, opened the briefcase on the rear seat, and took out a pair of binoculars, then got out of the car. Lisa followed, and they climbed the grassy knoll to the top. Hollis knelt and pulled Lisa down beside him. He focused the binoculars down the long straight road and said, “I think we’re alone.”

Lisa replied, “In the States men say, ‘Do you want to go someplace where we can be alone?’ Here they say, ‘I think we’re alone’ or ‘I think we have company.’”

Hollis scanned the skies, then the surrounding fields. He stood and Lisa stood also. Hollis handed her the binoculars. “Take a look over there.”

She focused on the eastern horizon. “Moscow… I can see the spires of the Kremlin.”

Hollis stared out over the harvested farmland. “It was just about here.”

“What was?”

“This is about how far the German army got. It was this time of year. The German recon patrols reported what you just said. They could see the spires of the Kremlin through their field glasses.”

Lisa looked at him curiously.

Hollis seemed lost in thought for a time, then continued, “The Germans figured the war was over. They were this close. Then God, who probably didn’t care much for either army, tipped the scales toward the Reds. It snowed early, and it snowed heavy. The Germans were freezing, the panzers got stuck. The Red army got a breather, then attacked in the snow. Three and a half years later the Russians were in Berlin, and the world has not been the same since.”

Hollis turned and watched the sun sinking in the western sky. His back to Lisa, he said as if to himself, “Sometimes I try to understand this place and these people. Sometimes I admire what they’ve done, sometimes I’m contemptuous of what they can’t do. I think, though, that they’re more like us than we care to admit. The Russians think big, like we do, they have a frontier spirit, and they take pride in their accomplishments. They have a directness and openness of character unlike anything I’ve encountered in Europe or Asia, but much like I remember in America. They want to be first in everything, they want to be number one. However, there can only be one number one, and the next number is two.”

Hollis walked down the knoll and got into the car. Lisa followed and slid in beside him. Hollis pulled back onto the road and continued along the Minsk — Moscow highway. An occasional produce truck passed, going in the opposite direction toward Moscow. Hollis noted idly that the potatoes looked small and the cabbages were black. He saw no other vegetables, no poultry, livestock, or dairy products. He supposed that was worth a short report, though his discovery was already common knowledge to the housewives of Moscow.

Lisa glanced at Hollis from time to time. She would have liked to draw him out on what he’d said on the knoll, but she knew better. A man such as Hollis, she understood, was capable of occasional bursts of speech from the heart but did not want it to become dialogue. Instead she rolled down the window. “Smell that.”

“What?”

“The earth. You don’t smell that in Moscow.”

“No,” he replied, “you don’t.”

She looked out the window at the Russian countryside, listened to the stillness of the late autumn, smelled the dank, rich earth. “This is it, Sam. Russia. Not Moscow or Leningrad. Russia. Look at those white birches there. See the small leaves, all red, yellow, and gold. Watch what happens when a breeze comes along. See that? What could be more Russian than that — tiny colored birch leaves blowing across a grey sky, across a lonely landscape? It’s so desolate, it’s beautiful, Sam. The Kremlin can’t change this. It’s immutable, timeless. My God, this is it. This is Russia!”

Hollis glanced at her as she turned to him, and their eyes met. He looked back out the windshield and for the first time felt the presence of the land.

She said with growing excitement, “Look at the smoke curling out the chimneys in that village. The clouds are gathering in the late afternoon. The fires are lit against the dampness. Tea is brewing, potatoes and cabbage are boiling. Father is mending a fence or a plow in the drizzle. The black mud clings to his felt boots. He wants his tea and the warmth of his cabin. I can see horsemen, I can hear balalaikas, I see lonely birch log churches against the purple horizon…. I can hear their clear bells pealing over the quiet plains….” She turned to him. “Sam, can’t we stop in a village?”

He replied softly, “I think you might be disappointed.”

“Please. We won’t have this opportunity again.”

“Maybe later… if there’s time. I promise.”

She smiled at him. “We’ll find time.”

They continued on in companionable silence, two people in a car, traveling west into the setting sun, cut off from the embassy, the city, the world, alone.

Hollis glanced at her from time to time, and they exchanged smiles. He decided he liked her because she knew what she liked. At length he said, “I give that kid credit. I hope he had the thrill of a lifetime.”

“What do you know about him? His family, home, how he died.”

Hollis told her what little he knew.

She said simply, “They murdered him.”

They drove past small villages, collective farms, and state farms. About halfway to Mozhaisk she asked, “Is this going to be dangerous?”

“Very.”

“Why me?”

“I had the impression you think this stinks. I thought you might want to follow through on your convictions.”

“I’m… not trained.”

“But you’re a spy groupie.” He smiled. “You thought East Berlin was exciting. This is a chance to mix it up a bit.”

“You’re baiting me, Colonel.” She poked him in the side good-naturedly. “You didn’t even know I was a spy groupie before you decided to ask me.”

“Good point. You see, you’re thinking like an intelligence officer already.” Hollis checked his watch, the odometer, and his rearview mirror.

She asked, “Hollis, are you one of those men who bait liberated women? I’m not one of those women who think that women can do everything a man can do.”

“This is neither a sociological experiment nor a personal matter, Ms. Rhodes. I think you can be helpful and you are good cover.”

“Okay.”

Hollis added, “And good company.”

“Thank you.”

The small Zhiguli was one of the few private cars on the highway, but Hollis knew it would attract far less attention than an American Ford with diplomatic plates. He knew too that he and Lisa could pass for Ivan and Irina out for a weekend drive. The embassy watchers, Boris, Igor, and company, sitting in their cars outside the embassy gates, had by now realized that Hollis had given them the slip again. They were probably very upset with him, and their bosses were very upset with them. Everyone was upset. Except Fisher. Fisher was dead.

She said, “I guess you can tell I’m not as sprightly and scintillating as I was at lunch.”

“Well, hearing of a death, even of someone you didn’t know, is upsetting.”

“Yes, that, and—”

“You’re a bit nervous.”

“That too—”

“And you’ve discovered I’m not as interesting as you first thought.”

“On the contrary. May I speak? I was going to say that I’m worried about this whole mess. I mean, I was sitting in my office last night, before Greg Fisher’s call, thinking that we’re getting it together with them again. Glasnost and all that. You understand?”

“Yes.”

“I said to myself, ‘Please, God, no more Afghanistans, no KAL airliners, no Nick Daniloffs this time.’”

“That’s like praying for an end to death and taxes.”

“But why does it always have to be something? This thing is going to ruin it all again, isn’t it? We’ll be kicking out each other’s diplomats and staff again, canceling cultural and scientific exchanges, and heading further down that fucking road to the missile silos. Won’t we?”

Hollis replied, “That’s not my area of concern.”

“It’s everybody’s area of concern, Sam. You live on this planet.”

“Sometimes. Once I was high above it, sixty thousand feet, and I’d look around and say, ‘Those people down there are nuts.’ Then I’d look into the heavens and ask, ‘What’s the big plan, God?’ Then I’d come in and release my bombs. Then I’d dodge missiles and MiGs and go home and have a beer. I didn’t get cynical or remorseful. I just got narrowed into my little problem of dropping my bombs and getting my beer. That’s the way it is today.”

“But you talked to God. You asked Him about the big plan.”

“He never answered.” Hollis added, “For your information, however, the word still seems to be détente. Think peace. Subject to change without notice.”

She pulled a pack of Kents from her bag. “Mind?”

“No.”

“Want one?”

“No. Crack the window.”

She lowered the window and lit up.

Hollis cut off the highway onto a farm road and continued at high speed, churning up gravel as the Zhiguli bounced along a narrow lane.

She asked, “Why did you leave the highway?”

Hollis referred to a sheet of paper in his hand and made a hard left onto another road, then a right. He said, “A Brit some years ago fortunately charted back routes to bypass a lot of major towns around Moscow. This route bypasses Mozhaisk. No road names, just landmarks. Look for a dead cow.”

She smiled despite her growing anxiety. She said, “You’re committing an itinerary violation.”

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

“We’re going to Borodino, I suppose.”

“That’s correct.” Hollis continued to navigate the intersecting farm lanes. He passed an occasional truck or tractor and waved each time. He said to Lisa, “The damned linkage does stick, but the car handles alright. They’re Fiats, you know, and this one handles like its Italian cousin. Good trail cars.”

“Men. Cars. Football. Sex.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing.”

They crossed the Byelorussian railroad tracks, and a short time later Hollis saw the utility poles of the old Minsk — Moscow road and the town of Mozhaisk in the distance. “Well, we got around Mozhaisk. I wonder if Boris and Igor are pacing up and down Main Street waiting for us.”

“Who are Boris and Igor?”

“Embassy watchers.”

“Oh.”

Hollis crossed the main road and continued on the farm roads. Within fifteen minutes he intersected the poplar-lined road to Borodino Field and turned onto it. Ahead he saw the stone columns and towering gates that led to the battlefield. The gates were closed, and as they drew near they could see the gates were chained.

Lisa said, “I think these outdoor exhibits and such close early this time of year.”

“That’s what I counted on.” Hollis swung the Zhiguli between two bare poplars and into the drainage ditch. He followed the ditch that skirted the gates, then cut back onto the road and proceeded toward the museum. “You’ve never been here?”

“As I said, I’ve never been able to get a pass out of Moscow… except to stay at the Finnish dacha.”

Hollis nodded. The Finnish dacha — so named because of its architecture and saunas — was a newly built country house for American embassy staffers on the Klyazma River, about an hour’s drive north of Moscow. The ambassador’s dacha for senior staff such as himself was nearby. An invitation to spend a weekend at the ambassador’s house was very nearly a punishment. But the Finnish dacha had quickly earned a reputation, and families did not go there. One night, from his bedroom window in the ambassador’s place, Hollis had listened to the happy noises of men and women and splashing hot tubs coming from the Finnish dacha in the woods until dawn. Katherine, who had been with him then, had commented, “Why are they allowed to have so much fun and we have to drink sherry with stuffed shirts?” Within the month she had departed on her shopping trip. Hollis asked Lisa, “Go there much?”

She glanced at him. “No… it was sort of like the office Christmas party and on Monday morning everyone avoided everyone else. You know?”

“I think so.” Hollis saw the gravel parking field ahead with the museum to the right. He said, “I was here once. A reception of military attachés last October on the anniversary of the German-Russian battle here in 1941. Interesting place.”

“It looks it.” They kept silent as the car continued through the lot onto a narrow lane. The sun was gone, and the night had become very still. She noticed bright twinkling stars between scattered clouds. The deep, dark quiet of the countryside at night surprised her. “Spooky.”

“Romantic.”

She smiled despite herself. The moon broke through the clouds and revealed a dozen polished obelisks standing like shimmering sentries over the dead.

“Borodino,” Hollis said softly. “Fisher would have come this way, past the museum. The trick is to retrace how he got lost. Reach back in my briefcase and find the aerial survey map.”

She did as Hollis said. “This it?”

“Yes. Unfold it and put it on your lap. If we’re stopped, hit it with your cigarette lighter. It’s flash paper and will go up in a second without too much heat, smoke, or ash.”

“Okay.”

“Under your seat should be a red-filtered flashlight.”

She reached beneath her seat and brought out the light.

Hollis said, “We know he drove through the battlefield, then he said he found himself on a road in the woods north of Borodino Field, about this time at night. Further north is the Moskva River and the power station and reservoir. So he must have been between here and the river. The only woods on that aerial map is the bor—the pine forest. See it?”

“Yes.” She looked up from the map. “I see pine trees there in the hills. See?”

“Yes. Those are the hills just south of the Moskva. Now I’m coming to a fork in the road.”

She shone the red light on the map. “Yes. I see it here. If you take the left fork it will loop back and begin to climb that hill.”

Hollis nodded. The left fork appeared to head back toward the museum but did not. This was where Fisher must have made his fatal error. Hollis took the left fork.

With the headlights off they drove on, and the land began to rise. A few pines stood on the grassy fields, then the road entered the thick tree line, and it became very dark. Lisa cleared her throat. “Can you see?”

“Just shine the red light out the window once in a while.”

She rolled down the window, letting in a cold blast of air. The red light picked out the narrow road, and Hollis followed the beam. He said, “How you doing?”

“Okay. How’re you doing?”

“Fine,” Hollis replied. “Nice woods. I like that word—bor. Very evocative, very Russian. I think of a deep, dark pine forest of old Muscovy, woodcarvers and woodcutters, log cabins, pine pitch boiling over fires of crackling logs. Sort of fairytalish. Bor.”

She looked at him but said nothing.

They continued up the ridge line, the Zhiguli moving very slowly, its high rpm engine whining in first gear. Lisa said, “Can I smoke?”

“No.”

“I’m getting shaky.”

“Want to go back?”

She hesitated before replying, “Later.”

Ten minutes later they approached a sign, and Hollis stopped the car. Lisa shone the light on the sign, and they both read the words: STOP! YOU ARE ENTERING A RESTRICTED AREA. TURN BACK!

“This,” Hollis said, “must be the place. I was getting worried that we might have taken the wrong road.”

“We did take the wrong road.”

Hollis got out and looked around, discovering the small turnaround off the right side of the road. He opened the trunk and ripped out the wires for the back-up lights and the brake lights, then got in the car. He drove into the turnaround, but instead of backing out, continued between the pine trees until the Zhiguli was some twenty yards into the forest. He turned the car so it pointed back toward the road, then killed the engine.

Lisa said nothing.

Hollis whispered, “Keep a sharp ear and eye out. Be ready to make a quick getaway. If I’m not back within the hour, you go on to Mozhaisk and take care of the morgue business. Tell whoever asks that I didn’t come along. Get behind the wheel and lower the window. See you later.” Hollis got out, softly closed the door, and began walking through the woods on a course parallel to the road.

Lisa came up beside him. “You’re crazy.”

“Go back.”

“No.”

They walked side by side. The forest floor was springy, covered with a carpet of pine needles and cones. The spaces between the trunks were clear except for clumps of ferns and pine saplings. There was no wind, and the resinous pine scent was overpowering. There was little sound except for the soft tread of their shoes on the needles and the occasional crunch of a pine cone. The forest was very dark. Lisa whispered, “Sam, we have no business here… no… cover… even with diplomatic immunity.”

“Our cover is that we’re gathering mushrooms. The Russians are great mushroom gatherers. They’ll relate to that.”

“There are no mushrooms in pine forests.”

“Really? Then we’re on a sexual escapade.”

“Then we should be in the backseat of the Zhiguli.”

“Well, think of a cover yourself then. In the meantime, let’s not get caught. I assume you’re coming with me.”

“Yes.”

Within a few minutes they saw signs nailed to the trees at intervals. Hollis and Lisa approached one, and she turned the red-filtered flashlight on it and read: STOP! GO BACK. YOU ARE IN A RESTRICTED AREA. YOU ARE SUBJECT TO ARREST.

Hollis put his mouth to Lisa’s ear and whispered, “There may be sound sensors. Step lightly, like a deer.”

She nodded.

Hollis put his hand on her shoulder and felt her shaking. “Do you want to go back to the car?”

She shook her head.

Hollis drew his Tokarev pistol from his ankle holster and slipped it into his pocket. They continued through the forest. A half moon was rising and cast a weak blue light into the patches of clearing, which they avoided. Occasionally they saw signs with the same message, then Lisa pointed to a new sign in a clearing. They approached it cautiously and read: STOP! ARMED GUARDS HAVE ORDERS TO SHOOT.

Hollis whispered, “We’re almost there.”

They heard a noise behind them and spun around. Hollis dropped to one knee and brought out his automatic. Lisa crouched beside him. The pine boughs on the far side of the small clearing moved, then parted. A small doe entered the clearing and came toward them, then abruptly stopped not ten feet away, sniffed the still, heavy air, turned, and ran.

Hollis holstered his pistol and stood. They moved on. Within five minutes they found themselves facing an eight-foot-tall fence of barbed wire, tipped with coiled razor wire. A metal sign on the fence warned: HIGH VOLTAGE.

On the other side of the wire, the pine trees had been cut to a depth of about fifty meters. Hollis could see an inner ring of more barbed wire at the far edge of the treeless zone. A watchtower rose up from the inner wire. He whispered, “Mrs. Ivanova’s Charm School.”

She nodded. “Not charming.”

Hollis peered at the watchtower, then scanned the inner fence, beyond which he could make out the glow of lights. He took Lisa’s arm, and they walked carefully along the barbed wire, coming across the decomposed carcass of a deer that had been electrocuted. Lisa said, “Sam, let’s go now.”

He pulled her down. “Listen.”

The stillness of the forest was broken by the sound of a diesel engine, then they saw headlights coming toward them. Hollis whispered, “Get down.” They both dropped onto the pine carpet, facing the wire. The headlights grew brighter, and they could see the vehicle moving slowly through the raked sand of the clear zone between the barbed wire fences. The vehicle got closer and louder. Hollis could see it was a half-track with an open troop compartment in the rear. There were two men in the cab, and in the rear he saw six helmeted soldiers. Two were manning a swivel-mounted machine gun, two manned a searchlight, and two stood at port arms as though ready to spring from the vehicle. Hollis hoped it was a random patrol, but the soldiers looked too tense and alert. As the vehicle drew within ten yards of them, Hollis could make out the special green uniforms of the KGB Border Guards. He whispered to Lisa, “Pull the scarf over your face and cover your hands.”

Hollis pulled his knit cap down, and it became a ski mask. He put on black nylon gloves and waited. The half-track drew abreast of them on the other side of the wire, not fifteen feet away. Hollis assumed that the sound or motion sensors had picked up something and the patrol was sent to determine if it was a four- or two-legged animal. He could hear the men talking to one another, then heard a radio crackle in the truck’s cab. A transmitted voice said, “Well, are you all awake out there? What are you doing, Grechko?”

The man sitting beside the driver responded into his handset, “Khula grushi okolachivahu.” Whacking pears with my prick.

The voice on the radio laughed, then said, “Shoot a bear for the colonel, and he will get you all laid in Moscow. Shoot a spy, and he will take the credit.”

Grechko replied, “Then it’s bear we’re after.”

The driver laughed as he hit the brakes and the half-track came to a halt opposite Hollis and Lisa. The searchlight snapped on, and a beam shot down the cleared area, then began sweeping the woods beyond the wire. The beam moved closer to Hollis and Lisa, illuminating the ferns and tree trunks along the ground in a bright bluish light. The beam came toward them, passed over, continued on, then came back quickly and stopped on the carcass of the deer ten yards down the fence. The beam swept away from the deer and continued on.

Hollis felt Lisa shaking beside him. He found her hand under her body and squeezed it. They waited. After a minute the half-track moved on. They remained motionless, barely breathing.

After five full minutes Hollis rose cautiously to one knee, keeping a hand on Lisa’s back. He peered intently into the darkness and listened closely, then helped her up. They turned away from the barbed wire, and Hollis saw, not ten feet into the trees, two KGB Border Guards moving toward them, carrying AK-47 rifles at the ready.

In an instant Hollis realized Lisa had not seen them, and they had not seen him or her. Lisa moved toward him to say something. The KGB men saw the motion. Hollis, in a single movement, pushed Lisa to the ground, dropped into a crouch, and drew his Tokarev automatic. Hollis fired the silenced pistol and saw the first man slap his hand to his chest. The second man looked dumbstruck as he stared at his falling companion, then turned to Hollis and brought his rifle into the firing position. Hollis put two rounds into the man’s chest, then stepped the ten feet toward them. He saw they were both still alive, lying on their backs, blood bubbling at their lips. They were both very young, perhaps still in their teens. Hollis took both AK-47’s by their straps and slung them over his shoulder. As he threw pine branches over the two men, Lisa came up beside him. “Oh… oh, God… Sam!”

“Quiet.” He slung a rifle over her shoulder, took her by the arm, and they moved in long rapid strides through the pine forest. Hollis was no longer concerned about the sensors since there were patrols out now, making their own noise.

Within ten minutes they intersected the road some distance from the car. Hollis got his bearings and found the Zhiguli among the trees. They threw the AK-47’s into the back and jumped inside. Hollis started the engine and threw the car into gear, but instead of heading onto the road, turned and went deeper into the woods, maneuvering through the widely spaced tree trunks.

“Sam, where are you going?”

“Not back on the road, to be sure. You shine that red light ahead and find room.”

She leaned out the window with the light.

Hollis wove through the pine forest. Behind them they could hear a vehicle and see headlights on the road they’d come up. Lisa said, “These trees are getting closer. Watch out.”

Hollis crushed both fenders between two tree trunks, and the Zhiguli got stuck. He tried to throw it into reverse but the linkage stuck. “Damned piece of junk.”

Hollis got it into reverse, pulled out, and found another way through the trees. Low-lying boughs fanned the windshield, leaving sticky needles on the glass. Hollis knew that it was possible to get a vehicle through an evergreen forest, and in fact whole columns of trucks and armor passed through these Russian pine forests during the war without having to knock down a single tree. It was just a matter of finding the spaces. “Keep that light out there, Lisa.”

“Okay. Look over there.” She pointed the light, and Hollis saw a wide opening toward which he headed. It was a game trail, like a tunnel through the boughs, the width and height of a good-sized buck. The Zhiguli fit into it nicely, and Hollis accelerated to five kph.

Lisa glanced back. “I think I see lights in the woods.” She looked at him. “Are we going to make it?”

“No problem.” Hollis guessed that the Russians didn’t know for sure if they were dealing with spies or bears. But if they found the two bodies, the whole countryside would be crawling with militia, Red Army, and KGB.

The ground began to slope down at a steeper angle, and the Zhiguli started to slide, though Hollis was applying the brake. Suddenly the car broke out of the trees and began plunging headlong into a ravine. “Hold on!” The Zhiguli hit the trough of the ravine and splashed into a shallow stream, nearly overturning. Hollis cut the wheels hard right and accelerated through the streambed. He gave it more gas, pushing the battered car on downstream. The banks flattened, and the stream became wider and deeper. The Zhiguli’s engine began coughing. “Getting wet.” Hollis angled the car toward a low spot in the bank and pushed the gas pedal to the floor. The car went up the bank, faltered, then the engine roared, and the Zhiguli came out of the streambed. A blue half moon shone through the broken cloud cover, and they both looked through the windshield at Borodino Field spread out in front of them. Hollis said, “Good trail car.”

Lisa lit a cigarette with shaking hands and drew in deeply. She exhaled a long stream of smoke. “Want one?”

“No, you enjoy yourself.”

She said, “This is not what I thought you meant by a drive in the country.”

“Well,” Hollis replied, “this is the country, and we’re driving in it.” Hollis pulled the car into a copse of birches. He retrieved the two AK-47’s and threw them out the window into the high grass, then flung his pistol, ankle holster, and spare ammunition clips after them. “Burn the map.”

Lisa hung the map out the window and touched it with her lighter. The map flashed and disappeared in a small puff of smoke. She said, “We’re out of the woods, but we’re not out of the woods.”

“Getting there.” Hollis put the car in gear and moved out over the rolling fields of high yellow grass. From the crest of a hill they saw the road they’d taken into the forest. Hollis steered a course parallel to the road, cutting cross-country. They heard a helicopter overhead, and Hollis drove into the moonshadow on the dark side of a granite obelisk. The helicopter passed over, casting a moonshadow of its own. Hollis waited until the helicopter descended into the forest in the vicinity of the Charm School, then moved the car again.

Lisa spoke as though she had just concluded a silent conversation with herself. “It wasn’t in cold blood.”

Hollis glanced at her.

She said, “I feel sick.”

“It’s a sickening thing. Shooting people. I used to bomb people. Never saw them. Take a deep breath.”

She put her head out the window, inhaled a long breath, and slumped back in her seat.

Hollis drove the car hard over the grassy fields. He knew that time and place were critical. If they could get where they were supposed to be, at the morgue in Mozhaisk, they could bluff it. But if they were caught in the open country, the evidence would be strongly against them.

They came upon a small dirt road that marked the boundary of the historic battlefield. On the other side of the road was furrowed farmland. Hollis didn’t think the Zhiguli had any more tolerance for abuse, so he cut onto the dirt tractor road and turned north toward the Moskva River. He accelerated up the straight road and hit ninety kph when the car started to shimmy. He eased off, and the Zhiguli settled down. The tractor road ended at the Moscow river road, and Hollis turned right, approaching Mozhaisk from the west, rather than from the Moscow road where they might be waiting for him. He turned on the headlights and threw his wool cap out the window. Lisa threw her scarf out and brushed herself off, then brushed pine needles off Hollis’ clothing as he drove. Hollis made a fast run into Mozhaisk without encountering another vehicle.

The town seemed eerily deserted for an early Saturday evening. Hollis handed Lisa a piece of paper. “Directions to the morgue.”

She read them, and at length they arrived in front of a squat white stucco building near the railroad tracks. A wooden sign over the door said MORG. Hollis looked at his watch. It was just after eight P.M. They got out of the car and walked to the door. He said to her, “Are you up to this, or do you want to sit in the car?”

“I’m up to this. I’ve done consular work. I wasn’t up to the other thing.”

“You were fine.”

“Thank you. And you have brass balls.”

“I show off around women. That’s why I brought you along.” He pushed a button marked NIGHT BELL, and they waited. Hollis put his hand on her shoulder and noted she wasn’t shaking. This was a very cool woman, he thought.

The heavy wooden door to the morgue opened, revealing a man wearing the uniform of a KGB colonel. The man said in English, “Come in.”

10

The KGB colonel cocked his finger under Hollis’ nose, turned, and walked away.

Hollis and Lisa followed him through a dark, musty room furnished as a sitting room, and Hollis recalled that a municipal morgue often doubled as a funeral parlor. They entered a cold room of white ceramic tile, and Hollis was hit by that smell of chemicals whose purpose one would instantly recognize. The Russian pulled a hanging string, and a bright fluorescent light flickered on, illuminating a white enameled freezer chest of a type found in America in the 1950s. Without formalities the colonel opened the freezer lid, exposing the body of a naked man lying in the white frost.

The corpse’s arms and legs were askew, and his head lolled to one side. Gregory Fisher’s eyelids had not been closed, and the staring eyes revealed frozen tears. Cracked teeth showed through parted blue lips.

Hollis noticed that Fisher’s chest and face were deeply lacerated and that the blood had not been properly cleaned off. The young man’s cuts and bruises were deep purple against his white flesh. Hollis studied Fisher’s face and was able to discern the features of a once good-looking man in his early twenties. Hollis felt sorry for Gregory Fisher, whose voice had become familiar to him with each replay of the tape. Hollis wondered if they’d had to torture him to make him tell them about Dodson.

The KGB colonel handed Hollis a passport, which Hollis opened to the photo page. He glanced at the color photograph of a tanned, smiling face, then handed the passport to Lisa. She looked at the photo, then at the corpse, and nodded. She slipped the passport into her bag.

The colonel slammed the freezer shut and motioned them into a small cubicle in which sat a battered birch desk and three mismatched chairs. He indicated two of the chairs, then took the better chair behind the desk and turned on a shaded reading lamp. He said in English, “You are Colonel Hollis of course, and this must be Lisa Rhodes.”

“That’s correct,” Hollis answered. “And you are a colonel of the KGB. I didn’t hear your name.”

“Burov.” He added, “You understand that with the death of a foreigner, Soviet law states that the KGB must process the paperwork and so forth. You should attach no further meaning to my presence.”

“If you say so.”

Burov leaned forward and stared at Hollis. “I say so.” Burov asked, “And am I to attach any meaning to your presence, Colonel Hollis?”

“No, you are not.” But of course, Hollis knew, they were both lying. As soon as the Soviet Foreign Ministry saw that it was Hollis and not a consular officer who applied for the pass, they notified the KGB, and the KGB, wanting to see what Colonel Hollis was about, told the Foreign Ministry to issue it. The simple matter of transferring the remains had escalated into something like a counterintelligence operation. Hollis wondered what would provoke the KGB to kill him and Lisa out here. Probably the Borodino side trip, if they knew about that. That’s what got Fisher into the ice chest in the next room.

Burov said, “You are several hours later than I expected. You kept me waiting.”

“I had no idea you were waiting, Colonel.”

“Oh, please, you knew very well… anyway, what caused your delay?”

Hollis looked closely at Burov in the dim light. He placed Burov in his mid-forties. He was a tall, well-built man with those pursed boyish lips that were prevalent in the north around Leningrad and Finland. His skin was fair, his eyes were blue, and his hair was a flaxen yellow, reinforcing Hollis’ impression that Burov was more Nordic than Slavic. He may have had Finnish blood, or he may have been one of the many legacies left by the German army. His age was right for that. In fact, Hollis thought, if Mosfilm were looking for a typical Nazi heavy for one of their innumerable war movies, Burov would do nicely.

“Colonel Hollis — what caused your delay?”

Hollis replied, “Your Foreign Ministry held up the passes.” Hollis leaned toward Burov and added sharply, “Why does everything in this country take twice as long as it does in the civilized world?”

Burov’s face reddened. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

“Your English is excellent. It means what you know it means.”

Lisa was somewhat surprised at Hollis’ strong language, but she suspected that Hollis was putting Burov on the defensive regarding the question of their lateness.

Burov sat back in his chair and lit an oval-shaped Troika cigarette. The heat from the first two puffs caused the flimsy paper and loose tobacco to sag. Burov automatically straightened the cigarette with his fingers. He said in a calmer tone, “That was not very diplomatic of you, Colonel. I thought diplomats would sooner bite their tongues off than say anything so offensive against their host country.”

Hollis glanced at his watch in a gesture of impatience, then replied, “Diplomat-to-diplomat, that may be true. But you know who I am, and I know who you are. And if you ever cock your finger under my nose again, you’d better be prepared to lose it. Now, do you have something for us to sign?”

“I’m sure.”

Burov opened a green file folder on the desk and withdrew a stack of papers.

Lisa said to Burov, “I think the body could have been treated with more care.”

Burov looked at her with the expression of a man who is not used to dealing with women on a professional basis. “Is that so? Why do veruyushchii”—he used the Russian word for believers in God—“care about mortal remains? The soul is in paradise now. Correct?”

“Why do you assume I’m a believer?”

“You might well ask why I assumed you knew Russian, Ms. Rhodes. Should I assume you’re here to write a very nice press release on the joys of motor travel in the Soviet Union? Or will it be about the speed and efficiency of having one’s body shipped back to the States in the event of a mishap?” Burov smiled for the first time, and Lisa actually felt a chill run through her.

Lisa drew a deep but discreet breath and said forcefully, “I must request that the body be more carefully cleaned and that it be properly shrouded.”

“Did the young man’s naked body offend you?”

“The way he was thrown into the freezer like a carcass offended me, Colonel.”

“Really? Well, the state of Mr. Fisher’s remains is no concern of mine. Take that up with the mortician.” Burov shuffled through some papers with a look of disdain, as if to show that this aspect of their business was beneath him.

Lisa seemed not to heed Burov’s advice and asked, “How do you propose we transport the body to the airport?”

Burov replied curtly, “The mortician will provide an aluminum air coffin with dry ice. As in any civilized country. You must sign a charge for that. As you would in America.” He added, “I see you are driving a Zhiguli. How do you intend to fit a coffin in that?”

Lisa answered, “We have no intention of transporting the coffin ourselves. You will provide us with an appropriate vehicle and driver. As any other country would.”

Burov smiled again as if to suggest he found Lisa amusing. He eyed Lisa’s vatnik, then commented, “You both seemed to have dressed as though you intended to be gravediggers as well as pallbearers. Well, we’ll work something out. May I examine your travel passes and credentials?”

Hollis and Lisa handed him their passes and diplomatic passports. Burov seemed interested in Hollis’ visa stamps and made no secret of writing down the entry and departure dates to the dozen or so countries represented on the visa pages.

Hollis considered Colonel Burov. The man spoke unusually good English and was quick-witted in it as well as insulting and sarcastic. Russians dealing with foreigners, especially Westerners, were usually polite, though if they weren’t, they were simply abrasive and blunt — not so sharp as Burov was. Hollis guessed that Burov had a lot of dealings with English-speaking people and perhaps he was a graduate of the Institute of Canadian and American Studies in Moscow, a place that turned out as many KGB men as it did scholars and diplomats. Hollis had seen some of those smooth Russians on American TV, explaining in American idiom their country’s position on anything from human rights to why they obliterated a passenger plane full of people. Hollis would have liked to get a line on Burov, but he doubted that Alevy or anyone had anything on the man. Burov was not his name anyway, though the KGB uniform and the rank were real. Using an alias was one thing; stepping down in life was quite another. Hollis said, “Are you quite through with our passports?”

Burov made a few more notations, then handed back the passports but kept the travel passes. Burov handed Hollis a sheet of paper and said, “Firstly, the dead man’s automobile has been impounded, and it will be easier if you sign that document waiving any claim on it.”

Hollis replied, “I want to see the car.”

“Why?”

“To see if it has any salvage value.”

“I assure you it doesn’t. In any case, the car has been shipped to Moscow. I will have your embassy informed of the location, if you wish. Will you sign that?”

Hollis glanced at the waiver, written in Russian and English. There were a lot of numbers showing that the car would cost more to ship out of the Soviet Union than it was presently worth. The real bottom line was that there was no way the Trans Am was getting back to the States to be examined by the FBI forensic unit. Hollis handed back the waiver, unsigned. “After I inspect the car I’ll decide what disposition should be made.”

Burov pushed it back to Hollis again. “Then please note that on the waiver so we can proceed.”

Hollis felt that it could be a long night. The Russians were, if nothing else, patient and plodding. Hollis made a notation on the waiver but instead of giving it back said, “I must have a copy of this.”

“Of course.” Burov gave him a faint carbon copy of the same document, simultaneously taking the original from Hollis.

Lisa had the impression that Hollis and Burov had both been through this before in one form or another. The protocols of diplomacy, the give and take, the one-upmanship, the bluffing and posturing. It didn’t matter whether the issue was the disposition of mortal remains or nuclear disarmament. Men, she had observed, loved to talk deals.

“Item two,” Burov said, “an inventory of the personal items on the body and in the automobile. The items are in an air container and can be shipped to the deceased’s home address at your embassy’s expense, if you authorize that.” He handed Hollis the inventory.

Hollis leaned toward Lisa, and they both read the list, written in Russian. The list seemed very complete and included in addition to clothes and luggage, two watches, a school ring, camera, and even items that were meant to be small gifts, such as pens, razors, and postcards. It didn’t appear to Hollis as if anyone had helped himself to anything. This either meant that the peasants, local militia, and morgue employees had all the Western consumer goods they needed, or more likely that this had been a KGB operation from start to finish.

Burov said, “The lubricants and other things that were in the trunk are not in the air container because they are inflammable. You will see that there were fruits and vegetables in the car that cannot be shipped because of American customs regulations. We will be happy to send the lubricants and produce to the American embassy. In fact, you can take them back yourself. The pears looked quite good.”

“You can take the pears, Colonel, put a light coat of the lubricant on them, and shove them.”

“Shove them? Where?”

Hollis had the distinct impression that Burov knew the idiom well enough to know exactly where.

Burov shrugged and continued, “All Intourist vouchers will be redeemed and a Western bank draft sent to the embassy for forwarding to Mr. Fisher’s next of kin. I have six hundred and eighty dollars in American Express traveler’s checks, seventy-two dollars in American currency, and small assorted sums of European currency, which I will give you now. There were also thirty-two rubles and seventy-eight kopeks, which I can also give you.”

Hollis thought of Fisher’s words on the tape. I gave him maps and money. And the French woman’s statement that Fisher had borrowed two kopeks from her. Hollis concluded that Burov had thrown the Russian money in the kitty so as not to raise any questions. Hollis said, “I don’t see any maps listed on this inventory.”

Burov did not reply.

“Fisher surely had maps.” Hollis studied Burov’s face. “Perhaps someone took them.”

Burov waved his hand. “They would be of small monetary value.”

“Nevertheless, I’ll bet you’d like to know where those maps are now, Colonel Burov.”

Burov stared at Hollis.

Hollis was fairly convinced now that Dodson was not in KGB hands, dead or alive. Hollis pressed on. “If the maps should somehow turn up at the American embassy, I’ll let you know so you don’t worry yourself about them.”

Burov pursed his lips thoughtfully as if he was considering that possibility and finding it somewhat distressing. He said, “I’ll bet you we find those maps before you do.”

“I’ll take that bet. What are the stakes?”

“Very high, Colonel Hollis.”

Hollis nodded. If Dodson made it to the embassy or to a Western reporter in Moscow, his story would effectively end Soviet-American relations for about a decade.

Burov seemed to understand what Hollis was thinking and said bluntly and not too cryptically, “The stakes are peace.”

“Indeed they are.”

Burov went back to the business at hand. “We are holding the exposed film we found. We will have the film developed and will send the prints to your embassy. You understand that the KGB could not possibly let exposed film pass through its hands without a peek.”

Hollis looked up and saw that Burov was grinning at his own bad joke. Hollis replied, “I don’t see anything amusing about this. A young man is dead.”

Burov continued to grin, and Hollis had the impulse to smash his fist into those ripe cherry lips. Lisa began to say something, but Hollis laid a hand on her arm and said to Burov, “And of course you returned the key or propusk to the Rossiya.”

“There was no key or propusk, Colonel Hollis. Gregory Fisher never got to Moscow.”

“You know he did. We know he did.”

The paperwork and unpleasantness continued for another half hour. Finally Burov leaned back and abruptly observed, “You have been walking in the woods.”

Hollis looked up from a document and replied, “Picking mushrooms.”

“Really? You are real Russians now. Can you tell which are the poisonous gribi?”

“I guess so. I’m still alive.”

Burov laughed with real mirth, then leaned forward across the desk and still smiling asked, “May I see the mushrooms? I’m a fancier of them myself.”

“I’m afraid we weren’t very lucky.”

“I should think not in a pine forest.”

Hollis assumed that Burov had noticed a few pine needles or smelled the scent that clung to them, or perhaps he had more solid information. It was difficult, Hollis had learned, to know what these people knew for sure and what they were guessing at. They knew too much about each person in the embassy right down to the staffers in the USIS such as Lisa. On the other hand, Hollis knew very little about the Soviets with whom he came into contact, and he knew nothing about Colonel Burov, which was a distinct disadvantage. Hollis stood. “Will you find us a truck and driver now? We’d like to set out for the airport.”

Burov remained seated. “That’s not possible at this hour. You’ll have to spend the night.”

“Do you mean to tell me,” Hollis asked with a touch of sarcasm, “that a colonel of the KGB can’t round up a truck and driver because it’s after six o’clock?”

“I mean to tell you, Colonel Hollis, that unescorted night driving in the countryside is not permitted for foreigners. Diplomats included.”

“Then get us an escort.”

“Secondly,” Burov continued, “when your car arrived, I noticed that neither your taillights nor your brake lights were working. You must see to that in the morning. Unfortunately there is no service station in Mozhaisk, nor a hotel. However, there is a sovkhoz—a state farm — two kilometers from here. They will find you rooms in the commune building. There is also a mechanic there. I will write you a note, and they will be pleased to give you accommodations.”

Hollis glanced at Lisa, then said to Burov, “I don’t see that we have any choice. But I require a truck and driver here at eight in the morning.”

Burov laughed. “This is not America, and I am not an American boss, only a colonel in State Security. Expect the driver between nine and ten.” He gathered the paperwork into his attaché case, then made a notation on their travel passes. “This is valid now until noon tomorrow and also will give you entry to the state farm. See that you’re within the Moscow city limits by noon.” Burov indicated the way out.

Hollis said, “I want to call my embassy.”

“I don’t think there’s a phone here. Follow me, please.”

Burov snapped off the light in the cubicle and led them through the dark morgue.

They stood outside on the front steps of the morgue, and Burov gave them directions to the farm. Burov added, “There will be a large wooden sign over the entrance to the farm road that will read ‘Forty Years of October; Grain and Livestock Enterprise.’ You read Russian of course.”

Hollis supposed the name had something to do with the Great October Revolution, but there were only so many constructions you could make out of the words Red, October, Revolution, and Great before you had to start stretching it a bit. Hollis said, “The Red Livestock… what?”

Lisa suppressed a laugh.

Burov said curtly, “The October — no, the Forty Years of October—”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“How do I know?” snapped Burov. “The farm was probably founded on the fortieth anniversary of the October Revolution.” He glared at Hollis. “You damned people are so superior, aren’t you? So smug and so glib. Well, one day we’ll see who…” Burov seemed to realize he had let himself be baited and recovered his composure. “Well, I’m sure you won’t have trouble finding it. An old couple sleeps in the administration building. Knock loudly.”

Lisa said, “Where can we find a telephone?”

“On the state farm. And showers, so you can get that resin off you.” Burov touched his finger to a sticky smudge on her hand.

Lisa jerked her hand away.

Burov walked to the Zhiguli and looked at the license plate. “A rental car?”

“There were no embassy cars available.”

“Even so, Colonel Hollis, it is not legal for you to drive this car.”

“Don’t sweat the small stuff, Colonel. Do you know what that means?”

Burov walked around the car. “This car has been driven roughly… mud, pine twigs…” He pulled a cluster of pine needles from the chrome and twirled it in his fingers. “And the doors and fenders are newly dented. They will charge you for that. Where did you rent this?”

“My staff rented it for me.”

“May I see the rental papers?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.” Hollis opened the driver’s-side door. “Good evening, Colonel Burov.”

Lisa opened her door and got in the car, but Burov put his hand on the door so she couldn’t close it. He said, “There are three main sights around Mozhaisk — Saint Nicholas’ Cathedral, Luzhetsky monastery ruins, and Borodino. You may have time to drive by all three, if you are early risers. Borodino is especially interesting to Westerners because of War and Peace.”

Hollis replied, “I have no interest in battlefields.”

“No? It’s a passion with us, I’m afraid. Too much war in this land. We keep having to teach people lessons.”

Hollis observed undiplomatically, “I don’t think either side learned anything at Borodino.”

Burov looked at him quizzically. “You must reread your history. It was a great Russian victory.”

Hollis studied the man across the roof of the car. Hollis believed that the one fatal flaw in the Soviet system was not economic, political, or military, but informational. Soviet facts had replaced truth and reality. Hollis said to Burov, “If you have nothing further, please close Ms. Rhodes’ door.”

Burov moved away from the car without closing the door, and Lisa pulled it shut, locking it.

Burov stood on the sidewalk and called out to Hollis, “Don’t get lost. And be careful on the highway. We don’t have room for two more bodies in the freezer.”

Hollis said, “Go fuck yourself, Colonel.”

“And yourself as well, Colonel.”

Then, as they both understood the rules of the game, they saluted simultaneously and bade each other good-evening.

11

As Hollis drove away from the morgue, he saw a black Chaika in his rearview mirror. He drove slowly through the dark, quiet streets of Mozhaisk, and the Chaika stayed with him.

Lisa said, “Colonel Burov was a nasty son of a bitch.”

“He must have had a fight with his wife this morning.”

“Did he know about our side trip to Borodino or not?”

“He made the correct deduction. Soon, however, when they find the two Border Guards, he will have no doubt.”

“Will he try to kill us for that?”

Hollis considered a moment before replying, “No, not for that. Burov understands that.”

“But for what we saw.”

“Perhaps,” Hollis replied. “Anyway, I told you in Moscow, these people are unpredictable. Our best defense is to be as unpredictable.”

“Meaning we shouldn’t go to the state farm.”

“Precisely.”

“Can we get back to Moscow?”

“Not a chance.” Hollis glanced in his rearview mirror again. “We have company, as we say.”

Lisa nodded. “Then let’s go someplace where we can be alone.”

Hollis smiled. He entered the center of town, a collection of two-story wood and stucco buildings around a traffic circle. There was streetlighting but not much other evidence that the town was inhabited. The main street of Mozhaisk was the old Minsk — Moscow road, and Hollis headed west on it toward the state farm. The Chaika followed. Hollis wondered if it was Boris and Igor in the car.

The road curved away from the Moskva River, and soon they found themselves traveling a very dark stretch of bad pavement, utterly alone on the vast Russian plain. Hollis could not see a single light from a dwelling, only the headlights of the Chaika in his mirror.

“What’s faster,” Lisa asked, “a Chaika or a Zhiguli?”

“Don’t ask.”

“You don’t have any more guns on you, do you?”

“No.”

“They could kill us pretty easily out here.”

“Not that easily.”

“Maybe they just want to see that we get to the state farm.”

“Probably.” Hollis, in fact, couldn’t determine what they were up to. He was sorry he’d thrown away the pistol, but in the Soviet Union he was a criminal, and criminals ditched the evidence. And in truth, if the people in the Chaika pulled him over and found the Tokarev pistol, the least they would do is charge him with murder, diplomatic immunity notwithstanding. More likely they’d kill him. On the other hand, if he had the Tokarev, he could eliminate the men in the Chaika.

Lisa looked through the envelope stuffed with papers and traveler’s checks that Burov had given them. “Even if they did murder that boy, they are very correct when it comes to legalities.”

“When it suits them. Did you get the impression Colonel Burov was worried about Major Jack Dodson?”

“Oh, yes. Major Dodson is still out there somewhere with Gregory Fisher’s rubles and maps.”

“That’s right. And if Dodson makes it to the embassy, which is where I suppose he’s heading,” Hollis added, “then tons of shit will hit the fan and splatter everything from here to Washington. We’ll all be home in a week, leaving the night porter as chargé d’affaires.”

Lisa didn’t respond.

Three kilometers out of town, Hollis and Lisa spotted the huge wooden sign set on two poles over the entrance road to the sovkhoz—the state farm. Beneath the name of the sovkhoz was the inspirational message: We will strive to meet the quotas of the Central Committee.

Lisa said, “Well, pardner, welcome to the Lazy Red Revolution October Ranch.”

Hollis managed a smile and turned into the gravel road, then proceeded toward the state farm. They could make out a large group of stark wooden farm buildings, corrugated metal sheds, and a three-story concrete building that Hollis took to be the commune, which housed the salaried workers of the state farms and their families, the single and transient workers, and the technicians, all under one roof. There were individual sitting rooms and bedrooms in the apartments, but the kitchens, dining rooms, and bathrooms were communal. It seemed to Hollis that there was something of Brave New World in those prefab apartment blocks rising out of the farmland, something unnatural about people who worked the soil having no yard and garden of their own, climbing stairs to their apartment.

Lisa looked back and announced, “I see the Chaika’s headlights turning onto this road… he just killed his lights.”

Hollis drove on past the commune and spotted the small brick structure that Burov told them was the administration building. There was a single light in one window. Hollis shut off his headlights, drove past the building, and continued on.

Lisa said, “You think it’s a setup?”

“Quite possibly.”

“What are we going to do now?”

Hollis replied, “Our little Zhiguli didn’t have much chance on the main road, but back here on the farm lanes we can give the Chaika a run.”

“Is this another itinerary violation?”

“Quite possibly.” There was not much available light, but Hollis could pick out the dirt and gravel road from the surrounding fields of the famous Russian black earth. Hollis sped up, hitting the brake whenever he saw an intersecting lane and turning onto it. Without brake lights or headlights the Zhiguli was virtually invisible, and after fifteen minutes of random turnings Hollis announced, “We’ve lost the Chaika. Unfortunately we’re lost.”

“No kidding?”

“Did you notice any Holiday Inns back there?”

“Way back. Like two years and ten thousand miles back. Say, Sam, you really know how to show a girl a good time. Let me buy lunch next time. Okay?”

“I’m glad you’ve maintained your sense of humor, Miss Rhodes, as vapid as it may be. Well, better lost than dead, I say. I think we’ll pull into a tractor shed and wait until dawn.”

Lisa shut off the car heater and rolled down her window. “It’s nearly freezing, and it’s only nine o’clock.”

“It is a bit nippy. Do you have long johns?”

“We have to find shelter, Sam.” She thought a moment, then said, “I think we’re off that state farm by now. If we can find a kolhoz—a collective farm village — we can get a peasant to take us in for a few rubles, no questions asked.”

“No questions asked? In Russia?”

“A collective is different from a state farm. In a collective village you’ll see Russian peasant hospitality. I’d trust them to keep quiet.”

“You’ve never even been in the countryside. How do you know the peasants are friendly?”

“Instinct.”

“Too many nineteenth-century Russian novels, I think.” He shrugged. “All right. I’ll trust you on this.” He added, “You get your wish to see a village sooner than we thought.”

The road had gone from gravel to dirt and was deeply rutted by farm vehicles. They drove on in a westward direction and within fifteen minutes saw the silhouettes of utility poles against the horizon. They followed the poles and came to the first izba of a small hamlet. Hollis slowed the car on the dirt track that ran between two rows of log cabins. He said, “I don’t see any lights.”

Lisa replied, “It’s past nine, Sam. They’re in bed. They’re peasants. This is not Moscow.”

“True. In Moscow they turn in at ten.” Hollis stopped the car and looked out the window. “I think we turned left into the last century.” He shut off the engine, and they listened to the dead silence. Hollis got out of the car and scanned the narrow lane. Like most of rural Russia, this village boasted electricity, but Hollis saw no sign of telephone lines nor was there a vehicle in sight or a structure large enough to hold one. There was no evidence that the village even possessed a single horse. It was nicely isolated. Lisa came up beside him, and Hollis said, “They don’t show this place to the foreign dignitaries.”

A light went on in the front window of an izba, then a few more lights came on. The door of a cabin opened, and a man stepped out onto a dirt path. Hollis said to Lisa, “You talk.”

The man approached, and Hollis could see he was somewhere between forty and sixty, wore felt boot-liners, and had probably dressed hastily.

Lisa said in Russian, “Greetings. We are American tourists.”

The man didn’t reply. A few other doors opened, and more people came out into the dirt lane.

Hollis looked around. There were about ten izbas on each side of the road, and behind them Hollis could see pigpens and chicken coops. Each kitchen garden was fenced in, and in the corner of each was an outhouse. Ten meters down the lane was a single well and next to it a hand pump. The whole place had a look of extreme neglect about it and made the villages outside of Moscow look prosperous by comparison.

A crowd of about fifty people — men, women, and children — were standing around Hollis, Lisa, and the Zhiguli now. Hollis said to Lisa in English, “Tell them we come from Earth with a message of peace and to take us to their vozhd.”

She gave him a look of both annoyance and anxiety, then said to the man who had come out first, “We have having car trouble. Can you put us up for the night?”

The peasants looked from one to another, but amazingly, Hollis thought, there was no sound from them. Finally the peasant she addressed said, “You wish lodgings? Here?”

“Yes.”

“There is a state farm not far from here. They will have lodgings now that the harvest is done.”

Hollis replied, “I don’t think the car will make it. Do you have a telephone or vehicle?”

“No. But I can send a boy on a bicycle.”

“Don’t go to that trouble,” Hollis said with a politeness that seemed to surprise the man. Hollis added, “My wife and I would rather stay with the people.” At the word narod—the common people, the masses — the man smiled.

Hollis looked closely at the peasants around him. They were coarse people with leathery skin the color of the earth on which they stood. Their clothes were little more than rags, their quilted vatniks not so clean or tailored as Lisa’s. The men were unshaven, and the women had that unusual Russian combination of fat bodies and drawn faces. Half their teeth were black or missing, and from where Hollis stood, he could smell the sour clothes mixed with various flavored vodkas. My God, he thought, this can’t be.

Lisa said to Hollis in English, “Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. Want to leave?”

“Too late.” He said to the man, “You must let us pay you for our lodgings.”

The man shook his head. “No, no. But I will sell you some butter and lettuce, and you can make a nice profit on that in Moscow.”

“Thank you.” Hollis added, “I’ll put the car where it won’t block the road.” He said to Lisa, “Get acquainted.” Hollis got in the car and backed it down the lane until he came to a hayrick he’d seen. He pulled the Zhiguli out of sight of the road, took his briefcase, and got out. He walked back, where he found Lisa involved in a ten-way conversation. Lisa said to Hollis in English, “Our host is named Pavel Pedorovich, and this is his wife Ida Agaryova. Everyone is very impressed with our Russian.”

“Did you tell them you are Countess Putyatova and you might own them?”

“Don’t be an ass, Sam.”

“Okay.”

“Also I’ve learned that this place is called Yablonya — apple tree — and is a hamlet of the large collective farm named Krasnya Plamenny — Red Flame. The collective’s administrative center is about five kilometers further west. No one lives there, but there is a telephone in the tractor storage shed. Mechanics will be there in the morning and will let us use the telephone.”

“Very good. I’m promoting you to captain.” Hollis introduced himself as Joe Smith. “Call me Iosif.”

Pavel introduced each of the twenty or so families in the village, including his own son Mikhail, a boy of about sixteen, and his daughter Zina, who was a year or so older. They all smiled as they were introduced, and some of the old ones even removed their hats in a low sweeping bow, the ancient Russian peasant gesture of respect. Hollis wanted to get off the road in the event a black Chaika happened by. He said to Pavel, “My wife is tired.”

“Yes, yes. Follow me.” He led Hollis and Lisa toward his izba, and Hollis noted that neither Pavel nor his wife inquired about luggage. This could mean they knew he and Lisa were on the run, or perhaps they thought his briefcase was luggage.

They entered the front room of the izba, which was the kitchen. There was a wood stove for heating and cooking, around which were a half dozen pairs of felt boots. A pine table and chairs sat in the corner, and utensils hung on the log walls. Against the far wall leaned two muddy bicycles. Incongruously there was a refrigerator plugged into an overhead socket from which dangled a single bare lightbulb. On a second table between the stove and the refrigerator sat a washtub filled with dirty dishes. Hollis noticed an open barrel of kasha — buckwheat — on the floor and remembered a peasant rhyme:

Shci da kasha;

Pishcha nasha.

— Cabbage soup and gruel are our food.

Pavel pulled two chairs out. “Sit. Sit.”

Hollis and Lisa sat.

Pavel barked at his wife, “Vodka. Cups.”

The door opened, and a man and woman entered with a teenage girl and a younger boy. The woman set a bowl of cut cucumbers on the table and backed away with the children. The man sat very close to Hollis and smiled. Another family entered, and the scene was repeated. Soon the walls were lined with women, their heavy arms folded across their chests like Siamese servants ready to snap to if anyone called. The children sat on the floor at the women’s feet. Ida gave some of the children kisel—a thick drink made with pear juice and potato flour. The men, about fifteen of them now, sat around or near the table on chairs that the children had carried in. Vodka was flowing, and someone produced an Armenian brandy. Everyone drank out of cracked and not-too-clean teacups. The table was now covered with zakuski—the Russian equivalent of cocktail food — mostly sliced vegetables, a bowl of boiled eggs, and salted fish. Hollis downed his second vodka and said to Lisa in English, “Does this mean we have to have them for cocktails?”

Lisa looked at him and said with emotion, “I love this. This is an incredible experience.”

Hollis thought a moment. “Indeed, it is.” He held out his cup, and it was immediately filled with pepper vodka. There was not much talking, Hollis noted, mostly requests to pass a bowl or a bottle of this or that. The stench of the people around him had been overpowering, but with his fourth vodka he seemed not to notice or care. “That’s why they drink.”

“Why?”

“It kills the sense of smell.”

“It kills the pain too,” Lisa said. “It numbs the mind and the body, and eventually it kills them. Would we be any different if we were born in this village?”

Hollis looked around at the flat, brown faces, the misshapen bodies, blank eyes, and earthy hands. “I don’t know. I do know that something is terribly wrong here. I’ve seen Asian peasants who lived and looked better.”

Lisa nodded. “These people, like their ancestors, have been ill-used by their masters. And you always have to remember the Russian winter. It takes its toll on the mind and body.”

Hollis nodded. “That it does.” The Russian peasant, he thought. Subject of literature, folklore, and college professors. But no one understood their inner lives.

Lisa looked around the room and met each pair of eyes. She said spontaneously, “I am happy to be here.”

Forty faces smiled back. The man beside her asked, “Where did you get your Russian?”

Lisa replied, “My grandmother.”

“Ah,” said a man across the table. “You are Russian.”

That seemed to call for a toast, and another round was poured and drunk.

A man sitting behind Hollis slapped him on the back. “And you? Where did you learn that bad Russian?”

Everyone laughed.

Hollis raised a liter of heather-honey vodka. “From this bottle.”

Again everyone laughed.

The impromptu party went on. Hollis surveyed the hot, smoky room and the people in it. They seemed to blend into the brown wood walls, he thought; their smell, their color, their very being was of the wood and the black earth. He looked at Lisa, joking with a young man across from her, and thought he had not seen her so lively and animated all day. Something about her total acceptance of these people and her affinity with them appealed to him, and he knew at last that he liked her very much.

The women and older children were drinking tea, and Hollis watched them, then studied the men. The Russian peasant, he thought again. They were considered second-class citizens by both the state and the city dwellers and until recently were not even issued internal passports, effectively binding them to their villages as surely as if they were still serfs on an estate. And even with the passports, Hollis knew, they were not going anywhere. And there were one hundred million of them — the Dark People, as they were called in czarist Russia, as Lisa’s grandmother undoubtedly referred to them. And they carried the weight of the state and the world on their bent backs and got damned little in return. They’d been beaten by landlords and commissars, herded into collectives, and had their harvests seized, leaving them to die of starvation. And to complete the process of killing their souls, they’d been denied their church and its sacraments. But when Russia needed massive armies, these poor bastards were sent to the front by the millions and died by the millions without protest. For Mother Russia. Hollis said aloud, “God help them.”

Lisa looked at him and seemed to understand. “God help them,” she repeated.

Hollis and Lisa ate and drank. As they expected, the questions about America began, tentatively at first, then they came in a flood, and Hollis and Lisa found themselves answering two or three people at once. Hollis noticed that the questions were all asked by the men, and the women continued to stand silently. Hollis commented to Lisa, “Why don’t you stand over there with the women?”

“Why don’t you go fuck yourself?”

Hollis laughed.

A man asked, “Is it true that the banks can take a man’s farm if he does not pay his debts?”

Hollis replied, “Yes.”

“What does the man do then?”

“He… finds a job in town.”

“What if he cannot find a job?”

“He receives…” Hollis looked at Lisa and asked, “Welfare?”

“Blago, I think. Gosstrakh.”

Everyone nodded. Another man asked, “What is the penalty for withholding produce?”

Lisa answered, “A farmer owns all his produce. He can sell it whenever and wherever he can get the best price.”

The men looked at one another, a touch of disbelief in their eyes. One asked, “But what if he can’t sell it?”

Someone else asked, “I’ve read that they kill their livestock rather than sell it for nothing.”

“What if the crops fail? How does his family eat?”

“What if his pigs or cows all die of disease? Will he get help from the state?”

Hollis and Lisa tried to answer the questions, explaining they were not that familiar with farm problems. But even as he spoke, Hollis realized that the farm questions were partly metaphor. What the average Russian feared, above all else, was besporyadok—chaos, a world without order, a state without a powerful vozhd, without a Stalin, a czar-father to look after them. The ancestral memory of such times of disorder, famine, civil war, and social disintegration was strong. They were willing to swap freedom for security. The next step was believing what the government implied: Slavery was freedom.

Hollis commented to Lisa, “If we were talking to Martian capitalists we’d have more points of common reference.”

“We’re doing fine. Just stay honest.”

“When do we tell them to revolt?”

“After the vodka is gone or after we convince them American farmers all own two cars.”

A girl of about fifteen sitting on the floor suddenly stood and asked, “Miss, how old are you?”

Lisa smiled at the girl. “Almost thirty.”

“Why do you look so young?”

Lisa shrugged.

“My mother”—she pointed to a woman behind her who could have been fifty—“is thirty-two. Why do you look so young?”

Lisa felt uncomfortable. She said, “Your mother looks my age.”

One of the men shouted, “Go home, Lidiya.”

The girl started for the door but took a deep breath and walked directly to Lisa. Lisa stood. The girl looked at Lisa closely, then touched her hand. Lisa took the girl’s hand in hers, bent down, and whispered in her ear, “There is too much we don’t know about each other, Lidiya. Perhaps tomorrow, if there is time.”

Lidiya squeezed Lisa’s hand, smiled, and ran out the door.

Hollis looked at his watch and noticed it was near midnight. He wouldn’t have minded letting this go on until dawn, but that black Chaika prowling the dark roads was on his mind. He said to Pavel, “My wife is pregnant and needs sleep.” Hollis stood. “We’ve kept you all up long enough. Thank you for your hospitality and especially for the vodka.”

Everyone laughed. The people filed out as they had arrived, in family groups, and each man shook hands with Hollis and mumbled a good-night to Lisa. The women left without formalities.

Pavel and Ida led Lisa and Hollis through an opening in the kitchen wall curtained off with a quilt blanket. They passed directly into a bedroom, and Hollis realized there was no sitting room. The bedroom held two single cots piled high with quilts, but Pavel motioned them toward a rough pine door, and they entered the second bedroom through the first. This was the end room in the three-room log cabin, and Hollis guessed it was the master bedroom. The middle room was for the son and daughter, who would probably sleep in the kitchen tonight.

Pavel said, “Here is your bed.”

The room was lit, as the kitchen had been, by a single bulb hanging on a cord from an exposed log rafter. Heat came from a single-bar electric heater beside the bed. The double bed and two wooden trunks nearly filled the room, and a rag rug covered the plank floor. Hollis noticed spikes driven into the log walls as clothing hooks, and a pair of muddy trousers hung from one of them. There was one window in the short wall that looked into the back garden. Hollis saw there was no furniture other than the bed, though he had noticed in the children’s room a chest of drawers, night table, and a reading lamp. He saw that the partition wall dividing the bedrooms was made of rough-hewn pine boards with knotholes stuffed with newspaper. The thought occurred to Hollis that the minister of agriculture might want to spend a winter month here to fully appreciate the great strides made in the Russian peasants’ standard of living since the czars.

Lisa said to Pavel and Ida, “This is wonderful. Thank you for showing us the real Russia.” She added with a smile, “I’m sick to death of the Muscovites.”

Pavel smiled in return and addressed Hollis, “I don’t think you are tourists, but whoever you are, you are honest people and you can sleep well here.”

Hollis replied, “There will be no trouble if the people in Yablonya don’t speak to outsiders.”

“Whom do we speak to after the harvest? We are dead to them until the spring planting.”

Ida handed Lisa a roll of toilet paper that crinkled. “If you must go out back. My bladder was always giving me trouble when I was pregnant. Spokoiny nochi.”

The woman and her husband left.

Lisa felt the bed. “A real perina—feather mattress.”

“I’m allergic to feathers.” Hollis put his hands in his pockets. “I might have preferred a tractor shed.”

“Stop griping.”

He went to the bed and picked up a corner of the quilt and examined the seam, looking for bedbugs.

Lisa asked, “What are you looking for?”

“Looking for my chocolate mint on the pillow.”

She laughed.

Hollis pulled down the triple quilt to examine the sheets, but there weren’t any. There was only the stained mattress ticking with feather quills sticking out. The things we take for granted. He suddenly felt a sharp anger at Katherine for all her petty whining and bitching about embassy life.

Lisa seemed not to notice the dirty mattress and began looking around the room.

Hollis moved to the curtainless window and examined it. It was a swing-out type, factory-made, but was some inches shorter than the log opening and had to be set in mortar, which was now cracking. He felt a cold draft and saw his breath. Hollis tried the latch handle and satisfied himself the window would open if it became necessary to leave that way.

Lisa came up beside him and looked out the window. “That’s their private plot. Each peasant family is allowed exactly one acre. These plots comprise less than one percent of the agricultural lands but account for nearly thirty percent of the value of Soviet farm output.”

“I suppose there’s a lesson there for Moscow if Moscow cared.”

Lisa seemed lost in thought, then said, “This is like my grandmother described. This is the rural past that the intellectuals in Moscow and Leningrad are always romanticizing. The Russian purity of the land. It’s still here. Why don’t they come out and see it?”

“Because there’s no indoor plumbing.” Hollis moved away from the window and added sharply, “And it’s not here, Lisa. Not anymore. This is a rural slum, and the peasants don’t give a damn. Can’t you see that? Don’t you see how ramshackle everything is? Every man, woman, and child in this village wants only one thing: a one-way ticket to a city.”

She sat on the bed and stared at her feet, then nodded slowly.

“And while this might not be a sterile state farm,” he added, “it’s still a state-owned collective. The only thing these people own are their dirty clothes and greasy cooking utensils. As for these cabins and their so-called private plots, the government doesn’t care a damn about them. The plan is to wipe out the villages and put everyone in the state farms where they can be twice as inefficient and nonproductive in a true communist setting. If that shithead Burov came here with a piece of paper signed in Moscow, he could take these people to the Forty Years of October Sovkhoz and plow Yablonya into the ground. Once you understand that, you take the first step toward understanding this society.”

She didn’t respond for some time, then said, “You’re right of course. The people are alienated from the land, and the land is an orphan. The past is dead. The peasant culture is dead. The villages are dead. The bastards in Moscow won.”

He said in a more soothing tone, “Well, it’s too late to talk politics and philosophy.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I hope you’re right about these peasants, and we’re not awakened by the infamous three A.M. KGB knock on the door.”

“I think I was right.”

It occurred to Hollis that Lisa shared Alevy’s annoying and dangerous practice of dragging the Russians into things that it wasn’t fair to involve them in. With Alevy it was the Jews, with Lisa now, the peasants. And the Jews or the peasants might stick their necks out for a Westerner, but the Westerner was rarely around when the ax fell.

He doubted that these poor wretches of Yablonya even knew that it was against the law for a Soviet citizen to talk to foreigners, much less feed them and put them up. Hollis glanced at Lisa. She pulled off her boots and socks and wiggled her toes.

There was an awkward silence as Hollis considered what he was supposed to do or say.

Lisa said, “It’s very cold in here.” Fully dressed, she lay on the bottom quilt and pulled the two top quilts up to her chin. “Very cold.” She yawned.

Hollis took off his leather jacket and hung it on a nail, then stuck his knife in the log beside the bed. He sat on a trunk and pulled off his boots. He became aware that his heart was beating a bit faster than normal, and he was suddenly at a loss for words. He said finally, “Would you be more comfortable if I slept on the floor?”

“No. Would you?”

Hollis hesitated a moment, then took off his pullover and jeans and threw them over the trunk. He pulled the light chain, then slid into bed beside Lisa, wearing his T-shirt and shorts. He cleared his throat and said, “I didn’t mean to burst your bubble about rural Russia, peasants, and all that. I know you have some emotional involvement in the subject, and I think it’s good that you can see the bright side of things. I like that. The exuberance of youth.”

“Do you snore?”

“Sometimes. Do you?”

“Depends on who you ask. Am I on your side of the bed?”

“I don’t have a side.”

“You’re easy to sleep with. Why do you wear blue shorts? Air force?”

Hollis rolled away from her and looked out the window. “Spokoiny nochi.”

“Are you tired?”

“I should be,” he replied.

“I’m sort of hyper. What a day.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Do you want to talk?”

“I’ve said enough.”

“Are you angry about something? You sound angry.”

“I’m just tired. I think I angered you.”

“Are you annoyed because I have my clothes on?”

“They’re your clothes. If you want to wrinkle them, that’s your business.”

She said, “Before I was stationed here, I had three long-term relationships, three short-term ones, an affair with a married man, and two one-night stands. When I got here, I became involved with a man who has since left. Then there was Seth, and—”

“Slow down,” Hollis said. “I’m running out of fingers and toes.”

She leaned over him and put her hand on his shoulder.

He turned toward her and stared at her by the dim light of the window.

She said, “You shot two armed KGB men and never flinched, but now you’re shaking.”

“It’s cold.”

“I’m nervous too. But I want you.” She added, “There may not be any tomorrow for us.”

“Sounds like my fighter pilot line. But if there is a tomorrow?”

“We’ll take it a step at a time.”

“Right. And Seth? How will he take it?”

She didn’t reply.

Hollis felt her bare foot touch his, and he took her head in his hands and kissed her.

They undressed beneath the quilts and side by side wrapped themselves in each other’s arms.

She ran her hands over his back, and her fingers came into contact with smooth, unresilient knots.

“Scars,” he said.

“Oh.”

Hollis rolled on top of her and felt himself slip into her easily.

“Sam… that’s nice… warm.”

“Warm… yes.” He put his mouth over hers as he entered more deeply and felt her hips draw back into the soft feather bed, then she thrust upward with surprising force. She moaned into his mouth as her hips moved more quickly, then slowed to a rhythmic rising and falling.

Lisa pushed the covers off with her feet and entwined her legs around his back, then cupped his buttocks in her hands and pulled him deeper into her as she came.

Hollis came, and they lay closely embraced. Lisa put her head on his chest.

Hollis ran his fingers through her hair.

She said, “I hear your heart.”

“That’s good news. I feel your breath.”

She kissed his chest. “Now I lay me down to sleep.”

“Amen.” Hollis lay awake, his eyes open, staring at the blackness and listening to the silence. He smelled a cigarette from the next room, and someone coughed. The window rattled, and dried leaves blew against the panes, then silence again until a rat or mouse scampered over the rafter above.

An hour later he heard the sound of a Chaika’s engine on the lane, followed by the clanking of a tracked vehicle, probably a troop carrier.

He waited for the crunch of boots in the frozen garden, the smashing of the front door, then the footsteps across the wood floor.

He waited, but the engines droned off, and quiet returned. Hollis wondered if they were looking for him and Lisa, or for Jack Dodson, or all three. There were precious few citizens in this country whose whereabouts weren’t accounted for, and three foreigners on the loose was a major malfunction in the system, an intolerable situation.

Hollis closed his eyes and let himself drift. He vaguely heard Lisa mumbling in her sleep, then heard her say distinctly, “The car is stuck,” followed by, “I’m duty officer,” then, “He’s your friend too, Seth.”

Hollis always thought it bad manners to listen to the sleep talk of people he slept with, but this was the first woman he’d slept with who dreamed in Russian.

Hollis fell into a light, troubled sleep and had dreams of his own.

12

Lisa was awakened by a sound in the back garden. She shook Hollis. “There’s someone outside.”

Hollis opened his eyes and heard the creak of a door. “The bathroom is outside.”

“Oh.”

There were noises coming from the kitchen, and a rooster’s crowing cut through the dawn. Lisa said, “I can see my breath.” She exhaled. “See?”

“Very nice.” Through the window, Hollis saw Zina, Pavel and Ida’s daughter, coming from the outhouse. She passed by the curtainless window but kept her head and eyes straight ahead.

Lisa said, “It’s Sunday morning, Sam, and the church bells are silent all over Russia.”

Hollis nodded. “I’d like to hear a church bell again.”

They sat in silence awhile, listening to the morning birds, then Lisa said softly, “Do you like it in the morning?”

“What? Oh….”

“I’d hate to think I was a one-night stand, so let’s do it again.”

“All right.”

They made love again, then lay back under the quilts, watching their breath as the dawn lit up the window. Lisa said, “This is called smoking in bed.”

She put her arm around him and rubbed her toes over his foot. After a while she said, “Turn over.”

Hollis lay on his stomach, and she pulled the quilts down. In the weak light she saw the white and purple scars that started at his neck and continued down to his buttocks. “I guess you did get banged up. Does that hurt?”

“No.”

“Were you burned?”

“Hot shrapnel.”

“The plane exploded?”

“Well, not by itself. A surface-to-air missile went up its ass.”

“Go on.”

Hollis rolled onto his back. “Okay. December twenty-nine, 1972. Ironically it turned out to be the last American mission over North Vietnam. The Christmas bombings. Remember that?”

“No.”

“Anyway, I was over Haiphong, released the bombs, and turned back toward South Vietnam. Then my radar officer, Ernie Simms, in the backseat says coolly, ‘Missile coming up.’ And he gives me some evasive-action instructions. But the SAM was onto us, and I couldn’t shake it. The last thing Ernie said was ‘Oh, no.’ The next thing I knew, there was an explosion, the instrument panel went black, and the aircraft was out of control. There was blood spurting all over the place, and the canopy was covered with it. I thought it was mine, but it was Ernie Simms’. The F-4 was in a tight roll, wing over wing and streaking straight into the South China Sea. I jettisoned the canopy, and Simms and I blew out of the cockpit. Our parachutes opened, and we came down into the water. I floated around awhile watching enemy gunboats converging on me and contemplating life in a POW camp.”

Hollis sat up and stared out the window. He said, “I saw Simms in his flotation seat, about a hundred meters away. He’d gotten a compress bandage on his neck and seemed alert. I called to him and he answered. One of the gunboats was bearing down on him. He yelled out to me, ‘Sam, they’ve got me.’ I swam toward him, but he waved me away. There wasn’t much I could do anyway. I saw the Viets pull him aboard. Then they came for me. But by that time the Marine air-sea rescue choppers had come in with guns and rockets blazing away at the gunboats. A chopper plucked me up. I saw the boat that Simms was on, cutting a course back toward the North Viet shore batteries, and our choppers broke off the pursuit…. They flew me to a hospital ship.”

Lisa didn’t say anything.

Hollis said, “I found out afterwards that I was the last pilot shot down over North Vietnam. I saw my name mentioned in a history book once. Very dubious honor. Simms has the equally dubious distinction of being the last MIA.”

“My lord… what an experience.” She added tentatively, “Do you think… Simms… I mean, he never turned up?”

“No. MIA.”

“And… did you think… does it bother you to talk about it?”

Hollis answered her unasked question. “I don’t know what I could have done for him. But he was my copilot and my responsibility. Maybe… maybe I don’t have the sequence of events right, the distance between me and him, the time when our choppers came in… I think I was out of it. I don’t know what I could have done for him. Except to swim to him and see to his wound and join him in captivity. Maybe that’s what I should have done as the commander of the aircraft.”

“But you were wounded.”

“I didn’t even know that.”

“Then you were in shock.”

Hollis shrugged. “It’s done. It’s finished.”

She put her hand on his shoulder.

A few minutes passed in silence, then Hollis said, “So, to come full circle, Ernie Simms was never on any North Viet list of KIAs, or POWs, so he’s still officially missing. Yet I saw them take him aboard alive. And now with this Dodson business I’m starting to wonder again about all of that. All the guys whose chutes were seen opening and who were never heard of again. Now I’m wondering if Ernie Simms and a thousand other guys didn’t wind up in Russia.”

“In Russia…?” Lisa found her jacket under the quilts and got a cigarette out of the pocket. She lit it and took a long pull. “Want one?”

“Maybe later.”

“This is a mindblower, Sam.”

Hollis looked at her. “A mindblower… yes.” He said, “Look, we should get moving.” Hollis swung his legs out of the bed, then walked to the trunk where his clothes lay.

Lisa whistled. “Nice body.”

“Cut it out.” He looked at her standing naked by the electric heater gathering her clothes from between the quilts. “You don’t have fat thighs, but your feet are big.”

They dressed and went through the second bedroom into the kitchen, where Ida greeted them and gave them a washbowl of hot water, a towel, and a bar of soap. They washed at the side table that still had a tub of dirty dishes on it. Lisa excused herself and went out back. Hollis went out into the cold air and walked to the dirt road. The Chaika had not left any tread marks on the frozen mud, but the vehicle with it, a half-track, had left its tread marks. Why they hadn’t stopped and searched the village was anyone’s guess. “Luck.” He added, “Laziness.” Though maybe someone was looking out for them.

Hollis walked on the mud path beside Pavel’s izba, entered the dead garden, and passed Lisa on her way back to the house. She said, “Isn’t this fun?”

Hollis assured her it wasn’t and kept walking. When he got back to the kitchen, he found Pavel sitting at the kitchen table with Lisa. Also at the table were Pavel’s children, Mikhail and Zina. They were sharing a math textbook and doing homework, though it was Sunday. Hollis sat and Ida served him a boiled egg, kasha, and tea. The Russian tea was, as always, excellent. There was a stack of brown bread and a bowl of butter on the table. Hollis spoke to the two teenagers about school, then asked, “What is your favorite subject?”

The boy smiled and answered in English, “English.”

Hollis smiled in return. He continued in Russian, “I know all the students in Moscow take English, but I didn’t know they taught it in the country.”

The girl replied in halting English, “Everyone in school learn English. We speak it sometimes between we.”

Lisa said in English, “Who is your favorite American author?”

Mikhail replied, “We know a few now we are reading. Jack London and James Baldwin.” He asked, “Does The Fire Next Time be printed in America?”

“Oh, yes. I’ve read it,” Lisa answered.

“They put him in jail?” Zina asked.

“No. They gave him a big royalty check. Komissiya.”

Mikhail said, “Our teacher say they put him in jail.”

“No.”

Zina said to her brother in Russian, “You see? Last year an instructor told us he was arrested after the book was published. This year another instructor told us he wasn’t allowed to publish the book and fled to France.”

Hollis cracked his boiled egg. He wondered why the government made English so available to school children. A paranoid would say, “So that they can run America someday.” But there had to be more to it than that. He’d actually heard Moscow school children speaking English to one another. Whatever the government’s reasoning was, the students considered it the height of chic. Maybe, just maybe, he thought, there is hope.

Zina asked in English, “Americans learn Russian?”

“No,” Lisa replied. “Not many.”

“You speak Russian very good. But what region is your accent?”

“Maybe a little bit Kazan, Volga region. A little Moscow. My grandmother’s Russian was old-fashioned, and maybe I still use her accent.”

“A very nice accent,” Zina said. “Kulturny.”

Hollis noticed that Pavel and Ida beamed every time one of their children used English. Hollis opened his briefcase to see if his staff had packed any reading material as was customary whenever anyone had to travel in the USSR. He found a Time magazine and put it in front of Mikhail and Zina. “This may help you with your English.” He added, “Don’t let it come to the attention of the authorities.”

They both looked at him with an expression that he’d seen before in these situations. There was first a suppressed excitement, then a sort of affected indifference, as though the contraband literature meant nothing to them. Then there was a look almost of shame, a quiet acknowledgment that their government controlled them. It was humiliating, Hollis thought.

Mikhail and Zina examined the magazine right down to the staples holding it together. They opened it at random and spread out a two-page color ad for Buick. The next page had an ad for Lincoln. In fact, the magazine was packed with ads for the new car models. There were sexually suggestive ads for perfumes, lingerie, and designer jeans that seemed to hold Mikhail’s interest. Pavel leaned over to get a better look, and Ida stopped what she was doing and stood behind her children.

It was general embassy policy to distribute into the population every Western periodical that came into the embassy. Even if it was mistakenly thrown in the trash, it eventually wound up in the hands of a thousand Muscovites before it fell apart. And though most Muscovites and Leningraders had seen at least one English language publication, Hollis doubted if anyone in Yablonya or the Red Flame collective had.

Hollis noticed that Mikhail and Zina were reading a story about the upcoming elections. Hollis looked at his watch and saw it was just seven. “It’s time for us to go.” He stood.

Mikhail stood also. “It’s my turn to gather the eggs. Excuse me. Thank you.” He left.

Zina helped her mother with the dishes. Lisa tried to help, but Ida told her to have another cup of tea.

Hollis followed Pavel outside. The peasant walked to the far end of his private plot where a small pen held three pigs. He said to Hollis, “The trough leaks water, and I’m tired of carrying buckets from the well.”

“Can you fix the trough?”

“I need some pine pitch or tar. But I can’t get the fools to give me any.”

“What fools?”

“The fools at the collective office. They say they have none. Well, maybe they don’t.” He added, “It’s difficult to get anything for the private plots.”

“Sometimes a hollowed-out log works better for a trough.”

“Yes, that’s true. I’ll need a big log though. I have a good pickax.” He added, “It would be easier if they gave me the tar.”

Hollis asked, “Do you go to church today?”

“Church? There’s no church here. Only in the big cities. I saw an old church once in Mozhaisk, but it’s a museum. I didn’t go in.”

“Did you ever want to go to church?”

Pavel scratched his head. “I don’t know. Maybe if I could talk to a priest I could answer you. I’ve never seen a priest, but I know what they look like from books. Do American farmers go to church?”

“Yes. I’d say most of them do.”

Pavel looked into the sky. “Rain. But maybe snow. See those clouds? When they get soft grey like that instead of white or black, it could be snow.”

Pavel looked out across the brown fields behind his plot. He spoke in that faraway, heavy tone that Hollis had come to associate with their so-called fatalism. Pavel said, “The snow becomes so deep that the children can’t go to school and we can’t leave the house. They are supposed to keep the roads plowed, but they don’t. I sit in the house and drink too much. Sometimes I beat my wife and the children for no reason. I had another daughter, Katya, but she died one winter of a burst appendix. Someday they say they will move us to a sovkhoz. Maybe. But I don’t know if I want to leave this house. What do American farmers do in winter?”

“Fix things. Clean their barns, hunt. Some take jobs. It’s not so cold in the winter in America.”

“Yes, I know that.”

“How long has Yablonya been here?”

“Who can say? I came here as a child after the war with my mother. My father died in the war. The government sent my mother here from a bigger village that the Germans burned. A man once told me Yablonya was within the Romanov lands. Another man said it was on the estate of a rich count. Everyone says it was bigger once. There were barns and stables where people had their own horses, troikas, and plows. There were two more wells. But no pumps. Now we have a pump. Some say there was even a church between here and the next village. But that village is gone too. Typhoid. So they burned it. I think the church was burned too. The Germans or maybe the commissars. Who knows?” He asked Hollis, “Do you miss your home?”

“I have no home.”

“No home?”

“I’ve lived in many places.” They spoke casually for a while, then Hollis said, “We must be going.” He added, “I’m afraid if someone here — the children, the babushkas — speak of our visit, it will not be good for Yablonya.”

“I know that. We will discuss it after you leave.”

Hollis took Pavel’s hand and pressed a ten-ruble note into it.

Pavel looked at the note and shoved it into his pocket. “Bring your car around, and I’ll give you five kilos of butter. They’ll give you twenty rubles for it in Moscow.”

“We’re going to Leningrad. Anyway, the money was for your hospitality. Da svedahnya.” Hollis turned and walked back to the house. Lisa was ready to go and had a burlap bag in her hand. She said, “Ida gave me some honey and a bag of pears.”

Hollis retrieved his briefcase from under the table. “Thank you, Ida. Good-bye, Zina.” He took Lisa’s arm, and they left. As they walked down the road, they heard an old man singing:

They went behind the hayrick, and standing near the Zhiguli was the young girl named Lidiya. Lisa smiled at her and said in Russian, “Good morning, Lidiya. I wondered if I’d see you.”

The girl did not return the smile, but said in Russian, “There is a boy here, Anatoly, who is a member of the Komsomol. You know what that is — the Young Communist League? I think this boy will tell the authorities of your visit.”

Lisa took the girl’s arm. “Perhaps the other children can talk to Anatoly.”

The girl shook her head. “Anatoly speaks to no one and listens to no one. No one in Yablonya.”

Hollis said to Lidiya, “Is Pavel Fedorovich the head man here?”

“They don’t let us have a head man. But yes, it is Pavel Fedorovich.”

“Then tell him what you told us. And be certain Anatoly does not leave this village today.”

She nodded.

Lisa said, “Thank you. I’m sorry we couldn’t speak longer.”

Lidiya said, “I want to know more about America.”

Lisa hesitated, then took her card from her bag and gave it to Lidiya. “If you should ever get to Moscow, with your school or on holiday, call that number. From a phone booth only, and only give your first name. Ask for me. Lisa Rhodes.”

Lidiya stared at the card with the Great Seal on it and pronounced, “Lee-za Rhodes.”

Lisa gave the girl a kiss on the cheek.

Lidiya stepped back, looked from Lisa to Hollis, then turned and ran off.

Hollis said, “I shouldn’t have left that magazine here, and you shouldn’t have given her that card.”

Lisa replied, “You told me not so long ago that you can’t let them dictate how you are going to live. They create fear and suspicion, and it comes between people.”

Hollis nodded. “Let’s go.” They got into the car, and Hollis started the engine. He let it warm up while the defroster ran.

Lisa said, “I left ten rubles in the bedroom.”

“For me?”

She laughed. “You get hard currency. Very hard.”

Hollis smiled. “I gave Pavel a tenner. So, do you think we can get away with just dinner, or do we have to have them for the weekend?”

“I think they were nice.”

“He beats his wife.” Hollis tried to put the car into gear, but the linkage was stuck again. “A nuclear power. I don’t get it.” He played with the clutch and stick shift, finally forcing it into second gear. “Okay.”

Hollis pulled out onto the dirt road and turned in the opposite direction from which they had come.

“Are we going to find that telephone?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t chance that.”

“Where are we going? Mozhaisk is the other way.”

“We are not going to Mozhaisk. We’re going to Gagarin.” Hollis honked his horn and waved to Pavel, Ida, Mikhail, Zina, and the others who were waving from their front gardens. “Yablonya,” he said. “This place will sit on my mind for some time.”

“Mine too.”

Hollis passed the last izba in the village and sped up. The Zhiguli bounced badly on the rutted and frozen mud. “Chornaya gryazi,” Hollis said. “The black mud. This stuff will turn to pudding when the sun warms it. The panzers used to sink up to their turrets.”

“Why Gagarin?”

“Well, there are people between Mozhaisk and Moscow who are looking for Major Dodson and maybe for us. So we’re heading west to Gagarin, where I hope there’s not an all points out for stray Americans. We’ll ditch the car, then take the train to Moscow. Okay?”

“What are my choices?”

“You can ride in the backseat. Left or right side.”

Lisa lit a cigarette. “You’re a pretty smart guy.”

“Foreign travel is educational. And we’ll see how smart I am. Could you crack the window?”

Lisa rolled down the window. “Can we stop for a pack of cigarettes?”

“Next Seven-Eleven you see.”

“Thanks.”

Hollis headed west along the straight dirt road. He couldn’t imagine that the Soviet state did not have the wherewithal to pave or even gravel back roads. Perhaps, he thought, it was just another subtle means of keeping the peasants where they belonged and making their miserable lives more miserable. He knew he had to get the Zhiguli onto blacktop before the mud thawed.

“Do you know the way?” Lisa asked.

“It’s about fifty K west of here on the old Minsk — Moscow road. And yes, I’m afraid this is—”

“Another fucking itinerary violation.”

“What happened to that sweet girl who was so obsequious toward me?”

She laughed. “I was awed by you. That’s how you talked me into bed.”

Hollis thought it best to leave that one alone. He said, “I need a shower.”

“You sure do.”

Hollis pushed the Zhiguli hard. It was a few minutes past eight, and he could see water in the ruts now instead of ice. He figured they had about fifteen minutes left on this road before it swallowed the Zhiguli.

Lisa said, “Do you think those people in Yablonya will be all right?”

“Well, if they don’t report their contact with foreigners, and the authorities find out on their own, or if the little Komsomol shit tells them, it will be bad. In the intelligence business we talk about the average Ivan’s attitudinal loyalty to the state. Some say he’s got it, others don’t think so. In America, if Joe Smith had a Russian knocking on his door asking to be put up on the sly, Joe would be on the horn to the FBI in a flash. Joe does that because he thinks it’s right, not because he thinks the FBI will torture him if he doesn’t. Ivan, on the other hand, is about half patriotic and half terrorized. That’s my professional analysis. Personally I think Yablonya is fucked.”

Lisa stayed silent for some time, then said, “I should have realized the trouble they’d be in… it just seemed like a solution to our problem.”

“Don’t worry about it. I just hope the KGB doesn’t go snooping around there this morning. We need a few hours’ head start.” Hollis could feel the road getting soft and heard mud splashing against the wheel wells. The muffler was thumping. Ahead he saw a horse-drawn potato wagon plodding along the narrow road. “Damn it.” He knew he couldn’t slow down behind the wagon without getting mired in the muck. “Hold on.” Hollis came up behind the wagon, angled the car to the left, and cut back so that the Zhiguli’s right side was inches from the horse and wagon while its left wheels were off the road into the drainage ditch. The car started to flip over, then settled down and flopped back onto the road in front of the horse, who got splattered with mud and reared up. The car fishtailed in the mud but kept its traction.

Lisa took a deep breath. “Wow.”

Within five minutes they came to an intersecting road of gravel, and Hollis cut north on it. He nudged the Zhiguli up to fifty kph and listened to the muffler working itself loose.

Lisa asked, “Do you want a pear?”

“Sure.”

She got a pear from the bag and wiped it on her sleeve before she handed it to him.

Hollis saw the main utility poles of the old Minsk — Moscow road ahead. He bit into the pear. “Good grusha.” He turned onto the paved road and headed west. “About twenty minutes to Gagarin.” Hollis saw no traffic on the road in either direction. He pressed on the accelerator and got the Zhiguli up to ninety kph. The engine whined, and the transmission whined back, but the car held steady. The muffler had quieted down on the level surface.

Hollis saw a black car in his rearview mirror. The car was gaining on him fast and had to be doing over a hundred kph. As the car drew closer he recognized the grillwork of a Chaika. He looked at his dashboard and saw that his tachometer was already in the red line. “Don’t look now, but…”

She turned her head. “Oh, shit! Is that them?”

“Don’t know.”

“What can we do?”

“Bluff and bluster. Tell them we’ve already called our embassy and so on. If I think it’s necessary and if I get a chance, I’ll try to kill them.” He slid his knife out of his boot and slipped it inside his leather coat.

“Sam… I’m frightened.”

“You’ll be fine. Be a bitch.”

The Chaika was fifty meters behind them now and swung out into the oncoming lane. Lisa looked straight ahead. Hollis glanced in his sideview mirror and smiled. “Wave.”

“What?”

The Chaika drew abreast and honked its horn. Two young couples waved from the car. Hollis smiled and waved back. The woman in the front passenger side pointed to the crushed fender and pantomimed swigging from a bottle and jerking on a steering wheel. The young man in the back was blowing kisses to Lisa. His female companion punched his arm playfully. The Chaika accelerated and passed them. Hollis said, “Crazy Muscovite kids. What’s this country coming to?”

Lisa drew a long breath. She opened her bag, took out a compact, and brushed her face with blush, then carefully put on lip gloss. “I’ll do my eyes when you stop for a light.” She ran a brush through her hair. “Want me to do your hair? It’s messy.”

“Okay.”

She brushed his hair as he drove. She said, “We need a toothbrush.” She added, “I want us to look good for them.”

“For whom?”

“The people in Gagarin or the KGB or Burov. Whoever we meet first.”

Hollis said, “You look good. Too good. Tone it down a bit.”

“We’re not going to pass for Russians anyway, Sam.”

“We’ll try to pass as something other than American embassy staff.”

She shrugged and blotted the blush and lip gloss with a handkerchief. “At least I’m wearing a vatnik. You look like Indiana Jones with your boots and leather jacket.” She tousled his hair. “Well, we didn’t shower.”

Hollis said, “Standard procedure is try to pass as a socialist comrade from one of the Baltic states. They don’t dress half bad, look Western, and speak un-Russian Russian. How about Lithuanian? Or do you feel like a Latvian?”

“I want to be an Estonian.”

“You got it.”

Ten minutes later they saw squat izbas on either side of the road, then buildings with painted wood siding. Hollis slowed down. “Gagarin.”

“Named after the cosmonaut?”

“Yes. He was born in a village near here. From a squalid izba to a space capsule — log cabin to the stars. You have to give these people credit where it’s due.”

They came into the middle of Gagarin, the district center for the region, situated on both banks of the Bolshaya Gzhat River. It was a town of about ten thousand people, big enough, Hollis thought, so that neither the Zhiguli nor its occupants stood out. Like Mozhaisk, it looked as if everyone had gone to the moon for the weekend. The town boasted a restaurant and a memorial museum to their famous native son.

Hollis stopped the car in the middle of the empty street and rolled down his window. An enormous babushka, wrapped in black, was carrying a crate on her shoulder like a man. Hollis asked, “Vokzal?”

“Good, good.” She opened the rear door of the Zhiguli, threw the crate in, and piled in after it. The Zhiguli’s rear dropped. Hollis looked at Lisa, smiled, and shrugged. He asked, “Gde?”

“There, there. Turn over there. Where are you from?”

Hollis turned down a narrow street and saw the train station, a covered concrete platform. “From Estonia.”

“Yes? Do the police let you drive with dented fenders in Estonia? You must get that fixed here.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Where are your hats and gloves? Do you want to get pneumonia?”

“No.” Hollis pulled up to a small empty parking area beside the concrete platform. He got out and helped the old woman up the platform steps. Lisa followed with his briefcase, and they made their way through the crowd to the wooden ticket shed on the platform. Hollis and Lisa consulted the posted schedule and saw that the next Moscow train would be along in twenty minutes. Hollis knocked on the ticket window, and a wooden panel slid back, revealing a middle-aged woman wearing a grey railroad coat. A fire blazed in an old potbellied stove behind her. Hollis said, “Two one-way tickets to Moscow.”

She looked at him.

Hollis knew she was supposed to ask for an internal passport, but ticket agents rarely did. In his case, however, she might make an exception. Hollis said, “Is it possible to be ticketed on to Leningrad, then to Tallinn?”

“No. You are Estonian?”

“Yes.”

The woman craned her neck to get a look at Lisa, then turned to Hollis. “You must be ticketed in Moscow for Leningrad and Tallinn. Twenty-two and seventy-five.”

Hollis gave her twenty-five rubles and took the tickets and change. “Spasibo.”

As they moved away from the ticket booth, Lisa glanced back. “I wonder if she’s going to call the militia.”

Hollis moved around to the rear of the wooden ticket shed, looked around, drew his knife, and severed the telephone line. “No. But if she leaves the ticket booth, we’re back in the Zhiguli.”

Lisa took his arm. “Somehow I feel you’ll get us out of this.” She added, “You got us into it.”

Hollis made no reply.

She asked, “What would you have done if she asked us for passports or identity cards?”

“Are you asking out of curiosity, or are you trying to learn the business?”

“Both.”

“Well, then, I would have… you tell me.”

Lisa thought a moment, then said, “I’d pretend I couldn’t find my ID, leave, and pay a peasant to buy two tickets.”

Hollis nodded. “Not bad.”

Lisa and Hollis walked down the cold, grey concrete platform, which looked like a scene out of Doctor Zhivago, crowded with black-coated and black-scarved humanity. Old peasants, men and women, with teenage boys to help them, lugged crates, boxes, and suitcases filled with dairy products and the last fresh produce of the year. They were all headed for one place: Moscow, the Center, where eight million mouths had to be fed and could not be fed properly through the government’s distribution system. Some of the peasants would go to the markets, the government’s grudging concession to capitalism, and some of the peasants would get no farther than a side street near the railroad terminal. Hollis had heard from some of the wives in the embassy that by November broccoli and cauliflower could sell for the equivalent of two dollars a pound, tomatoes for twice that, and lettuce was sold by the gram. By December the fresh produce disappeared until May.

The peasant women sat like men, Hollis noticed, their legs spread and their hands dangling in their laps. Not a single man was shaven, and there was not one decent article of clothing among the two hundred or so people. The women wore rubber boots and galoshes, and though the men’s shoes and boots were leather, they were raw and cracked from long, hard use. The few young girls wore plastic boots of garish colors: red, yellow, pale blue. Hollis said softly to Lisa, “You might as well powder your nose again. Everyone’s staring at you anyway.”

“My word, look at that. That man has dead rabbits in that sack.”

The Byelorussian Express came lumbering down the track, and everyone stood and moved their wares to the edge of the platform, forming a veritable wall of boxes and crates. The train stopped, the doors opened, and Hollis vaulted inside followed by Lisa. They took two empty seats by the attendant’s tea cubicle.

Within ten minutes every nook and cranny of the car was packed with bundles, and the train pulled out. Hollis checked his watch. It was nine-thirty. With stops in Mozhaisk and Golitsyno, the train should arrive at the Byelorussian station on Gorky Square well before noon.

The grimness of the platform quickly gave way to animated conversation, jokes, and laughter. It was rough peasant talk, Hollis noted, but there was no profanity, and there seemed to be a bond between these people, though clearly many of them were getting acquainted for the first time. The bond was not only the journey, he thought, but the brotherhood of the downtrodden. How unlike the Moscow metro where you could hear a pin drop at the height of rush hour.

Food was being passed around now, and there was good-natured teasing about the qualities of each person’s wares. Hollis heard a woman say, “Not even a Muscovite would buy these apples of yours.”

Another woman answered, “I tell them they are radishes.”

Everyone laughed.

An old man across the aisle pushed a dripping slice of tomato under Hollis’ nose. Hollis took it from his brown fingers. “Thank you, father.” He passed it to Lisa. “Eat it.”

She hesitated, then popped it into her mouth. “Good. See if anyone has orange juice.”

“Low profile. Feign sleep or simplemindedness.”

Lisa whispered in Russian, “Can I smoke?”

“Not here. In the lav.”

“Do you want another pear? Honey?”

“No, honey.”

“This is nice.”

Hollis looked around the car. It was quite nice. Clean, lace curtains on the windows, and little bud vases attached to the windowsills, each with a real rosebud. The more he saw of Russia, he admitted, the less he understood it. The windows, however, were dirty, and this was somehow comforting.

They spoke as little as possible, and Hollis urged Lisa to remain in her seat unless she really had to use the facilities. The conductor, a middle-aged woman, came through, took their tickets, and marked them rather than punching them. She said, “Are you Muscovites?”

Hollis replied, “No. Estonians. From Moscow we go to Leningrad, then home to Tallinn.”

“Ah. Your Russian is good.” She looked Lisa over and observed, “Those are very nice boots.”

“Thank you.”

“They have better things in our Baltic republics. I never understood that.” She handed Hollis the tickets. “Have a safe journey.”

“Thank you.”

The train gathered speed on the straight, flat trackbed. There was piped-in music now. It was not the classical or folk music usually heard in public places, Hollis noted, but soft, easy-listening music, Soviet Muzak.

The train pulled into Mozhaisk, and there was the same crush of humanity on the platform carrying the same bursting cardboard suitcases and ungainly bundles. The train loaded the last two cars only. There were soldiers and militia on the platform. Hollis and Lisa slumped down into their seats and feigned sleep. The train pulled out and continued its journey through the bleak Russian landscape.

Golitsyno was a five-minute stop, and within fifteen minutes of leaving the station they could see the tall spire of Moscow University in the Lenin Hills. “Almost home,” Lisa commented. She added, “No, not really home.”

The train made short stops at suburban stations, Setun, Kuncevo, Fili, then Testovskaya. Lisa said, “Why don’t we get off here? We can walk to the embassy from here.”

“We’re supposed to be going on to Leningrad, so we get off at the Byelorussian terminal.”

“I want to get off here. I’ve had it.”

“Sit down.”

Lisa sat back in her seat. “Sorry. Getting edgy. I trust you. You did a magnificent job. Even if something happens and we don’t get into the embassy…. How are we going to get into the embassy if the watchers are waiting for us near the gate?”

“I’ll show you a spy trick.”

“You’d better.”

The Byelorussian Express from Minsk pulled into Moscow’s Byelorussian Station at ten minutes to noon. Hollis and Lisa left quickly and pushed through the throngs packed into the hundred-year-old station. Hollis noticed that the people returning to the hinterlands had not appreciably lightened their loads, but were burdened now with plastic bags filled with clothing, new shoes, cooking utensils, and all manner of Moscow’s bounty. The most worthless thing they had on them were the leftover rubles in their pockets. A few passing Muscovites, well-dressed by comparison, gave the country folk hard looks to show they didn’t like the competition for consumer goods by peasants.

Hollis and Lisa passed pairs of KGB Border Guards, who were at every transportation hub in the Soviet Union but were nonetheless intimidating to foreigner and native alike.

Hollis and Lisa came out of the station into Gorky Square, dominated by a huge statue of the writer. The sky was the usual grey, and the air seemed filled with fumes compared to the fresh air of the countryside.

They crossed the square and walked down Gorky Street, Moscow’s main street, toward the Kremlin. Hollis led Lisa into the Minsk Hotel, and he entered a phone booth off the lobby. He dialed the embassy, spoke to the Marine watch-stander, then the Sunday duty officer, who turned out to be his own aide, Captain O’Shea. “Ed, this is me. Okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

“This is a photoflash,” Hollis said, using the word for a personal emergency. “Get a car to me at location delta. Ten minutes.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll go myself.”

“No, stay there and find me Mr. Nine. I want to see him.”

“Mr. Nine was very worried about you. He’s in his office.”

“Ten minutes.”

“Yes, sir. Welcome home.”

Hollis hung up the phone and said to Lisa, “Seth is very worried about you.”

Lisa didn’t reply. They left the Minsk Hotel and continued down Gorky Street. She said, “That was neat. Where is location delta?”

“I forgot.”

She looked at him. “Are you jerking me around?”

“Yeah. It’s Gastronom One. You know it?”

“Sure. But we Muscovites still call it Yeliseyevsky’s, its pre-Revolution name. Best gourmet store in Moscow. The only one actually.” She added, “We’re going to make it, aren’t we?”

“Looks like it.”

They passed the Stanislavsky Drama Theater, walked through Pushkin Square, and crossed the Garden Ring, which once had been the outer wall of the city. They came to the ornate facade of Gastronom One, then doubled back. Hollis said, “I’m assuming the KGB doesn’t know location delta from Times Square. We change the locations every time we have to use one. So there should be no one here from the KGB to meet us. However, they will have a car or two close behind the embassy car. As soon as the embassy car slows down, you jump in the rear, scoot over quick, and I follow. Okay?”

“I saw this in a movie once.”

They waited. Lisa lit a cigarette. “This is my last one. But I have a pack in my office. Or my room.”

“That’s good news.”

A black Ford came at a good pace up Gorky Street, and Hollis saw two security men in the front and a man who looked like Seth Alevy in the back. Behind the Ford was a black Chaika. The Ford suddenly swerved to the curb and braked hard. The back door flew open, Lisa slipped in beside Alevy, and Hollis got in, then slammed the door as the car accelerated. Lisa said, “Hello, Seth.”

Alevy addressed Hollis directly, “You had better have a good explanation, Colonel.”

Hollis didn’t reply.

“Where is the car?” Alevy asked.

“At the railroad station.”

“What railroad station?”

“Gagarin.”

“Gagarin? What the hell were you doing there?”

“Getting the train to Moscow.”

Lisa opened her burlap bag. “Seth, do you want a pear?”

“No.” Alevy folded his arms and looked out the side window.

The Chaika got up close behind them, and the security driver sped up until another Chaika appeared in front of the Ford and boxed them in. The American driver pulled out, and the three cars continued their dangerous game, weaving through central Moscow and down Kalinin Prospect.

Within ten minutes the Ford reached the embassy and shot past the militia booth, crossed the sidewalk, and entered the gates. The Chaika behind them sounded its horn, and the man in the passenger side put his arm out the window and extended his middle finger. The security men in the front of the Ford returned the salute of the KGB men in the Chaika, while Hollis returned the salute of the Marine watchstanders. The Ford went around the flagpole and stopped at the entrance to the chancery. Hollis, Lisa, and Alevy piled out. Alevy said, “No offense, but you both smell.”

Lisa said, “I think I’ll go and shower.”

“Not a half-bad idea.”

Hollis said to Alevy, “Get a call through to the Mozhaisk morgue. Tell them not to wait for an escort and have them drive the body to Sheremetyevo airport freight terminal. Send a consular officer to the airport to take charge of the remains.” He took the manila envelope from his briefcase. “Here’s all the paperwork, including the export permit and a charge for the coffin that they want paid before they’ll ship it out.”

“I thought you were in the damned coffin. I called the Soviet Foreign Ministry, the KGB—”

“That’s like dialing M for murder, Seth.”

“Where did you spend the night?”

“Is that a professional question?” Hollis inquired.

Lisa interjected. “We hid out in a village called Yablonya—”

“Hid out? From whom?”

Hollis answered, “From a guy named Burov. KGB type. Colonel.” Hollis described him. “Know the man?”

“Maybe. I’ll ask around. Okay, please be in the sixth-floor safe room in thirty minutes. Both of you. Can you do that?”

Lisa said, “I need an hour.” She turned and walked into the chancery.

Alevy stared at Hollis, who stared back. Alevy said, “You know, it was my fault for letting you take her along.”

“I think I cured her of her fascination with espionage.”

“On the contrary, I think. Did you get along all right?”

“She was an asset.”

“Maybe I should recruit her,” Alevy said.

“She has what it takes. And we have no female types now.”

“I’ll wire Langley. What was her strongest asset?”

“Humor in the face of danger.”

“We must discuss this soon.”

“Fine. But not out in the open where the directional microphones can eavesdrop.” Hollis turned and walked into the chancery. He went through the lobby and came out onto the rear terrace. She was there waiting for him. She said, “What were you talking to Seth about?”

“Your assets.”

They walked on the birch-lined path beside the quadrangle toward her unit. She said, “I wondered if I’d see this place again.”

“No more bitching about your unit.”

“No, sir. I love my bathroom. Kiss the tile.”

Hollis looked out on the quadrangle. John Uhlman from the consular section was teaching his son how to ride a two-wheeler. The scarecrow had been built in their absence, and there were three oddly shaped pumpkins at its feet. Hollis observed, “No corn stalks.”

She followed his gaze. “No corn stalks.”

“Well…” He glanced at his watch.

“Last chance for a pear.”

“I’ll take one.”

She held out the bag. “Take the honey too. I’m off sugar.”

“I’m off too, sweets.”

They both smiled. Finally Lisa asked, “How do we stand?”

Hollis put his hands in his pockets and shrugged.

“Is that an answer?”

“How do you stand with Seth?”

“It’s over.”

“Then what’s he angry about?”

She threw the bag over her shoulder. “Well, think about it.” She turned and walked down the path.

Hollis stood awhile, then made his way across the quadrangle.

13

Seth Alevy said to Charles Banks, “John Uhlman from the consular section is headed for Sheremetyevo to take care of the business that Colonel Hollis did not complete.”

Hollis noticed that Alevy was talking mostly to Banks, ignoring him and Lisa.

Hollis saw that Banks was wearing his Sunday best, though since it was Sunday in Moscow, everyone else was dressed casually. Hollis had showered and put on jeans and a flannel shirt. Alevy wore pleated slacks and a V-necked sweater. Lisa, he thought, looked good in a white turtleneck and tight jeans, though she was somewhat cool to him. Hollis sat at the far end of the conference table in the ambassador’s safe room; Banks sat at the opposite end, and Lisa and Alevy sat in the center facing each other. Hollis noticed for the first time a framed piece of calligraphy hanging on the wall and read it:

Hollis thought that Banks and the ambassador would probably prove that true in the next few weeks.

Alevy continued, “Obviously we can’t retrieve the rented Zhiguli, so we called the Intourist Hotel and told them it was broken down at Gagarin railroad station. We’ll get a hell of a bill for that.”

Hollis knew that Alevy was not in the least interested in these petty administrative matters, but Charles Banks was. It was the nature of the diplomat to never break a local rule or offend a host country. Even if you were handing the foreign minister a note with a declaration of war on it, you were polite about it. Hollis perceived that Alevy was trying to make points with Banks at Hollis’ expense, so Hollis thought he’d be helpful for a change. He said, “The car needs a lot of body work too.”

Banks turned to him. “Body work?”

“Just hit a tree. Damage to the tree was minimal.”

“Good.” Banks cleared his throat and said, “So…” He looked at Lisa, then back to Hollis, and he put a stern tone in his voice. “Neither of you returned to your quarters last night, and neither of you informed this embassy of your whereabouts. That is contrary to regulations as well as a dangerous breach of security, not to mention the element of personal danger to yourselves.” Banks looked from one to the other. “Do either of you have an explanation for this? Miss Rhodes?”

Lisa replied, “We were together obviously. We were unable to finish our business in Mozhaisk by nightfall. There was no room at the inn — actually there was no inn — so we spent the night on a kolhoz—that’s a collective farm, Charles. There was no telephone there.”

Banks said, “I appreciate the special conditions that exist in the countryside here. But it is your obligation to keep in contact with this embassy, not vice versa.”

Hollis spoke. “As the senior person, I’ll take responsibility for the breach.”

Banks nodded, satisfied.

Alevy said, “I don’t quite understand how you two got such a late start and failed to complete this routine assignment before dark.”

Hollis replied, “Lot of paperwork involved, Seth. Drop it.”

But Alevy continued, “How did you wind up on a collective? Why didn’t you call from Mozhaisk?”

Hollis looked directly at Alevy. “I don’t think Mr. Banks wants to be bored with those details.”

Alevy nodded. “Right. Perhaps later you can bore me.” He looked at Lisa a moment, then turned back to Banks. “Sir?”

Banks addressed Lisa. “The ambassador is writing an official letter of condolence to Mr. Fisher’s parents. I would like you to write a personal note indicating that you were involved with the disposition of the remains and the personal effects and so forth. And that the Soviet authorities assured you that Gregory Fisher died instantly and suffered no pain and so forth. There are sample letters on file.”

“Sample letters of personal notes from me?”

“No,” Banks replied coolly. “Sample personal condolence notes….” Banks seemed to grasp the contradiction in that, so he said, “Personalize the sample.”

Lisa tapped her fingers on the table, then replied, “Shall I tell them I spoke to their son before his death? That he called this embassy from the Rossiya Hotel and asked for help?”

“Certainly not. I just told you what to write, Miss Rhodes.” Banks added, “Perhaps Colonel Hollis will write a similar letter to the deceased’s parents.”

Hollis replied, “I’ll study the samples.”

Lisa looked at Hollis, then at Alevy and Banks. She said, “I have phone messages on my desk from Peter Stills of The New York Times, Faith Lowry of The Washington Post, Mike Salerno of the Pacific News Bureau, and four or five other news agencies. Apparently in my absence someone in my department issued a press release regarding Gregory Fisher. Apparently, too, some journalists smell a bigger story.”

Banks leaned toward her. “There is no story beyond the fact that an American tourist died in an automobile accident.”

“If the auto accident had happened in France or England that would not be news,” Lisa said. “But in the Soviet Union, people get curious. This is a curious country, Charles. You may have noticed.” She added, “That’s why we sit in windowless rooms like this when we talk. It’s not paranoia; it’s reality, though no one in the West would believe half of it.”

At length Charles Banks responded, “Your office has indeed issued a press release. They may issue another if new facts warrant it. Kay is handling the press on this. You are not assigned to this story.”

Lisa drew a deep breath. “Why didn’t the press release give all the facts? The call from the Rossiya—”

Alevy cut in. “We may reveal that in time. For now, we’re not going to. We’re as aware as you are that there is more to this. But we’re trying to get the facts before we make any accusations. You appreciate the current diplomatic thaw. Trust us.”

Lisa nodded reluctantly.

Hollis took a piece of paper from his pocket, a decoded radio message. “I sent a query to Defense yesterday asking if a Major Jack or John Dodson was on the Vietnam MIA list. They replied in the negative.” He threw the paper on the table.

Charles Banks said, “We made the same inquiry of State and also received a negative. So right there we have to wonder about Mr. Fisher’s story.”

“Do you?” Hollis continued, “We were talking about trust. In my business, as in Seth’s, rule number one is trust no one, including your own people.” Hollis poured himself a glass of mineral water and added, “So I went to our library here yesterday and found a book written by a former Navy flier who was a POW in Vietnam. In the book was an appendix listing some one thousand men who are still unaccounted for. Among them is an Air Force major, named Jack Dodson.”

No one spoke.

Hollis said, “I know my query elicited a negative, but I don’t know if yours did. I think someone is playing games.”

Alevy said, “Sam, leave it alone.”

Charles Banks added, “Colonel, we are conducting an official investigation through diplomatic and other channels. In the meantime, neither you nor Miss Rhodes are to concern yourselves with this unless requested to give testimony. This is obviously beyond your respective duties.” He added, “The ambassador would like a written report of your activities and whereabouts from the time you left Moscow yesterday afternoon. Thank you for taking care of the remains.”

Hollis stood. “Mr. Banks, please tell the ambassador that unless or until I receive orders from my superiors to the contrary, I will pursue my own line of investigation into this matter.”

Lisa stood also. “Charles, an American citizen named Gregory Fisher died under mysterious circumstances in the Soviet Union. Furthermore, Gregory Fisher told me on the telephone of another American citizen whom he met in a pine forest north of Borodino and who was apparently on the run from Soviet authorities—”

Seth Alevy interrupted. “I recall on the tape that Mr. Fisher mentioned the woods, but I don’t recall him saying anything about a pine forest.” He tilted his chair forward and looked at her, then at Hollis. “What pine forest?”

Hollis replied, “We must compare notes one of these days.” Hollis left.

He waited for Lisa at the elevator. He gave it two minutes, then five, then took the elevator down alone.

14

Sam Hollis walked up Kalinin Prospect, Moscow’s answer to Fifth Avenue. At the corner of Tchaikovsky Street, a line of hopeful diners waited in front of the popular Arbat restaurant, and Hollis had to make his way around them. Moscow’s rush hour was in full swing, everyone lugging bags, trying to buy anything that was for sale. Muscovites, peasants, and townsmen from the hinterlands descended on central Moscow daily for what they called shopping, though Hollis thought it more resembled the sack of the city.

Hollis stopped in front of the window of Podarki Pyatero—Gift Shop Five — and examined his reflection. His dark blue overcoat of wool was Moscow-standard as was his narrow-brimmed black hat and his oversize briefcase, which was useful for carrying fresh produce and meat when available. He supposed he blended in superficially, but he knew that Muscovites picked him out as a Westerner. Aside from his facial features he knew he carried himself differently than the people around him, and he remembered what Lisa said about how Russian men walk and a joke someone in the embassy told him when he’d first arrived: Two Muscovite men were walking down the street. One was carrying a huge bundle on his back and was bowed and stooped by the weight, taking each step as though it were his last. The other Muscovite was carrying nothing at all and was bowed and stooped, taking each step as though it were his last.

Hollis went inside the gift shop. It was not crowded as were the shops selling necessities, and the section in the rear that accepted only Western currency was empty.

Hollis picked out a carved wooden bear balancing a ball on its foot and a small aluminum znachok—a lapel pin — on which was a profile of Lenin. He handed over six American dollars, and the clerk, claiming she had no American coins for change, pushed some foil-wrapped chocolate toward him. Hollis had a dresser drawer full of chocolate change. “I’ll take pence.”

“Nyet.”

“Centimes.”

“Nyet.”

“Green stamps. Anything, but no more chocolate.”

“Nyet.”

Hollis stuck his purchases in his overcoat and went back into the chilly dusk.

Kalinin Prospect was a recently widened thoroughfare of twenty-story glass and concrete flats with shops on the ground floors. It cut through the quaint Arbat district, and Hollis, though he did not share Lisa’s fondness for old Moscow, didn’t think much of new Moscow either. The street was as wide as an expressway and the shops too far apart, which might be just as well.

Hollis stopped again, this time at the window of a woman’s clothing store named Moskvichka, which translated to something like “Miss Moscow,” a name that always amused him for some reason. He looked at the passing crowd reflected in the window but couldn’t spot his tail. He continued north, crossing October Square.

Hollis walked over a stone footbridge that led to the gate beneath the Troitsky Tower set in the red brick wall of the Kremlin. Two green-uniformed guards looked him over but said nothing. Hollis entered the sixty-acre complex of magnificent cathedrals, monuments, and public buildings, the heart of Soviet power and the soul of old Russia. Sam Hollis, who was not easily impressed, was still impressed by the Kremlin.

He walked past the Arsenal across Ivanovsky Square, threading his way through hundreds of tourists snapping pictures in the last light of day, the time when the Kremlin photographed best. He spotted two men engaged in conversation near the Troitsky gate. Like him they wore narrow-brim hats and dark overcoats. The two men stood out because they carried no briefcase or bags. Their hands were stuffed in their pockets, much like policemen everywhere, and you never knew what was in those hands. Hollis walked toward Spassky Tower on the northeast wall of the irregularly shaped citadel. The tower gate was not meant for pedestrian traffic and in fact was closed as he approached. But soon a black Volga sedan pulled away from the Presidium building, and Hollis followed it, quickening his pace. The wooden gates were pulled open by two sentries, and Hollis followed the Volga out, noticing the sentries exchanging nervous glances, but no one challenged him.

As the gates closed behind him, Hollis walked into Red Square opposite St. Basil’s Cathedral. Only Kremlin vehicles were allowed in the square, and pedestrian traffic was heaviest now at rush hour, which was why he liked this place and this hour to lose people. Hollis darted through the throng, diagonally in front of the Lenin mausoleum where a long line of people waited to view the embalmed corpse. He walked quickly past the huge GUM department store at the north end of the square and glanced back but didn’t see the two men in overcoats. Hollis went down a set of steps in the sidewalk, and the stairs split — metro to the right, an underground passage beneath Red Square to the left. He went right, put five kopeks in the turnstile, and jumped on the fast-descending escalator. He stepped off into the huge marble station with crystal chandeliers. A train came within a minute, and he squeezed on with the commuters, taking the train north one stop to Dzerzhinsky Station.

Hollis came up the stairs into a small park area at the southern end of Dzerzhinsky Square. He approached a group of twenty or so people standing in a tight crowd. A pretty young woman with flaming red hair was addressing the group. She said in barely accented English, “Behind you is the State Polytechnical Museum, whose exhibits trace the development of Russian engineering. This is worth visiting when you have a free day.”

A middle-aged woman to Hollis’ left said in a New England accent, “Free day? What free day?”

Her male companion said, “Sh-h-h-h!”

The Intourist guide gave the couple a glance, then looked curiously at Hollis before continuing. “To your left is the Museum of the History and Reconstruction of Moscow. There you can see how Soviet socialist planning has made old Moscow into one of the most beautiful cities in the world.”

Hollis noticed that the American tourists were stealing glances at him, and he knew at least some of them were imagining he was KGB, which was what they wanted to believe. It was part of the tour package, a deliciously sinister tale to tell to the folks back home.

“To your right,” the redhead continued in a hoarse but sexy voice, “is the Mayakovsky Museum, the flat where the famous poet spent the last eleven years of his life.”

Someone in front of Hollis asked his neighbor, “Will there be a test?”

Hollis thought if there were a test, one question should be, “Is it true that Vladimir Mayakovsky’s suicide was a result of his disillusionment with Soviet life?”

“In the center of the square you see the handsome bronze statue of Felix Dzerzhinsky, eminent party leader, Soviet statesman, and close comrade of Lenin.”

Hollis thought she should add, “Mass murderer and founder of the dreaded State Security apparatus.” How could anyone pass a test without these facts?

The guide motioned over her shoulder across the square. “That handsome building with the tall, arched windows is Detsky Mir — Children’s World — Moscow’s largest toy store. Russians love to spoil their children,” she added, more from rote, Hollis thought, than from any personal experience.

A murmur came from the crowd, and a woman called out, “Oh, can we go there?”

“On your free time.”

Someone laughed.

“But come,” the guide said curtly. “We will go to the bus now, yes?”

“What is that large building there?” a man asked.

“That,” the guide said smoothly without even looking up, “is the office of the electric power agency.”

And it was, Hollis thought, if one’s idea of electric power was fifty volts to the scrotum. He watched the procession wend its way back to the red and white Intourist bus. Passing Muscovites scrutinized the foreigners’ clothes, and Hollis wished American tourists would learn to dress better. A few people in the group turned and took pictures of the electric power agency, knowing from some more reliable source that it was the headquarters of the KGB, the infamous Lubyanka prison.

The streetlights snapped on, though there was some daylight left. Hollis took the Lenin pin from his pocket and stuck it in his lapel, then sat on a bench that faced up Marx Prospect. From his briefcase he took a green apple, a hunk of goat’s cheese, and a small paring knife. He laid a cloth napkin on his lap and went to work on the apple and cheese with his knife. On a bench to his right an older man was eating black bread. The park benches were Moscow’s fast-food chain. Hollis threw an apple paring toward a group of sparrows, who scattered, then came back and pecked at it.

Hollis saw him coming down Marx Prospect, past the remnants of the sixteenth-century walls, his tailored overcoat belted at the waist, marking him as a military man in mufti. His stride, too, was military, and he wore a smart cap of fur. He carried his familiar pigskin attaché case, too thin for apples or cheese.

General Valetin Surikov, of the Red Air Force, walked directly in front of Hollis, scattering the sparrows. Surikov saw the lapel pin signifying it was safe and sat at the opposite end of the bench from Hollis. The general lit a cigarette, put on a pair of gold-rimmed glasses, and took a copy of Pravda from his attaché case. Without looking up he said in English, “The cheese should be wrapped in cellophane not newspaper. We have cellophane. A peasant would use newspaper.”

Hollis crumpled the piece of newspaper and put it in his briefcase.

“Why did you pick this place?” Surikov asked.

“Why not?”

“This is no game, my friend. We don’t do this so you can have something amusing to talk about with your friends.”

“No, we don’t, General.”

“If they catch you, they kick you out with your diplomatic immunity. If they catch me, they take me there”—he cocked his head toward the Lubyanka—“and shoot me.”

Sam Hollis did not particularly like General Valentin Surikov, but he wasn’t sure why. Hollis said, “Do you know what they did to Colonel Penkovsky when they caught him?”

“I don’t know who Colonel Penkovsky is.”

“Was.” Hollis was newly amazed each time he discovered how little these people knew about the society in which they lived. Even generals. “Penkovsky did what you are doing. Quite famous in the West. The fellows over there tortured him for six months, then threw him alive into a furnace. Firing squads are for lesser offenses.” Hollis cut out a section of apple, then made several crosscuts looking for worms. Finding none whole or halved, he put the small pieces of apple into his mouth and chewed.

General Surikov chain-lit another cigarette. “You’re absolutely certain you weren’t followed here?”

Hollis shrugged. “I do my best. How about you?”

“I certainly can’t take overt evasive actions like you can. I have to walk normally.”

“What’s your business in this quarter, Comrade General?”

“I have reservations at the Berlin Hotel restaurant in one hour. I’m meeting my granddaughter for dinner.”

“Good. I like that.”

Surikov asked, “How do you know they threw him in a furnace?”

“What? Oh, Penkovsky. I don’t know. I was told by my boss. But my boss lies just like yours does. Sounds good. Supposed to make me hate the KGB more.”

“And do you?”

“Not personally,” Hollis replied. “They haven’t fucked up my whole life like they have yours and everyone else’s from Vladivostok to East Berlin. Do you hate them?”

Surikov didn’t reply, which Hollis found intriguing. He couldn’t get a handle on Surikov’s motivation.

Surikov said, “Your note said it was urgent.”

Hollis nodded. They had worked out a simple expedient for arranging unscheduled rendezvous. Hollis would simply messenger a note to his counterpart, Colonel Andreyev, in the Soviet Defense Ministry and request an inconsequential bit of information regarding the ongoing arms limitation talks. Andreyev would naturally buck the request up the line, and it would eventually come across General Surikov’s desk. Surikov would place Hollis’ note over a small, detailed map of central Moscow. A pinprick in the note would pinpoint the meeting place. The time was always five-thirty of that day. If there was a pencil smudge in any corner of the note, the meeting was for the following day. The word “response” anywhere in the note meant urgent.

Hollis said, “Yes, urgent, but nothing for you to worry about.” Hollis thought he’d probably upset Surikov’s day.

Surikov turned a page of the oversize newspaper and held it up to catch the light. “What is it then?”

“Who won the battle of Borodino?”

Surikov glanced at Hollis. “What?”

Hollis said, “Tolstoy gives an accurate description of a French Pyrrhic victory, yet there are some Russians who think that it was a Russian victory. How do you reconcile these facts? Who won the battle?”

Surikov replied, “What are you talking about?”

“Reality. Truth, I need the truth. The real truth, not the Soviet truth. I need some information on a former Red Air Force training facility.”

“Yes?”

“North of Borodino.”

Surikov did not reply.

“A former ground school. The Komitet uses it now for other purposes. You know the one I mean, don’t you?”

Again Surikov made no reply.

Hollis said, “If you know nothing about it, I’ll leave now.”

Surikov cleared his throat. “I know something about it.”

“But it must not be too important, General, or you’d have told me long ago.”

Surikov let a full minute pass before he replied, “It is so important, Colonel, so potentially dangerous for the future of Soviet-American relations and world peace, that it is better left alone.”

Hollis did not look toward Surikov, but he could tell by his tone of voice that Surikov, usually cool as ice, was agitated. Hollis said, “Well, that’s very good of you to stand guard over the peace. However, something leaked, and before it gets misunderstood or before it gets into the wrong hands, I want to control it. But first I have to understand it.”

Surikov refolded his newspaper, and Hollis allowed himself a glance at the man and saw on his face a troubled expression. Hollis said, “Tell me what you know and how you know it.”

“First tell me what you know.”

“I know to ask the questions about the place. That’s all you have to know.”

Surikov replied, “I have to think this over.”

“You’ve been doing that since the first day you contacted me a year ago.”

“Yes? You know my mind and my soul? You’re not even Russian.”

“Neither are you, General. You’re a Muscovite, a Soviet man, and we’re both modern military men. We understand each other.”

“All right,” Surikov said decisively. “I have thought this through. I want to get out.”

“Then consider yourself out.” Hollis finally found a worm and threw the apple core to the sparrows. “Good luck and thanks.”

“I want to get out of here. Russia.”

Hollis knew what Surikov had meant. Sometimes, as with troublesome spouses, you had to begin negotiations by packing their bags for them.

“I want to spend my last days in the West,” Surikov said.

“Me too.”

Surikov didn’t respond.

“Do you think they’re on to you?” Hollis asked.

“No, but they will be if I give you what you want. I want to go to London.”

“Really? My wife’s in London. She didn’t like it here either.”

“How long will it take you to get me to the West?”

“It’s about a four-hour flight, General.” Hollis got a perverse pleasure in reminding Soviet officials of the kind of state they had created. He added, “You apply for a travel visa, and I’ll see to the Aeroflot reservation. One-way, correct?”

“You mean to tell me you can’t get people out of here?”

“It’s not real easy. You guys got a hell of a good police force.”

“Don’t think that if you keep me here, I will continue to feed you secrets, my friend. If you can’t get me out, I am retiring from your service.”

“I told you that was okay.”

“I am going to the British.”

Hollis wiped his hands on his napkin. Losing an agent who panicked and quit was one thing; losing him to another service was quite another. The new theory was to let a source leave anytime he wanted and not try to squeeze him as they’d done in the past. Squeezed agents inevitably got caught, and then the KGB found out everything he’d given away and took steps to fix things up. But if Surikov went to the Brits and got blown later, Hollis might never know that Surikov was singing in the Lubyanka.

“Or the French,” the general said. “I speak passable French. I could live in Paris.”

“If you go to the French, you might as well go right to the KGB and save time. They’re penetrated, General. Most of them hold secondary commissions in the KGB.”

“Don’t try to frighten me. The Germans are my third choice. So now the choice is yours.”

“Well, I’ll take it up with my people. It’s not that we don’t want to, it’s just that it’s dangerous. For you.” Actually, Hollis thought, it was more that they didn’t want to. Some politicians loved a high-ranking defector, but for intelligence people, a defecting spy told the KGB the same thing as a captured spy, namely that everything that had come across his desk was now in enemy hands. Surikov had either to go on spying for him or just retire and shut up. But since he seemed inclined to do neither, Hollis thought a car accident was what Surikov needed. Hollis, however, didn’t like that sort of thing and hoped he could think of something more creative. “We’ll think it over. You too. The West is not all it’s cracked up to be.”

“Don’t joke with me, Colonel.” Surikov chain-lit his third or fourth cigarette.

Hollis took a Pravda from his briefcase. He read modern Russian fairly well — bureaucratic Russian, journalese, communist Russian. But he had difficulty with Chekhov, Gogol, Tolstoy, and the like, and he thought he’d enjoy working on that someday if he lived long enough to sit in a rocking chair with Tolstoy.

He stole a glance at Surikov, who seemed actually to be reading his Pravda, The Organ of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. Reading it and believing it, in some monstrous display of triple-think. These people, Hollis decided, were hopeless. Hopeless while they were in country, childlike and bewildered when you got them out and gave them their first copy of The Washington Post or London Times. Hollis perused a piece under the headline: Afghanistan Is Fighting and Building. Hollis read: Soviet-Afghan political and economic ties, which go back to V.I. Lenin, have a long history and serve as a vivid example of good-neighbor relations.

Hollis glanced again at Surikov. The man had been fed empty calories for the brain all his life, and it was no wonder his intellect was malnourished. Hollis realized he had to be careful how he handled this man.

Surikov said as he rustled a page, “You understand, Colonel, that if I give you what you are asking for, neither you nor I should remain in Russia.”

“Is that so?” Hollis recalled the first time he had met General Surikov. Surikov had approached him directly a year ago at a reception given by the Yugoslav ambassador on the occasion of Yugoslav Independence Day. Surikov had said in English, “Colonel Hollis, my name is Valentin Surikov.” Surikov was wearing the uniform of a Red Air Force general, so Hollis had replied with the required military courtesy, “Pleasure meeting you, General.”

Surikov had continued, almost matter-of-factly, “I wish to pass sensitive documents to your government. Tell whoever it is who handles such things to meet me at the Finnish ambassador’s reception next week.” Surikov had then walked away.

Hollis himself had shown up at the Finnish reception.

Now, sitting here in Dzerzhinsky Square a year later, Hollis agreed with Surikov that one way or the other he and Valentin Surikov were coming to the end of their dangerous liaison.

Surikov looked over his newspaper at a group of men leaving through the front doors of Lubyanka. Surikov said, “You asked for the information. I gave you my price.”

Hollis too noticed the men standing in the front of the KGB headquarters. There were six of them, talking and gesturing. They seemed in a good mood, Hollis thought. But why shouldn’t they be? They were the police in a police state.

Surikov seemed to be getting anxious. He said quickly in a voice that Hollis could barely hear, “If you know anything about the facility at Borodino, you will know that getting me out of here is a cheap price for what I can tell you.” Surikov added in one of his practiced American phrases, “It will blow your mind, Colonel.”

Hollis smiled behind his newspaper. His eyes moved again to the Lubyanka across the square.

It was a rather handsome Italianate building of eight stories. The first two stories were grey granite, and the upper floors were cement stucco painted that old mustard color the Russians seemed fond of. It was one of the few buildings in Moscow with clean windows, and he could see people at work under sickly pale fluorescent lighting.

What had always struck him about the place was its location, right in the heart of Moscow, a stone’s throw from a children’s department store in a square where tens of thousands of people saw it every day. Here was a place, Hollis thought, where thousands of Soviet citizens had been tortured and shot, a place referred to by Intourist guides as the electric power authority, and Muscovites, if they referred to it at all, whispered the despised name: Lubyanka.

Yet neither the KGB nor the Soviet government had the good grace to remove the facility, and it stood as a monument to brutality. But perhaps they knew what they were doing. It did remind one, did it not? Hollis couldn’t help but think each time he saw the place that he ought not to be doing things that would put him in there.

Hollis looked away, but the image of the place stayed in his mind’s eye. He asked, “Do you know a KGB colonel who calls himself Burov?”

“Perhaps.”

Hollis watched as the six men in front of the building split up. Four headed toward Hollis and Surikov.

General Surikov stood. “We have been here quite long enough. I will be at Gogol’s grave next Sunday at one.”

As usual, Surikov picked a place that would send Hollis leafing through his Michelin guide. “Tomorrow, General.”

“Sunday, Colonel. I need time.”

“All right. Alternate rendezvous?”

“None. Gogol’s grave. Sunday. One P.M. And you will tell me how you are getting me to the West, and I will give you half a secret. I’ll give you the second half when I’m in London.” Surikov tucked his Pravda under his arm and picked up his attaché case. He seemed anxious to leave but stood motionless as the four KGB approached. They looked at Hollis and Surikov with that keen eye of appraisal that Hollis had come to associate with muggers looking for an easy mark. They slowed their pace, then continued on.

Surikov, quite pale, Hollis noticed, turned without a word and crossed the square.

Hollis waited for Felix Dzerzhinsky’s spiritual kin to reappear in the square and arrest him, but nothing happened. Life went on, the criminals — Hollis and Surikov — had once again foiled the organs of state security.

Hollis sometimes wondered if this game was worth his life. But this time he thought of Greg Fisher’s life, which was over, and Major Jack Dodson’s life, which was in the balance. And he thought of Ernie Simms and the thousand other fliers whose families and whose nation had given them up for dead. Hollis thought that maybe, if he did everything right, he might bring them home again.

Hollis watched Surikov disappear into the throng of people who were laying siege to Detsky Mir. “I suppose,” Hollis said to himself, “that it would be the lines that caused me to defect. I hate lines.”

No, Sam Hollis reflected, I do not like General Valentin Surikov, though I’m not sure why. But Hollis had just learned not to underestimate him. Hollis admitted that Surikov’s motives for treason were not base — Surikov had never taken a ruble, a dollar, or a banked Swiss franc. Nor had he bothered Hollis for things from the American embassy stores. But Surikov’s motives were not lofty either. He had had no ideological conversion as far as Hollis knew. And according to Surikov’s own account, he had not suffered any personal harm from the system, no one in his family had spent time in a camp or internal exile. In fact, General Surikov did not have to join the crowds at Detsky Mir to buy his grandchildren toys. He had only the inconvenience of moving through the common people on his way to the Berlin Hotel, where he was headed for a decent meal. Surikov belonged to the communist aristocracy, the nomenklatura, who had shop-at-home service and special stores, who lived a life of gross hypocrisy and privilege unknown in even the most class-stratified societies of the West.

Then one day, Hollis thought, for reasons known only to himself, Valentin Surikov decided he didn’t like it here anymore. He wanted to live in London, though he’d never been outside the Soviet Union as far as Hollis knew. And it wasn’t a scam as Hollis had determined early on. The Surikov stuff was top grade — Red Air Force postings, unit designations, command assignments, and so forth. Stuff no spy satellite could tell you. Apparently Surikov was a — or the—personnel officer for the entire Red Air Force, though he never gave out that piece of information.

Now General Surikov had indicated he had the airfare to London and wanted Hollis to arrange the transportation. Half on booking, half on arrival. Hollis nodded to himself as he stuffed his Pravda in his coat pocket. There was a way out, but it couldn’t be used too often. Hollis didn’t know if he wanted Surikov to live in London. Surikov deserved to live in Moscow. Served him right.

Hollis wanted to go back to the embassy now, but the gentlemen of the KGB’s Seventh Directorate — the embassy watchers — having lost him in Red Square, would at least note his time of return to the embassy compound. Somehow Hollis felt that the longer he was gone — like some errant spouse (like his errant spouse) — the more annoyed the watchers would become. So he decided to kill an hour in the State Polytechnical Museum. Maybe it was worth a visit. He was a sucker for redheads anyway. Hollis stood, removed his Lenin pin, and threw it to the ground. He picked up his briefcase and turned toward the museum.

He thought of his wife Katherine in London. Running Surikov was one reason he couldn’t take leave to go settle things with her there. Now Surikov might get to London before him. The ironies on this job were endless. “Endless,” he said aloud.

Lisa Rhodes popped into his mind though he’d tried to push her out of it all day. He realized he felt responsible for her safety, which might be one of the reasons he hadn’t called her. He wanted the involvement, but since he always felt like a moving target, he didn’t know if he wanted her near him. These dilemmas hadn’t bothered Alevy, apparently, as Hollis had discovered in the Arbat antique store.

In this business, Hollis had observed, men’s relationships with women often fell into two categories: professional/sexual or sexual/professional. Alevy, he knew, preferred the former. Hollis was comfortable with neither.

Hollis decided that maybe he ought to ask Lisa Rhodes what she thought.

15

Sam Hollis entered the bowling alley in the basement of the eight-story embassy chancery building. There were three games in progress. The place was stuffy, and Hollis bought a Heineken at the bar, then took a seat at an empty lane. He noticed four female FSPs — Foreign Service Personnel — on the adjoining alley laughing and drinking. He recognized three as secretaries and one as a nurse. They all wore jeans and T-shirts. The nurse, a petite blonde, looked at him. Her T-shirt read: Gee, Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.

Hollis smiled. The woman winked at him and turned back to her game. Hollis sipped on his beer. He watched them bowl. There was something oddly frenetic in the way they bowled, drank, and laughed, he thought, as though their mainsprings were wound too tight. He half expected them to fall to the floor in five minutes.

On the lane to his right were a married couple, Bill and Joan Horgan. He was in the FAS — Foreign Agricultural Service; she taught at the Anglo-American School. With them were their two teenaged daughters. Bill and Joan gave him a cheery wave. The girls looked bored senseless. One of them, Hollis recalled, was prone to hysteria and weeping.

Two lanes farther down, four Marines in civilian clothing were rolling balls. The Marine watchstanders, as they were called, numbered about twenty. They were handpicked for their height, bearing, intelligence, and quite possibly their looks, Hollis thought. As per Marine regulations, they were unmarried. These facts had caused some problems, most notably the sex-for-secrets scandal at the old embassy.

Russia, Hollis thought, more than any country he’d ever served in, changed you. You went in as one person and came out another. An American, whether a tourist, business person, or embassy staffer, was the center of attention and under constant scrutiny, from the locals and from the state. You woke up with tension, lived with tension, and went to bed with tension. Some people, such as Katherine, fled. Some cracked up, some became mildly idiosyncratic, some betrayed their country, and some, such as Lisa, embraced the Russian bear and danced with it, which, Hollis reflected, might be the only way to get out with most of your marbles.

The bowling lanes and the adjoining spaces doubled as a bomb shelter, and Hollis sometimes wondered if the day would ever come when he would be watching the automatic pinsetters while waiting for an American nuclear strike to obliterate central Moscow above.

Seth Alevy walked over and sat on the bench beside Hollis. Alevy swirled his scotch and ice cubes as he regarded the four women. “Right,” Alevy said at last, “we are not in Kansas. We are below the Emerald City.”

One of the secretaries threw a strike, did a little victory jig, and slapped palms with her teammate. Hollis said to Alevy, “You want to roll a few sets?”

“‘Frames.’ No.”

The ambient noise cover down here was good, Hollis knew, and any bugs planted during construction were ineffective, as were the KGB directional microphones in the surrounding buildings. Which was one reason, Hollis understood, that Alevy liked to meet here. But the other reason that Alevy had not requisitioned one of the safe rooms in the chancery was that Alevy suspected those rooms were bugged by State Department Intelligence. As the CIA station chief in Moscow, responsible ultimately for all American intelligence in the Soviet Union, Seth Alevy had no intention of being bugged by a minor league bunch such as State Department Intelligence. Alevy was only slightly less disdainful of Hollis’ Defense Intelligence Agency. Alevy had a better psychic relationship with the KGB, Hollis thought, because they didn’t pretend to be his friends.

Alevy asked, “Did Ace show?”

“Yes.”

“Can he help us with this?”

“I think so.”

Alevy nodded. “Why did you think he could, Sam?”

“Just a hunch.”

“You didn’t expose one of our best assets in the Soviet Union to a personal meeting with you on a hunch.”

“Ace is Red Air Force. Dodson is — or was — U.S. Air Force. I went with that.”

“That’s pretty thin. Now that we’re alone, why don’t you tell me everything the French couple told you, then tell me what you did and saw on the way to Mozhaisk. Then tell me what Ace told you tonight. And while you’re at it, tell me things I haven’t even thought to ask you about this case.”

“I’m really into interservice rivalry, Seth. I’m protecting my own petty little fiefdom. It gives me a sense of worth and importance.”

“I think we’re being sarcastic.” Alevy added, “All right, we can pursue this along separate lines for a while. All I ask of you is to be careful what you tell the Pentagon, and I’ll do the same with Langley.”

“Why?”

“You know why. This thing is so big they’ll try to run it from there. Then State and the White House will get involved, and we’ll be getting micromanagement from one of those bozos in the basement of the White House. We’re the ones who risk our lives out here, Sam.”

Hollis didn’t reply.

Alevy added, “You risked your life once in a war that had enough bombing limitation rules to make sure you didn’t hurt anyone but yourself. Are you still pissed about that? Would you like to even the score with Washington on that? Do you want to maybe bring a few fliers home? You know they’re out there, Sam. I know it too.”

Hollis stared Alevy in the eye and said softly, “I’ll listen to reason and logic, Seth. But don’t you ever—ever try to manipulate me with that argument. Stay out of my past. I’ll deal with that.”

Alevy maintained eye contact, then nodded and turned away. “Okay. Cheap shot.”

Hollis finished his beer.

Alevy stood and went to the bar, coming back with two more drinks. He handed Hollis a beer. Alevy said, “You know, I’ve been thinking about Ace. I don’t know if he rings. Do you?”

Hollis recognized the format: Prove to me your man is not a double. “He’s always had the goods,” Hollis reminded him.

Alevy looked at Hollis. “Seems so. Everything he’s given you has checked out with my people and yours. Yet…”

Hollis stared down at Alevy’s brightly polished handmade broughams. Italian-tailored blue silk suit. Custom shirt and Liberty tie. Seth Alevy spent a good deal of money on good clothing. And yet someone who knew Alevy in the States said he dressed better in Moscow than in Washington. Hollis suspected that the sartorial splendor was just Alevy’s way of annoying the Russians. Alevy, to the best of Hollis’ knowledge, was the only man who ever showed up at the Bolshoi in a tuxedo. In fact, Hollis was convinced that Alevy owned the only tuxedo in all of Russia.

Alevy finished his second scotch. “Ace’s stuff is good, but he may be setting us up for a nasty sting. You might have handed him the means if you mentioned Borodino.”

“There’s always that possibility.” Hollis regarded the four FSPs. The one with the Toto T-shirt threw a gutter ball and uttered an obscenity. She pulled the front of her T-shirt up and wiped the perspiration from her face, baring her midriff in the process. “Hard fuzzy-belly.”

“What?” Alevy looked. “Oh.”

“What do you do for sex now, Seth?”

“That’s a rather personal question.”

“No, it’s a professional question.”

“Well… I don’t have to remind you, as our Marines have to be reminded daily, that the local devitsas are off-limits. And so, theoretically, are the wives of our coworkers.”

“Theoretically.”

“There are,” Alevy said, ignoring this, “at this moment exactly thirty-two single women in the embassy, and perhaps twenty or more of them have already formed liaisons.”

“Have they? How do you know?”

“I keep a dossier on everyone here. Isn’t that disgusting?”

“No comment.”

“As for the women in other Western embassies, they are off-limits to intelligence types such as us. For you and I the policy is to date only single American women.” Alevy added, “You could hang around the hard-currency bars and find an unattached American tourist.”

“Have you done that?”

“Maybe.” Alevy looked at Hollis. “I assume your wife is not returning. However, until you get a divorce, you have to play by the rules.” Alevy smiled and patted Hollis’ arm, a rare display of intimacy. “You don’t know how to be a bachelor anyway. You were married too long.”

Hollis didn’t respond.

“Did you have someone special in mind?” Alevy asked.

“No, just checking the rules.”

Alevy regarded Hollis for some time, then asked, “Did something happen between you and Lisa? That’s a professional question.”

“Then look in your dossier.”

“Well,” Alevy said in a cooler tone, “I want you to think now about Ace.”

“I have. So I had him meet me in Dzerzhinsky Square. And some K-goons came along, and Ace went pale. Hard to fake skin color.”

Alevy shrugged. “Heard of a similar situation where a guy did fake it with some sort of nitrate substance. Turned him ashen. But Dzerzhinsky Square was an inspired idea. Not bad for a military guy. A little risky though.”

Hollis sipped his beer.

Alevy said, “Regarding Ace, if you cut him loose, we’re ahead of the game whether he’s real or not. If you stay with him, you may find out what he’s up to. But what he’s up to may be murder, and it may be too late.”

“Actually there’s been a new development.”

“What?”

“He wants to head West.”

“Does he?”

“So he says.”

Alevy thought a moment. “Then maybe what he wants is to find out how we get people out of here.”

“Maybe. Maybe he just really wants to defect.” Hollis cradled the beer bottle in his hands and watched the condensation drip. Alevy had a weak spot in his professional makeup: He personally didn’t like most Russians. Not liking the Soviet regime was a job qualification. But Alevy was unable to concede that anyone who had been shaped by the regime was capable of anything but treachery and vileness. Perhaps he was right. Certainly General Surikov was a good example of the New Soviet Man. “I don’t intend to cut him loose or to turn him over to you, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“I’m not suggesting that. He apparently wants to deal with a brother Air Force officer. I couldn’t run him. What’s he offering for the ticket West? The scoop on Borodino?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe you planted that in his head. Maybe he’ll make up a crock of shit just to get out of here.”

“We’ll soon know.”

“Are you meeting with him in person again?”

“Yes.” Hollis put his beer bottle on the floor and wiped his hands on his trousers. “But I don’t want company.”

“I want to talk to this joker myself.”

Hollis said, “I don’t think it’s a good idea for the CIA station chief, the most important man in Western intelligence in the Soviet Union, to run around Moscow trying to rendezvous with Russian informers. Do you?”

“Let me worry about my job description.”

“Sure.” Hollis considered what little else he knew about Alevy. In Langley, he’d turned out to be a genius at political analysis, and his prophesies regarding Soviet intentions, particularly Gorbachev’s glasnost, had been so accurate that it seemed, some said, he had a friend in the Politboro. Alevy had arrived in Moscow about three years before as third deputy to the CIA station chief. Now he was the station chief. He was not allowed to leave the embassy compound without at least two security men and one cyanide pill. Hollis knew he left without the former but was sure he never left without the latter.

Alevy’s official job with the diplomatic mission was that of political affairs officer, but the cover was thin, as it usually was with this sort of thing. The KGB knew who he was, and so did most of the senior American staff. “Maybe that is Ace’s scam,” Hollis said baitingly. “To draw you out so they can kill you.”

“Even they don’t kill senior American diplomats.”

“In your case they’d make an exception. Anyway, you’re not a diplomat.”

“I am. I have a diplomatic passport. I go to all the receptions and talk like a diplomatic dork.”

Hollis stood. “What were you doing in Sadovniki Friday night?”

Alevy stood also. “A Sukkot party. The harvest festival. Sort of like Thanksgiving.”

Hollis nodded. He had heard that Alevy once lived some months in the Russian Jewish community of Brooklyn’s Brighton Beach section. Thus he spoke his Russian with a Moscow-Leningrad accent and was perhaps the only man in the embassy who could actually pass for a Soviet citizen under close scrutiny. Hollis imagined that Alevy had also heard some firsthand accounts of religious persecution from his friends in Brighton Beach, and had also been given quite a few names to contact in Moscow, thus arriving in Moscow with assets no one else had.

Alevy asked, “Do you know anything about Judaism?”

“I know the Soviets aren’t too keen on it. I know that religious observances can attract the K-goons. I know the ambassador would not like you annoying our host government.”

“Fuck his excellency.” Alevy added, “Jews are politically unreliable here, so you can fraternize with them.”

Hollis considered the irony in this. American Jews were once thought politically unreliable by the CIA. Now Alevy was the CIA Moscow station chief partly because he was a Jew. Times change.

As though Alevy had read Hollis’ mind, Alevy said, “Jewish dissidents are our potential fifth column here, Sam. We should build more bridges to that community.”

“Should we?” But beyond all that, Hollis thought, Alevy was playing a dangerous game, dangerous because it had become a personal game with no official backing or backup. Someday Seth Alevy would find himself alone with his cyanide pill. Hollis found himself saying something he’d thought about in Pavel’s izba. “Those people have enough problems, Seth. They don’t need you hanging around making things worse.”

“Bullshit. Things get worse for Jews only when they try to accommodate their persecutors.”

“Maybe. Look, I don’t talk politics or religion — only sex and football. I’m just telling you as a colleague, and yes, you idiot, even as your friend, that the KGB will forgive your spying, but not your Judaism. We need you here, especially now, until this new thing is settled.”

Alevy did not acknowledge Hollis’ words at all, but asked, “So, where and when are you meeting Ace?”

Hollis knew he couldn’t very well refuse to answer. “Gogol’s grave. Next Sunday. Three P.M. Give or take a few hours.”

“Where is Gogol’s grave these days?”

“Beats me.”

As Alevy and Hollis walked toward the exit, Hollis noticed that the Marines, the three secretaries, and the nurse had joined forces and retired to the lounge. The Horgans must have left without his noticing. The lanes were empty and quiet. And so were the game rooms and the swimming pool and all the other activity centers in the compound except the bars. There was a sort of mass lethargy that gripped this place, especially with the onset of winter. Hollis had never seen this kind of aimlessness and listlessness in any other American embassy. He didn’t know what a behavioral psychologist would make of this maze and its white rats, but Hollis’ theory was that the people inside the walls had somehow absorbed the malaise of the people outside the walls.

Hollis stared at the exit sign above the elevator and a word came to mind: bezizkhodnost. Exitlessness; dead end; futility; hopelessness; going nowhere — all contained within that one expressive word that the Russian people used but Pravda never printed. “Bezizkhodnost.”

Alevy looked at him and seemed to understand. “That’s what’s left when you subtract God from man.”

“But I see it here too. I think it’s catching.”

“Maybe,” Alevy said, “but not for us. We know what we’re about, don’t we, Sam?”

“Indeed we do.”

“Fuck the Reds,” Alevy said.

“Each and every day,” Hollis replied, but at the same time thinking that was no longer enough. Thinking that this time he had a chance to do something positive, to put Haiphong harbor to rest in his own mind, and to put the whole MIA question to rest for his country.

The two elevators came simultaneously. Hollis got in one, and Alevy the other.

16

Lisa Rhodes picked up the telephone in her office, dialed Hollis’ office, then before it rang, hung up. “Damn him.” She dialed Alevy’s office, and his secretary put her through. Alevy said, “Hello, Li—”

“Did you tell Sam Hollis to stay away from me?”

“No, I wouldn’t—”

“Are you lying to me?”

“No. But to be honest with you, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to get invol—”

“Don’t fuck around with my life, Seth.”

“Just calm down.”

She took a deep breath. “Okay. Sorry.”

“Look, if he’s done a disappearing act on you… Anyway, I still love you. Why don’t we talk—”

“We talked.”

“I should really be angry. What happened out there in that village?”

“It’s in my report.”

“Lisa—”

“I have to go. Bye, Seth.” She hung up. “Damn men.”

Lisa looked at her watch, saw it was five P.M., and poured herself a bourbon. She pulled a press release toward her and worked on it without knowing what she was writing.

A few minutes later Kay Hoffman walked in and took her favorite seat on the hot-air register. “Ah. You ever try this?”

Lisa didn’t reply and went back to the press release.

Kay Hoffman picked up a just-arrived copy of the previous day’s Washington Post and scanned it, then glanced at Lisa. “You all right?”

“Yes.”

“Monthly blues?”

“No.” Lisa struck out a line of the typed copy. She reflected on her job in the United States Information Service. She wrote news releases, but she was also the resident Russophile, responsible for cultural affairs. She arranged for Soviet cultural missions to tour the States. They sent the Bolshoi, and the U.S. sent Van Halen.

Lisa Rhodes loved Russian poetry in its original language, and Pasternak moved her deeply. She was an expert on icons, enjoyed Russian ballet, traditional Russian cooking, and folk art. She thought she understood the mysticism in the Russian soul — the unsevered link between the Russian race, the land, and the Orthodox church. And since Yablonya, she thought she felt her own Russianness more.

She sometimes thought of herself as a thin rope bridge between two iron superstructures. But if the Americans and Soviets were determined not to understand each other, that was their problem. One day they’d blow themselves and the rest of the earth into oblivion. Then the two cultures would be similar.

She made a few more notes on her press release. She usually wrote two releases — one for America, one in Russian for the Soviet news service, Tass. Tass used what they wanted without attribution. In that respect, at least, the Soviet and American press were alike. She looked up at Kay. “Do I have to be nice to Van Halen or to the audience?”

Kay glanced up from her newspaper. “Oh… are you still working on that? That has to go out today. Just sound up.”

“Where do you get your orders from?”

“I don’t get orders, Lisa. Only direction.”

“From where?”

“High up.”

“Someday I’m going to write what I want. What I really saw here.”

“Some day you can. But today you write what you’re told.”

“That’s what some apparatchik is being told at the Tass office tonight.”

“Maybe. But we won’t shoot you if you don’t do what we say. So don’t tell me we are no different from them.”

“No, I meant… there’s more to the story. The whole idea of the Russian youth enthralled by Western pop culture. Every kid there was dressed in blue jeans. They were shouting in English, ‘Super,’ ‘Beautiful, baby.’ It was…” She thought a moment. “It was surreal is what it was. But was it revolution?”

Kay Hoffman stared at her awhile, then said, “If it was, that is not what you will write about.”

Lisa went back to her press release.

Kay went back to her newspaper.

Lisa thought, But what was it? What is going on here? Questions such as that, however, were not within the purview of the USIS. Working for the USIS was like working for the Ministry of Truth; when the party line changed, you changed with it.

At the moment, Soviet-American relations were on the verge of a breakthrough. Thus all this cultural activity was a precursor to the diplomatic activity. Her orders — her directions — were to be positive, upbeat. Think peace.

Those had been her orders some years back, before Nicholas Daniloff, an American correspondent, had been arrested by the KGB on a trumped-up spy charge. Then new orders came down: cancel all cultural exchanges. And so it went, in an Orwellian about-face, in mid-sentence, the word processors ceased churning out puff pieces and began issuing terse sentences of canceled events. But for the moment, puff was required. Though now there was the Fisher affair. She said to Kay Hoffman, “I don’t appreciate you writing that press release about Fisher’s death and you putting my name on it.”

Kay shrugged. “Sorry. Orders.” She asked, “What did happen to that Fisher boy?”

“Exactly what you said in my press release.”

“I guess I deserved that.”

“Maybe I should resign over that.”

Kay stayed silent, then said, “I don’t think you need bother.”

“Meaning what?”

“Forget it.”

Lisa finished her cigarette and lit another. Her tour of duty was four years. She had less than two to go. As a Foreign Service Officer, she was assigned overseas duty somewhat as a military officer was. In fact, her rank of FSO-6 was roughly equivalent to an Army captain. Her title was Deputy Public Affairs Officer. Kay Hoffman was the PAO. They had six FSPs — five women and one man — working for them. It was all very exciting, very boring; very easy, very trying.

Kay looked up from her newspaper. “Are you all right?”

“No one is all right here,” Lisa replied. “This is what State calls a hardship tour. Do you think the Soviet government is insulted by that?”

Kay smiled grimly. “They don’t give a damn. This whole fucking country is on a lifetime hardship tour, and the government put them there.” Kay added, “It helps if you have a lover.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Yes, it does. Did I ask you what happened to that political affairs guy? Seth.”

As she gathered her things and contemplated another lonely evening, she thought of Seth Alevy. Embassy romances, she thought, were partly a result of enforced intimacy. There had been talk of marriage, of career conflicts, of two world-traveling spouses on different assignments. They both agreed it wouldn’t work unless one of them resigned from service. And there it ended. She answered, “That was nothing.”

“It must have been something, Lisa. You practically moved into his place.”

“Embassy life is like living in a small town, isn’t it, Kay?”

“Yes. Population: two hundred seventy-six at last count. Didn’t mean to be nosy. Just concerned.”

“I know.” She smiled. “I’ll take a Russian lover. That will complete my understanding of the Russian psyche.”

“They’re awful lovers.”

“How do you know?”

Kay winked. She threw down her newspaper and stood. “My ass is hot and so am I. I’m going to the bowling alley lounge. Come along. The Marines are bonkers over you.”

“No, thanks. I have a headache.”

“Okay. See you at breakfast.” Kay Hoffman went to the door, then said, “Rumor has it that you and that air attaché, Hollis, ran off for the weekend.”

“Nonsense. We went to take care of Gregory Fisher’s remains. Everyone here is so small-minded.”

Kay Hoffman laughed and left.

Lisa stood in the quiet room and stared at the telephone.

17

Sam Hollis answered the ringing telephone in his office. “Hollis.”

She imitated a male bass voice. “Hollis.” She asked, “Can you say hello?”

“Hello, Lisa.” Hollis looked at the wall clock. It was five-thirty, and he hadn’t spoken to her since he’d left Alevy and Banks Sunday afternoon. “How are you?”

“I feel used. You’re supposed to call or have flowers delivered or some damned thing.”

“They don’t deliver flowers—”

“What a bumpkin!”

“Look, I’m not good at this. I’m a married man. Don’t get around much.”

“That’s not what I heard.”

“Well, then you heard wrong. Can I buy you a drink?”

“No.”

“Oh… sorry—”

“I want dinner. Tonight. Out of the compound.”

Hollis smiled. “Meet you in the lobby. Half an hour?”

“Thirty-five minutes.” She hung up.

Hollis called his aide, Captain O’Shea, on the intercom. “Ed, get me a Moscow cab at the gate in forty-five minutes.”

“How about a car and driver instead?”

“No, it’s personal.”

“Personal or not, let me get you a staff car.”

“A taxi will be fine.” Hollis hung up and went to the window. His office faced east into the heart of the city, and the Kremlin towers offered a magnificent view at night, all alight like perfect jewels in an ordinary setting. “Moscow.” Not old by European standards, it had begun in the twelfth century as a trading post with wooden stockade walls on the slight rise where the Kremlin now stood. It was a nothing town on a nothing river in the middle of a nothing forest. And except for trees, snow, and mud, there were no natural resources. The place had been burned to the ground and put to the sword by a dozen armies, and instead of fading into oblivion like a thousand other villages, it came back, each time bigger and just a little stronger. With nothing going for it, it had become the center of an imperial empire, then a communist empire. The Third Rome, as it was sometimes called, but unlike Rome on the Tiber, Moscow was all shade and shadow, a city of somber moods whose citizens drifted in a void of moral weightlessness.

“It’s the people,” Hollis decided. That was its one resource: Muscovites. Tough, stubborn, conniving, cynical bastards. And the city was a magnet, a mecca for every like-minded bastard in the Soviet Union. Hollis admired the bastards.

He went into the men’s room, straightened his tie, and combed his hair. “Burov.” Burov was no local Mozhaisk gendarme. He was a Muscovite by choice if not by birth. Furthermore Burov was somewhere directly involved with the Charm School. Hollis didn’t know how he knew that. But he knew.

Hollis got his topcoat and walked unannounced into Alevy’s corner office down the hall. Hollis pulled the heavy drapes closed and turned on the tape player. Bob Dylan sang “Mr. Tambourine Man.” Hollis pulled a chair up close to Alevy and said softly, “Burov.”

Alevy nodded. “That’s our only name and face, isn’t it?”

“We want to draw Burov out, right? To get a fix on this guy and see if he’s more than the phantom of the Mozhaisk morgue. Call Lefortovo restaurant. Make a dinner reservation for two in my name.”

Alevy stayed silent for a while, then said, “Long shot.”

“Not really. The embassy listeners are keyed for my name. Even if Burov is somewhere around Mozhaisk, he can be in Moscow within two hours.”

“Who are you taking to dinner?”

“Not you.”

Alevy smiled wryly. “Okay. But if Burov shows and he wants to do more than talk, I’d be hard-pressed to bail you out in Lefortovo.”

“I didn’t need you to bail me out of Mozhaisk either.”

“I think you’re pushing your luck, Colonel. Not to mention our friend’s luck.”

Hollis stood. “I’ll put it to her straight, and she can decide.”

Alevy stood also. “Sam, remember the lecture you gave me about helping Soviet Jews? Let me give you the same advice about possible American fliers. Make sure it’s worth your life. Or at least make sure someone can pick up the ball after you’re gone. In other words, fill me in on what you know before they kill you.”

“If I did that, Seth, you wouldn’t be so worried about my safety.”

“My, aren’t we thinking like a paranoid spy? Hey, did you find out where Gogol’s grave is?”

“I’m not even convinced he’s dead.” Hollis left Alevy’s office and took the elevator down to the ground floor of the chancery. The big open lobby was filled with embassy men and women leaving work. Some of them waited for spouses, children, or friends; some walked to the rear of the building toward the quad, a short commute home. A few people reboarded the elevators for the ride down to the recreation areas. A few men and women, always in groups of two or more, walked toward the gate, into the city of Moscow and a night of sightseeing or something more interesting.

In some ways, Hollis thought, the scene before him resembled any highrise office lobby at quitting time. But on closer inspection, one knew that this was something quite different. These men and women, despite their respective job or rank, shared lives within the citadel walls, shared common bonds and experiences, problems, sorrows, and joys. They were three hundred Americans in a city of eight million Russians.

Hollis spotted Lisa talking to three men whom he recognized from the commercial section. She didn’t see him, and he watched her smiling and laughing with them. Two of the men were good-looking and obviously on the make. Hollis found he was annoyed.

She glanced around the lobby and saw him. She excused herself and walked over to him. “Hello, Colonel.”

“Hello, Ms. Rhodes.”

“Do you know Kevin, Phil, and Hugh from FCS? I can introduce you.”

“Some other time. We have a cab waiting.” He walked toward the door, and she followed. They went out into the cold air and headed toward the gates. She shivered. “Good Lord, that wind’s from the north now. That’s it until May.”

Hollis said, “I wanted to call you the last two days….”

“Forget it, Sam. Step at a time. I was swamped with work anyway. Dinner was a good idea. Thanks.”

“Right.” He took her arm and turned her toward him. “I still think I owe you an explanation. Just listen. Before we went to Mozhaisk, I told you it could be dangerous, and you saw what I meant. Every day is a danger now, every time we leave this gate. This is not just dinner tonight… I guess what I’m asking is, do you want to get involved with me and with what I’m doing?”

“Taxi’s waiting.”

Hollis took her hand, and they walked through the gate. The U.S. Marine guards saluted, and the Soviet militiamen eyed them. The KGB embassy watchers, sitting in the Chaikas, put down their newspapers and picked up their binoculars.

Hollis saw two taxis at the curb waiting for fares. Moscow taxis as a rule didn’t wait for anyone anywhere, but Western embassies were an exception. Hollis picked a white Lada and got in. He said to the driver, “Lefortovo.”

The driver glanced back at him.

Hollis said in Russian, “The restaurant, not the prison. It’s on Red-something street. Does that help?”

Lisa laughed.

The driver pulled out. “I know where that place is.”

Hollis glanced back and saw one of the Chaikas make a U-turn and follow.

Lisa said to Hollis, “Lefortovo is the name of a restaurant?”

“Yes.”

“Never heard of it. Is that the KGB hangout you promised to take me to?”

“That’s it.”

“The State Bureau of Naming Things is not known for market research, but that name is repellent. Like Lubyanka or Dachau.”

“They’re not looking for tourists.”

Lisa said, “This is going to be an adventure. You’re a lot more exciting than you look.”

“Thank you.”

The driver butted in as Moscow taxi drivers tended to do. “You speak Russian?”

“A little.”

“Maybe you want to pick another restaurant.”

“Why?”

“That one is not nice.”

“Why not?”

“Police. Too many police go there. No one else likes it.”

“You mean KGB?”

The driver didn’t respond. He lit a cigarette and filled the cab with acrid smoke. “If you give me two dollars, we’ll forget the meter.”

“I can’t give you dollars.”

“Do you have any gum, lipstick, cigarettes?”

Lisa rummaged through her bag. “Here’s an Estée Lauder lip gloss for your wife.”

“For my girlfriend. My wife gets my pay. Thank you.”

Lisa said to Hollis in English, “Men are such pigs.”

“I know.”

The driver said, “You both speak good Russian. Are you spies?”

Hollis answered, “Yes.”

The driver laughed. He turned off the ring road into the Avenue of the Enthusiasts and headed east toward the Lefortovo suburb. “Traffic gets worse every year.”

Hollis didn’t notice much traffic. He asked, “Do you know that Washington and Moscow are talking about a summit meeting in January?”

“Yes. I read that.”

“What do you think of that?” Hollis asked.

The driver looked around as if trying to determine if there were anyone else in the cab, then said, “They’ve been talking for forty fucking years. If they wanted peace, they’d have peace.”

Hollis listened as the taxi driver gave his somewhat rambling view of the world. Hollis knew what Soviet diplomats thought, so an Ivan-in-the-street interview was useful now and then.

The driver turned onto Krasno Kursantsky Street. They passed the grim Lefortovo prison compound, and the driver stopped in front of a modern building of glass and aluminum. The driver concluded, “So we should get together before the black asses and the yellow asses take over the world. We’re going to blow each other up, and they’ll take over. Tell that to your president.”

“I’ll pass it along.”

“Are you sure you want to go here?”

“Yes.” Hollis handed him five rubles and told him to keep the change, which he did. Hollis had been told that as few as ten years ago, the taxi drivers stuck to the rule of not accepting tips. But the Revolution was over, burned out, and no one took any of it seriously anymore. In two years he had not once heard anyone call anyone else comrade. The pride and fervor were gone, and everyone was on the make or on the take. The churches were crowded, party membership was down, suicides were up. The average life expectancy was dropping, and alcohol consumption, despite the anti-drinking campaign, had risen. Russia was a second-rate nation, but they had first-rate weapons and a world-class secret police.

He and Lisa walked to the door of the restaurant. She said, “That man sounded like the last New York cabbie I had.”

“God bless the proletariat. They get down to basics.”

Lisa turned and looked up and down the street. “I’ve never been in this part of town. It’s dark and grim.”

“Part of the charm.”

She stared at the KGB prison across the road, then noticed a car parked with its engine running. “Is that our favorite Chaika?”

“Could be. In a country with four makes of cars, most of which are black, it’s hard to tell if you’re being followed.”

Hollis showed her into the restaurant, and they handed their coats in at the checkroom. He took Lisa into the dinner area, a medium-sized room, unremarkable in its decor but interesting in its clientele. Most of the patrons were men, and more than half were in one sort of uniform or another. Many of the civilian-attired men were in brown suits, better cut than those of the average Muscovite. The dining room was darker than most Moscow restaurants, Hollis noted, though the effect was not romantic.

Lisa said, “Sinister. I love it.”

Hollis gave his name to a woman at the reservation counter. She looked him over, then looked Lisa up and down. She frowned, turned, and led them to a table in the center of the room. The table was laid with white linen and heavy flatware. Hollis pulled Lisa’s chair out for her. She said, “Everyone is looking at us.”

“You’re so beautiful.”

“They know we’re Americans.”

Hollis said, “By way of background, the gentlemen you see are mostly employees of Lefortovo — prison, not restaurant. They are a collection of KGB interrogators, torturers, and executioners. They work up big appetites. The food is good, and the service is the fastest in all Moscow, all Russia. It is also underpriced.”

A man in uniform at the next table stared at Lisa. She stared back.

Hollis added, “The KGB doesn’t bug the tables here. Here, the KGB are at the tables.”

A waitress came by with a bottle of mineral water and set it down with two menus. Hollis ordered a bottle of Georgian wine. The waitress left without a word.

Lisa said, “What’s this country coming to when an American military spy can sit in the same restaurant with a hundred KGB thugs? Where is Joe Stalin when they need him?”

Hollis looked over the menu. “Unlike the restaurants in central Moscow, if it’s on the menu, they’ve got it.”

The waitress returned with the wine, and they ordered dinner. Lisa said, “That one bastard is still staring at me.”

Hollis poured two glasses of red wine. “I’ll ask him to step outside.”

“No.” Lisa smiled. “We’re even on restaurants.” She stuck her tongue out at the man who was staring at her. Several diners laughed. The man rose from his table, and Hollis wondered if his crew cut was going to brush the ceiling.

A few of the other men hooted and howled. One yelled out, “Viktor! Don’t be an uncultural lout. Buy the Americans a drink.”

Someone else shouted, “No, show them how much of a lout you are and throw them out.”

Lisa looked around but saw no restaurant employees. She said to Hollis, “Do you want to leave?”

“No.”

Viktor and Hollis sized each other up.

The dining room became quiet as a tall, thin man in civilian clothes rose from a dark corner table and walked across the room. He snapped to Viktor, “Out!” Viktor hurried for the door.

Colonel Burov motioned toward the table. “Please. Sit. May I?” He sat in a chair at their table, still motioning Hollis into his seat. Burov snapped his fingers, and a waitress suddenly appeared. “More wine.” He looked at Hollis and Lisa. “I must apologize on behalf of my compatriot.”

Hollis replied, “Why? Hasn’t he learned human speech?”

Burov seemed puzzled, then got it and laughed. He turned and translated Hollis’ words for the others. Everyone laughed.

Hollis said to Burov, “Come here often?”

“Yes. This is a favorite of my organization. Did you know that before you came?”

Hollis ignored the question and asked, “Can I assume this isn’t a chance meeting?”

“It’s a fateful meeting perhaps.”

“What’s on your mind, Colonel Burov?”

“Many things, Colonel Hollis. Since our last unpleasant business at Mozhaisk, I’ve been thinking about you two.”

“And we about you.”

“I’m flattered. By the way, they tell me you never arrived at the state farm.”

“So what?”

Burov continued, “We found your rented car where you left it at Gagarin station, and I had it examined by the Criminal Investigation Division of the Moscow police. Tire marks, mud, pine twigs, and so on. I conclude that you entered a restricted area. Specifically an area two kilometers north of Borodino Field.”

Hollis said, “Will you pass that butter, Colonel?”

Burov slid a butter dish across the table. “So?”

Hollis leaned toward Burov. “I suggest that if you want to speak to us, you go through your foreign ministry and arrange it with my embassy. Good evening.”

Burov drummed a spoon on the table. “The hell with those people. This is intelligence business. I know who you are. I know you have scars on your neck and back from wounds received when you were shot down over Haiphong. I know your sister’s name is Mary and your mother drank too much. Let’s get down to business and forget the protocols of diplomacy.”

Hollis took the spoon from Burov’s hand and said, “All right, no more diplomacy. You murdered an American citizen. You beat my driver, and perhaps you would have murdered me and Miss Rhodes. Yet you sit here and talk to us as though you are a civilized human being. You are not.”

Burov seemed not to take offense. He rubbed his finger over his lips thoughtfully, then nodded. “All right. There’s no use denying some of the details that you possess in this matter. But what you conclude from those details is probably erroneous. This matter is quite beyond your understanding, Colonel Hollis, and certainly yours, Miss Rhodes. It is, I admit, somewhat beyond my understanding as well. It is a matter that concerns the higher-ups.”

Lisa replied, “Then why kill the little people, Colonel?”

Burov ignored this and continued, “Yes, I’ll satisfy your curiosity. It’s like this: the Major Jack Dodson, who the late Mr. Fisher referred to in his phone call to you, was a turncoat. While a prisoner of war in the People’s Republic of Vietnam, Major Dodson sent a message to the Soviet embassy in Hanoi requesting an interview. It was granted, and during the discussion with a Soviet military attaché, Major Dodson said he would welcome the opportunity to come to the Soviet Union and exchange his military knowledge for his release from the prison camp. He felt bitter and betrayed by his country. He stated that America was not waging the war properly, that the limited air war had endangered his life, wasted his talent, and caused the deaths of his friends. Perhaps you yourself felt that way, Colonel. So, anyway, Dodson asked if we would get him out of the Vietnamese POW camp. We did.”

Neither Hollis nor Lisa spoke. Finally Hollis said, “And why didn’t the Soviet Union announce his defection for propaganda purposes?”

“Dodson didn’t want that. That was part of the deal we struck with him.”

Lisa asked, “And he let his family think he was dead?”

Burov shrugged. “Major Dodson spoke of his wife’s past infidelities. He was childless, I believe.”

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.”

Hollis put his drink on the end table.

“So,” she said, “let’s do it again.”

“Well…” He looked at his watch.

She embraced him and kissed him, then ran her fingers over the nape of his neck and felt the scars again. “You could have been in the Charm School.”

“I suppose.”

“But instead you’re here. Your wife is in London. Gregory Fisher is dead, and Major Dodson is God knows where. How will this end?”

“No idea.”

“When do you finish your tour here?”

“Whenever the Pentagon wants. You?”

“Twenty months. Maybe less now. What will we do if one of us leaves before the other?”

Hollis didn’t reply, and she said, “Step at a time.” She motioned to the staircase. “Let’s do those steps first.”

They climbed the stairs to her bedroom. Like the main floor, Hollis noticed, it was Finnish modern, light ashwood, Finlandia crystal, things by Sotka, Furbig, and Aarikka, names that the American community in Moscow had come to appreciate. There was a long-tailed Chinese kite tacked in loops across the ceiling and down the wall over the bed. “Very nice.”

“You’re only the third man who’s been up here.”

“It’s certainly a rare privilege. Look, do you realize I’m nearly twenty years older than you?”

“So were the other two. So what?”

Hollis looked at her. There was something about Lisa Rhodes that appealed to him. She was tomboyish yet feminine, ingenuous but shrewd. And at times she showed great maturity, though there were other times she seemed refreshingly unsophisticated. He said, “I like twenty-nine.”

“I’ve never tried that.”

“Your age.”

“Oh…” She laughed in embarrassment, then kicked off her shoes and unbuttoned her blouse. “Stay the night. I want to wake up beside you. Like in Yablonya.”

“That would be nice.”

The alarm rang, and Hollis reached for it, but it wasn’t there.

Lisa turned it off on her side of the bed. “You do have a side.”

“Where am I?”

“Paris. My name is Colette.”

“Pleased to meet you.” The blinds were shut and the heavy drapes pulled tight as was the rule. Hollis turned on the lamp.

Lisa said, “I used to enjoy the sun coming in the window in the morning.”

“Me too,” he said, “but there’s no sun anyway, only microwaves from across the street.”

She cuddled close to him and ran her hand over his groin as she kissed his cheek.

“You’re very affectionate,” he said.

“You’re not,” she replied.

“Give me time.”

“I understand.” She got out of bed and went into the bathroom.

Hollis heard the faucet running. The telephone on the nightstand rang. He let it ring. It kept ringing. Against his better judgment, he picked it up. “Hello.”

Seth Alevy said, “Good morning.”

“Morning.”

“I wanted to speak to you.”

“Then call me in my apartment.”

“You’re not there.”

Hollis swung his legs out of bed. “Try again.”

Alevy sounded annoyed. “I’d like a meeting with you for eleven A.M.”

“I have a meeting with two Red Air Force colonels at ten-thirty.”

“That’s been canceled.”

“By whom?”

“Also ask Lisa to be there. Her calendar has been cleared. I’ll see you in the intelligence officer’s safe room.” Alevy hung up.

Lisa called out from the bathroom, “Where are you?”

“I’m on my side now.” Hollis got out of bed. Bastard. He thought that Alevy could well have waited to talk to him when he got to his office. He thought about life inside the red brick walls. Here you could bowl, swim in the indoor pool, play squash, or see the weekly movie in the theater. If none of that appealed to you, you could go crazy, as his wife claimed she had done, or you could indulge yourself in one sort of marginally acceptable behavior or another; extramarital sex, alcohol, and social withdrawal were the most common. More acceptable pursuits included reading long Russian novels, working sixteen-hour days, or trying to learn more about the land and the people, as Lisa had done. This latter hobby, however, often met with disappointments and frustrations, as this host country, in contrast to most, wasn’t flattered and didn’t want you to learn anything. Even a fluency in the language marked you as a potential spy. Xenophobia was as Russian as borscht, Hollis thought.

And if things inside the walls weren’t enough to get you down, outside the walls were the men and women of the KGB’s Seventh Directorate, the “Embassy Watchers,” who had the premises and each individual in it under constant surveillance. Hollis parted the drapes a few inches and looked out into the new morning.

The new embassy had to be built on the only site offered by the Soviet government, and in addition to the unhealthy river vapors, the low ground made it possible for the KGB to bombard the whole compound with listening-device microwaves whose long-range physical effects were unknown, though leukemia was one suspected by-product.

Even intracompound telephone calls such as Alevy’s to Lisa’s apartment were monitored, and the windows were watched, which was why room blinds were almost permanently shut.

Lisa walked out of the bathroom, wearing only a towel around her neck. “Who was that?”

Hollis regarded her in the dim light. In clothes she looked lithe, almost slight. But naked, she was full-busted, and her hips were well-rounded. Her pubic hair had a nice reddish tint.

“My face is up here.”

“Oh…” Hollis said, “That was Seth.”

“Oh…”

“He wants to see both of us at eleven A.M. Your calendar has been cleared.”

“What do you suppose they want now?”

“Who knows?”

She asked, “Are we in trouble because of… this?”

He replied, “Me, maybe. I’m married. You single people get away with everything.”

She thought a moment, then offered, “This wasn’t a good idea. I was being selfish. You have more to lose than I do.”

“Mandatory postcoital speech noted.”

They stood a few feet from each other, both naked. Lisa looked him up and down. “That’s some throttle you’ve got there, fly boy.”

Hollis smiled despite his annoyance at the phone call.

She said, “Let’s impress the KGB listener with our sexual appetites.” She took his hand and led him into the bathroom. They made love in the shower, and over his objection, she shaved him with her pink plastic razor. She gave him a toothbrush, then went downstairs to the kitchen to make coffee.

As Hollis dried himself, he surveyed the array of feminine products on the countertop. He supposed that Katherine had the same sort of things, but he’d never noticed them. This all seemed very new to him. Unconsciously he picked up a jar of cleansing cream and smelled it.

19

It was the intelligence officer’s safe room this time, Hollis noted, because the ambassador was using his own safe room, meeting with four people from Washington who had just flown in. Clearly, things were coming to a boil. The people in the embassy, even the nondiplomatic and nonintelligence staff, knew something was up because of all the activity: Brennan being flown to London in bandages; Volgas, Fords, and Chaikas tearing off in the night.

After leaving Lisa, Hollis had gone into the snack bar as usual and discovered he had six breakfast companions at a table for four. They had tried out several rumors on him, and Hollis found himself saying things such as, “I’m just an Air Force guy. I don’t know any more than you do.”

Charles Banks cleared his throat, made eye contact with Hollis, then with Lisa, and began. “Colonel Hollis, Ms. Rhodes, it is my unpleasant duty to inform you that the Soviet government has filed a formal complaint against both of you. The details are unimportant. You have each been declared persona non grata.” He looked at Hollis, then at Lisa. “You have five days in which to get your affairs in order and leave the country. You will depart Monday A.M.”

Lisa glanced at Alevy, then at Hollis. No one spoke, then Lisa said with emotion in her voice, “That’s not fair. Not fair, Charles.”

Banks ignored this and added, “As you may know, since you both work here, Soviet-American relations are on the mend. Sino-American relations are deteriorating as a result. The Chinese are now making overtures toward the Soviets. There is a new world alignment in the wind, and our government is anxious not to be left standing alone.”

Lisa remarked sarcastically, “I didn’t mean to upset the world balance of power. And I don’t think Sam did either. Did you, Sam?”

Hollis pretended he didn’t hear. Alevy stifled a smile. Banks cleared his throat and leaned forward in his chair. “The balance of world power, Ms. Rhodes, is not a joking matter.”

Lisa retorted sharply, “I’m not a bubble brain, Charles. Neither do I intend to alter my reality or compromise my principles to suit my government’s momentary needs. Murder is murder. And there is an American POW who is in trouble out there. If I can’t do anything about it, and you won’t, then I will have to offer my resignation and go public with this.”

Charles Banks replied frostily, “Thank you for your thoughts, Ms. Rhodes. Please understand that State isn’t kicking you out. The Soviet Foreign Ministry is. We don’t require your cooperation or resignation or anything from you. We only require that you pack and leave as requested. And you will not go public.”

Lisa turned away and seemed disinterested in Banks.

Charles Banks said to Hollis, “There will be nothing derogatory in your file or that of Ms. Rhodes. We will issue a bene decessit—a statement that your leaving was not due to misconduct as we define it. Is that satisfactory, Colonel?”

“General.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s what I want, Mr. Banks.”

“Oh… I see. Yes, I’ll take that up with… the appropriate people. If you have time in service, time in grade, and other—”

“I don’t, but you’ll tell the commander in chief to waive that.”

Banks eyed Hollis a moment, then continued, “You will both be given thirty days’ home leave. You will also be given new assignments that will be beneficial to your respective careers.”

Lisa said, “We want to be reassigned together.”

Banks glanced at Alevy, then back to Lisa. “That’s not possible.”

“Why not?”

“For security reasons.”

“What does that mean?”

Banks looked pointedly at his watch. “I must go upstairs. Mr. Alevy will give you your departure briefing at this time.” Banks added in a softer tone, “Personally, I’m sorry to see you both go. Everyone here considers you very valuable assets to our mission. Your fluency in Russian is unexcelled. Sam, Lisa, good luck to you.” Banks left.

Alevy went to the sideboard and poured a vodka and chilled orange juice. There were trays of pastry as well. “Help yourselves. Charles laid on some nice things to make you feel better.”

Lisa stood and drew hot water for tea from a silver urn. She said to Hollis, “Sam, can I get you something?”

“Coffee, please.”

She brought him his coffee and sat in the chair beside him. Alevy placed a tray on the table, heaped with red and black caviar, sour cream, toast, and butter. Lisa commented, “When they give you the shaft here, they at least smear it with maslo.”

Alevy chewed on a pastry. “That’s crude, Lisa.” Alevy wiped his fingers with a linen napkin. “I will now read you certain provisions of the National Security Act and instruct you on your duties and obligations regarding not disclosing anything you have seen, heard, or read while posted here.” Alevy proceeded to do so, then asked them to sign standard statements of acknowledgment, which they did.

Alevy sat opposite them and put his drink on the table. He spread sour cream and caviar on a triangle of toast and said to them, “It’s better this way.”

Hollis replied, “I think it’s better with butter.”

Alevy chewed on his toast and regarded Hollis coolly. “I mean it’s better that they’re booting you. If they weren’t booting you, that would mean the KGB has convinced the Politboro to give them another shot at you. Apparently the Politboro, acting as game warden, has told the KGB they had their chance and the season is closed for Lisas and Sams.”

Hollis finished his coffee. “That about it, Seth?”

“No. I’m advising both of you to stay within the embassy grounds for the rest of your days here.”

Lisa said, “I intend to buy some Russian folkcraft before I leave, take some photos, that sort of thing.”

Alevy shrugged. “That’s only sensible advice. What is an order is that you are not to go outside the gates alone and never after sundown.”

Hollis observed, “I thought we were off-season.”

Alevy stood and made himself another drink. “Where there are game wardens, there are poachers.” He added, “If it makes you feel any better, our government has booted their air attaché and press officer out of D.C. It’s in tomorrow’s papers.”

Lisa asked, “Am I relieved of my duties?”

“Oh, yes. Both of you. Interdean, the West German movers, will pack you up. You need the time to supervise.”

Hollis asked, “Who’s going to meet Ace on Sunday?”

“You have to do that. Tell him that someone else will be handling him. Work out the details. Don’t lose him.”

“Are we getting him out?”

“If he has what you asked for.”

Lisa asked Alevy, “Why aren’t they booting you? You’re the one who pulled a gun on Burov.”

“Well,” Alevy replied, “it’s the KGB who wants me around, on the theory that it’s better to deal with the devil you know. Also if the Soviets booted me, then we’d boot their top rezident in Washington as happened in ’86. Then one boot leads to the other. Nobody wants that again. The score is tied, two — two.”

Lisa observed, “Diplomacy has a certain immutable illogic to it that becomes a logic of its own.”

“I’ll get that framed and hung in the ambassador’s safe room.” Alevy smiled at Lisa and looked at her for some time, then asked with a forced lightness in his tone, “So, Lady Lisa, where will you spend your home leave?”

“I don’t know… this is unexpected. New York, I guess….”

Alevy looked at Hollis. “You?”

“Not real sure. London, I suppose, to take care of that business. Then maybe Japan to see the old folks practice Zen. Then New York to see my brother who won’t leave his time zone.” He added, “I might pay a condolence visit on the Fishers in New Canaan.”

Lisa nodded. “Me too.”

Alevy said sharply, “Don’t you dare. You two are going to be well taken care of if you cooperate. You can each pick any assignment in the world outside the Curtain. That’s what they’re offering.”

Lisa added, “As long as we’re not together. Is that your idea?”

Alevy replied, “I won’t dignify that question with an answer.”

Hollis stood. “Well, I’ll discuss this whole matter with my people.”

“My company has the primary responsibility for handling these matters.”

“Are we finished?”

“No. I would like you to tell me now about your side trip to Borodino.”

“There’s not much to tell,” Hollis replied. “However, I did kill two KGB Border Guards.”

Alevy stood. “Jesus Christ! Are you serious?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“My God, that’s got their blood boiling. Why the hell didn’t you tell me that? You’re damned lucky to be alive. Both of you.”

“It was unavoidable.”

“Okay, okay. What else happened at Borodino?”

“I’ll give you a complete report before I leave.” He added, “But as they say in diplomatic circles, we want quid pro quo.”

“Do you now?” Alevy replied. “Well, as they also say, I won’t agree to any sine qua non. You’ll tell me without preconditions and without any guarantee that you’ll get something in return. If you don’t tell me, I will guarantee that the roof will fall in on both of you.”

Hollis replied softly, “Don’t threaten a killer, Seth.”

Alevy and Hollis stared at each other, then Alevy smiled. “Sorry. Just passing on orders.”

Lisa moved toward Alevy and said curtly, “When you tell us how Gregory Fisher’s murder is going to be resolved and what you’re doing about Major Dodson, we’ll tell you what we saw at Borodino. This is not going to be another case of an American citizen’s death being written off in the interest of some diplomatic maneuverings.”

Alevy retorted, “Don’t play investigative journalist, Lisa. You’re a writer for the USIS, and you do what you’re told.” Alevy added, “You just signed a statement to that effect. Remember?”

“Yes, all right. But certainly you understand that I’m personally upset over that boy’s death… I never should have gone to Mozhaisk… to see the body.”

Alevy replied, “I couldn’t agree more.” He looked her in the eye and said, “I might also remind you that you are one of the embassy’s foremost cheerleaders for cozy Soviet-American relations. I don’t subscribe to that, but I’ll write off Fisher’s death if my government determines that is the way to save their precious upcoming summit. So if that is your goal too, forget justice. There are more important issues. Okay?”

Lisa did not reply.

Hollis interjected, “Maybe I’m willing to write off Fisher, Seth. But I have a personal interest in Air Force Major Jack Dodson and any other Americans who are being held here against their will. I’m just putting you and your company on notice about that. That we don’t write off. We’ll discuss it before I leave.”

“Noted and agreed.” He looked at Lisa and said in a conciliatory tone, “Look, I can tell you’re upset. This is all very new to you. But justice is done differently here, and it’s not a matter of public record. The only justice here is revenge. Tit for tat.”

Lisa gave Seth Alevy a long, sad look, and Hollis had the impression they’d been through this before.

Alevy broke eye contact with her and said as if to himself, “I’m not totally ruthless. I may seem so at times… I know violence begets violence…. I was raised as a nonviolent person…. I still don’t like the wet stuff… but I know I commit psychological violence on my enemies every day.” He sipped on his drink thoughtfully, then said, “A little over two years ago, before either of you were here, I was jumped on the street, beaten, and robbed by a bunch of hooligans, as the Russians call them.”

Hollis had heard about that, but no one seemed to know the details.

Alevy glanced at Lisa. “I was on my way to meet Ina Shimanov, the wife of Reuven Shimanov, the Soviet nuclear biologist who defected to the West during a symposium in New York. Ina had been fired from her job and was destitute, hungry, and despondent. Our embassy was trying to get her out to join her husband. I spoke to Reuven on the telephone one night. He was calling from New York. He’d just gotten through to his wife in Moscow and spoke to her a few minutes before they were cut off. Ina, he said, was crying, begging him for help.” Alevy shifted into Russian. “‘Husband, dear,’ she cried. ‘I am starving. They are going to banish me from Moscow. Please, dear Reuven, for the love of God, help me. ’” Alevy looked at Hollis and Lisa before continuing, “So I went out by myself to comfort her and bring her money. I took the metro. It wasn’t official, just Jew to Jew. Understand? Well, the boys of the Seventh Directorate, in conjunction with the electronic eavesdroppers, got onto me in a flash. Followed me, jumped me when I got off the metro at Universitet Station, beat me, and left me naked in the snow with internal injuries.”

Lisa put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear God.”

Alevy set down his drink. “My fault. I was responding to my sense of decency — justice. Anyway, a group of passing students spotted me and took me to a hospital. My people wanted to reassign me to someplace nice. But I wanted to stay here. To even the score.”

Hollis said, “I heard your friends in D.C. did that.”

Alevy replied, “I had nothing to do with that.”

“With what?” Lisa asked.

“Nothing.” Alevy moved toward the padded, airtight door. “Look, I can tell you this is a dirty, dehumanizing business, but it takes something like the events of the last few days for it to become real. Right? In military intelligence you deal with stats, numbers, capabilities, and talk about thermonuclear destruction. Means nothing. But then you get slammed against a car by a smelly goon, like I got my testicles kicked into my abdomen, and hey! The Soviet-American power struggle takes on new and deeper meaning.” Alevy opened the door. “I have good motivations to take care of this. Charlie Banks can blow smoke and utter platitudes all fucking day, and I’ll smile and nod all fucking day. But I have my job, and he has his. As for you two, the diplomats would say this matter is ultra vires — beyond your power or authority.”

“I’ll make that decision,” Hollis said as he went through the door with Lisa. “Not you or the diplomats.”

“I know you will, Sam.” Alevy added in a lighter tone, “Oh, the party is Saturday at six-thirty, in the reception hall. The ambassador will put in an appearance. The persona non grata parties are more fun than the regular end-of-assignment parties. Be prepared for some kidding. Make up funny speeches about why you’re being kicked out and all that.” Alevy extended his hand, and they all shook.

Lisa said, “Don’t let this place, this job, dehumanize you.”

Alevy thought a moment before responding, “As long as I’m still capable of going out into the cold night to help a woman who is being persecuted, then I know I’m okay.”

“I hope so.”

“Me too.” Alevy closed the door.

As Hollis and Lisa walked toward the elevator, she asked, “What happened in D.C.?”

Hollis considered a moment before replying, “Seth’s friends arranged to have a Soviet diplomat’s teenage daughter mugged in Washington. They left her on the campus of American University with a broken jaw.”

Lisa stopped walking. “But… Seth didn’t know…”

“I think not.” But Hollis was sure he did.

She began walking again.

Hollis added, “In Seth’s company there are people who deal with the Soviets on an unofficial and personal level. They call themselves the Tit for Tat Gang. A broken arm in Moscow or Budapest is a guarantee of a broken something in Washington or London.”

Lisa shook her head.

“This philosophy of assured retaliation has actually reduced the number of broken limbs. In fact, things have been cool for a few years. The fact that Burov opted for the wet stuff is suggestive… indicative of the degree of the KGB’s concern. A signal to Seth and me that things can quickly get out of hand.”

“They’re not very subtle, are they?”

“No. They reacted too strongly and got everyone interested.”

They took the elevator up to the seventh floor and walked to Lisa’s office door. She asked, “Can we do something useful before Monday?”

Hollis replied, “We shouldn’t talk too much outside the safe areas.”

She nodded. “Is it true that we bug ourselves? To see who’s violating talk security?”

“Maybe. I get tired of whispering in the ears of people I don’t know that well.”

“You’re not unhappy about leaving, are you?”

“I don’t like the circumstances. How about you?”

“I’m sad. But I’m glad it was both of us. We can get together on the outside, Sam.” She smiled. “General.”

He returned the smile. “They’ll play ball. If we do.” He looked at his watch. “I’m going to clean out my desk.”

“Me too.”

They stood there a moment, then Lisa said, “For the record, I think I’m falling in love with you.”

“A little louder for the microphone, please.”

She smiled. “Can I see you tonight?”

He opened the door of her office. “Dinner?”

“Your place. I’ll cook.”

“I only have beer and mustard. But I’ll go to the commissary if you give me a shopping list.”

“No, I’ll go to Gastronom One.” She said, “I’ll cook a Russian meal. You get the vodka.”

“You shouldn’t leave the compound alone,” Hollis reminded her.

“Gastronom One doesn’t deliver.”

“Be careful.”

“I’m only going to the grocery store.”

“Be careful.”

“Yes, sir.” She turned and walked into her office.

20

At six P.M. the telephone rang in Hollis’ office. “Hollis.”

“Alevy. Are you free for cocktails?”

“No. I have a dinner engagement in half an hour.”

“You’ll have to postpone it for an hour.”

“Then why did you ask? How is it that you’re running my social and business calendar?”

“Only your business calendar. We have business.”

Hollis surveyed the packing boxes around him. “I’m out of business.”

“Oh, don’t believe everything you hear. You’re relieved of only your official air attaché duties. Did you really think you were relieved of your spy duties?”

“No.”

“My place in ten minutes. Do you know where I live?”

“I’ll bet I could find it.” Hollis hung up and called Lisa’s apartment, but there was no answer. He buzzed his aide, Captain O’Shea. “Ed, are you working tonight?”

“Yes, sir, until about eight.”

“Okay, if Ms. Rhodes… do you know her?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If she calls or stops by — she’s shopping in the city — tell her I’ll be… in my apartment, about seven-thirty.”

“Yes, sir. Can you be reached between now and then?”

“Perhaps.”

“Will you be in the city?”

“No, Captain, I’ll be here in the fort. Why?”

“Just looking out for your ass, Colonel.”

“At whose suggestion?”

O’Shea let a few seconds pass before replying, “No one’s. I’m your aide.”

Hollis hung up, and a few moments later O’Shea walked in with his slate board and wrote in chalk: Gen. Brewer from D.C. has asked me to report on your activities.

Hollis wrote on his own slate: KMP. Keep me posted.

O’Shea nodded and said as though just walking in, “Excuse me, Colonel, I thought you’d want to know I’ve gotten calls from just about everyone in the resident press corps here, including the Brits, Aussies, Canadians, and some West Europeans too. They would like to know why you have been declared persona non grata. I referred them all to the press office, of course. But they all want to speak to you off the record.”

“Did any of them mention Fisher?”

“Yes, sir. They’re trying to find a connection between Fisher’s death, your trip to Mozhaisk, and you getting booted.”

“Very suspicious people.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hollis put on his overcoat. “If a Colonel Burov calls for me, transfer the call to me in Mr. Alevy’s apartment.”

“Yes, sir.” O’Shea erased both slates.

“Hold down the fort, Ed.” Hollis left and took the elevator down to the lobby, walked outside to the rear terrace, and cut across the quad, avoiding the paths. It was cold, and a light snow was falling from a luminous sky. Some of the housing units surrounding the quad were lit, and he could see families in their living rooms, the blue glow of televisions that were hooked to VCRs, people in their third-floor bedrooms looking out at the first snow. Lisa’s unit was dark.

It was all so red-brick American, he thought, like suburban town-house condos, or family housing at an airbase or college. Peacefully boring and ordinary. Thinking back on his marriage and his life, he realized he had taken extraordinary personal risks, more than any normal man would have taken. Katherine must have drawn some valid conclusions from that.

He came to Alevy’s door and rang the bell.

Alevy showed him in, and Hollis hung his topcoat on a coat tree in the foyer, then followed Alevy up the stairs. “Snowing,” Alevy observed.

They came up into the living room. Hollis had never been in Alevy’s place, and he was surprised at its size, not to mention its appointments. The apartment was done in the most opulent Russian antiques he’d ever seen outside of a museum. In addition to the furnishings, there were oil paintings on the walls, two Samarkand rugs on the floor, porcelain and lacquer pieces on every polished wood surface. A huge silver samovar sat gleaming in front of the window. Hollis commented, “Not bad for a mid-level political affairs officer.”

Alevy hit a wall switch and background music filled the room, providing sound cover. The music was an orchestra of massed balalaikas playing folk tunes. Alevy responded, “My company pays for this. Nothing comes out of the diplomatic budget here.”

“Good. I wouldn’t want to think the rest of us are counting paper clips so you can go into competition with the Winter Palace.”

“Have a seat.” Alevy went to a carved mahogany sideboard. “Scotch, right?”

“Right.” Hollis sat in a plush, green velvet armchair. “The Pentagon doesn’t understand civilian perquisites like your company does.”

Alevy handed him a drink. “So join my company. We’d be happy to have you.”

“No, thanks. I want to get back to flying. That’s what I want out of this mess.”

“Well,” Alevy said, “my company has jet aircraft too. But I think that would be a waste of your real talent.”

“What is my real talent?”

“Espionage,” Alevy answered. “You’re better at it than you probably think.” He raised his glass. “To your safe return home.” They drank.

Hollis set his glass down atop a silver coaster on the end table. He said, “I think flying is my area of expertise.”

Alevy settled into a facing chair of black lacquer. “Flying may be your love, but the shrapnel in your ass makes me question your expertise.”

Hollis smiled. “I dodged sixteen missiles, but all anyone remembers is the seventeenth.”

“Life’s a bitch, Sam. Look, I didn’t call you here to recruit you. But it’s an offer. Consider it.”

“Sure.”

Alevy said, “I don’t invite many people here.”

Hollis looked over the room. Lisa, of course, had been one of those who were invited. He could appreciate how a Russophile could be seduced in such a settling.

Alevy said, “I can explain this stuff to you because you’re in the business.”

“Interior decorating?”

“No, intelligence. This stuff is worth about a million. There’s even a Fabergé egg and czarist dinnerware and so forth. Anyway, this junk is tied into how we pay our Soviet assets. You’ve heard of the commission shops where Soviet citizens can bring family heirlooms and other items of unspecified origins.”

“I’ve recently heard about that.”

“Well, I can’t go into details, but this quirk in the Soviet system gives us an opportunity to channel money here and there. Okay?”

“You don’t owe me an explanation.”

“Nevertheless, you got one. But that’s got a top secret classification.”

Hollis considered a moment, then said, “Lisa has a low security clearance.”

“I never told her what I just told you. I told her this stuff was from our pre-Revolution embassy.” He looked at Hollis. “One of my people happened to see you coming out of the antique shop on Arbat. So I thought something she said might have piqued your curiosity.” Alevy stood and made himself another drink. With his back to Hollis he said, “This is what you call awkward. Right? I mean, the same woman and all. You’re sitting here thinking that Lisa and I probably did it on that ten-foot couch, and you’re probably right.”

Hollis didn’t respond.

Alevy continued, “And you’ve discovered that you like her, so you’ve decided you don’t like me.”

“We’ve always gotten along.”

“Right. I could decide I don’t like you. Because I still care for her, and I’d like to have her back.”

“She’s leaving,” Hollis said.

“True. Anyway, I wanted to clear the air about that.”

“Then stop blowing smoke.”

“Right. The air is not clear. But we have to accomplish a few things, you and I, before you leave. So let’s get professional.”

“Accomplish what?”

“Well, a report on Borodino. Now that we’re alone we can drop the posturing we do in front of Banks and Lisa.”

“Speak for yourself, Seth.”

“Another drink?”

“No.”

“Follow me.” Alevy opened a narrow door in the hallway, and Hollis expected to see a closet but instead found himself shown into a dark windowless room, about twelve feet square, with padded walls. The room was lit by the glow of a five-foot video screen. “This is my little safe room. A few electronic gadgets. Just enough to do homework. Have a seat.” He motioned toward a chair. Hollis sat.

Alevy took a seat beside him and swiveled his chair toward the video screen. He picked up a remote control device from the table and pressed a button. The screen flashed to a photo of a man in his thirties wearing the uniform of an Air Force officer. Alevy said, “Major Jack Dodson. Missing in action since November eleventh, 1970. Last seen by his wingman, ejecting from a damaged Phantom over the Red River Valley between Hanoi and Haiphong. This witness said he appeared unhurt. However, Dodson never showed up on Hanoi’s lists of POWs. Now we think we know where he disappeared to.”

“My copilot, Ernie Simms, similarly disappeared.”

“Yes, I know that.”

The picture of Dodson disappeared, replaced by another man. It took Hollis a few seconds to recognize Ernie Simms.

Neither man spoke for a while, then Alevy said, “I don’t know if he’s here in Russia, Sam.”

Hollis did not respond.

Alevy added, “We can’t refight the war, but sometimes we get a chance to make a little change in the present to make the past better.”

Hollis looked at Alevy in the blue light but said nothing.

Alevy shut off the video screen, and they sat in the dark room in silence. Alevy said, “There’s more to this slide show. But now it’s your turn to do show-and-tell. Borodino. You’re on, Sam.”

“Lisa and I will be assigned together if that’s what we decide we want. That’s the quid pro quo.”

Alevy kicked off his shoes and propped his feet on an electronic console. He unwrapped a stick of gum and popped it in his mouth. “Well… I suppose that’s easier to do than convincing her that justice will be done.”

Hollis stared into the darkness of the room, then began, “We went north of Borodino Field. There’s a ridge line covered with pine trees there.” Hollis related the story of their excursion, telling Alevy what he saw and what he deduced about the place.

Alevy listened intently, then asked. “More like a prison than a restricted area?”

“Definitely. A local Gulag.”

“KGB Border Guards?”

“Yes.”

“Wearing the standard winter uniform? Olive drab, red piping?”

“Yes.”

“Soft caps or helmets?”

“Soft caps. Why?”

“AK-47’s?”

“Yes. I also saw a guy in the half-track with a long rifle and scope. It could have been one of those SVD sniper rifles. The Dragunov. You know it?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you want to know all that? As if I didn’t know.”

Alevy said nothing.

Hollis remarked, “You’re crazy.”

“Oh, I know that.” Alevy continued his questioning. “You saw no Red Air Force people, signs, or markings?”

“None.”

“Okay, so when you got back to your office you started digging in your files, correct? What did you learn?”

Hollis tapped his fingers on the armrest. Sharing military secrets, saying them aloud, did not come easy to him, but he thought the time had come. “I discovered that this area is off limits to civilian aircraft overflights.”

“So’s ninety percent of this country.”

“Right. I also found an old survey of Red Air Force bases that my office did about fifteen years ago. The file was labeled Borodino North for want of a Russian name. Lacking an airfield, the survey termed it a ground school, perhaps a survival course, though the area is largely benign farmland. Even the forest is a piece of cake. But that’s all the report said.”

Alevy nodded. “We had no interest in the area until recently. But when I got interested, I had some people poke around there. It had been a Red Air Force installation about fifteen years ago according to local memory. That jibes with your old survey. But then the uniforms started to change to KGB and to civilian attire. The personnel inside the installation have virtually no contact with Borodino village, Mozhaisk, or the surrounding countryside, according to the locals. They helicopter back and forth, presumably to Moscow. Conclusion: Top secret stuff. Personnel have Moscow privileges and so forth.” Alevy looked at Hollis. “Okay, your turn.”

Hollis replied, “I found some old SR-71 photos. But these were taken in 1974 or ’75 at eighty thousand feet with cameras that don’t have the resolution that your recon satellites do now.”

“What did the photo analysts say about those shots?” Alevy asked.

“Well, Air Force Intelligence was only looking for things that interested them. They concluded that the installation, which seems to cover about three hundred hectares, a little more than a square mile, had no military significance in a tactical or strategic sense. That’s where my file ends on Borodino North. Case closed.”

Alevy asked, “What do you think the place is?”

“Mrs. Ivanova’s Charm School,” Hollis replied.

“And what,” Alevy asked, “is Mrs. Ivanova’s Charm School?”

“You tell me. And if you have pictures, and I guess you do, let’s see them.”

Alevy hit the remote switch again, and the screen brightened to show a slow-motion aerial view of farmland. Alevy said, “The recon satellite is passing from northeast to southwest. Very nice, sunny summer day. That’s wheat there. Let’s move in a little.” The image on the screen zoomed in to a close-up of a man on a red tractor pulling a load of hay. “Now there’s the Moskva River coming up.”

The picture seemed to be taken at about two thousand feet, Hollis thought, though the satellite could have been a hundred miles above the earth.

Alevy continued, “All right, you see the beginning of the pine forest. Now you see what you saw from the ground — a cleared ring about fifty meters in depth, and if you look closely you can see the concentric rings of barbed wire. There… see the watchtower.” Alevy stopped the tape and focused even closer. “The Border Guard chap in the tower is scratching his ass, and unbeknownst to him, the eye in the sky is recording it for posterity.”

Hollis asked, “When was this taken?”

“This past June. Okay, moving toward the center of the installation — we see more pine trees and not much else. But hold on here—” He stopped the tape again. “Now look at the top of the screen. That clearing is a helipad. See the way the grass is blown by the rotor blades, and see the chopperskid indents on the ground?”

“No.”

“Well, neither do I. But that’s what the photo analysts told me. Okay, move on a few seconds, and there we see just a piece of a structure, a log cabin, but you won’t see much else because of the evergreen cover. The Soviets like to use their pine forests as cover from our satellites. One day this whole fucking country will be hidden under the evergreens. Okay, now you see the beginning of Borodino Field, then the old Minsk — Moscow road, then the new Minsk — Moscow highway. Pretty nifty, huh? The Soviets must shit when they think about our satellites.” Alevy shut off the video. “That’s it.”

Both men sat in the semidarkness awhile. Alevy said, “We did spectrum and infrared analysis on the pine forest. There are heat sources and such down there. Vehicles, people, lots of small structures, and a few larger ones, mostly wood, we think, scattered about in that square mile. Population anywhere from four to eight hundred hot bodies, though the place could hold more. In fact, it probably did once.”

Hollis said, “There are about three hundred American POWs there.”

Alevy looked at him quickly. “How do you know that?”

“The French woman told me. Fisher told her, Dodson told him.”

Alevy nodded. “We contacted her in Helsinki, but she wasn’t talking.” Alevy asked, “Anything else?”

“What you already know. Former Red Air Force school, now a KGB school.”

Alevy rubbed his chin. “Three hundred?”

Hollis nodded.

“Jesus Christ.”

“That was my general reaction.”

Alevy looked at Hollis. “Am I thoroughly briefed now?”

“You are. Am I?”

Alevy said, “Well, you can guess the rest, Sam. These are not defectors, of course, but POWs from ’Nam. They were given to the Russians by the North Vietnamese, probably in payment for those neat surface-to-air missiles that knocked you guys down. They got the product of their missiles. Live American fliers. Quid pro quo.”

Hollis nodded.

Alevy continued, “There are… what? A thousand fliers still unaccounted for? The North Viets thought of them as nothing more than POWs to be beaten, starved, and paraded in front of news cameras. The Russians thought of them as a valuable resource for the Red Air Force.”

Hollis stood. “Yes, and they opened a Red Air Force training school with their potential enemy as instructors. We always suspected that.”

Alevy asked, “Would these American pilots have been of real military value? What’s your professional opinion on that?”

Hollis replied, “I’ll tell you a military secret because I like you. The Israelis in the past have given us captured, Soviet-trained Egyptian and Syrian pilots. Using drugs and hypnosis, we were able to reproduce a good deal of the Soviet Air Force jet fighter school curriculum.”

“Okay, but what good would that do as the aircraft and tactics change?”

“Not much if you haven’t engaged the enemy during a particular period of time. The hardware and tactics change, as you say.”

“So,” Alevy asked, “what are those Vietnam-era pilots doing there now, Sam? They were used to train MiG pilots fifteen, sixteen years ago. Now they’re useless. Why not dispose of them? What good are they now? That is the question. Do you know the answer?”

“I’ll think about it.”

The telephone rang, and Hollis said, “That might be for me.”

Alevy waved his hand toward the phone, and Hollis picked it up. “Hollis.”

Captain O’Shea said, “Burov.”

“Put him through.” Hollis said to Alevy, “The phantom of the Mozhaisk morgue.”

Alevy advised, “Be nice.” He stuck a plug tap in his ear and listened.

Burov’s voice came on the line. “Colonel Hollis?”

“Speaking.”

Burov’s tone was cordial. “How are you this evening?”

“Real good. How are you?”

“I meant to call earlier during business hours. But I’m still involved with that messy double murder I told you about. Am I interrupting your dinner?”

“No, we dine at eight here in little America. I was just watching a spy satellite tape of the Soviet Union.”

Burov laughed. “What a coincidence. I was just listening to some taped conversations emanating from your embassy.”

“Small electronic world. When can I see Major Dodson at the Trade Center?”

“Well, I spoke to him, and he’s very reluctant to meet anyone from your embassy.”

“His embassy. Why is he reluctant?”

“He sees no point in it.”

“The point is to see if he’s alive and well and wants to remain in the Soviet Union.”

“That’s affirmative on all counts,” Burov replied.

Hollis was somewhat surprised at Burov’s American military jargon. He said, “It’s not that I don’t trust a colonel of the KGB, but how about the photo with the Pravda?”

“That I can show you.”

“Unretouched. I want the photograph and the negative.”

“I can’t do that. For your eyes only.”

“Then keep it.”

“I don’t know what more I can say, Colonel Hollis.”

“You can say yes.”

“I’ll talk to Major Dodson again.”

“Will you? What if I told you that Major Dodson is here, in this embassy, and that he has told us a most incredible story?”

Alevy whispered to Hollis, “Don’t push it.”

Burov skipped a beat, then replied, “That’s not possible, Colonel. I just spoke to the man twenty minutes ago.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, if he’s there, put him on the phone.”

Hollis replied, “I may put him on TV in a few days.”

Burov’s tone was controlled but anxious. “I’ll get back to you on the whole question of Major Dodson.”

“Swell. Where can I contact you, Colonel Burov?”

“You may call Lefortovo and leave a message.”

“Do you have a home number where I can reach you on weekends?”

“I’m afraid not. Just call Lefortovo. We’re open day and night.”

“Not Mozhaisk or Borodino?”

“No, I work here.”

“In what directorate?”

“That’s not important for you to know.”

“Do you have a first name?”

“Petr.”

“Very Christian. I’ll bet your parents were Christians.”

Burov replied stiffly, “None of that concerns you.”

“All right, Petr.”

“Don’t try to bait me, Hollis. I already owe you one.”

“That’s my old Burov. How’s the jaw today?”

Alevy smiled.

“A constant reminder,” Burov replied. “You know, Sam, from what I know of you, you’ve led a charmed life. But your luck may run out.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No, a prophecy. I wouldn’t make a threat over the phone. You people record everything.”

“Well, let’s record your answer to my next question. Where is Mr. Fisher’s car?”

“That’s a question for the Moscow police.”

“They claim they don’t have it. A team of forensic experts has arrived from America to examine the car. Where is it, Colonel Burov?”

“I’ll look into it.”

“Please do. And try to be more helpful than you’ve been with other things I’ve asked you for. Well, Colonel, I have to get back to the spy satellite photos, if you have nothing further. The new solid-fuel rocket plant outside of Kaliningrad is coming along nicely, but I see a lot of loose material lying around. Tell someone to get it squared away out there.”

Burov ignored this and said, “By the way, a friend of mine in London told me your wife spends half her days in Bond Street. I hope she doesn’t have your credit cards. Or perhaps the man she’s with is paying. He looks prosperous from what I’m told.”

Alevy whispered, “Drop it, Sam. You can’t win that game.”

Hollis nodded. “Okay, Burov, I’ll keep you informed about Major Dodson.”

“I’ll do the same for you. Incidentally, another friend of mine, from the Foreign Ministry, called and told me the disturbing news of your unscheduled departure. I enjoyed working with you. Perhaps we can have lunch before you leave, Monday. Would you consider Lefortovo restaurant again?”

“Of course. I’ll try to work it into my schedule.”

“Good. Who will I be dealing with after Monday?”

Alevy pointed to himself.

Hollis said into the phone, “Seth Alevy. You remember him.”

“Oh, yes. We all know Mr. Alevy here. I’m very much looking forward to meeting him again. Send him my regards.”

“I most certainly will.”

“If I don’t see you, Colonel, or don’t speak to you, have a very safe trip home.”

“I plan to.”

“Good evening.”

“Good evening to you, Colonel Burov.” Hollis hung up. “You son of a bitch.”

Alevy said, “Jesus, that guy has a command of English, doesn’t he?”

“He’s been hanging around a lot of Americans.”

Alevy nodded. “Well, you got him exercised about Dodson. He’s wondering now if we know only a little bit about the Charm School or if we know everything. Sometimes it’s good to beat the bush and see what comes out. Sometimes it’s rabbit, sometimes it’s bear.”

“Bear’s okay. I’m loaded for bear.”

Alevy smiled. “This is bear country.”

“No sweat, Seth. You can handle it. Write me about it.”

Alevy laughed. “You bastard. You piss him off, then leave me to face him.”

“You volunteered. I’d hand him over to my replacement.”

“No, I’ll take charge of Burov. He’s a good contact. I think I might even get along with him down the road after this business is resolved. I could work with him.”

“Birds of a feather.”

Alevy didn’t respond.

“I have to go.” Hollis opened the safe-room door and left. Alevy followed him down the hallway.

In the living room Alevy said, “I have some sending and receiving to do tonight. Come back here at one A.M.”

Hollis moved toward the top of the stairs. “Why?”

“I might have more answers by then. I know I’ll have more questions. Think about what goes on in the Charm School.”

Hollis went down the stairs, retrieved his coat, and let himself out. He said aloud to himself, “What the hell do you think I’ve been thinking about?”

21

Sam Hollis looked for a dish towel, couldn’t find one, and wiped the kitchen counter with his handkerchief, then threw the handkerchief in the trash can.

Hollis missed the Russian maids, but the number of FNs inside the embassy was down to about a dozen. While security was improved, housekeeping was hit or miss. The American couple who did the cleaning now, Mr. and Mrs. Kellum, were more thorough than the Russian women had been. But then, the Kellums were looking only for dirt, whereas the Russians had had other things to look for. Unfortunately, the Kellums got around to his place only about once every two weeks, and it showed. Hollis threw coffee cups and beer glasses into the dishwasher and slammed it shut. The doorbell rang. “Damn it.”

He went into the living room and kicked magazines and newspapers under the couch, then scooped up three ties and dumped them behind the books on his bookshelf. The doorbell rang again. “Hold on.” He placed an ashtray over a scotch spill on the coffee table and bounded down the stairs. He opened the door. “Hello.”

She came inside wearing an ankle-length white wool coat, a Russian blue fox hat, and carrying a canvas bag. She kissed him lightly on the cheek, which he thought was more intimate than on the mouth. She stomped her boots on the rug and handed him the bag. “Snowing,” she said.

He helped her off with her things and put the hat and coat in the foyer closet. Hollis saw that under the stylish coat she’d worn into the city, she was wearing a black velour sweat suit.

She sat on the stairs, pulled off her boots and socks, and massaged her feet. “Where were you?” she asked.

“I was in the kitchen.”

“No, I mean earlier this evening.”

“Oh, I was sending and receiving.”

“Boy, I wish I had a secret room where I could tell people I was, even if I wasn’t. That could come in handy sometimes.”

He led her up the stairs.

“Captain O’Shea got all shifty when I asked him where you were. I looked for you in the lounge.”

“I was in the radio room. Sending and receiving.”

They stepped into the living room. She asked, “Are you seeing anyone else? I never asked you that, because I am naive. But I’m asking you now.”

Hollis was momentarily nostalgic for a wife who didn’t care where he was. “There’s no one else. What’s in the bag?”

“The best that Gastronom One has to offer.” She walked into the center of the living room and looked around at the eclectic collection of Asian, South American, and European furniture. “Is this your wife’s taste?”

“We picked up pieces all over the world.”

“Really? Does she want it back?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where are you having it moved?”

“My next duty station, I guess. Do you want this stuff in the kitchen?”

“Yes.” She followed Hollis into the kitchen and unpacked the canvas bag. Hollis looked at the jars and cans — pickled vegetables, horseradish, salted fish, canned sausage, a piece of smoked herring, a box of loose tea, and a carton of cookies labeled cookies. The Russians were into generics. Hollis had tried those cookies once and thought they smelled like rancid lard and pencil shavings. He said, “Where’s the beef?”

“Oh, they don’t carry real food at that Gastronom. Only specialty items. I’ll just make a platter of zakuski, and we’ll pick. I’m not very hungry.”

“I am. I’ll go to the commissary.”

“There’s enough here. Make me a vodka with lemon while I put it together. Where’s your can opener?”

“Right there.” Hollis got his Stolichnaya out of the freezer and filled two frozen glasses. “I don’t have lemon. No one has lemon.”

Lisa reached into her pocket and produced a lemon. “Got this in the lounge. The bartender is in love with me.”

Hollis cut the lemon and put a wedge in each glass. They drank, opened cans and jars, and looked for bowls, plates, and serving pieces. Hollis found that he didn’t know his kitchen very well.

“Go sit on the couch,” she said. “I’ll serve you there. Go on.”

Hollis went into the living room and found a magazine under the couch.

She came in with a tray of food and placed it on the coffee table, then sat beside him and tried to push the ashtray aside. “This is stuck.”

They ate zakuski, drank vodka, and talked. Hollis asked her about her work.

“I’m a fraud. I write what I know they want, in the style they want, the word length they want—”

“Who is ‘they’?”

“I don’t know. That’s the scary thing. Do you know?”

“In the military you know.”

She nodded. “Actually, I’m a good writer. I can do some good stuff. But I like the glamour of the Foreign Service. What should I do?”

“Stay with the service. Write the good stuff on the side, under a pen name.”

“Good idea. Do you think they’ll reassign us together?”

“Is that what you want?”

“Have I been too subtle, or are you dense?”

He smiled. “I’ll work it out.”

“Can you?”

“I think so.”

She took out her cigarettes. “Do you mind?”

“No.”

“Want one?”

“Later.”

She drew the ashtray toward her. “Why does this stick?”

Hollis poured himself another vodka.

She lit her cigarette and said, “How have the last six months gone, Sam? You miss her?”

“No, but my bachelorhood hasn’t been too thrilling either. There aren’t many social opportunities in merry Moscow and fewer here on the compound. I can’t play bridge with the marrieds anymore, and I don’t hang around with you unmarrieds in the lounge. I’m in limbo.”

“You’ve been horny.”

“It’s been a hard half year.”

“So the stories I heard about your amorous adventures were not true?”

“Well, maybe three of them were.” He smiled.

“Am I the first woman who’s been up here?”

“You’re into counting, aren’t you?”

She gave him a look of mock anger and grabbed his tie. “You remember how I kicked Viktor in the balls? Answer me, Hollis.” She pulled his tie.

“You’re making my tie hard.”

She suppressed a smile. “Answer me.”

He laughed. “Yes, yes. I told you. I’ve been alone.” He grabbed her wrists and pinned her to the couch. They kissed.

She moved away. “Later. I have a videotape in my bag.” She stood, retrieved the tape, and put it in his VCR. “Doctor Zhivago. There was a month wait for this, so we have to see it.” She went back to the couch and lay down, putting her bare feet in his lap. “Are you into feet?”

“I never gave it much thought.”

“Would you mind rubbing my feet?”

“No.” He rubbed her feet as they watched the tape and drank vodka.

“I’ve seen this movie four times,” she said. “It always makes me cry.”

“Why don’t you run it backwards? The czar will be on the throne at the end.”

“Don’t be an idiot. Oh, look at him. He’s gorgeous.”

“Looks like a used-rug salesman.”

“I love ‘Lara’s Theme.’”

“I love Lara. I could eat that woman.”

“Don’t be gross. Oh, Sam, I wanted to go out to Peredelkino and put flowers on Pasternak’s grave and listen to the Russians read his poetry in the churchyard.”

“It seems you won’t do many of the things you wanted to do here to satisfy your Russian soul.”

“I know. It’s sad. I almost got home.”

“Watch the movie. This is where Lara shoots the fat guy.”

They snuggled on the couch and watched the videotape. A cold wind rattled the windowpane, and a few flakes of snow fell.

They made love on the couch and fell asleep. At one A.M. Hollis awakened and put on his trousers. She opened her eyes. “Where are you going?”

“To the Seven-Eleven for a pack of cigarettes.”

“Whom are you meeting?”

“The ambassador’s wife. I’m going to break it off.”

“You’re meeting Seth.”

“Correct. Jealous?”

She closed her eyes and rolled over.

Against his better judgment, Hollis said, “You never told me he lived like a czar. Did he give you the icon?”

“I told you it was my grandmother’s.”

“That’s right. And you sounded so appreciative when I said I could get it out in the diplomatic pouch. Christ, your friend Alevy could get the Kremlin’s domes out for you.”

“Don’t be a postcoital beast.” She closed her eyes and rolled over.

Hollis left, slamming the door behind him.