The Charm School

22

The background music on the tape deck in Alevy’s apartment was the Red Army Choir singing patriotic songs.

Hollis asked, “Could you change that?”

“Sure.” Alevy opened the door on the sideboard and stopped the tape. “Sometimes I play things they like to hear too.”

Hollis looked out the window toward a ten-story apartment building across the street. The top floor was where the KGB manned its electronic gadgets aimed at the embassy compound. He wondered just how much they saw and heard.

“Tina Turner or Prince?”

“Whatever turns you on, Seth.”

Alevy put the Prince tape on and hit the play button. “That should send them to their vodka bottles.” He turned to Hollis. “So to pick up where we left off, what are those three hundred American fliers doing in that prison to earn their keep? To keep from being shot?”

“Let’s back up a minute,” Hollis said. “If we know that American POWs are being held at that place, why isn’t our government doing something about it?”

Alevy poured brandy into his coffee. “We didn’t know until Friday night.”

“You people knew something before then.”

“What were we supposed to do about it? If the president made discreet inquiries or demands of the Soviet government, they would say, ‘What are you talking about? Are you trying to wreck the peace again?’ And you know what? They’re right. And if the president got angry and made a public accusation, he would have to recall our ambassador, kick their ambassador out, and cancel the summit and arms talks. And we still wouldn’t have a shred of evidence. And the world would be pissed off at us again. This guy they’ve got in the Kremlin gets good press, Sam. He says he wants to be our friend.”

Hollis observed, “Then he shouldn’t let his K-goons kill and harass Americans.”

“Interesting point,” Alevy conceded. “And that’s part of the complexity of the problem we face. This new guy has inherited three hundred American POWs. But it’s the KGB who runs that camp. How much has the KGB told him about the camp? How much have they told him about what we know about the Charm School? For that matter, we’re not telling our government much, are we, Sam? The KGB may be looking to hand the Kremlin an embarrassing and serious problem at the last possible moment. The KGB and the Soviet military have pulled that stunt before. They don’t want peace with the West.”

“Don’t your people sabotage peace initiatives?”

“Not too often.” Alevy gave a sinister laugh. “How about your folks at the Pentagon?”

Hollis replied, “No one’s hands are clean.”

“And you personally, Sam?”

“Peace with honor,” Hollis replied. “How about you? You’re no fan of the Soviets or of détente.”

Alevy shrugged. “I’m just giving you the party line. I do what they tell me. They tell me not to embarrass the Soviet government with revelations that they might be holding American citizens as prisoners.” Alevy sprawled on the couch. “So I don’t. Then Burov moves the camp or just shoots all those airmen.”

Hollis said, “That’s why we have to move fast, Seth.”

Alevy stared up at the ceiling. “Right. Those men would be dead right now, if it weren’t for Dodson. Dodson is living evidence, and Dodson is on the loose. So Burov has the Charm School and its population on hold. If Burov gets Dodson before we do… I keep waiting for Dodson to show up here.”

Hollis said, “I keep thinking about the thousand missing fliers and the three hundred we know are in the Charm School. I suppose there were more, but through attrition… natural causes, suicide, executions… Three hundred. I think it’s up to us, Seth, to save them. Screw the diplomats.”

Alevy regarded Hollis a moment, then spoke. “You know, Sam, in the two years I’ve been working with you, I never understood where you were coming from.”

“Good.”

“But now I’ve got a handle on you. You’re willing to break the rules on this one, risk your career, world peace, and your very life to get those fliers out. Cool Sam Hollis, Colonel Correct, is a wild jet jockey again, ready to bomb and strafe anything in his way.” Alevy smiled. “Yet everyone still thinks you’re a team player and I’m the rogue. They don’t know what I know about you. That could be useful. Welcome to my world, Sam Hollis.”

Hollis made no reply.

Alevy said, “Think of the downside of your goal. Let’s say we got those men out, through negotiations or otherwise. Christ, can you imagine three hundred middle-aged American POWs landing at Dulles airport on a flight from Moscow? Do you know what kind of public outrage that would produce?”

“Yes, if my outrage is any gauge of American public opinion.”

“Right. Scrap the summit, the arms talks, trade, travel, the Bolshoi, the works. We might have our honor intact, but I wouldn’t give odds on the peace.”

“What are you saying, Seth? Washington doesn’t want them home?”

“You figure it out.” Alevy got up and poured more coffee and brandy from the sideboard. He shut off the tape. “What do you want to hear?”

“In the last two years I’ve heard every piece of music written since 1685. I really don’t care anymore.”

“How about bagpipes? Listen to this. The Scots Highland Regiment. A limey at the U.K. embassy gave me this one. He says the Russians hate the sound of bagpipes.” Alevy put on the tape of pipes and drums, and the regiment swung into “The Campbells Are Comin’.”

Alevy said, “Let’s return to the question of why these fliers are still in Soviet hands. After they were wrung dry by the Red Air Force and GRU, why did the KGB come in and co-opt the place?”

Hollis sipped on his coffee. “Mental labor. A sort of think tank. A KGB think tank. An extension course of the Institute of Canadian and American Studies.”

“Something like that,” Alevy replied. “But a little more sinister.”

“Meaning?”

“We think those POWs are causing us damage, God forgive them. So our concern is not purely humanitarian. If it were, then you’d be correct in your cynical assumption that we’d just as soon let them rot in order to save détente. Fact is, Sam, our concern — my company’s concern — is very deep and has to do with urgent matters of national security.” Alevy walked toward Hollis and said, “To put it bluntly, we think that fucking prison camp is a training school for Soviet agents who talk, look, think, act, and maybe even fuck like Americans. Do you understand?”

Hollis nodded. “I know that. I’ve known that from the beginning. A finishing school, graduate school, charm school… whatever.”

“Right. If our theory is correct, a graduate of that place is indistinguishable from a man born and raised in the good old U.S. of A. When an agent leaves there, he has a South Boston accent like Major Dodson or maybe a South Carolina accent or a Whitefish, North Dakota, accent. He can tell you the name of Ralph Kramden’s wife and beat you at Trivial Pursuit. See?”

“Whitefish is in Montana, Seth.”

“Is it?”

“Who played shortstop for the 1956 Dodgers, Seth?”

Alevy smiled grimly. “Phil Rizzuto.” He waved his arm. “Anyway, I can’t be one of them.”

“Why not?”

“My company doesn’t let you in just because you talk the talk. They want to interview mothers, fathers, and high school teachers. Point is though, most private companies just want to see documentary evidence that you were born, educated, and so forth.” Alevy grinned. “But it was a good question. You’ll be asking it again.” Alevy added, “You’ve met a graduate of the Charm School.”

“The man in Fisher’s room. Schiller.”

“Yes. Was he perfect?”

“Chillingly so.” Hollis thought a moment. “So you think these… graduates of this school have entered American life, in America?”

“We believe so. They might not work for my company, but they could work for contractors we hire, and they could live next door to me in Bethesda or empty the trash in CIA headquarters. They could install my telephone and audit my taxes. They can go to computer schools or other technical schools and could most probably join the military.” He looked at Hollis. “Who did play shortstop for the 1956 Dodgers?”

“Howdy Doody.”

“Bang, you’re dead.” Alevy poured brandy into his empty coffee cup. “Want anything?”

Hollis could see that Alevy was fatigued, high on caffeine, and low on alcohol. Hollis went to the sideboard and poured the last of the coffee. He said, “So they quack like a duck, look like a duck, and even lay eggs like a duck. But they ain’t ducks.”

“No, they ain’t, Sam. They’s red foxes. In the chicken coop. Or if you prefer, Satan in the sanctuary.”

“How many do you think have graduated that place?”

“When the school was first started, there were probably more Americans — let’s call them instructors. The Charm School, as an offshoot of the Red Air Force school, has been in existence maybe twelve to fifteen years. The Charm School course would have to take at least a year. Probably a one-on-one situation. The little Red student assimilates the sum total of the American’s knowledge, personality, accent, and so forth.”

“The invasion of the body snatchers,” Hollis said.

“Precisely. So the school may once have had the capacity to graduate several hundred agents a year. But we assume some of the Russkies flunked out, and we assume some of the American instructors flunked in the ultimate sense, and also we don’t think the KGB undergraduate schools here in Moscow or in Leningrad could supply that many qualified students to the graduate school — that’s what we called it. But Major Dodson called it Mrs. Ivanova’s Charm School, and that’s from the horse’s mouth. I guess the Americans there call it that as a joke. We still don’t know what the Russians call it. Probably Spy School Five. Anyway, we can’t be sure all of the graduates were infiltrated into the States. So to answer your question, I would guess maybe fifteen hundred to two thousand. Maybe more.”

“You mean there may be as many as two thousand Russian agents in America posing as Americans?”

“Posing is not the word,” Alevy said. “They are Americans. The earlier graduates have been there nearly fifteen years. Long enough to have realized the American dream — with a little help from their friends. Long enough to have married and have kids in Little League. Long enough to be in positions to do real harm.”

“And none of them has been caught?”

Alevy shook his head. “Not that I know of. No one was even looking until recently. And what do we look for? Someone who drinks tea from a glass and writes his k’s backward?”

“Someone who is caught spying.”

“They probably don’t spy in the conventional sense. Their people are probably divided into several categories: sleeper agents, agents in place, agents of influence, and so forth. Their covers are perfect, and they never draw attention to themselves. Even if we nabbed one spying, we’d be hard-pressed to prove the guy was born and raised in Volgograd, as long as he stuck to his legend.”

“If you attached electrodes to his balls and jolted him until he spoke Russian, you’d know.”

“You know something? I don’t think the guy would speak Russian. And even if he exposed himself, what good would it do? He’s not part of a cell or a ring. He’s got to be on his own if this thing is going to work for them.”

“But he’s got to have a control officer, Seth. Someone in the Soviet embassy in D.C. or the UN delegation in New York or the consulate in San Francisco. What good is he if he’s really on his own? How does he deliver his work product? They’re not going to trust clandestine radios or drop sites.”

“No. He’s got to hand over his product and make oral reports. So he goes on foreign vacations like other Americans. Maybe he even takes one of these package tours to Moscow. As far as we can figure, all agent contact is made overseas.”

Hollis walked to a tall curio cabinet. The shelves contained small figurines in porcelain and bisque, eighteenth-century ladies in low-cut gowns and goldilocks curls, and gentlemen in knickers and wigs. They could be Frenchmen or Englishmen of the same period, Hollis thought, but there was something about them that was not quite right, not quite like the real thing you’d see in a London antique shop. Hollis opened the cabinet and took out a six-inch statuette of a man in riding livery. He said, “What is it, Seth? The Tartar influence? The Kazak influence? Why aren’t they exactly like us? I know they can look Scandinavian or Germanic, like Burov, but it’s something more than genetic. It’s a whole different soul and psyche, an ancestral memory; it’s the deep winter snow, and Mongols sweeping over the steppe, and always feeling like they’re inferior to the West and getting shafted by Europe and Cyrillic letters and Slavic fatalism and an off-brand Christianity and who the hell knows what else. But whatever it is, you can spot it, spot them, like an art expert can spot a forgery across the room.” He looked at the figure in his hand and threw it to Alevy. “You understand?”

Alevy caught it gingerly. “I understand. But we can’t find two thousand of them that way.” Alevy put the figure down.

“No.” Hollis began to close the cabinet door and saw the Palekh box that Lisa had bought in the Arbat. He recalled his conversation with her and understood that he’d known then what Alevy was telling him now about the nature of the Charm School. He had the bizarre thought that Lisa herself could be a product of the Charm School, but of course that wasn’t possible considering her verifiable background, which was double-checked by State Department Intelligence. But if he had that passing thought, he could imagine the fear and distrust that would run rampant in American society, defense industries, institutions, and government offices if it became known that there could be two thousand KGB agents among them.

Alevy said, “Actually, I think we found two. Right here. In the embassy, Sam. Right under our noses. Any guesses?”

Hollis thought a moment. He had to discount the men and women with high-level clearances, which left the nonworking spouses, the Marines, and the service people. Suddenly two names came immediately to him, as if he’d known all along. Bits and pieces of conversation ran through his mind, small details that had struck him as odd but had not fully alerted him because he had not known about the Charm School then. He said to Alevy, “Our nice handyman and housekeeper. The Kellums.”

Alevy replied, “Great minds think alike. When they were hired, they were given only low-level security investigations commensurate with the job. I wired Langley a while ago. Now it seems their backgrounds are not checking out.” Alevy rubbed his eyes wearily and continued, “I’m having the bartender, the cooks, the chauffeurs, and the whole American service staff rechecked. We thought when we kicked out the FNs, we were getting rid of the security problem we had. But with the Russian staff, you watched them like hawks and kept them in designated areas. Now with all these low-level, low-security classification Americans, they wander around freely because they’re American. But evidently some of them are Russian wolves in designer clothes.”

Hollis thought about the Kellums’ going through his rooms, his desk, his letters. Burov even knew how much scotch he drank and the brand of undershorts he preferred. He pictured the Kellums, a pleasant middle-aged couple, ostensibly from Milwaukee, and recalled his brief conversations with them.

Alevy seemed to be reading his thoughts. He asked, “So, could you tell the Kellums weren’t exactly like us?”

“No, but then we’re not exactly like each other either. America is as diverse as the Soviet Union. You and I do the Baltic bit when we’re snooping around in Russia, but in the Baltic, we’re Ukrainians or Byelorussians. They must do the same sort of thing. The ones who have developed, say, a Boston accent and legend, won’t operate in Boston, because they couldn’t pull it off there. But to answer your question, the Kellums had me fooled.”

“Me too. But now that we know, we can clean house a bit. However, a lot of damage has been done. And we have only two down and about two thousand to go. We have to come up with a hell of a lot better way to find these people who are scattered from one end of America to another. Not to mention overseas military bases and, as we are embarrassed to discover, our embassies.”

Hollis seemed lost in thought, then said, “But something you said before… these Soviet agents have married, formed relationships, have American children, live the good life.”

“And may now, as you are suggesting, Sam, be having very mixed feelings. And yet, not one has defected. Why not? Partly, we think, because there’s no reason to defect. In a bizarre sort of way some of them have already defected. The KGB knows that but doesn’t care as long as they go on their overseas vacations a few times a year and turn in good work product. And maybe the reward for fifteen or twenty years’ service is retirement — in America, if they wish. Irony of ironies. Of course, there are other inducements to lead a double life: ideology, money, and fear. The KGB is perfectly capable of wiping out a person’s family in Russia or in America if that person betrays them. But realize, too, that these are handpicked agents. Many of them need no threats or inducements. Many of them are not going to be seduced by the American lifestyle or by democracy or anything they see.”

“You don’t think so?”

Alevy massaged his temples. “You know, Sam, we tend to overrate the seductiveness and quality of our system. That’s heresy, I know, but it’s true. Two hundred million Ivans and Natashas do not want to move to America just because they know we have freedom and dishwashers. There is a certain purity of the Russian soul, a fierce patriotism somewhat like our own and a half-assed belief which still lingers, that things will one day get better for them.” Alevy refilled his glass. “That’s not to say we won’t get a defector or two one day, but as I said, that won’t roll up the operation.”

Hollis looked at Alevy in the dim light. Alevy was far more understanding of the Russians than Hollis had been led to believe. A lot of CIA types liked to dwell on all the signs and portents of a Soviet society that was falling apart. They made reports on this to succeeding administrations, who enjoyed the good news. But this was a society that had been falling apart for as long as anyone could remember, and it was still around, and in the end the Russians always stood and fought to protect their identity, their culture, their language, and their motherland.

Hollis poured himself a scotch and fished a half-melted ice cube out of a sterling silver bucket. “Where’s the weakness in their operation, Seth?”

“I’m not sure. I have some thoughts. But I know what our problem is. We have two major ones. The first is to identify and roll up this network that isn’t a network but is more like toxic organisms in American society. Then we have to stop this school from pumping out more disease. I didn’t make up that analogy. That’s from headquarters. They like analogies.”

“You forgot the third thing, Seth. Getting the fliers out of there.”

Alevy glanced at Hollis. “Yes. But that’s part of closing up the school. The tough nut to crack is the two thousand agents already entrenched in America. I hate to say it, or even think it, but we may have to live with that for another forty or fifty years.”

“If America is around that long,” Hollis said.

Alevy didn’t reply to that but said, “So that’s the story you’ve helped uncover, Sam.”

“What am I supposed to do with this information?”

“Well, Colonel, we had several options a few days ago. But now, with you getting booted, with Dodson on the loose and Fisher dead and then with you snooping around out there, and your goading Burov, now they know that we know, and our options are shutting down fast. They’re going to shut that place up and remove every scrap of evidence. They’ll transfer the operation someplace, and they’ll offer to take an American delegation through the suspected site. By the time we get there, it’ll be a rest home for Moscow pensioners or something. So, as you said, we have to act quickly.”

“Why don’t we start by arresting the Kellums and making them talk?”

“I’d like to, but we haven’t absolutely proven they’re Russian agents yet, and we don’t want to tip off the KGB any more than they’re already tipped. So we’ll be careful with the Kellums. Also, they may be real Americans, complete with civil rights.”

“Are you asking me to help you or not?”

“You can help by not becoming part of the problem.”

“I never was part of the problem. I want those fliers out of prison, and I’ll work with you to do that, or I’ll pursue my own course of action.”

Alevy nodded. “Yes, of course you would. I guess if you or any military man was jeopardizing the lives of three hundred CIA agents, I’d do the same. Loyalty is okay.”

“I don’t need you to tell me that.”

Alevy replied, “Listen, Sam, I told you everything — State secrets and diplomatic policy and an issue so hot it could blow Soviet-American relations to hell for years to come. I did that to convince you we’re not sleeping on this. We’re working on getting those pilots home. I’m taking it on pure faith that you will be reasonable. Don’t get your people in the Pentagon all worked up. Okay?”

“Okay.” Hollis did not think for one second that Seth Alevy took anything on faith. He also didn’t think that Alevy intended to follow the government’s line of pursuing détente. Alevy would like nothing better than for him to get the Pentagon all worked up. And neither did Hollis think that Alevy spent an hour briefing him just to tell him to keep his mouth shut. With a few days left in the country and officially relieved of his duties, Hollis knew he hadn’t heard the last of the Charm School or of Seth Alevy.

“Don’t tell Lisa any of this. It’s your job to neutralize her. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“And remember that your persona non grata status raises some questions about your diplomatic immunity. Tell Lisa that. Be very cautious if you decide to go outside the gate.”

“Right.”

“Oh, one last thing. I want you to do me a favor.”

“What?”

“Come up on the roof with me.”

“What for?”

“Once a month or so I go on the roof and vilify the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. I get up there and yell, ‘Hello, KGB shits!’ Then I go into my analysis of why Soviet society sucks.”

“Christ, no wonder they beat the shit out of you.”

“Fuck them. I’m in the mood tonight. Come up with me.”

Hollis glanced at his watch. “Well, I—” He wondered if Lisa had stayed at his place or gone home.

“Come on. Don’t be so stuffy. You’ll feel good.”

“I guess the fresh air will do me good.”

“That’s the spirit. What are they going to do to you? Kick you out? Kill you?”

“They can’t do both,” Hollis observed.

Hollis took the brandy bottle from the sideboard, and Alevy led him up to the third-floor hallway, climbed a ladder, and opened the roof hatch.

Alevy and Hollis came up onto the flat roof above Alevy’s apartment. They stood in the gently falling snow and looked out over the city as the bells of the Ivan Tower chimed two. Alevy said, “Early snow.” The stars on the Kremlin’s domes and towers were luminous red, but the crosses, which for some inexplicable reason had never all been taken down, were dark and invisible. “There is probably not one thing open in Moscow at this hour,” Alevy said, “except the militia and KGB offices. Even the metros are closed. In Stalin’s day Lubyanka would start disgorging its predators at this hour.” He took the brandy bottle from Hollis and took a long pull, then shouted, “Do you hear me out there? Wake up, K-goons! This is Seth Alevy, superspook, super-Jew!” He turned to Hollis and continued in a slurred voice, “The goons would prowl the city with lists, and all Moscow would hold its breath until morning. And each dawn would break over a city of frightened human beings, hurrying to offices and factories, pretending not to notice if someone did not show up at work. And they say you could really hear the sounds of screams and gunshots coming out of Lubyanka. What a barbaric place this was! I look out there, Sam, and I see an alien cityscape. Strange lettering on signs, fantastic-shaped buildings, and the sky above the city always tinged with that eerie red glow, and I think I’m on Mars sometimes.”

Hollis looked at Alevy a moment. “Why don’t you take the next spaceship back?”

Alevy smiled self-consciously. “Oh, I will. Another year or so.”

Hollis wanted to tell Alevy that if he kept baiting them he wouldn’t last another year. But he didn’t want to say that with them listening. And Alevy knew that anyway.

Alevy shouted. “Yeb vas!” Fuck you.

A window on the top floor of the apartment house across the street opened, and a man called down in English, “Fuck you, Jew.”

Alevy laughed and shouted back, “Sosi khui, chitai Pravdu budesh komissarom,” which Hollis translated as something like “Suck cocks and read Pravda, and you’ll become a commissar.” Hollis said, “Let’s go, Seth.” He took Alevy’s arm.

Alevy pulled away. “No.” He took another swallow from the bottle and handed it to Hollis. “Here. Get drunk and think of a good one. You know the one about… how does it go…? KGB men never go out with girls, they just live with Mary Palm.” Alevy made a jerking motion with his cupped hand.

“Seth…” Hollis could see that Alevy was quite drunk by now, and there was no talking to him. This was apparently Alevy’s monthly catharsis, and Hollis had learned to respect people’s intermittent periods of insanity here.

A second voice from the window called down in English, “Who’s the other fag with you? Is that Hollis?”

Hollis thought he recognized Igor’s voice. Hollis took a pull from the bottle and shouted back in Russian, “I saw your mother on her knees in Gorky Park trying to make the rent money!”

Alevy roared with delight. “That’s a good one.”

The insults flew through the snowy night for fifteen minutes. Hollis, who was feeling somewhat drunk himself now, had the vague thought that this East-West meeting should have been on a higher plane, but Alevy and the two Russians seemed to be happy with their ritual. Hollis said to Alevy, “Has the ambassador spoken to you about this?”

Alevy finished the brandy and let the bottle drop in the snow. “Fuck him.” Alevy staggered to the open roof hatch and gave a parting wave. “Spokoiny nochi!”

The Russians both shouted back, “Good night!”

Alevy climbed unsteadily down the ladder.

Hollis looked back at the apartment building and saw the two men waving. One shouted in English, “Have a safe journey home, Sam.” They both laughed.

Hollis didn’t think they sounded any more sincere than Burov.

23

Hollis stood among the packing crates, glass in hand, trying to find the one with his liquor in it. The big furniture was still in place, and the German movers, with Teutonic efficiency, had left some necessities unpacked until the last day. Thus the bathroom was largely intact, and he had three days of clothing available, plus some odds and ends in the kitchen. But they hadn’t left a bottle of scotch out. He found a fiberboard crate marked Alkoholische Getränke that looked promising. He tore open the lid and rummaged through the Styrofoam filler, finding a bottle of Chivas. He poured a few ounces into his glass and went into the kitchen for ice. He looked at his watch, waited for noon, then took a swallow.

Hollis heard the front door open and assumed it was Lisa, since she had asked for and gotten a key. He went to the top of the stairs and saw the Kellums coming toward him. Dick Kellum smiled. “Oh, hi, Colonel. We didn’t expect you in.”

Hollis returned the smile. “Not much to do in the office.” He stepped aside as the Kellums came into the living room.

Ann Kellum, carrying a bucket of cleaning things, said apologetically, “We can come back another time.”

“No, Mrs. Kellum, you can give it a once-over.”

She looked around. “Oh, they’ve got you all boxed up.”

“Pretty much. Just hit the bathrooms and kitchen, if you would.”

Dick Kellum, also carrying a utility bucket, walked over to the boxes. “You speak German, Colonel?”

“No, I don’t, Dick.”

“You know, sometimes I wonder what the Russkies think of us getting German movers, sending sick people to Finland and England, flying in Europeans to fix things in the embassy. They’ve got to be a little insulted. Right?”

Hollis thought, You tell me, Ivan. He said, “They don’t insult easily.” He looked at the Kellums. They were in their mid or late forties, both somewhat swarthy, with black, greying hair and dark eyes. They moved like people who’d done heavy menial labor all their lives, and their accents seemed to be working class, though they were far from stupid. Hollis recalled a somewhat interesting conversation he’d had with Dick Kellum on the virtues and varieties of Milwaukee beer. Ann Kellum had once confided in him that her husband drank too much of those famous brews.

Ann Kellum asked, “Did they pack your vacuum cleaner?”

“Probably. Don’t worry about that. You can do a complete job for the next tenant after I’ve gone.”

“You got a replacement yet, Colonel?” Mr. Kellum inquired.

“Yes, a lieutenant colonel named Fields. I know him and his wife. They’re trying to get him here before I leave, and if they do, I’ll introduce you to him. His wife will probably come in later.”

“I hope he speaks Russki like you so someone can talk to that crazy Russian groundkeeper for me.”

Hollis smiled at Dick Kellum. You son of a bitch. I’d like to cut your heart out. “He’s fluent too but likes to keep that under his hat, if you know what I mean. So don’t push him on it.”

“Gotcha.” Mr. Kellum winked.

Mrs. Kellum asked, “This will be their unit then?”

“Yes.”

“Will the lady be working, do you know?”

“I believe so. She’s an accredited teacher and will probably try to get a position at the Anglo-American School.”

“Okay,” Mrs. Kellum said. “That makes things easier to schedule.”

“I know,” Hollis replied.

Mr. Kellum hefted his bucket. “I’ll get going on the head.” He walked to the second-floor bathroom.

Mrs. Kellum watched him go, then said in a low voice, “Colonel, this is none of my business, and you can tell me to shut up, but are you joining Mrs. Hollis? She still in London?”

“I’m not sure, Mrs. Kellum.”

The woman seemed to be fighting some sort of inner battle, then blurted out, “Colonel, Dick and me like you, and I talked to him about this, and he told me to keep quiet about it, but I think you got to know. Your wife… Mrs. Hollis…” She glanced at Hollis, then looked away. “Well, she was seeing a gentleman here, a gentleman from the commercial section. I can’t say his name, but he’d come by whenever you were in the city or something or up to Leningrad on business.” She added quickly, “They could’ve just been friends, you know, and maybe they were, but I don’t think it’s right for a woman to be having male friends in her place without her husband being around.” Mrs. Kellum fidgeted for a moment, then picked up her bucket and went into the kitchen.

Hollis took a drink of his scotch. Spies lie, he thought. Maybe the KGB were just indulging themselves in a last joke before he left. Then again, it might be true. In fact, the gentleman in question could have been Ken Mercer, one of the men Lisa had been speaking to in the lobby of the chancery. Hollis said, “Who gives a damn?”

He heard the front door open again, and this time it was Lisa who came up the stairs. “Are you alone?” she called out. “Did I catch you? Are you screwing someone, Hollis?”

Hollis greeted her at the top of the stairs. “Hello, Lisa.”

“At least you have your pants on.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Kellum are here.”

She put her hand over her mouth, and her cheeks reddened. She whispered, “You idiot, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I just did.”

“Did they hear me?”

“I’m sure they did.”

She buried her face in his chest and muffled a laugh. “That’ll be all over the compound in an hour. Oh, my God, I’m embarrassed.”

“They’re discreet.” He kissed her. “Why don’t we go to your place?”

She looked around. “My place is a mess too. Let’s go into town. It’s not raining or freezing today.”

Hollis hesitated, then replied, “All right, but…”

“Oh, don’t let them run your life. Isn’t that our motto?”

“Yes, it is.” He called into the kitchen, “Mrs. Kellum, I’m leaving.”

She appeared at the kitchen door. “Oh, Ms. Rhodes, I didn’t know you were here.”

Lisa exchanged a smirking glance with Hollis. She said, “Hello, Ann. Not much to do here, is there?”

“No. Have they packed you too?”

“All packed.”

“Are you sad to be leaving?”

“Yes, very.”

“I don’t see why they couldn’t give you another chance.”

“Well, they take minor violations very seriously here.”

“Everything’s a violation here. No freedom of anything. Will your replacement be moving into your unit?”

“I don’t think I’m getting a replacement. No use sending someone here if they have to start shipping people—”

“Let’s go,” Hollis interrupted. “Good-bye, Mrs. Kellum. See you before I leave.”

“I hope so, Colonel.”

“I’ll make a point of it.”

He took Lisa’s arm, and they went down to the foyer, where Hollis got his trench coat and a black felt fedora.

“You look like a spy in that getup.”

“No, that blue topcoat and porkpie hat is my spy outfit.”

They walked outside into the thin sunshine. There was a damp chill in the air, but it was above freezing, and the snow of a few nights before lay in patches on the quad. They left through the rear pedestrian gate beside the Marine barracks, and Hollis said, “Where do you want to go?”

“Nowhere in particular. We’ll just be tourists. We’ll walk up Gorky Street, hand in hand, and stop in a funny little cafe for cappuccino and pastry.”

“There are no cafes with cappuccino on Gorky or any other street.”

“Pretend.”

“All right.” They walked through the streets of the old Presnya district, past a sculpture of a barricade fighter and then another sculpture entitled “The Cobblestone — Weapon of the Proletariat.” Nearby was an obelisk erected to the Heroes of the 1905 Insurrection. Hollis said, “This is romantic. Can we kiss in Insurrection Square?”

“Oh, stop griping. Romance is in the heart, not in stone or marble, even on the Via Veneto.”

“Well said.”

“Anyway, I’ve developed a perverse fondness for this city and its people.”

“Some of its perverse people have been following us. You know what ‘embassy watchers’ are, of course.”

“Yes. Are they following us?” She glanced around.

“Yes.”

“Are you sure? I don’t think I’ve ever been followed.”

“Well, they follow everyone once in a while. But with military attachés, they stick like glue all the time. We’re going to lose them. It’s fairly simple to do on the metro. Just stay with me. Here’s some five-kopek pieces.”

They walked up Rampart Street and entered the 1905 Street Metro, taking the first train to come along. Sitting in a half-empty car, Hollis said, “We’ll have to make a few random transfers until I’m sure we’ve lost them.”

“Okay. But who cares if they follow us? We’re not doing anything.”

“It’s the principle. Also, they may still have a room waiting for us at Lefortovo.”

“Oh.”

They rode the metro toward the city center and made several last-minute transfers at the more crowded stations, then took the Prospect Mira line to the northern reaches of the city. Hollis settled in his seat and said, “We lost them back at Revolution Square.”

She sat beside him in the nearly empty car. “How do you know?”

“I saw them looking upset on the platform as our train pulled away.”

“You knew what they looked like?”

“I hope so.”

“This is neat. This is romantic. Running from the KGB.” She looked at her watch. “It’s nearly one. I’m starving. Whose turn to buy?”

“I think you forgot to pay at Lefortovo. So it’s your turn.”

“Right.” She took his hand. “You know, Sam, my boss, Kay Hoffman, says I shouldn’t get involved with a married man.”

“Really? Does she write an advice column on the side?”

“Be serious. She’s an experienced woman—”

“So I’ve heard.”

“And she’s sort of my mentor. She said that married men either go back to their wives, or they consider you a transitional woman.”

“Here’s Cosmos Station. The next stop is the woods. We better get off here.”

They came out of the metro pavilion and looked around. To their left was the soaring space obelisk, a three-hundred-foot curved shaft of polished titanium that represented the blast and plume of a rocket, atop which was the huge rocket itself.

Lisa observed, “It’s so phallic… look at that curve… that thrusting power… that rocket—”

Hollis smiled. “Calm down.”

She laughed. “Sorry, lost my head.” She surveyed the vast open spaces around her. “I’ve been up here once. It’s all so Soviet here, almost nothing of old Russia.”

Hollis nodded. Beyond the space obelisk was the Cosmos Cinema and beyond that the Moscow TV tower, a rocket-shaped structure nearly 1,500 feet high, which held a revolving restaurant with the odd name of Seventh Heaven. Fifty yards from the metro pavilion was the huge entrance arch to the USSR Economic Achievements Exhibition, a two-hundred-acre park with some two dozen pavilions. A sort of theme park, Hollis thought, and the theme was Soviet power. He’d toured the place once, and it was impressive. The buildings, like the obscenely expensive titanium rocket, were built of the finest stone and metals. The exhibits, ranging from atomic energy and rocketry to agriculture and animal husbandry, were well-preserved and well-maintained. Yet, a few kilometers to the north were the log cabins, the mud streets, the outhouses, and the women carrying water buckets on yokes.

Lisa said, “We can try to get into the Seventh Heaven or one of the snack bars in the exhibition, or maybe we can try the Cosmos Hotel.”

Hollis looked across the six-lane Prospect Mira at the massive concave facade of the thirty-story aluminum-and-glass hotel. It had been a joint French and Yugoslav project, completed in time for the 1980 Olympics, and though it was stunning to look at, Hollis had heard rumors that the last maintenance and cleaning people had departed with the Olympic guests. He said, “All right, the hotel.”

They crossed the wide avenue and walked up a long concrete ramp that took them to the front doors. A doorman asked for their propusks, and Hollis gave him two rubles instead, which got the door open.

They entered the massive, blondwood-paneled lobby, surrounded by a mezzanine level, and consulted a wall directory. The theme here, as across the street, was rocketry and space travel. There was the Orbit Lounge, the Lunar Restaurant, and so forth. Hollis said, “I hope they don’t serve drinks in space capsule glasses.”

“With rocketship stirrers.” She looked around the crowded lobby. The furniture was discolored and sagging, the floors were dirty, and half the lights didn’t work. She said, “What is that smell?”

“I’d rather not speculate.”

She shrugged. “I hope it’s not one of the restaurants. Let’s try the Lunar.”

They walked up the closest out-of-order escalator to the sweeping mezzanine level and found the Lunar Restaurant. Hollis spoke to the hostess in English, which she partly understood. She seemed surprised to discover they weren’t hotel guests and had actually come from somewhere else to eat at the Lunar. She showed them into the dining room, a fairly pleasant if plain room with clean blue tablecloths.

The Cosmos was an Intourist hotel, and as the Soviets considered it one of the best, they put Americans and West Europeans there, though Hollis thought it was inconveniently far from central Moscow. The restaurant was crowded with tourists on their lunch break, the two-hour respite between the bus jaunts of their Intourist-planned stay. The hostess pointed to the far end of the restaurant and said, “British and Americans.”

“How about Canadians and Australians?”

“Yes, yes. There, please.”

They walked unescorted through the restaurant, which consisted entirely of tables for eight and twelve. Hollis said, “Tables for two in Russia are only in interrogation rooms.”

“Always griping.”

“Just making observations.” Hollis determined that they were now walking through the German section of the restaurant. There were well over a hundred of them, predominantly middle-aged couples. Most of them, like a good many Germans he’d seen in Moscow, looked dour and withdrawn. He could not imagine how they felt comfortable in a country that had lost twenty million of its people to the German armies and where half the tourist sights were memorials to the dead. He wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that some of the men had last seen Russia from the turret of a Panzer tank.

In the English-speaking section of the dining room, Hollis and Lisa found a table occupied by only one other couple, and Lisa introduced herself and Hollis as Sam and Lisa Randall, tourists.

The couple introduced themselves as George and Dina Turnbill of Rhode Island.

Hollis and Lisa sat. The table, Hollis noticed, was set for ten, and he knew the busboys had no intention of removing the other settings. On the table were two bottles of mineral water, four bottles of a popular pear soda that Hollis had tried once, and two bottles of Russian Pepsi-Cola. Hollis had tried the Pepsi once, and it wasn’t.

There was a basket of the ubiquitous black bread near them, white butter that was more like stiff cream than butter, and a bowl of pickled beets. There was apparently no menu, and a waitress brought four pannikins of mushrooms floating in hot cream. A waiter set down a tureen of borscht on which floated a film of sour cream.

Hollis and Lisa fell into conversation with the Turnbills. They were a casually dressed couple, attractive and in their mid-thirties. They were both instructors at Brown; he taught anthropology and she taught psychology. Hollis told them he was a used car salesman from Hoboken, New Jersey, and Lisa was a housewife, which earned him a kick under the table.

George Turnbill said to Hollis, “Our tour group is having lunch at the downtown Intourist so they can go to GUM department store afterward. But Dina and I came back here to see more of this Economic Exhibition across the street.”

Hollis replied, “We’re in the same situation.”

Dina said, “Isn’t it marvelous?”

“What?”

“The exhibition. They’ve done so much in so short a time.”

Hollis thought the old “so short a time” tagline was wearing a little thin after seventy years.

George exclaimed, “You can eat off the streets here! Have you seen the subways yet? My God, they’re marble and brass!”

Lisa smiled. “We’ve been exploring the subways quite a bit.”

Dina said, “George and I walked around Red Square last night — eleven o’clock at night, and we never once felt afraid. Right, George?”

“There’s no crime here,” George agreed. “This is a very well-run city and country. The people seem content, prosperous, healthy, and well fed.”

Hollis poured the pannikin of mushrooms into the beet soup and studied the result.

Lisa responded, “I’ve noted that almost no one smiles—”

“That,” Dina interrupted, “is just a national character trait. It doesn’t mean they’re not happy.”

“For instance,” George explained, “Orientals smile when they’re embarrassed.”

Hollis had the feeling he was getting a combined psychology and anthropology lecture. He tried the pear soda, then washed the taste out with the mineral water, then tried the borscht and mushroom concoction. Hollis badly wanted a drink, but the anti-alcohol campaign made it impossible to buy the stuff before four P.M., not even wine or beer in a tourist restaurant. He poured Pepsi, pear soda, and mineral water into one glass and swirled it around.

George asked him, “Did you notice how cheap everything is? Five kopeks for the metro, two kopeks for the telephone. I bought a beautiful photo book of Moscow for two rubles, and the room here is about thirty rubles, and there’s no tipping.”

Hollis thought about mentioning the price of fresh food if you could get it, or that badly made shoes cost about sixty dollars, junk cars about nine thousand dollars, and freedom couldn’t be bought at any price. He said to George, “What exactly did you come here to find?”

George answered without hesitation. “The truth. I came to Moscow to look for the truth.”

“That,” Hollis said, “is sort of like going to Forty-second Street to look for virtue.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Lisa interjected, “We’re having a somewhat different experience here than you.”

“You have to stay open-minded,” Dina advised.

Hollis turned to Lisa and said in Russian, “I’m not sure I want to go back to America if there are any more shitheads like these two here.”

Lisa replied, “Just stay away from college campuses.”

George asked, “Is that Russian?”

“Polish,” Hollis said.

They finished the mushrooms, the bread, the mineral water, and the pickled beets, but there was no sign of the main course. From where he sat, Hollis could see behind the screen that shielded the kitchen door. Six waiters and waitresses sat there at a table, drinking tea and talking. Hollis said dryly, “I’m glad they’re having a good time on their day off.”

The Turnbills were extolling the virtues of black bread, mineral water, and pear soda, though they couldn’t find much good to say about the communist Pepsi.

Lisa asked the Turnbills, “Did you hear since you’ve been here that the Soviets have expelled two Americans from the embassy?”

“We heard that right before we left, Tuesday,” George answered. “In fact, we read it in The New York Times at Kennedy Airport.”

Dina said, “The Times story said they went into an unauthorized area, that the man was a military attaché, and that those people are usually intelligence people. Spies.”

George added, “I blame a lot of this tension on our government, I’m afraid. If we show we have peaceful intentions, then the Soviets will respond. They have a very responsive government in the Kremlin right now. You can see what a big thing they make of peace here. Mira,” George said, trying out his Russian. “Peace. Same word as for world. Mira. I wonder if they say mira mira for world peace. That sounds Spanish. Anyway, there are peace exhibits, things named for peace, Prospect Mira, banners all over saying peace. Peace.”

“Peace,” Hollis said. “‘They have seduced my people saying, Peace; and there was no peace. ’ Ezekiel.”

The Turnbills decided they couldn’t wait for the main course and were anxious to get to the Economic Exhibition. They stood to leave.

Hollis said to them, “A word of advice because you are my compatriots. Avoid black marketeers because they can get you in serious trouble, don’t force your friendship on ordinary Russians because that can get them in trouble. Also, every dark street is not safe at night. And if you can get permission — which you need — see if you can get into the countryside for a day. Also, try not to criticize your own country too much, and above all, remember that you are free and they are not.”

The Turnbills smiled tightly and departed.

Lisa commented, “That’s not like you to wave the flag.”

“I was just trying to help them see.”

“We all see what we want to see, Sam. This system here still has seductive powers as you indicated. Like an old whore on a good night.”

Hollis nodded. “I remember when I first got here. I was impressed with what I saw, but I forgot to think about what I couldn’t see — concepts and abstractions such as freedom of speech, the pursuit of happiness, and the right to assemble, to travel, and ultimately to emigrate. It takes a few months here before you realize what’s missing from the picture.”

Lisa smiled. “Maybe the Turnbills will be picked up by the KGB for taking a picture of a railroad bridge or something. A week in Lefortovo or Lubyanka will straighten them out.”

“One wonders. The old Bolsheviks who were shot by Stalin were true believers to the end.”

The main course finally came, a mystery meat covered with more heavy creamed mushrooms and the standard mashed potatoes on the side. Hollis said to the waitress, “Could you bring us asparagus tips and hearts of palm?”

The waitress shook her head, pointed to the food, and left. They ate in silence for a while, then Lisa said, “It doesn’t have to be this awful. Russian food can be quite good. I’ve done better myself. And there are about six good Russian restaurants in New York that serve authentic stuff. No one here cares.”

“They’d care if they had to pay New York rents and get the customers in. That’s the motivation to take care with any product. Not Socialist altruism, but capitalist greed. The only demanding and discerning consumer in this country is the military.”

The waitress brought tea and ice cream. For some reason that Hollis could not fathom, Russian ice cream was quite good and quite plentiful, and the Russians ate it two or three times a day, all year long. Lisa said, “I saw another press release my office put out this morning. The ambassador again denies any wrongdoing on our part.”

“If he keeps denying it every day, people might start to wonder.”

“I know. I wish I had been allowed to write the damn thing. I used to have to rewrite everything his bitch of a secretary gave me for release. Now without my magic typewriter, he’s starting to sound like the fool he is.”

“My, my,” Hollis said, “aren’t we sounding self-important? Do you think the diplomatic mission to the Soviet Union will survive your departure?”

Lisa smiled good-naturedly. “Sorry. Just feeling mistreated.” She asked, “What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get back to the States?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe just get acquainted with my country again.”

“Where will you stay?”

“Here and there. Maybe on a military base around D.C. Go to the Pentagon and pester them for an assignment.”

They drank tea and talked awhile, watching the other diners rise in mass groups each time an Intourist guide announced a bus tour departure. The dining room was nearly empty now. Lisa took out a cigarette. “Want one?”

“Not right now.”

“Do you smoke, or not?”

“Oh, yes.”

She looked at him doubtfully as she lit her cigarette. “I saw another press release on the Fisher business. It was in response to charges made by his parents that the embassy was being evasive regarding the circumstances of his death. Mr. and Mrs. Fisher want to know if there is any connection between their son’s death and our expulsion. You remember you signed all that paperwork for Burov. Well, the Fishers have it all, and they’re wondering about Colonel Samuel Hollis.”

“And well they might. That’s one of the advantages of having a free citizenry and an inquiring press.”

“Yes. So my office said the two events were purely coincidental. That’s so lame it might even pass as the truth.”

“It might,” Hollis agreed. “But we don’t lie very well, and the USIS Ministry of Truth should stick to covering cultural and scientific events.”

Lisa waved her hand. “Not my problem anymore.”

“Well, what are you going to do when you get home?”

“Watch the six o’clock news, get my wardrobe updated, buy an avocado, see a football game, rake leaves—”

“You’re staying with your parents?”

“Yes. I still have my room there. My little time capsule, my home base. You don’t have that, do you?”

“No. No nest for this eagle, if you’ll pardon the bad analogy.”

“Metaphor. I’ll pardon anything but bad English.”

“I’d like to get you in a high-performance jet, smart-ass.”

“I’d love to get in one with you.” She leaned across the table and looked him in the eye. “Well, are we going to be together?”

“I hope so.”

“And you think you can work it out?”

“Yes, it’s called blackmail.”

She took his hand and squeezed it. “I don’t care what it’s called as long as it gets us together. And I don’t care if it’s Paris or Borneo.”

“That’s very nice, Lisa. I was thinking, maybe the States. Maybe it’s time to go home.”

“Maybe it is time to go home, Sam.”

The waitress presented them with a bill for six rubles, which Hollis thought very reasonable for lunch in the abstract but too much for the food that was served during the lunch. Lisa paid.

They left the dining room, and Hollis found the Intourist Service Bureau. With some difficulty he booked a car and driver, pre-paying in American dollars.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Surprise.”

A man in his thirties, scruffily dressed, introduced himself as Sasha and led them outside to a black Volga. Hollis wrote in Cyrillic on a piece of paper and handed it to him. Sasha looked at it and shook his head. “Nelzya,” he said, using one of the Russians’ most used words. Not allowed. “Nyet.”

Hollis handed him a ten-dollar bill and said in Russian, “Be a good fellow. No one will know.”

Sasha glanced back at Hollis, then took the ten and put the Volga in gear. “Okay.”

Lisa slid next to Hollis and put her arm through his. “An itinerary and a currency violation. You’ve outdone yourself this time.”

The Volga, like every Russian cab Hollis had been in, was dirty. They headed north on Prospect Mira, hit the Outer Ring Road, and followed it southwest on its great circle around Moscow. There was still snow outside the city, and the vast stretches of evergreens were dusted with white powder.

Sasha turned onto the Minsk — Moscow highway. Lisa said to Hollis, “Not Borodino…?”

Hollis smiled. “Please.”

They left the highway, went down a two-lane paved road, and entered a good-sized village of pre-Revolution clapboard houses. Lisa asked, “Where are we?”

Hollis pointed to the train station, and Lisa read the name, “Peredelkino.” She kissed Hollis on the cheek. “Oh, what a sweetheart you are.”

Sasha said in Russian, “I have to ask where the cemetery is.” He stopped the car and asked a passing boy on a bicycle. The boy pointed. “That road. You’ll see his grave easily enough. There are students there.”

Sasha drove up a narrow street that passed through the village and came out into open farmland again. By the side of the road was a grove of pine trees and bare birch surrounded by a low brick wall. Sasha stopped the car. Hollis and Lisa got out and walked through the small opening in the wall.

A group of ten young men and women stood in the snow-dusted cemetery around a white tombstone into which was carved an impression of the poet’s craggy features and the simple line, “Boris Pasternak, 1890–1960.” Fresh flowers lay in the snow, and a book of Boris Pasternak’s poetry was being passed around, the students reading from it in turn. They barely took notice of Lisa and Hollis, but then a young girl motioned to the book questioningly, and Hollis replied in Russian, “Yes, I’d like to read.” He picked one of the Lara poems, which made Lisa smile, then passed the book to Lisa, who read from “Garden of Gethsemane”:

Afterward, on the way back to the city, Lisa said, “Could you imagine that in America? People traveling to a poet’s grave?”

“No, I suppose not. But the Russians do it as much out of love of poetry as out of political protest. If the government made the place a national shrine, you’d see fewer poetry lovers around here. And if church attendance were encouraged, you might see fewer people there too.”

“That’s cynical. I think you’re wrong.”

“Maybe I see too much of the dark side of the Russian soul because I deal with the darker elements.”

“Probably.”

They had Sasha drive them around Moscow, revisiting places that had some memories for one or the other. Lisa said, “I want to share every place with you so we can talk about them after we leave.”

“How about Gogol’s grave?”

“Later.”

At dusk they went up to the Lenin Hills and looked out over the city from the observation platform of the Moscow University campus. Lisa huddled against Hollis. “Thank you for a beautiful day. No matter what happens, this was our day.”

Hollis looked at the city spread out beyond the Moskva. “I guess we can tell people we fell in love in Moscow.”

“Yes, that’s true, and our first lovemaking was in a peasant’s cabin.”

“I don’t think we should go into details.”

“Oh, Sam, I’m so happy and sad at the same time. And optimistic and frightened….”

“I know.”

Sasha stood ten feet or so down the stone parapet, chain-smoking. He and Hollis made eye contact and Sasha smiled. He called out in Russian, “Many lovers come here. And over there, you see that hill? That is Farewell Hill where the old Muscovites would go to say good-bye to their family and friends when they left on a long journey westward.”

Sasha moved closer to his customers. “There is Mosfilm down there. See the buildings? Soviet films are good, but sometimes I like American films. We don’t get many. I saw Kramer vs. Kramer, and I took my daughter to see Lady and the Tramp.” He turned back to the city. “There is the Ukraina Hotel. Stalin knew how to build things to last. Today, everything they build is cheap and falls apart. Stalin would have shot half the building supervisors they have today. See, over there is the old Kiev Station, and there is the new circus — the round building. The best circus in all the world. And right here where we stand, every December the students gather to commemorate the death of John Lennon.”

“Not Vladimir Lenin?” Hollis asked mischievously.

Sasha roared with laughter. “No. The party takes care of that great man each twenty-first of January. Does it surprise you that the young people come here and sing John Lennon’s songs? He was a poet, like Pasternak. The Russians love poets. Did you like John Lennon?”

“Yes,” Lisa replied. “He was a great musician and poet.”

“We need more poets and fewer generals,” Sasha declared.

Lisa pointed to a cluster of gold-domed buildings about half a kilometer away. “Sasha, isn’t that Novodevichy Convent?”

“Yes. Peter put his first wife and his bitchy sister there for all their lives.” Sasha smiled at Hollis. “It’s not so easy now to get rid of troublesome women.”

“Amen, brother,” Hollis replied in English.

Lisa poked him in the side.

Sasha continued, “You should go there on Sunday. The believers have mass in the cathedral there. I went once. It was very… interesting. Then go to the cemetery there too. You like our writers? Chekhov is buried there.”

“And Gogol?” Hollis asked.

“Oh, yes. He’s there too.”

Hollis glanced at Lisa, who was smiling.

Sasha went on, “Also Khruschev is there and other party members. Why do you suppose they wanted to be buried in holy ground and not at the Kremlin wall? Who can say? Maybe they’re taking no chances.” Sasha laughed again.

They all got back into the Volga. Sasha said, “You have almost two hours left for what you paid.”

“I think we’ve had enough,” Hollis said.

“Good. Me too. I invite you to my flat for food. My wife always wanted to meet Americans. I told her someday I’d bring some home. You’re the first I’ve met who speak our language. Also, I like you.”

Lisa looked at Hollis and nodded. Hollis said to Sasha, “Thank you, but we can’t.”

“I know who you are. I saw both your pictures on television last night. But we have glasnost now. It doesn’t matter.”

Hollis wondered how Soviet TV had gotten their pictures. Hollis replied, “I’m afraid this is beyond glasnost, and it does matter. For you, not for us.”

Sasha pulled the car away and chuckled. “Maybe they’ll kick me out too.”

“Do you know where the American embassy is?”

“Who doesn’t?”

“We’ll go there now.”

The Volga came down from the Lenin Hills, crossed the Moskva, and headed toward the embassy along the embankment road.

Lisa put her head on Hollis’ shoulder. “Busy tonight?”

“Meeting until about nine.”

“With whom?”

“Spies.”

“Do you want to come over afterward?”

“I’d love to.”

“Stay the night?”

“Stay the rest of the week, if you want.”

She smiled. “Good. Move in. Shake up the diplomats and their stuffy wives.”

“Hang my underwear from your clothesline.”

“I don’t have a clothesline, but I’ll put your name on my buzzer.”

The Volga slid along the misty embankment road following the loop of the Moskva. The red brick chancery building appeared all alight through the river fog. Lisa said, “I thought you were relieved of your duties.”

“I’m just briefing and being debriefed.”

“Kay won’t even let me in my office. I guess this really is serious business. Are we in more trouble than we know?”

“Not at the moment. But we will be if we don’t keep our mouths shut.”

“You’re still on the case, aren’t you? You’re still working with Seth.”

Hollis didn’t reply immediately, then said, “Discharges don’t come so easily in this war.”

He leaned over the front seat and said to Sasha, “Don’t slow down until you’re at the gate, then stop quickly, as close to the gate as you can.”

Sasha glanced at him. “I can’t cross the militiamen on the sidewalk.”

“No, but get close. We’ll be leaving the car quickly, so I’ll say good-bye now.”

“Da svedahnya,” Sasha replied.

“Someday we’ll have that dinner.”

“Someday.”

Hollis pulled his hat down and slid back low in his seat.

Lisa slid down beside him. “Is this necessary?”

“No, it’s my idea of fun.”

Sasha maintained his speed, then suddenly pulled over to the curb and hit his brakes. Hollis opened the curbside door, and he and Lisa jumped out. He took Lisa’s arm and moved her quickly past the militia guards just as they stepped out of their booth. “Stoi! Pasport!”

Hollis called out to the Marine guard. “Hit it, son.” The electric gates began to part as Hollis heard running boots behind him. He pushed Lisa through the opening, then followed, returning the guard’s salute. Hollis looked over his shoulder at the two militiamen glaring at him through the gate. Beyond them he saw that Sasha now had two embassy watchers in his Volga and was looking rather uncomfortable.

Lisa remarked, “I think I’ve had enough cloak and dagger for the day. I think what I’ll do is have a drink, then I’ll move your things over while you’re at your meeting. Maybe I can have someone from housekeeping help me. I’ll call the Kellums.”

“No, I’d rather you and I did it later. Okay?”

“Okay.”

They walked into the chancery building, and Hollis said, “I’m going up to my office awhile, then to my meeting.”

“Will Seth be there?”

“I guess. Why?”

She hesitated, then said, “You’re jealous that we were involved…. I’m jealous of his relationship with you.”

Hollis didn’t think it was quite the same thing but didn’t reply.

Lisa added, “Be careful of him, Sam.”

Hollis glanced at his watch. “Well, see you later.”

“Thank you for today.”

Hollis walked to the elevator as Lisa walked out the back toward the residences. As Hollis rode up to meet Alevy, it occurred to him that two of the great puzzles in life were women and espionage and that he was up to his eyeballs in both.

24

Hollis buttoned the blue tunic of his Air Force uniform and straightened his tie. “How do I look?”

“Very sexy,” Lisa said. “I’m going to lose you to some young secretary tonight.”

Hollis adjusted his row of ribbons.

Lisa asked, “Do you arrange them by color, chronologically, or what?”

“By order of importance. Good conduct last. Which secretary?”

She smiled. “Will you teach me how to put your uniform together?”

“It’s not important. I can do it.”

“Did your wife do it?”

“I don’t think she knew I was in the military. Do you have any scotch?”

“One bottle left in the kitchen. Help me with this zipper.”

Hollis zippered her black silk dress, then reached around and cupped her breasts in his hands. “World-class jugs.”

“Gross. You’re getting very gross. You used to be an officer and a gentleman.”

He kissed her on the neck, and they went downstairs. Lisa got the scotch and a bottle of soda. Hollis filled two glasses with ice.

She said, “These packing boxes are getting on my nerves.”

“Where’s the icon?”

“Over there on the bookshelf. I’m going to send it to my boss at the USIS in D.C. I wrote and asked him to hold it. Will you get it into the diplomatic bag for me?”

“I said I would.”

“Thanks. Can you pick it up for me when you go to Washington?”

“Sure.” He took the icon from the bookshelf and looked at it. It was a square, about two feet on each side. The painting was of a male saint, but Hollis couldn’t identify him. “Who’s this guy?”

She came up beside him. “That guy is the Archangel Gabriel. See his trumpet?”

“Right.”

“This is painted on larch. Too many of them were done on pine, which warps and cracks.”

“I see.”

“A lot of people don’t like icon painting. The figures have no perspective, no depth or movement. They’re just flat, and the faces seem stiff and distant.”

“Like eight million Muscovites.”

“But there’s a warmth to the colors they used, and there’s a certain serenity in that beatific face, don’t you think?”

“Oh, yes. How much?”

“Is it worth? Well, they’re hard to get appraised in the West, but I found an art historian at Columbia once who said it was sixteenth century, Kazan region, which I knew. Worth maybe twenty-five thousand.”

“Jesus. What if I lose it?”

She poured scotch in his glass. “I can’t imagine a spy losing things. I trust you.”

“Okay.” He put the icon carefully back on the shelf.

She said, “The icon has a very special importance in Russia. During the Tartar invasions, when churches were burned and priests massacred, the icon was small enough to be hidden, and each household had one. For hundreds of years these deeply religious people came to see the icon as the symbol of survival of the Russian culture and Christianity.”

Hollis nodded. “You see parallels?”

“Of course. Everyone does. If the Orthodox church and Russian culture could survive almost three hundred years of wild horsemen, it can survive those fools in the Kremlin. That’s part of the symbolic meaning in the revival of iconography. The portraits themselves may be uninspiring, but people here who keep icons are making a statement of dissent. I think they know and the Kremlin knows who are the keepers of the culture and who are the Tartars.”

“Interesting. Sometimes I think there’s more to this country than meets the eye. We forget they have a history.”

“They don’t forget for a minute.” Lisa sipped on her scotch. “I’m a little anxious about this party.”

“Why?”

“Well… it’s sort of… I guess I’m basically shy. I don’t like being the center of attention, especially at a party celebrating my getting kicked out.”

“I hadn’t noticed your shyness,” Hollis ventured. “Anyway, it’s all good fun. I went to one in Sofia once. The deputy CIA station chief there had seduced the wife of a Bulgarian official or something. Long story short, he got caught and booted. Anyway, the party lasted all weekend and the poor guy… what’s the matter?”

“Men are pigs. That’s not a funny story.”

“Oh. Seemed funny at the time. Maybe you had to be there.”

“You know, this espionage business is sort of… anyway, it’s not you. Can you get out of it? Do you want to get out of it?”

“I’d like to fly again.”

“Do you? Or have you been saying that too long?”

Hollis sat on a packing crate and didn’t reply.

“I’m sorry, Sam. I’m pushing too much. I don’t own you.” She finished her scotch. “Yet. Want another?”

“No.”

“I do. I’m jumpy.”

“I see that.”

She poured another drink, then found her cigarettes on an empty bookshelf. “Want one?”

“After I finish my drink.”

She lit her cigarette. The doorbell rang. “I’ll get it.” She went down the stairs and came back with Charles Banks.

Banks said, “Hello, Sam. Lisa assures me I’m not intruding.”

“Then you’re probably not. Take off your coat, Charles.”

“No, this will only take a few minutes.”

“Drink? Scotch only.”

“A short one. Soda or water.”

Lisa went into the kitchen.

Banks looked around. He said to Hollis, “I’ve seen this scene so often in my career and in my life. My father was a Foreign Service man.”

Lisa came back with a glass of ice water and filled it with scotch. She handed it to Banks.

He raised his glass. “Let me be the first, before your soiree begins, to wish you both the best of luck in your careers and personal happiness.”

They touched glasses and drank.

Banks remained standing and said to Lisa, “I was telling Sam, I was a diplomatic brat, like he’s an Air Force brat.”

“I didn’t know that, Charles. No one here knows much about you, to be frank.”

“Well, some people do. I’ve spent my life in diplomatic posts and in fact, my father, Prescott Banks, was with the first post-Revolution diplomatic mission here in 1933. I was eight at the time, and I remember Moscow a bit. It was a grim place then.” He smiled. “I know, I know. Anyway, I met Stalin when I was about ten, I guess.”

“How fascinating,” Lisa said. “Do you remember him?”

“I remember he smelled of tobacco. My father told me jokingly that I was going to meet the czar of all the Russias. Then when I was introduced to him at his apartment in the Kremlin, I told him he didn’t look like the czar of all the Russias. Stalin laughed, but my mother nearly fainted.”

Hollis smiled. “You weren’t always so smooth, were you?”

Banks chuckled. “No, that was my first diplomatic faux pas.” He shook the ice in his drink, then said, “Well, then, the first order of business…” He looked around the room. “A bit of music would be nice.”

Lisa nodded and went to a tape player on the shelf. “They’ve packed my stereo. Here’s a few tapes. Charles, do you know Zhanna Bichevskaya, the Joan Baez of Russia?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about contemporary Russian music. I’m sure it will be fine for our purposes.”

“Right.” Lisa put the tape in and hit the play button. A soft guitar, then a beautiful, clear Russian voice filled the room. Lisa said, “Her songs make me melancholy. I’ve tried to get her on a tour of America, but the bastards won’t let her out of the country. I can’t even speak to her. I don’t know where she lives or much about her, except I love her voice. I assume she’s politically unreliable.”

Banks said, “She does have a lovely voice. At least they let her sing.”

They all moved nearer the tape player, and Lisa adjusted the volume. Hollis said, “I think that’s about right. Go on, Charles.”

Banks cleared his throat. “Yes, first thing. You both disappeared the other day for some time, and there was some fear here and in Washington that you’d met with foul play. Therefore, the ambassador has requested that you stay inside the compound until you are both driven to the airport by security personnel, Monday morning. That will not cause you any hardship, I trust.”

Hollis replied, “No, it won’t, since I’m not taking orders from the ambassador. Lisa and I intend to go to church in the city on Sunday.”

Banks replied in an impatient tone, “Why do you want to provoke them and expose yourself and Lisa to danger?”

“Surely, Charles,” Hollis said in a baiting tone, “you don’t think the Soviet government or its organs of State Security would make an attempt on our lives even as our diplomats are discussing a new era of Soviet-American friendship?”

Banks replied coolly, “Not the Soviet government, perhaps, but I can’t fathom what the KGB is up to, and neither can you. We have a similar problem right here with Mr. Alevy, whose organization seems to be pursuing its own foreign policy. In fact, if the KGB and the CIA have one thing in common, it’s their desire to wreck any rapprochement between their respective governments.”

“That’s a very strong statement,” Hollis observed.

“Nevertheless it’s what the diplomatic community believes.”

“Charles, I don’t like it when the diplomatic community here or anywhere tries to take the moral high ground. My work and Seth Alevy’s work may not be to your liking or your superiors’ liking. But it is, unfortunately, necessary work. And there is an implied understanding that the Foreign Service will provide support services to the intelligence personnel within the mission. No one in my office or Alevy’s has ever asked anything of you more than room and board and an atmosphere of cooperation and understanding. We have never compromised the diplomatic personnel here. Whoever takes over from me has a tough enough job, and he deserves your respect if not your sympathy.”

Banks set his drink down on a bookshelf. “Personally, I agree with you. The world has changed since the days when the only spies in an embassy were a few Foreign Service people known unofficially as State Department Intelligence. However, the ambassador’s fear in this current problem… the fear of the White House itself, if you want to know the truth… is that one of you — you, Seth Alevy, the naval attaché, the Army attaché, or any of the people who work for you — will seize on this current Fisher and Dodson business as a tool to wreck the diplomatic initiatives. Enough said.”

Hollis poured more scotch into Banks’ glass and handed it back to him. “I’m afraid I have to have the last word on that, Charles. You’re afraid of us troglodytes, but I want to remind you that many of the fruits of hard-won military and intelligence victories, paid for in blood, were lost by the State Department and the Foreign Service. I fought a war, and my father fought a war, and your father… well, I know the name Prescott Banks. I want to remind you of the sterling performance of the State Department at Yalta and Potsdam, when your forebears gave Stalin everything but the west lawn of the White House. That’s why we’re in the goddamned mess we’re in now.”

Banks’ ruddy face turned even redder. He took a long breath, then sipped on his drink. “That was not our finest hour. My father regretted his role in that in his later years.”

Lisa poured more scotch for everyone and said, “I know that the past is prologue for the future, but you old duffers are talking about things that happened before I was born.”

Banks said, “Well, more recent news then. As you know, Gregory Fisher’s parents have had an autopsy performed on their son. We’ve received information on the results of that autopsy.”

“And?” Lisa asked.

“The medical examiner’s report states that the injuries were not the immediate cause of death.”

“What,” Lisa asked, “was the cause of death?”

“Heart failure.”

Hollis observed, “Heart failure is the cause of all deaths. What caused the heart to fail?”

“Partly trauma. But mostly alcohol. Mr. Fisher had a deadly amount of alcohol in his blood and brain tissue.”

“The KGB introduced the alcohol before death,” Hollis said, “through a stomach tube. The perfect poison, because nearly everyone takes it now and then.”

Banks seemed uncomfortable with this type of talk. “Really? Is it possible to do that?” He looked at Hollis as though he were discovering a new species of human being. “That’s terrible.”

Lisa said, “So, we have no evidence that could be used in a court of law or in a diplomatic note of protest if anyone considered such a course of action?”

“That’s correct,” Banks replied.

Lisa asked, “Do you believe that Greg Fisher was murdered?”

Banks considered a moment. “The circumstantial evidence seems to point in that direction. I’m no idiot, Lisa, and neither is the ambassador.”

“That’s reassuring.” She added, “I do appreciate your position.”

Banks smiled tightly. “Do you? Let me tell you that I personally admire your sense of integrity and moral courage. And entre nous, the ambassador is similarly impressed. However, I’m here to restate to you in the strongest possible terms that if either of you so much as breathes a word of this incident back in the States, you will both be unemployed and unemployable and perhaps subject to legal action. Is that clear?”

Hollis moved closer to Banks. “I don’t think you or anyone outside the Pentagon is in a position to tamper with my military career.”

“On the contrary, Colonel. And as for Miss Rhodes, while you have the option of a private career in journalism, you might find it more difficult than you think to ever be accredited to cover any agency of the United States government.”

She put her drink down. “I think, Charles, that you’ve been in the Soviet Union too long. We don’t make threats like that in my country.”

Banks seemed somewhat abashed. “I apologize… I’m passing on information.”

There were a few moments of awkward silence, then Banks extended his hand. “I’ll see you both at your farewell party.”

Lisa took his hand. “You probably will, if you come. We have to be there.” She smiled. “I like you, Charlie.” She kissed his cheek.

Banks smiled awkwardly, then took Hollis’ hand and said, “The least free people in a free society are people like us who have a sworn duty to defend the constitution.”

“It’s one of the ironies,” Hollis agreed.

After Banks had left, Lisa commented, “He hit us with the carrot and tried to make us eat the stick.”

“He’s having a rough time of it.”

“Who isn’t these days?”

25

Sam Hollis gave his uniform a quick once-over, then strode into the large diplomatic reception hall.

The protocol of a farewell party didn’t require that he or Lisa stand in a receiving line, nor was there a head table, which suited him fine. Protocol did demand however, that, as a married man whose wife was temporarily out of town, he arrive without a woman. Lisa had gone on ahead, and he saw her across the room, talking to some people from her office.

The reception hall was an elegant, modern wing off the chancery building, with tall windows, walls of Carrara marble, and three large contemporary chandeliers of stainless steel hanging from the high ceiling. The floor was parquet, which for some reason the Russians equated with elegance, hence its choice for the hall.

Of the approximately three hundred men and women living in the compound, nearly all had been invited, and Hollis guessed that most of them had shown up. He would have been flattered by such a Saturday night turnout for him in London or Paris, but in Moscow you could get five hundred Westerners to a Tupperware party if you had music and food.

Hollis assumed that the staffers whose turn it was to use the Finnish dacha for the weekend had wisely done so. Missing also was most of the thirty-man Marine contingent. Some had duty, but the rest, Hollis figured, were in a nearby foreign-residents apartment house where they had somehow secured a suite of rooms that they called Studiya 54. Hollis understood it was mostly disco, drinking, and devitski, the latter being an infraction of the rules. But since the great sex-and-spy scandal, the Marine Corps had concluded that though their men were made of iron, their libidos were not. The Studiya 54 gatherings were actually encouraged so as to keep the Marines and Russian women in one place. Unknown to any of them, but known to Hollis, four of the Marine guards were actually Marine counterintelligence officers. It struck him that the world was full of professional snoops, and it was sad that Americans didn’t even trust Americans anymore.

Hollis noticed that round tables had been placed along the walls, but most people were standing in groups, glasses in hand. There was a long buffet table against the far wall where a few people helped themselves. Early in his tour of duty, Hollis had been advised that if he went to an embassy reception where Russians were present, he should not stand near the buffet table when the food was uncovered, or he would be trampled.

Hollis glanced at his watch. The party had been in progress about an hour, and he figured everyone was three drinks ahead of him by now. He scanned the room to see where the bar had been set up and saw James Martindale, the protocol officer, making his way toward him.

“Hello, Sam.”

“Hello, Jim.” Hollis had a perverse liking for the man despite his inane job and decorous manner.

Martindale announced, “We have a nice turnout for you, Colonel.”

“I see that. I’m very flattered. I would have thought everyone would rather have seen the changing of the guard at Lenin’s tomb.”

Martindale seemed to miss the humor and continued, “You understand, I hope, that we did not invite any Soviet air force personnel with whom you’ve become acquainted, nor any other Soviet officials because of the circumstances under which you are leaving.”

Hollis thought that was self-evident. “You didn’t want to feed them, did you?”

“Also I did not send invitations to certain other embassies so as not to put them in an awkward position.”

“You’re a very sensitive man.”

“However, I did extend verbal and informal invitations to your friends and counterparts in the British, Canadian, Australian, and New Zealand embassies.”

“We Anglo-Saxons have to stick together against the Slavic hordes.”

“Yes. And some other NATO military attachés will drop in to say good-bye.”

“You mean my spy friends from the rest of Christiandom? I hope you invited the Irish.”

“I did. It’s best to keep this sort of thing informal so as not to give the host country the impression that we are insulting them.”

“But we are, Jimbo. Do you think I’d have any party if I’d been kicked out of England or Botswana?”

“Well, from the strict standpoint of protocol—”

“Where’s the bar?”

“In the far corner there. Also I’ve invited the thirty or so American resident press people and their spouses as a courtesy. Most of them will stop by, but they are not to talk business.”

“Good thinking.”

“I explained to Ms. Rhodes all of what I’ve just told you, and she understands.”

“Was I supposed to wear sackcloth and ashes?”

“No, this is business dress.”

“May I go to the bar now?”

“I’d like to take this opportunity to extend to you my best wishes and my appreciation for the work you’ve done here.”

“Thank you. I—”

“This was the best I could do under the circumstances.” He waved his arm around the room.

“Look, I didn’t get caught buggering a militiaman. I just got caught spying. No big—”

“The ambassador and his wife will put in an appearance of course, but they should not be detained as they have another engagement.”

“Are you drunk?”

Martindale smiled a lopsided grin. “I’ve had a few.”

Hollis laughed.

Martindale took Hollis’ arm. “Come with me.”

Hollis was led to the front of the reception hall where there was a raised platform on which stood a podium and microphone. A four-piece combo of volunteer musicians were grouped around the big Steinway piano. Hollis recalled that the Steinway had once been in the ambassador’s official residence, Spaso House, where it had been vandalized a few hours before the performance of Vladimir Feltsman, a prominent pianist and Jewish dissident. The KGB were strong suspects, and Alevy sent a copy of the repair bill to Lubyanka. Some KGB wag there sent a return note saying, “Check is in the mail.”

Hollis stepped onto the wooden platform, and Lisa, escorted by Martindale’s secretary, joined him. Hollis and Lisa exchanged brief smiles.

Martindale nodded to the combo, and they struck up a few bars of “Ruffles and Flourishes,” which got everyone’s attention. Martindale tapped the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming. May I present our guests of honor, Colonel Sam Hollis and Ms. Lisa Rhodes.”

There was a round of applause, and Hollis could see a lot of silly smiles out there. Clearly, everyone was in a merry mood for the occasion.

Martindale said, “I must issue a reminder that this is not a secure room and that everything you say is being heard across the street. So I urge you to observe talk security, not to make derogatory remarks about our host country, and to keep in mind that the expulsion of Colonel Hollis and Ms. Rhodes is an occasion of great shame.”

A few people chuckled.

Martindale reached behind the podium and produced two lengths of blue satin, which he unfurled and held up. Everyone laughed. Hollis saw they were bogus ambassadorial sashes on which was written in red glitter: Persona non grata.

Lisa put her hand over her mouth and laughed.

Martindale turned to them and ceremoniously draped the sashes across their chests. Martindale said into the microphone, “For the nondiplomats here who don’t know Latin, persona non grata means ‘someone who doesn’t tip.’”

Lisa whispered to Hollis, “This is embarrassing.”

“You’re lucky Martindale didn’t pin a scarlet A on you.”

“On me? On you.”

Martindale announced, “Before we begin the music and dancing, and especially before the ambassador and his wife arrive, we’ll have the presentations and speeches. I would like to introduce our first presenter, Comrade Vladimir Slizistyi.”

The people who understood Russian laughed at the word for “slimy.”

One of the young consular officers, Gary Warnicke, came through the door, wearing a brown suit about six sizes too big. His hair was slicked back, he had a red tie painted on his shirt, and he was barefoot. There was a burst of loud laughter.

Warnicke stepped onto the platform, kissed Hollis perfunctorily on both cheeks, then planted a long kiss on Lisa’s lips. Hollis got the feeling it was going to be a long night.

Warnicke addressed the audience. “Comrade American swine, thank you for here me inviting. I make now presentation to Colonel Hollis.”

Martindale led Hollis to the podium as Warnicke bellowed, “Colonel, by order of Central Committee, I present now to you, for consistently inferior work product, Order of Lemon.” Warnicke hung a red ribbon around Hollis’ neck from which was suspended a pear. Warnicke explained, “Sorry, no lemons.”

“I understand.”

Everyone applauded. Warnicke motioned Lisa to the podium. “And for you, sexy lady, by order of Central Committee, I present Medal of Socialist Loafing, for spending whole year sleeping in supply closet.” Warnicke reached into his jacket and produced another red ribbon from which hung a red plastic alarm clock. Warnicke said, “Wakes you at quitting time.”

Lisa said, “I’m honored to have done my part.”

Warnicke took the opportunity to give her an intense kiss on the neck.

The guests, who hadn’t interrupted their drinking for the show, began to hoot and whistle.

Warnicke barked, “Silence, comrades! Serious business here.” He took two pieces of paper from his pocket and said to Hollis and Lisa, “Here two putyovki—worker vacation passes — for five-year stay in Siberian Gulag of your choice. Separate rooms.”

This brought some guffaws from the crowd.

Warnicke made a few more light remarks, then said, “Now I have pleasure of calling to podium, great American diplomat, great statesman, peace-loving friend of Soviet peoples, good dresser, expensive shoes, Comrade Charles Banks.”

Everyone applauded as Banks stepped onto the platform. “Thank you very much, comrade, ladies, and gentlemen. As you know, every year about this time, we present the Barlow award to one or more deserving individuals. This coveted award is named in honor of Joel Barlow, American Ambassador to the court of Napoleon, who in the year 1812 accompanied the French army into Russia in order to maintain diplomatic contact with the emperor. After the burning of Moscow, Mr. Barlow found himself caught up in Napoleon’s retreat and, tragically, died of exposure, making him the first American diplomat to freeze to death in Russia.”

Banks’ timing was good, and everyone laughed.

Banks held up his hand. “So each autumn to commemorate that sad event and to honor Mr. Barlow’s memory, we pay tribute to one or more of our compatriots who made it through the previous winter without bitching and griping and without running off on thirty-days’ leave to the Bahamas. This year it is my honor to present the Joel Barlow award to two people who have demonstrated a unique ability to work together in keeping warm. Ladies and gentlemen, this year’s recipients of the Joel Barlow award, Colonel Sam and Miss Lisa.”

The guests applauded and laughed as Charles Banks retrieved a full ice bucket from behind the podium and handed it to Hollis and Lisa. “Congratulations.”

Lisa said, “Thank you, Charles. This is a dubious honor but a nice bucket.”

Hollis found himself holding the dripping ice bucket.

Banks said into the microphone, “Now for more serious business, may I present Colonel Hollis’ aide, Captain Ed O’Shea.”

Captain O’Shea, carrying a small parcel, took over the podium from Banks, who stepped aside. O’Shea said, “It has indeed been a rare opportunity to work for such a talented officer.” O’Shea made a few more salutatory remarks, then said, “On behalf of the military attachés here and their staffs, I would like to present Colonel Hollis with a farewell gift.” O’Shea opened the box he was carrying and withdrew a small plaster bust of Napoleon. O’Shea said, “Colonel, this is courtesy of the French embassy. As you pass from duty station to duty station and wherever your service to your country takes you, let this be a reminder of your time here in Moscow and of your last interesting weekend in the Russian countryside.”

Hollis held out the ice bucket, and O’Shea stuck the plaster bust in it.

The guests applauded, and there was some subdued laughter. Hollis assumed there were at least a dozen versions of the itinerary-violation weekend going around, and most of them somehow included Borodino, hence the Napoleon bust. Hollis said to O’Shea, “I’m very grateful for the memento, and I’ll have it on my desk when I write your last efficiency report.”

The military personnel in the crowd laughed.

O’Shea smiled weakly and introduced Kay Hoffman, who climbed onto the platform carrying a beautifully hand-painted balalaika. Kay Hoffman smiled at Lisa and said into the microphone, “In all my years with the United States Information Service, I have rarely encountered an individual who had such a profound knowledge of the host country, its language, its culture, and its people.” Kay Hoffman delivered a short tribute to her assistant, then said, “On behalf of everyone in the USIS here and also in our Leningrad consulate, we would like to present to Lisa this going-away present. Obviously this is not a joke gift, but a very special piece of Russian art, which, though it was difficult to come by, was worth the search because it is passing into the hands of a very fine lady who appreciates such native craftsmanship. Lisa…” Kay Hoffman held out the balalaika. “May I present you with this exquisite electric samovar.”

The joke caught everyone off guard, and there was a silence followed by a burst of laughter and applause.

Kay Hoffman continued, “You loosen these three strings here and shove them into an electrical outlet. The tea goes in this big hole here. I’m not sure where you put the water.”

Lisa took the balalaika. Kay embraced and kissed her, saying in her ear, “Don’t let that stud get away, honey.”

Lisa winked and wiped a tear from her eye. She said, “I don’t play it — the samovar — but I love its music, and I promise to learn to play it in memory of the thoughtfulness of my coworkers.”

James Martindale stepped back to the podium carrying a display easel on which was mounted a blowup of a newspaper article written in Russian. Martindale said, “For those of you who want the truth about the unfortunate incident that has brought us here, I direct your attention to the Soviet free press. For your convenience we’ve had the Pravda article blown up and mounted. Pravda, as you know, means ‘truth,’ and Izvestia means ‘news,’ and I’ve heard it said that there is no news in the Truth and no truth in the News. Nevertheless I’ll read you the English translation of this incisive Soviet reporting.” Martindale read from a piece of paper. “‘The Soviet Foreign Ministry has announced the expulsions of S. Hollis and L. Rhodes, a man and a woman, American embassy employees, for activities inconsistent with their diplomatic status. This is yet another example of American agents hiding behind their diplomatic immunity to engage in anti-Soviet activities. However, the organs of State Security had been watching this S. Hollis and L. Rhodes for some time and finally put an end to their abuse of Soviet hospitality.’” Martindale looked up from the translation and shook his finger at Hollis and Lisa. “Bad, bad.”

Warnicke called out, “Let this be lesson for all of you. Three cheers for organs of State Security.”

Martindale turned back to the microphone. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to introduce our first guest of honor, holder of the Order of Lemon, not to mention a chestful of real medals, our departing air attaché, Colonel Sam Hollis.” The people who were still sitting at the tables stood, and everyone clapped loudly. The four-piece combo struck up “Off we go into the wild blue yonder” as Hollis put the bucket down and waited at the podium. Unexpectedly Lisa came up beside him and squeezed his hand momentarily.

Hollis said into the microphone, “Thank you all for that very nice welcome. And thank you, Jim Martindale, chief of protocol, alcohol, and Geritol, for the sash and the introduction. I want to express my appreciation also to Gary Warnicke for making a fool of himself in public, and my deepest gratitude to Charles Banks for arriving here sober. And of course, warm thanks to Captain O’Shea and my staff for their personal devotion, which they will transfer to their next boss without skipping a beat.” Hollis made some serious farewell remarks, then concluded on a lighter note. “When I get home, and as I’m tooling down the highway in my ’Vette through the glorious Virginia countryside, listening to the Air Force — Army game and eating a banana, my thoughts will be of you here, drinking your breakfast vodka as you watch the snow rise over your windowsills.”

This brought some hisses and laughter. Everyone was clearly drunk by now, Hollis thought, except him. He saluted and stepped away from the podium to the accompaniment of applause.

Martindale introduced Lisa, who also got a standing ovation, as the combo played “Lara’s Theme.” She took the microphone. “Thank you all so much. I’ve never been kicked out of a country before, and I never knew it could be so much fun.” Lisa thanked the people in her office who made her tour of duty tolerable and said, “I also want to thank Charles Banks, who tried so hard to keep me out of trouble. Charles, for those of you who are not honored to know him, is a man torn between his duty as the ambassador’s personal aide and his desire to be a human being. A man whose familiarity with Russia has prompted him to declare that Borodino is the best Italian red wine produced in the Soviet Union.”

Banks called out, “I always order it with babushka.”

Lisa concluded, “I wish I could stay with you and continue my work here. I know that somewhere down the line we’ll all cross paths again, but this will remain the incomparable assignment of a lifetime for all of us. Thank you.”

As everyone clapped, Hollis unexpectedly took the microphone again and said, “I would be remiss if I did not thank a man who has become a friend of mine and of Lisa Rhodes, for his wise counsel and for showing me the ropes in Moscow. I’m speaking of a very industrious political affairs officer, Seth Alevy.”

Alevy was standing off to the side, his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his vest. He nodded perfunctorily in acknowledgment of the scant applause. It was obvious to Hollis that very few of the three hundred people present knew Seth Alevy, and those who did were not his fans.

Lisa glanced over at Hollis with a warm smile and a wink.

Hollis and Lisa stepped down from the platform as Martindale said, “Dance music, maestro, please. Have fun, everyone.”

The combo played “In the Still of the Nite,” and Lisa took Hollis onto the dance floor. As they danced, she said, “That was very nice of you to thank Seth.”

Hollis grumbled a reply.

“My alarm clock is crushing your pear.”

Hollis took a bite out of the pear and passed it to her. She bit into it and laughed. She said between chews, “This is the first time we’ve danced. I love this song.”

“Five Satins, 1956.”

“Who? When?”

Hollis smiled.

She held him closer, and they glided over the parquet floor. “Did you grind to this when you were a horny little guy?”

“Sure did.”

“God, I can’t believe you were getting erections before I was born.”

“I couldn’t wait for you.”

The combo segued into “Since I Don’t Have You.”

Lisa said, “I’m not being facetious, but there’s obviously some degree of status attached to being kicked out of the Soviet Union. I never realized just how much contempt and disdain we have for this country. I mean, Gary Warnicke’s skit was a mockery — no wonder the ambassador is coming late.”

“It’s just a lot of frustration and nervous energy pouring out.”

“It’s more than that, and you know it. It’s scary, Sam.”

“What is?”

“How much we hate them.”

Hollis didn’t reply.

Lisa looked around the dance floor. “These press people won’t report—”

“They damned well better not, or they’ll never see the inside of this or any other American embassy again. This is strictly off-the-record, and they knew that when they were invited.”

“Yes, they’re a good crew. Here in Moscow we realize we’re on the same side. They’re pleasant to work with.” She said, “I’m sad. I don’t want to leave.”

“Things could be worse. We could be dead.”

She didn’t reply.

“Never look back on this place, Lisa. Never go back, even if they allow you to. Promise me that.”

“No, I won’t promise that.”

Hollis stepped away from her. “I badly need a drink.”

“Stay sober enough to do me some good tonight.”

“I won’t promise. You can dance with Alevy if you want. You don’t need my permission anyway.”

“No, I don’t. But thanks for saying that.”

Hollis made his way across the dance floor and found the bar, where he fell into conversation with four NATO attachés.

The band suddenly stopped, and James Martindale announced the ambassador and his wife. Hollis noticed that the party calmed down a bit. Hollis excused himself and walked toward the ambassador, meeting Lisa heading the same way. She said to him, “Is it all right if we present ourselves to the ambassador together?”

“It’s all right with me. Listen, I’d like to spend part of my home leave with you.”

“I’ll think about that.”

“What is there to think—”

The ambassador and his wife approached and greeted Hollis and Lisa. They exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes, and everyone smiled. Neither the ambassador nor his wife commented on the sashes or the pear and alarm clock, which struck Hollis as the height of savoir faire if not stupidity. Lisa said, “You both missed some very funny speeches.”

“Oh,” the ambassador’s wife said, “we’re so sorry we were detained.”

They chatted a moment longer, then the ambassador said, “I’m deeply appreciative to both of you for your contributions to the diplomatic mission here. Charles tells me he’s spoken to you on certain matters of national importance and that you both understand the reasoning and so forth. I’m very happy that you do. Colonel Hollis, Ms. Rhodes — Sam and Lisa — have a pleasant and safe journey home.” Everyone shook hands.

The ambassador’s wife said, “Please excuse us, we have another engagement that we accepted before this was arranged.”

Lisa watched them go and commented, “They could send programmed androids for that job, and no one would notice.”

“What is there to think about?”

“Nothing. That’s the point. It would take ten minutes to program the ’droids.”

“What is there to think about spending some time with me?”

“Oh, that. I have to think about… well… my parents… you’re a little older than I, and you’re married.”

“Did you just discover that?”

She smiled wanly. “Let me think about how to make it right.”

“Do that.”

“Are we having our first fight?”

“Quite possibly.” Hollis turned and walked toward his staff, who were standing together talking.

Hollis was intercepted by Mike Salerno, a reporter for the Pacific News Service. Salerno took Hollis aside. “Funny speech, Colonel. Everyone is in a rare mood tonight. You guys should do that once a month. Catharsis. When one of us leaves, we get together at somebody’s place, and we do the same kind of thing.”

“No wonder the KGB harasses you.”

“Yeah… I guess they listen in, don’t they?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me in the least.” Hollis had met Salerno on a few occasions and found him somewhat pushy but straightforward and down to earth.

Salerno went on, “You know that we’ve kicked out your counterpart in D.C. and also some Soviet Tass dork in retaliation for Lisa. The Reds are probably having a similar party in Washington tonight. Doing Uncle Sam skits.” He laughed, then finished his drink and said, “What’s the actual reason behind you guys leaving?”

“Pretty much what the official version is, Mike. We took an unauthorized trip.”

“Yeah. But they usually give you a break the first time for something petty like that. Especially with the sweet smell of détente in the air.”

“It was actually the second time for both of us.” To forestall further questions, Hollis added, “As you may have deduced, we went to see the site of the famous Russian nonvictory at Borodino. Moscow gets claustrophobic.”

“Hey, don’t I know it? It takes me a month to get permission to visit some godforsaken tractor factory in the Urals.”

“Tell them you don’t want to see a tractor factory in the Urals. You’ll be on the next train.”

Salerno laughed. “You got that right, Br’er Bear.” He took two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and handed one to Hollis, saying, “To a safe trip.”

Salerno finished the wine, seemed to consider a moment, then asked, “Are you leveling with me, Sam?”

“Yes.”

“You went out that way to take charge of the body of Greg Fisher.”

“Right.”

“And you detoured a few K’s to Borodino and were spotted.”

“Correct.”

“Hell of a fucked-up country, isn’t it?”

Hollis replied, “When in the third Rome, do as they tell you. Excuse me.”

“Hold on a second, Sam. Look, I know there’s more to this Greg Fisher story than anyone is saying. One theory is that he was killed by robbers and the Soviets don’t want that getting around. Makes the world’s first workers’ state look a little less like paradise. Right?”

“I saw the inventory of the boy’s effects. Everything from money to felt-tip pens. There was no foul play.”

“No? Can I tell you something I found out?”

“If you’d like.”

“I called Greg Fisher’s parents in New Canaan and found out that an autopsy had been performed. They told me a few other things. So I’m thinking about this kid who’s tear-assing along the Minsk — Moscow highway at night, under the influence of alcohol according to the autopsy, and I’m not buying it. I’m thinking about all the rules the kid had to sign in Brest when he crossed the border — seat belts, drinking and driving puts you in jail, and night driving can get you in trouble with the KGB. And Mr. and Mrs. Fisher tell me Greg was a very careful kid — okay, parents say that about dead kids. But I’m starting to wonder now.”

Hollis said, “We’re not supposed to talk business here.”

“Just hear me out, Sam. Okay? So, the other day I go on my own unauthorized trip in a car. First I poke around Mozhaisk, and for a few rubles a truck driver leads me to the accident site west of Mozhaisk. The car is gone by now of course, but I see where it went off the road heading east and plowed into the tree. I even find some glass from the windshield where the kid’s head went through. Okay. But the truck driver says something about the kid’s car causing a big stir in Mozhaisk. How did the kid get to Mozhaisk if he died west of the town?”

“Beats me.”

“Right. Me too. I think something stinks, Sam, and I’m wondering if you’d like to give me an off-the-record clue.”

“I don’t have a clue,” Hollis replied. “But if what you say is true, it’s possible that Greg Fisher did pass through Mozhaisk, then doubled back for some reason, then later headed back for Moscow and ran off the road before he got to Mozhaisk again.”

“Why is he running up and down the Minsk — Moscow road at that hour? Was he on some kind of cloak-and-dagger assignment for the spooks here in the embassy?”

“There are no intelligence personnel in the American embassy,” Hollis said, “but if there were, they wouldn’t send people out in Pontiac Trans Ams.”

“True.” Salerno added, “Look, I’m booked on that Pan Am flight to Frankfurt tomorrow. Let’s sit together, and I’ll tell you a few other things I discovered about this business.”

“Maybe.” Hollis turned to leave.

Lisa approached, and Salerno greeted her warmly. He said, “Going to miss you, Lisa. The only straight shooter in the embassy Ministry of Propaganda.” They spoke for a moment, then Salerno moved off. Lisa said, “What was he talking to you about?”

“What do you think? He smells a rat.”

“Eventually we may have to go to the press with this.”

Hollis said curtly, “We are employees and representatives of the United States government. We are not press informants.”

She put her hand on his shoulder. “True.”

He said coolly, “If I’m more cautious than you, it’s because I’m much older than you.”

She gave him a conciliatory smile and patted his arm. “Now, now…”

Hollis, for the life of him, could not understand women. It seemed to him that she aggressively pursued him, then the moment he stopped being evasive, she backed off. He vaguely recalled that he’d had similar experiences with women when he was younger. There were some women and men he knew who enjoyed only the chase, and like fox hunters, had little use for the kill. He said, “Excuse me,” turned and headed back to the bar.

Hollis saw Alevy standing there and had the impression that Alevy had been waiting for him. Alevy said, “It’s not a good idea to draw attention to the CIA station chief.”

Hollis ordered a scotch and soda.

“It makes some people uncomfortable.”

Hollis moved away from the bar with his drink. “I thought you were a political affairs officer. Now you tell me you’re the CIA station chief.”

Alevy smiled. “Well, I thank you for your thoughtfulness. What did Salerno want?”

“He knows a few things, Seth. Any reporter in this room with a little pluck could come up with some inconsistencies in the Fisher story. Coupled with me and Lisa getting the boot, it smells a little.”

“I suppose. You and Lisa have a spat?”

“No.”

“Good. I want you to stay close to her at least as far as Frankfurt.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay. By the way, if you have no other plans tonight, would you do me a favor?”

“No.”

“Stop by around midnight. My place.”

“When do you sleep?”

“At the ambassador’s staff briefings.” Alevy asked, “Do you know anything about the Mi-28 chopper?”

“Only the technical stuff. Newest Soviet transport helicopter. Why?”

“I have to do a report. Can you bring me what you have?”

“I’ll have O’Shea drop it off.”

“You can drop it off. Midnight, my place.” Alevy turned and walked off.

Hollis said to himself, “I knew it.”

Hollis spent the next hour talking to the various air attachés from the NATO member nations. There was information to be exchanged, thank-you’s to be said, and promises to stay in touch, professionally. The good thing to be said for military spies, Hollis thought, was that they were military first and spies second. Hollis made his farewells, then slipped out of the reception hall and went up to his office, where he intended to stay until his midnight meeting with Alevy.

His phone rang, and he answered it, “Hollis.”

“What are you doing in your office at eleven o’clock?”

“Saying good-bye to my secretary.”

“You’d better not be, Hollis. Are you coming home tonight?”

Home. The word took him by surprise. “I have a midnight meeting with the political affairs officer.”

“Where?”

“His place.”

“I expect you in my bed before dawn.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“What’s there to think about?”

“I have some work to do here,” he said. “I have to go.”

“I have your underwear. And your toothbrush.”

“These are not secure phones.”

“There was that thing I wanted to try, where I bring my legs up over my head—”

“Okay, okay.” He smiled. “I’ll see you later.” He hung up.

Hollis went to the window and looked out into the darkened city. “Meeting with Alevy. Then Novodevichy Convent tomorrow. Sheremetyevo Airport, Monday morning. Pan Am to Frankfurt.” Then London, Washington, or New York as the mood struck him. That was the plan. That was his plan. There were other, conflicting plans out there. He liked his plan the best.

26

The blue Ford Fairlane sat in the underground garage, deep below the trees and grass of the embassy compound’s main quad. Betty Eschman, the wife of the naval attaché, was behind the wheel. “Ready, Sam?”

“Ready.” Sam Hollis sat on the floor in the rear of the car, his back to the door. Lisa was opposite him. In the rear seat, their legs tucked under them, were two young women from the consular section, Audry Spencer and Patty White. In the front passenger seat was Jane Ellis, a commercial officer.

The engine started, and Hollis felt the Ford move forward. He said to Betty Eschman, “Remember, they’re not allowed to stop you when you’re leaving. If a mili-man steps in the driveway, hit the horn and keep going. He’ll move. Okay?”

“Okay. I did this for my husband once.”

Jane Ellis said, “Why bother with the horn? He’ll move. Sideways or horizontally.”

The two women in the back laughed, a bit nervously, Hollis thought.

Lisa offered, “Two points for a mili-man, Betty.”

The Ford went up the ramp and surfaced beside the chancery building, into the grey morning that was gloomier than the subterranean garage. Betty Eschman drove slowly through the forecourt of the embassy compound.

Hollis ran the simple plan through his mind again. There were only two places in all Moscow where Protestant services were being held this Sunday morning. One was a small Baptist church in a far suburb. The other was the chapel in the British embassy where an Anglican chaplain flew in from Helsinki on alternate Sundays. The American embassy did the honors on the alternating sabbaths and holy days. It was fortunate that today was the turn of the British and that the four women normally went over there together. There was nothing, therefore, that should arouse the curiosity of the embassy watchers, who knew the routines of the American embassy.

Betty Eschman said, “We’re passing the Marine guards now. Here goes.”

As she approached the sidewalk, one of the militiamen stepped out of his booth, walked into the driveway, and held up his hand. Betty Eschman blasted the horn and stepped on the accelerator. The militiaman jumped back and shouted, “Pizda!”

The Ford cut right and proceeded up the street. Mrs. Eschman asked, “What does pizda mean?”

Lisa replied, “Cunt.”

“Why, that son of a bitch!”

Jane Ellis added, “I’m going to make a formal complaint. I’m tired of their harassment.”

Patty White laughed. “I never saw a Soviet citizen move so fast.”

Hollis asked, “Anyone behind us?”

The two women in the front looked in their side-view mirrors, and both reported that they didn’t see any cars.

Betty Eschman cut onto the embankment drive and accelerated up the nearly deserted road that hugged the north bank of the Moskva. It was not the most direct route to the British embassy, which was on the Maurice Thorez embankment opposite the Kremlin, but Hollis knew it was a fast road, an easy road on which to spot tails. Also it passed directly beside Novodevichy Convent. Hollis settled back against the door and looked at Lisa. She stretched out her legs and put her shoeless foot in his groin. “Am I crowding you?”

The two young women in the back chuckled.

Jane Ellis said, “What’s going on back there? Behave, Sam.” The women all laughed. Hollis thought his original idea of riding in the trunk might have been better. The Moskva and the road turned south in the river’s great loop below the Lenin Hills. Hollis said, “You’re all going to catch some harassment when you return. Sorry.”

“Screw them,” Jane Ellis said, who added quickly, “Oh! We’re going to church.”

Everyone laughed.

Betty Eschman announced, “There’s the convent straight ahead.”

Lisa said, “Pull off into that little park in front of the convent, and we’ll tumble out.”

Hollis said, “Thanks for the lift, ladies.”

Jane Ellis responded, “It was an honor to have the holders of the Joel Barlow award in the car.”

Betty Eschman cut off the embankment road into the park and stopped on a paved lane. Hollis and Lisa opened their doors and got out quickly. The car pulled away, and Hollis watched it disappear around the curving river road, then he looked around and said, “I think we’re alone.”

Lisa brushed off her black trench coat. “Hell of a way to get to church.”

“Let’s move away from the road.”

They began walking through the park toward the high crenellated walls of limestone and brick that surrounded the twenty-acre convent grounds.

Lisa asked, “Are we still fighting?”

“No.”

“Good. Are you sorry?”

“For what?” Hollis asked impatiently.

“For being difficult. For sleeping on the couch. For—”

“Yes, yes. I’m sorry.” He looked at his watch. “What time is the service?”

“At ten. The Soviet government has designated two times for Christian services in all of Russia: ten A.M. and six P.M.”

“Keeps it simple.” Hollis regarded the ornate battletowers of the convent walls. “Incredible place. Nicer walls than the Kremlin. Which way in?”

“Follow me.”

They made their way around to the north wall, which held the Church of the Transfiguration. A stream of people, mostly elderly, came from the nearby metro station and passed through the massive church portals. Hollis looked up at the spires and gold onion domes rising over the wall, set against a sky of Moscow grey, and he became aware of a fine mist settling on his cheeks. “I won’t miss the weather.”

“No.” Lisa took his arm, and they joined the people going through the arched gates. Lisa asked, “What were you talking to Seth about until four A.M.?”

“Sex, sports, and religion.”

“He doesn’t know beans about any of those things, and neither do you.”

“We figured that out about four, and I left.”

“You know, every human life needs a spiritual dimension, or it isn’t a complete life. Do you feel there’s something missing from your life?”

“Yes. Sex, sports, and religion.”

“I thought I was part of the team. You two are not being fair. You can’t use me and keep me in the dark.”

“Take it up with Seth.”

“I don’t think you want me talking to him.”

“You can talk to whomever you please.”

“Remember you said that.”

They passed through the tunnellike entrance of the gate church and came out into the convent grounds. The people around them glanced curiously at Lisa’s well-cut trench coat and examined her footwear. Hollis wore his baggy blue overcoat, narrow-brimmed hat, and shoes that squeaked. Hollis recalled that Captain O’Shea had stood in line two hours for the Soviet shoes. The leather was synthetic, the shoes were a size too small, and the cordovan color was a bit on the red side. O’Shea claimed that was the best he could do, but Hollis always suspected he was getting even for the two hours in line.

Hollis and Lisa walked arm in arm, following a wet cobblestone lane covered with broken branches and dead leaves. Lisa said, “That’s the Lopukhin palace. Boris Gudonov was elected czar there. Also, as Sasha said, Peter the Great put his sister in there. Peter used to hang his sister’s political supporters outside her windows.”

Hollis regarded the long stucco palace. “If the windows were as dirty then as they are now, she wouldn’t have noticed.”

Lisa ignored him and continued, “Novodevichy used to be a retreat for high-born ladies as well as a nunnery. It was also a fort, as you can see, the strongpoint on the southern approaches to Moscow. Odd sort of combination, but common in old Russia. It remained a nunnery until after the Revolution when the communists got rid of the nuns — no one seems to know exactly what became of them — and this place became a branch of the State History Museum. But they never really cared for Novodevichy.”

Hollis could see that the gardens were choked with undergrowth and the trees so badly in need of pruning that the branches touched the ground and blocked the paths.

Lisa said, “But it’s still lovely and peaceful here. People come here to meditate. It’s sort of the unofficial center of the religious reawakening here in Moscow.”

“And probably crawling with KGB because of it.”

“Yes. But so far they seem content to take names and photographs. No incidents yet.” She squeezed his hand. “Thanks for coming with me. You can visit Gogol’s grave while you’re here.”

“I might just do that.”

“I thought you might. That’s why you’re wearing that silly outfit.”

“Yes, it’s business.”

“Can I come with you?”

“I’m afraid not.”

The lane took them into a paved square from which rose a beautiful six-tiered bell tower. On the far side of the square was a white and gold multidomed church. Lisa said, “That’s the Cathedral of the Virgin of Smolensk.”

“Is she home?”

Lisa announced, “If I ever get married, I think I’d want an Eastern Orthodox wedding.”

Hollis wondered if she’d ever informed Seth Alevy of that.

“Did you get married in church?”

“No, we were married in a jet fighter, traveling at mach two, by an Air Force chaplain on the radio. When he pronounced us husband and wife, I hit the eject and blew us out into space. It was all downhill after that.”

“I see I can’t talk to you this morning.”

Hollis regarded the throngs of people. Most of them were old women, a few old men, but there were also a number of young people — teenage boys and girls and university students. Here and there he saw intact Muscovite families.

As they passed the Cathedral of the Virgin of Smolensk, many of the people in the square stopped, bowed, and made the sign of the cross toward the cathedral. A few of the old women prostrated themselves on the wet stone, and people had to step around them. Hollis recalled the first time he’d been inside the Kremlin walls, when an old woman suddenly crossed herself in front of one of the churches, bowed, and repeated the process for several minutes. A militiaman walked over to her and told her to get moving. She paid no attention to him and prostrated herself on the stone. Tourists and Muscovites began watching, and the militiaman looked uncomfortable. Finally the old woman had risen to her feet, crossed herself again, and continued her walk through the Kremlin, oblivious of time and place or soldiers and red stars where crosses had once risen. She’d seen a church — perhaps of her patron saint, if Russians still had such a thing — and she did what she had to do.

Lisa watched the people performing their ritual outside the cathedral that had been closed for worship for seventy years and was now the central museum of the convent complex. She said, “After seventy years of persecution, their priests shot, churches torn down, Bibles burned, they still worship Him. I’m telling you, these people are the hope of Russia. They’re going to bring about an upheaval here.”

Hollis looked at what was left of God’s people here in unholy Moscow and didn’t think so. It would have been nice to think so, but there were neither the numbers nor the strength. “Maybe… someday.”

They crossed the square, and Lisa steered him toward another church, a smaller single-domed building of white stucco. She said, “That’s where we’re going to mass. The Church of the Assumption.”

“It needs some care.”

“I know. I was told that the churches of Moscow and this place in particular — because it’s so close to Lenin Stadium — got some quick cosmetics for the 1980 Olympics. But you can see how rundown everything is.”

Hollis nodded. He surveyed the ancient trees and buildings of the fortress-convent. It was well within the city limits now, not two kilometers from Red Square, but from inside the walls there was no sign of any century but the sixteenth. He could easily imagine a grey, misty October day in the early 1500s, soldiers on the battlements watching the woods and fields, ready to ring the alarm bells of the huge tower, to signal the Kremlin of any approaching danger. And on the paths the nuns would stroll, and the priests would be sequestered in prayer. The world may have been simpler then, but no less terrifying.

Lisa stopped about ten yards from the church. Hollis saw six men outside the doors stopping some of the younger people and the families, asking for identification. The men jotted information from the ID cards into notebooks. Hollis spotted another man, posing as a tourist, taking pictures of the people going inside. One of the six men at the door got involved in an argument with a young woman who apparently refused to show her identification. Hollis said, “I assume those men are not church ushers.”

“No, they’re swine.”

Hollis watched a moment. The young woman finally managed to get away from the KGB without showing her identification, but she didn’t try to enter the church and hurried away.

The old babushkas moved ponderously past the KGB men, ignoring them and being ignored by them. These black-dressed women, Hollis had learned, were invisible. They were also free, like the animals and proles in George Orwell’s nightmare world. Free because no one cared enough about them to enslave them.

Lisa said, “They don’t usually stop anyone who looks Western.”

“Well, I’ll look Western. I’ll smile.”

“But your shoes squeak.” She took his arm as they approached the doors of the church. The KGB man who had been arguing with the young woman intercepted them and said to Hollis, “Kartochka!”

Hollis replied in English, “I don’t understand a fucking word you’re saying, Mac.”

The young man looked him over, waved his arm in dismissal, and began to turn to someone else when he noticed Lisa. He smiled and touched his hat, then said in Russian, “Good morning.”

She replied in Russian, “Good morning to you. Will you join us in celebrating Christ’s message to the world?”

“I think not.” He added, “But be sure to tell Christ that Yelena Krukova’s son sends his regards.”

“I will. Perhaps you’ll tell Him yourself someday.”

“Perhaps I will.”

Lisa led Hollis up the steps of the church. He said, “I take it you come here often.”

“I take turns among the six surviving Orthodox churches in Moscow. That fellow back there must have permanent weekend duty. I’ve seen him nearly every Sunday I’ve come here for two years. We have that little ritual. I think he likes me.”

“That’s probably why he volunteers for Sunday duty.”

They entered the vestibule of the Church of the Assumption. To the right of the door sat a long refectory table laden with bread, cakes, and eggs. Adorning the whole spread were cut flowers, and stuck into the food were pencil-thin brown candles all alight. Hollis moved through the crowd to examine the display. “What’s this?”

Lisa came up beside him and said, “The people bring their food here to be blessed.”

As Hollis watched, more food was laid on the table, more flowers strewn over it, and more candles lit. Off to the side he noticed an old woman standing at a countertop selling the brown candles for three kopeks apiece. Lisa went to her, put a ruble on the table, and asked for two candles, refusing the change. Lisa took Hollis’ arm and led him into the nave.

The church was lit only by the weak sunlight coming through the stained-glass windows, but the raised altar was aglow in the fire of a hundred white tapers.

The nave had no pews and was packed wall-to-wall, shoulder-to-shoulder with about a thousand people. Hollis became aware of the smell of strong incense, which competed for his olfactory attention with the smell of unwashed bodies. He could see, even in the dark, that whatever exterior cosmetics had been done in 1980 had not been carried through inside. The place was in bad repair, the water-stained stucco crumbling, and the heating had either failed or was nonexistent. Yet there was still a magnificence about the place, he thought. The gold on the altar gleamed, the iconostasis — the tiered altar screen made of individual icons — was mesmerizing, and the ruined architecture was somehow more impressive and appropriate than the fussily kept cathedrals of Western Europe. Lisa took his hand, and they made their way forward, finally meeting a solid block of bodies about midway through the nave.

Long-bearded priests in gilded vestments swung censers and passed a jeweled Bible from one to the other. The litany began, repetitious and melancholy, lasting perhaps a quarter hour.

Immediately after the litany ended, from somewhere behind the iconostasis, a hidden choir began an unharmonized and unaccompanied chant that struck Hollis as more primitive than ecclesiastic but nonetheless powerful. Hollis looked around at the faces of the people, and it struck him that he had never seen such Russian faces in the two years he’d lived in Moscow. These were serene faces, faces with clear eyes and unknit brows, as if, he thought, the others really were soul dead and these were the last living beings in Moscow. He whispered to Lisa, “I am… awed… thank you.”

“I’ll save your spy’s soul yet.”

Hollis listened to the ancient Russian coming from the altar, and though he had difficulty following it, the rhythm and cadence had a beauty and power of its own, and he felt himself, for the first time in many years, overwhelmed by a religious service. His own Protestantism was a religion of simplicity and individual conscience. This orthodox service was Byzantine Imperial pomp and Eastern mysticism, as far removed from his early memories of white clapboard churches as the Soviet “marriage palaces” were removed from the Church of the Assumption. Yet here, in these magnificent ruins, these medieval-looking priests spoke the same message that the grey-suited ministers had spoken from the wooden pulpits of his youth: God loves you.

Hollis noticed that the worshipers crossed themselves and bowed low from the waist whenever the mood seemed to strike them, with no discernible signal from the altar. From time to time, people would manage to prostrate themselves on the crowded floor and kiss the stone. He saw, too, that the murky icons around the walls were now illuminated by the thin candles that were being stuck into the gilded casings that framed the icons. People were congregating around what he presumed to be the icons of their patron saints, kissing them, then moving back to let someone else through.

For all the ritual on the altar, Hollis thought, the worship in the nave was something of a free-for-all, quite different from the mainstream Protestant churches he’d once attended, where the opposite was sometimes true.

Suddenly the chanting stopped, and the censers ceased swinging. A priest in resplendent robes moved to the edge of the raised altar and spread his arms.

Hollis looked closely at the full-bearded man and saw by his eyes that he was young, no more than thirty perhaps.

The priest began talking without a microphone, and Hollis listened in the now-quiet church where nothing could be heard but the young priest’s voice and the crackling of the tallow candles. The priest delivered a brief sermon, speaking of conscience and good deeds. Hollis found it rather unoriginal and uninspiring, though he realized that the congregation did not hear this sort of thing often.

Lisa, as if knowing what was on his mind, whispered, “The KGB are recording every word. There are hidden messages in the sermon, words and concepts that the clergy and congregation understand, but which the KGB cannot begin to comprehend. It’s a start anyway, a spark.”

Hollis nodded. It was odd that she used that word: spark—iskra in Russian. It was the word Lenin often used and what he named his first underground newspaper—Iskra. The concept then, as now, was that Russia was a tinderbox, awaiting a spark to set the nation ablaze.

Hollis heard the young priest say, “It is not always convenient to let others know you believe in Christ. But if you live your life according to His teachings, no power on this earth, no matter what they deny you in this life, can deny you the Kingdom of God.”

The priest turned abruptly back to the altar, presumably, Hollis thought, leaving the more educated worshipers to draw their own moral or finish the sermon in their minds.

At a particular point in the mass, toward the end, a large number of people either prostrated themselves completely, or if they couldn’t find the room, knelt and bowed their faces to the floor. Lisa dropped to her knees, but Hollis remained standing. He was able to look across the church now, and he saw standing to his left front, about twenty feet away, a stooped old man with disheveled hair, grey stubble on his face, dressed in a shabby dark coat that almost reached his ankles. At first sight there was nothing remarkable about the old man, and Hollis thought that what had initially caught his eye was the young woman standing beside him. She was about seventeen or eighteen, Hollis reckoned, and she too was dressed in a shabby coat, a shapeless red synthetic. But her manner and her bearing, if not her uncommon beauty, marked her as someone special. More than that, Hollis, who was trained to see such things, picked out the coat as a disguise. She was quite obviously someone who should not be seen in the Church of the Assumption. This discovery led Hollis to look more closely at the old man, who in an unusual gesture for a Russian, especially in church, was holding the girl’s hand affectionately.

As Hollis stared at the man, people began to stand, and Hollis’ view was becoming blocked, but in a second before he lost sight of the strange couple, he realized that the stooped old grandfather was actually somewhat younger than he appeared. In fact, it was General Valentin Surikov. Suddenly things were becoming more clear.

27

Sam Hollis and Lisa Rhodes moved with the crush of worshipers through the open doors of the church. The people carried their blessed food in bags, and many of them clutched a handful of the thin brown candles. Hollis looked out over the converging paths. These people, he realized, did not seem to know one another, did not speak, nor did they try to make acquaintances. They had come by metro and bus from all over Moscow to an inconveniently placed church, and now they scattered like lambs who smelled wolves. “Do the K-goons usually hang around?”

“Who? Oh, those men. Sometimes. But I don’t see them now.”

Hollis didn’t see them either. But he worried more about the KGB when he didn’t see them. He moved off the path and watched the people coming down the steps.

“Are you looking for someone?”

“Just people-watching.” Hollis realized that not only were the worshipers scattering, but the priests had not come out to speak with their flock. As he watched for Surikov, he said to Lisa, “No tea and fellowship afterwards?”

Lisa seemed to understand. “The Orthodox Christian comes to God’s house to worship Him. The priests don’t come to your house to ask how you’re getting along.”

“The Kremlin must find that useful.”

“True. In fact, the Russian church has always preached subservience to the state. When the czars were on the throne, it worked for the church and the czars. But when Lenin became the new czar, it backfired.”

“You mean there’s something I can’t blame on the Reds?”

“The communists didn’t help the situation.”

Hollis watched the last of the worshipers leave the church but did not spot Surikov or the girl with him.

He and Lisa walked away from the church and sat on a stone bench occupied by a stout babushka who seemed to be sleeping in a sitting position. Lisa asked, “Did you like the service?”

“Very much. We take so much for granted in the West.”

“I know. Thanks for coming, even if you came because you had to go to the cemetery anyway.”

“I came to be with you.”

She nodded and looked up in the sky. “This is not like autumn at home, and it’s not like winter either. It’s something else. It’s like a time of foreboding, grey and quiet, mist and fog obscuring the world. I can’t see a sun or a horizon or even the end of a block. I want to go home now.”

Hollis took her hand. “We’ll be in the air this time tomorrow, heading west.”

She moved closer to him. “Do you have to go to the cemetery?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not dangerous, is it?”

“No. I just have to meet an old Russian friend to say good-bye.”

“A spy? A dissident?”

“Sort of.”

The old lady stood and moved aimlessly down the path.

Lisa said, “At Gogol’s grave. Was that his idea?”

“Yes.” Hollis looked at his watch. The service had lasted about two hours, and it was nearly noon. Now he knew why Surikov had picked this hour and place. “I won’t be more than thirty minutes. Where can I meet you?”

“At the bell tower there. See it? Don’t get lost.”

Hollis stood. “How do I get into the cemetery?”

“Just keep on this path. You’ll see another gate church set in the wall like the one we entered through. Go through the gate, and you’ll find yourself in the cemetery.”

“Thanks. Are you going to walk around?”

“Yes. I like to walk here.”

“Don’t walk in the cemetery.”

“Okay.”

“Try to walk where there are people.”

“If they come for you, it doesn’t matter how many people are around. You know that.”

“Yes, I know that.” He added, “I don’t think they know we’re here. But be careful.”

“You be careful. They might have followed this friend of yours.” She gave him one of the thin brown candles. “Here. To light the way.”

He kissed her on the cheek. “See you later.” Hollis turned and walked down the path, carrying the candle. Within a few minutes he passed another large church of brick and white stone that looked forlorn among the bramble and bush, unused as either a church or a museum. The path curved around it, and he saw the towering south wall of the convent grounds, then spotted the gate church built into the center of it.

Hollis looked around. A few people straggled past him, apparently headed for the cemetery. He slid his hands in his overcoat pockets and leaned back against a thick rowan tree. His right hand let go of the candle and found the silenced 9mm Polish Radom automatic, another Colt-Browning knockoff. His left hand slid through his coat to the handle of the knife in his belt sheath. Hollis watched awhile, then fell in behind three young couples and followed them down to the gate church. He passed through the portals into a tunnellike passage and found himself in the quiet cemetery.

The convent grounds, like the Kremlin, had been built on a rare high spot on the banks of the Moskva, and Hollis could see down the slope out to the south and west over the brick cemetery wall. The Olympic complex and Lenin Stadium were five hundred meters to the south, nestled in the loop of the Moskva on reclaimed bog land. Beyond the stadium was the river, and rising from its south bank were the Lenin Hills and the towers of Moscow University. He could pick out the observation platform where he, Lisa, and Sasha had shared a brief and pleasant moment.

Hollis followed a brick path into the sloping cemetery. It was heavily treed, and most of the graves were overgrown. The tombstones were higher than a man, in the old Russian style, creating a maze of limestone and granite. The cemetery was as wide as the convent grounds but not as deep, and Hollis estimated it covered about six acres. It would take some time to find Gogol’s grave here.

There weren’t many people in the cemetery, which was good for privacy, but there were enough so that he and Surikov wouldn’t stand out. Surikov had picked a good Sunday spot.

The visitors were mostly students apparently looking for the graves of the famous. They stood in knots in front of tombstones, pointing and discussing the man or woman interred there. Hollis saw the graves of Chekhov, Stanislavsky, and the painter Isaac Levitan. Six young men and women, Bohemian types in peasant-chic vatniks, baggy corduroys, and high boots, sat on the path and talked in front of the grave of the filmmaker Sergey Eisenstein. Hollis walked around them.

An old lady in a dirty red coat stood facing the gravestone of Nikita Khruschev. The woman crossed herself, bowed to the stone, and walked off. Hollis wondered if she was a relative.

He turned up an intersecting path and found himself in a patch of ground mist. A tall, attractive woman, smartly dressed in a long, black leather coat, came out of the mist toward him. As she drew close, Hollis asked her in Russian, “Gogol’s grave?”

She looked him over, then said in an unusually cultured accent, “You might try over there. Near that very tall pine tree. I think I passed it.”

“Thank you.” Hollis moved past her.

She said to him or to herself, “But you never know. Even the dead disappear here.”

Hollis kept on walking. A week ago, he thought, he’d have stopped and spoken to the woman. But his quota for Russian adventures was filling up fast, and he hadn’t even spoken to Surikov yet.

Hollis saw him standing on the path under the spreading boughs of a tall pine tree, smoking a cigarette, contemplating a decaying slab of lichen-covered limestone. Hollis stood beside him and looked at the tall stone.

Surikov said, “Do they read this fellow in the West?”

“Not so much. Colleges, I guess.”

“Can I get things to read in Russian there?”

“Yes.”

“Dead souls,” Surikov said. “Dead souls.” He stared at the grave a while longer, then looked Hollis up and down through his cloud of cigarette smoke, and a thin smile came to his lips. “Do we dress so badly as that?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“It looks worse on you.”

“Thank you.” Hollis added, “Why are you dressed badly today?”

Surikov ran his hand over his stubble. “It’s Sunday.” He turned and walked away. Hollis waited a full minute, then followed.

Surikov stood near the base of the corner battletower where it joined the brick wall of the cemetery. There were ancient tombstones along the wall with old Cyrillic that Hollis couldn’t read.

Surikov pulled a Pravda-wrapped parcel from the pocket of his baggy coat and said, “Do you want to buy fresh carp?”

Hollis could actually smell the fish. “Perhaps.”

Surikov tapped the package as if extolling the virtues of the fish. He said, “So, my friend, Pravda tells me you are leaving Russia. I was quite shocked to hear that. I didn’t know if you would come today. I was worried.”

Hollis could well imagine what was worrying Surikov. Hollis replied, “My diplomatic immunity is in some doubt right now. So you don’t have to ask me if I’m sure I wasn’t followed, because today I’m as worried as you are.”

“Yes? I could lose my life. You would only go to prison.”

“I would envy you a bullet in the head if I was sent east for five or ten years.”

Surikov shrugged. “So, how will this affect our deal?”

“We have no deal.”

“We will. When are you leaving?”

Hollis replied in a sarcastic tone, “It was in your Pravda, wasn’t it?”

“They didn’t say when you were leaving.”

“Really? Well, I’m leaving Wednesday.”

Surikov’s face seemed to show some surprise. He asked, “Who will replace you as air attaché?”

“I’m not certain.”

“Will I deal with the new air attaché or someone else?”

“We’ll discuss that before we part.”

A young couple appeared on the path and moved over to the worn tombstones. At the base of the wall the man knelt and traced his fingers over the lettering. The woman held a notebook. The man said, “This was a nun. Gulia. I don’t hear that name much anymore.” The woman made some notes in her book.

Surikov waved the carp under Hollis’ nose. “I caught them this morning in the Setun. My wife cleaned them so a lazy bachelor would pay good money for them.”

The young couple moved down the row of stones.

Surikov said, “I think you’re telling me little lies. I know you are leaving tomorrow, and I know the name of your replacement is Colonel Fields.”

Hollis nodded. It may have been the embassy listeners, who heard him telling the Kellums, or it may have been the Kellums, who told the KGB directly. Whatever the route, it was a little scary to hear that from General Surikov. Hollis said, “The KGB told you that.”

“Yes. They told me the name of the new air attaché. They told me you were leaving Monday, not Wednesday.”

“Why did they tell you any of that?”

“They like to impress people with their knowledge. I’m not a military intelligence officer, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Hollis never thought Surikov was. He didn’t have the moves or the jargon of a GRU man.

Surikov added, “Actually, the KGB wanted to know if I or my staff or any of our overseas air attachés knew a Colonel Fields. The KGB is apparently having trouble building a dossier on him, so they came to me.” Surikov smiled. “Perhaps you can help me impress them.”

“What exactly is your position with the Red Air Force, General?”

“I am what you would call a G-I. Chief of Air Force personnel.”

“For what command?”

“The whole Red Air Force, Colonel. I keep the files and paperwork of a half million men. Not so glamorous a job, but interesting things come across my desk. Don’t you agree?”

“How did the KGB know the name of Colonel Fields?”

Surikov looked Hollis in the eye and replied, “I think they’ve penetrated your embassy.” He studied Hollis’ face for a reaction.

Hollis asked, “How was this KGB inquiry directed to you? Memo? Phone call?”

“In person. I was summoned to Lefortovo. The KGB can even summon generals. They take delight in asking us to stop in to see them at Lubyanka or Lefortovo. One never knows if one will leave there alive. This happened a few days ago.”

“Were you frightened, General?”

“Very much.”

“To whom did you speak at Lefortovo?”

“A colonel named Pavlichenko.”

“Tall, blond, pouty lips, blue eyes?”

Surikov’s eyebrows rose. “Yes. You know the man?”

“By a different name.” Hollis realized that Surikov was in an answering mood for a change. It was often so when the final deal was at hand. Hollis didn’t know if Valentin Surikov, a Christian, was any more trustworthy than General Surikov of the Red Air Force, but he was willing to gamble that he was.

Surikov said, “After Lefortovo, I am more resolved than ever to leave here.”

“I know how you feel.”

“Can you get me out?”

Hollis had no authorization to say yes, but the time had come to bring this whole thing to a head. “I can if you have the fare.”

“Half now, half in the West.”

“I understand.”

“Is it dangerous? The getting out, I mean.”

“Of course.”

“It’s not for me that I’m worried.”

Hollis already knew that. “Is she your granddaughter?”

Surikov’s head snapped around, and he opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Hollis continued matter-of-factly, “It’s dangerous, but it doesn’t require much from you except nerve. Does she have nerve?”

Surikov drew on his cigarette. “She has faith.” He glanced at Hollis but did not hold eye contact. “You saw us?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know why I want to leave.”

“I suppose.”

Surikov stared stupidly at the wrapped carp in his hands and spoke, but not to Hollis. “I curse the day I found God. My life has been a misery ever since.”

Hollis didn’t know quite how to respond to that statement, but he understood it.

Surikov said, “Yes, my granddaughter. Natasha. My only daughter’s only daughter. The light of my life, Hollis.”

“She’s a beautiful girl. Does she speak English?”

“Yes.”

“She’ll do well. She’ll marry a rich American or Englishman and live happily ever after. Do you believe that?”

“I would like to. Unfortunately, she wants to become a nun.”

“Does she? Well, she’ll do what she wants, General. That’s what it’s all about over there.”

“Is it? And me?”

“We’ll find something for you to do.”

“Yes.” Surikov wandered away, down the line of tombstones. The sky was more overcast now, and a few drops of rain fell, splattering the headstones and the damp leaves. A wind came up, and the rowan and birch trees swayed.

Hollis walked past Surikov, then stopped to look at the next tombstone. “Borodino, General.”

Surikov spoke. “Some kilometers north of Borodino was once located a Red Air Force ground school. Classroom instruction on American fighter tactics, capabilities, and weaponry.” Surikov paused for effect, then said, “The instructors were Americans.” He looked briefly at Hollis. “This is an incredible story, and you must listen closely.”

Hollis drew a long breath. The one prayer he’d allowed himself in church was that Surikov would confirm what he and Alevy had discussed. Hollis said abruptly, “That’s the half secret? I know all about that.”

Surikov turned his head toward Hollis. “What…?”

“You can’t get to London on that fare. I’m sorry.” Hollis walked away. He kept walking, like a man walking away from a bad deal or an unfaithful lover, hoping that the deal or the lover would get better in the next ten steps.

Surikov caught up with him. “You can’t… but how do you…?”

“I was out to Borodino. That’s why I’m being kicked out. I know there are Americans out there. I’m sorry. I thought you knew more—”

“I do!”

Hollis stopped and turned toward Surikov, who still held the carp in his hand. “What were you going to give me in London? What is the other half of the secret?”

Surikov licked his lips. “The school… you know they don’t train pilots there any longer…”

“Yes. I know they train KGB men to be Americans. How do you know that?”

“I… I supply the students. They’re not actually KGB. The KGB doesn’t trust its own recruiting methods. They get very odd personalities who want to be KGB, and they know that. They want honest Russian patriots. Men who had volunteered to be Air Force pilots. Men, I suppose, who would have something in common with their American instructors.”

Hollis nodded. “Like when it was a training school for pilots.”

“That’s my understanding. From what I’ve heard, when it was a Red Air Force training school, our pilots seemed more interested in asking the Americans about America than in learning their fighter tactics. The political commissar was very angry and worried about this situation and reported several pilots to the KGB. It was then that the KGB had their brilliant idea. They eventually took over the school. There was no formal announcement to the American prisoners, but gradually the nature of the school changed from fighter tactics to what it is now. A spy school. This is what I heard.”

“And how are you involved with this school now, General?”

“I’m not directly involved, but Air Force Personnel has to handle the paperwork on the candidates for this school, since they are all members of the Red Air Force. So I—” Surikov stopped. “There’s more. Much more. Is it worth it to you, Colonel, to get me out of here?”

“Perhaps. But you know, General, we don’t need any more information on this school. We know where it is, and we have enough information already to precipitate an international crisis.” He looked at Surikov. “You know what I need.”

Surikov didn’t reply.

“The names,” Hollis said. “The names of Soviet agents already in America. I assume you have some sort of list, or you wouldn’t still be trying to make a deal. The names. That is your ticket west, General.”

“But… if I got that for you… how do I know you wouldn’t abandon me and my granddaughter? I have nothing to offer for my passage if I gave you the list of names here.”

“You simply must trust me.”

“I can’t.”

“You must. Listen to me, General. You are, as we say in English, a babe in the woods. You understand? Once you took that first step you were as good as dead. And so is Natasha. I could expose you here, or shoot you in London. I can also give you back your life. I could be lying, but you don’t know if I am or not. You simply have no choice but to do what I say, to understand that the game is being played on my terms now.”

General Surikov’s body seemed to sag. Beneath the erect military man was a tired old grandfather trying to do one last thing right and cursing himself for it. Surikov said, “We don’t understand faith and trust here. We’re not taught those things as children. Here we trust no one but family. We have faith in nothing.”

Hollis said, “Do you understand that if you gave me that list, and I let something happen to you, I could not live with myself? Do you understand that concept? Conscience. Did you listen to the priest, or was your mind somewhere else?”

“I heard him,” Surikov snapped. “It’s all new to me. Less than two years. Do you expect me to become a saint in two years? Do you think I believe you are a saint because you go to church and use saintly words?”

Hollis smiled. “I’m no saint, my friend.” Hollis didn’t think the words trest, vera, and sovest—“trust,” “faith,” and “conscience”—were particularly saintly words, but he supposed if one rarely heard them, they could be jarring or moving or both.

“I need time to think this over. I’ll meet your replacement next Sunday—”

“No. There is nothing to think about. It would be best if you made your decision now and gave me your word on it. Then I will give you my word, and I will see to it that you get out of here. I’ll meet you in the West if you wish.”

General Surikov seemed to rediscover his backbone and stood straight. “All right. You’re a lot more ruthless than I thought, Colonel. But perhaps you do have a conscience. Here is what you’re getting: a microfilm of the personnel records of every man who’s gone to the American Citizenship School — that’s what the KGB calls it. On the microfilm you will find photographs of the men, their Russian names, their fingerprints, places of birth, birthdays, blood types, identifying scars, dental records, and so forth. A complete personnel file. You will not find their new American names or addresses, and I cannot even tell you how many of them actually made it to America. Only the KGB has that information. So your people over there — the FBI — will have to do a great deal of work. That’s all I can give you.”

Hollis nodded. It was a start. “How many?”

“A little over three thousand.”

“Three thousand…? All on microfilm?”

“Yes. These men, incidentally, are all officially dead. Killed in training accidents. The Red Air Force gave them military funerals. Closed coffins. We buried a lot of sand. We also paid out a lot of death benefits. The KGB finds it convenient to use our logistics, our money, our pilot candidates, and the cover of military deaths for so large an operation.”

Hollis nodded to himself. Three thousand military training deaths in the States would cause something of a national scandal. Here, not even one such death ever made the newspapers. The three thousand families of the supposed deceaseds only knew of their own loss. Amazing, Hollis thought. Only a totalitarian society could mount an operation such as that. The world’s largest Trojan horse, the biggest fifth column in history, or whatever Washington would call it. Hollis asked, “Where is the microfilm?”

“I’ll tell you where you can find it when I get to London. That was the deal. Half now, half in London.”

“I told you, I already have the first half. You’ll give me the microfilm now.”

“Why now?”

“Because you may be arrested anytime between now and the time we try to get you out of here. Because I want it now. That’s why.”

Surikov stared off into space, and Hollis could see he was angry, but that didn’t matter.

Surikov nodded. “All right. My life and my granddaughter’s life are in your hands. I’ll bring the microfilm to my next meeting, or I’ll leave it in one of our dead drops, whatever you prefer.”

Hollis considered a moment. A dead drop was preferred, but his instincts told him that this was a case for hand-to-hand transfer. “Tomorrow at nine A.M. you will go to the antique store in the Arbat. A man will ask you where he can find czarist coins. He speaks fluent Russian. Have the microfilm with you.”

Surikov lit another cigarette. “And that’s the last I’ll hear from the Americans.”

“If you believe that, then you don’t want to live in the West, General. You might as well stay here.”

“Well, we will see if my cynicism is well-founded. And this man will tell me how I’m going West?”

“Yes.”

“I have a better idea. You tell me now. I want to know. Before I bring the microfilm.”

Hollis thought General Surikov needed a victory, but he remembered Alevy’s words of caution. Then maybe what he wants is to find out how we get people out of here. But there was no time for caution. Hollis said, “All right. I’ll tell you our secret. Can you get to Leningrad on a weekend?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll go to Leningrad this Saturday. The man in the Arbat antique store will tell you how to meet someone there who will give you more details. But it’s basically simple. You go to one of the Kirov Island recreational parks carrying fishing equipment. You and Natasha rent a boat and take it to the mouth of the Neva, but not so far as to attract the attention of patrol boats. You will fish in the marked channel. Whenever you see a freighter flying the flag of a NATO country coming in or going out, you will give a signal that you will be advised of by the man in Leningrad. One of these freighters will take you and Natasha aboard, and someone on board will take charge of you. When the authorities find your boat capsized, it will appear you’ve both drowned. If the rendezvous fails on Saturday, you’ll do the same thing Sunday.”

“And if it fails Sunday?”

“Then the next weekend.”

“There’s not much boating weather left up that way, Colonel.”

“General, if you are being honest with us, you will not be abandoned. There are other ways. But with luck… and God’s help… by this time next week, you will be in a Western port city.”

“This thing will need all of God’s help. Natasha thinks she is blessed by God. We’ll see.”

“I’ll see you in London.”

“And you will buy me a drink.”

“I’ll buy you the whole fucking bar, General.”

Surikov tried to smile. “Just a drink will do.” He handed Hollis the carp. “You poach them in sour cream.”

Hollis didn’t think so. He said, “I shake your hand.”

“And I yours.” Surikov added, “Safe journey west. I will see you in London.” He turned and walked back into the cemetery.

Hollis looked at the wrapped carp, slipped it into his pocket with the candle and the pistol, and headed toward the gate church. About ten yards from the church, someone tapped him on the shoulder and asked in Russian, “What’s in that package?”

Hollis gripped the 9mm automatic, pointed it through his coat pocket, and spun around.

Seth Alevy asked, “What did he give you?”

“Carp.”

“Oh. I grew up on carp. Very Jewish and Russian. I hate the stuff.”

Hollis turned and continued toward the gate church.

Alevy fell into step beside him. “I thought you said the meeting was for four.”

“I was going to tell you when I got back that I remembered it was earlier.”

“I thought it might have been. Where’s Lisa?”

“At the bell tower.”

They walked through the arched passage into the convent grounds. The drizzle was turning to light rain. Alevy asked, “Did we get lucky?”

“We hit the jackpot.”

“The Charm School?”

“Yes. The KGB, incidentally, calls it the American Citizenship School.”

“How is Surikov involved with that?”

“I’ll tell you later. Are we covered?”

“Well, I’m covering you, and you’re covering me. I couldn’t call out the troops again like I did at Lefortovo. The KGB tripled their embassy stakeout, and they’re looking for a confrontation. I snuck out in the van going to the Finnish dacha. If I had any brains, I’d have gone there and gotten laid.”

“Why didn’t you? Nobody asked you to come here.”

“I wanted a look at Surikov.”

“You’ll meet him soon enough.”

They kept walking quickly up the tree-lined path, toward the bell tower. Alevy said, “The other reason I came is that we got a communication this morning from the Soviet Foreign Ministry. They’ve revoked your diplomatic status. And Lisa’s.”

“I see.” Hollis added, “Thanks for coming then.”

“According to international law, your immunity is now good only between the embassy and a point of departure from the country. Therefore, your ass is hanging out here. So is hers, obviously.”

“Sort of like going vampire hunting and losing your cross,” Hollis observed.

“Sort of. I assume you have your wooden stake though.”

“Yes,” Hollis said. “You nearly got it through your heart.”

They came out into the paved square on the far side of which rose the bell tower. Hollis didn’t see Lisa. They crossed the open square walking normally so as not to attract attention. The rain was heavier now, and the strollers were disappearing. They reached the base of the bell tower, then split up and circled around it.

Alevy snapped, “God damn it!”

“Relax, Seth. She’ll be along.”

Alevy turned to him, and Hollis saw he was not going to relax. Alevy pointed his finger at Hollis and said irritably, “You shouldn’t have brought her here!”

“Hey, hold on. She wanted to go to church here, and she can do—”

“Oh, don’t give me that shit. This is not a fucking lark, Colonel, or an ego trip for you two. This is Moscow, buddy, and—”

“I know where the hell I am. And I’ll run my operations my way.”

“I should have had both of you shipped out a week ago. You’ve caused more problems—”

“Go to hell.”

Alevy and Hollis stood very close, then Alevy turned and began walking across the square. He called back, “I’ll wait at the main gate for fifteen minutes. Then I’m leaving, with or without you, her, or both of you.”

Hollis followed Alevy into the square. “Hold on.” He walked up to Alevy. “Listen, in case I don’t get back to the embassy — you have an appointment with Surikov. The antique shop on Arbat. Tomorrow at nine A.M. He has microfilmed personnel files of all the Charm School students, past and present. Three thousand, Seth.”

“Jesus… three thousand… how the hell did he get that information?”

“He’s the G-I for the entire Red Air Force.” Hollis explained briefly and concluded, “I gave him my word that we’d get him and his granddaughter out. You understand? Don’t fuck around with that, Seth. You get them out.” He stared at Alevy.

Alevy nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Now get out of here.”

Alevy hesitated. “I’ll wait at the gate.”

“No. You get your ass back to the embassy and stay there until you go to meet Surikov. I don’t need you here. I’ve passed the baton to you, Seth, and either way I won’t be around to meet Surikov tomorrow. It’s all yours now, buddy. Beat it.”

Alevy looked around the rain-splashed square, then nodded. “Good luck.” He walked off through the rain toward the main gate.

Hollis moved back to the bell tower and put his back to the wall. He drew his pistol and kept it at his side. He saw Alevy disappear onto a tree-covered path.

Hollis watched the square, watched the cold falling rain, and watched his breath mist. The minutes passed. For all he knew, they had Surikov, Lisa, and Alevy and were just letting him stand alone in the rain. “You worry more about them when you don’t see them.” But if he saw them, he’d take a few with him. “No more diplomatic immunity, no more nice guy.”

He glanced at his watch. It had been fifty minutes since he’d left her. He thought about Alevy’s coming out to cover them, then about Alevy’s agreeing to leave. Professionally that was right. What was wrong, he realized, was the profession.

He heard footsteps on the wet square and looked out.

She came hurrying across the square, splashing through the puddles, and threw her arms around him. “I lost track of the time. Forgive me.”

“No problem.”

“That coat is soaked.”

Hollis took her arm, and they walked toward the main gate.

“You found your friend at Gogol’s grave?”

“Yes.”

“How was your meeting?”

“Fine.” That question, Hollis thought, conjured up pleasant images of conference tables and hot coffee, not heartpounding encounters in the cold rain. He said, “Nice cemetery.”

“It is. Did you see any famous graves?”

“A few.”

“Were you waiting here long?”

“Not too long.” He said lightly, “I thought you’d gotten picked up.”

“I never get in trouble on holy ground. Well, once at a church dance….” She laughed. “Did anything interesting happen to you?”

“No, not really.”

They approached the gate church.

She said, “I smell fish.”

“Oh, I bought some carp from an old man.” He patted his pocket.

“You poach it in sour cream.”

“I know.”

“I missed you. I was worried about you.”

“Thanks.”

“Will we have any problem getting back into the embassy?”

“I’m going to find a phone and call security. Location Foxtrot is close. That’s the Lenin statue on the north side of the stadium. Remember that, if we get separated.”

“How will we get separated?”

“Just in case.”

They walked into the arched passage where about a dozen people stood sheltering from the rain. Hollis stopped and let his eyes adjust to the dim light. Lisa took off his rain-soaked hat and wiped his face with her handkerchief.

Seth Alevy stepped out of the darkness. He didn’t say much, just, “Follow me,” but Hollis thought it was enough under the circumstances.

28

Sam Hollis and Lisa Rhodes stood beneath the portico of the chancery building and said their final farewells to the people who had come out to see them off. Lisa kissed her coworkers, while Hollis shook hands with his former staff and exchanged salutes.

The ambassador had sent his car, a stretch Lincoln with the Great Seal on the sides, and the driver opened the rear door.

Kay Hoffman gave Hollis a big kiss and said, “I want an invite to the wedding.”

Hollis didn’t know about the wedding but answered, “Okay.”

Charles Banks said to Lisa, “I once told you that your picture-taking would get you booted.”

She smiled. “I’m glad it wasn’t that, Charlie. I’m glad it was for something important.”

“Send me a copy of your book.”

“I will.”

Hollis and Lisa got into the Lincoln. The driver, Fred Santos, closed the door and got behind the wheel.

Everyone waved as the Lincoln pulled away. At the Marine guard booth, ten Marines had assembled with rifles and presented arms. Hollis returned the salutes. The two Soviet militiamen stared at the Lincoln and its occupants as the car pulled into the street. The embassy watchers peered from the windows of the surrounding buildings and from their black Chaikas. A man who Hollis recognized as Boris stood beside his Chaika and waved. Hollis waved back. “Da svedahyna.” He added, “You son of a bitch.”

Fred Santos laughed.

Lisa turned and looked back through the rear window at the chancery building and the walls of the American embassy as the iron gates with the eagles closed shut.

Hollis opened a two-day-old New York Times and read. “‘Clear and sunny today’—that was Saturday—‘seventy degrees.’ Nice. Mets took the second game of the Series.”

Lisa faced the front. “I’m going to cry.”

“Are you a Detroit fan?”

The Lincoln wound through the narrow streets of Krasnopresnya. Hollis put down the paper and glanced back through the rear window. Following closely was a Ford with Seth Alevy in the front seat, accompanied by three security men. Behind the Ford was the embassy van, loaded with their luggage and personal items. To their front was another Ford with three more security men and Bert Mills, a CIA officer and Alevy’s deputy station chief. Hollis observed, “No air cover, no tanks.”

Lisa said, “This is a little silly.”

“Seth is very protective of you.”

She retreated into a moody silence.

Fred Santos said, “Well, this has got to be a relief. Right?”

“Right,” Hollis answered.

“Funny thing though, everybody I drive to the airport looks sad. People say things like, ‘I wish I could have done more here.’ Or they think about embassy friends they left here. Some people feel sorry for Russian friends who they’ll never see again. I guess you get used to a place. This is one tough assignment. But maybe it’s the one place where you feel needed and appreciated. You know?”

“I know,” Hollis replied. “How long do you have to go?”

“A year and two weeks. Then it’s back to D.C. A year and two weeks. Not too long.”

“Goes fast,” Hollis said.

“Maybe.”

Hollis had come to Moscow at the time the State Department decided that perhaps the Foreign Nationals had to be replaced with American service personnel. The ambassador’s former chauffeur, Vasily, a nice old gentleman who everyone knew was a KGB colonel, was getting about two hundred dollars a month, and State thought it was a good deal. Alevy had pointed out the inherent security risk in having a KGB colonel as one’s chauffeur, and also that if money were the issue, Vasily would pay the Americans twice that to keep his job. The State Department, after having Soviet citizens snooping around the embassy for over fifty years, began to see the point. It was no wonder, Hollis thought, that the intelligence people thought the diplomats were bozos.

The American service personnel, like Santos, cost about three thousand a month with benefits, and they needed places to live. But Hollis thought it was worth it as long as they weren’t graduates of the Charm School, such as the Kellums. Hollis said, “Hey, Fred, who played centerfield for the ’81 Mets?”

“I don’t follow baseball, Colonel. You wanna talk NFL, I’ll talk your ear off.”

“Maybe later.”

The Lincoln swung into Leningrad Prospect, a broad, six-lane road with a treed center divide. They headed north, out of Moscow. Hollis regarded the massive grey apartment blocks, the bare trees, and the dark sky. He suspected that this was how he would remember Moscow.

Leningrad Prospect became Leningrad Highway, and the four-vehicle convoy picked up speed.

Lisa said, “I’m feeling better. This is for the best. It’s good for us.” She reached forward and slid the glass partition closed. “You know, Sam, we fell in love here, under stressful circumstances, which can cause emotions that are ambiguous and unreliable.”

Hollis opened the small bar refrigerator. “There’s a box of Belgian chocolates and a split of French champagne.”

“Are you listening to me?”

“No.”

“Well, listen!”

“I’m listening.”

“Okay. In Moscow, our love was safe from outside reality. That’s ironic because Moscow is unreal. But now, being expelled so soon after we’ve found each other, our feelings didn’t have time to take root, and I’m afraid—”

“Did you rehearse this?”

“Yes.”

“Could you put it in the form of a short memo?”

“Stop being an idiot.”

“Do you want a chocolate or not?”

“No!” She slammed the refrigerator door shut. “Let me ask you something. Did Katherine leave you, or did she leave Moscow?”

Hollis worked on the champagne cork.

“Answer me.”

“She left Colonel Hollis, spy, in Moscow.” The cork popped, hit the ceiling, and Fred Santos rose off his seat. Hollis called through the glass partition, “Sorry, Fred!”

“Jesus, Colonel…” Santos put his hand over his heart in a theatrical gesture.

Hollis observed to Lisa, “This country makes people jumpy. Have you noticed that?” He poured the champagne into two fluted glasses and handed one to her. He said, “Not the end, but the beginning.”

“Oh… oh, I love you!” She embraced him, spilling champagne on his trench coat. Hollis kissed her. The security driver behind them beeped his horn playfully. Hollis glanced over Lisa’s shoulder and saw Alevy staring at them from the front seat of the car.

They entered the main terminal area of Sheremetyevo Airport on their way to the diplomatic wing. Alevy’s deputy, Bert Mills, said, “Please wait here a minute.”

Hollis and Lisa stood in the concourse of the large new terminal. Hollis thought that the architect’s previous experience must have been designing tractor sheds. The low ceilings were a copper-toned metal, making the whole place dark and grim, harsh, and unwelcoming.

As in all Soviet transportation terminals, there was a profound lack of services or amenities. Hollis spotted a single food kiosk under attack by at least a hundred people.

Soviet citizens coming from or heading to domestic flights pushed large crates around the grey slate floor. Hollis never understood where they stowed all that stuff. He said to Lisa, “Pan Am measures my flight bag to the last centimeter. On Aeroflot, people bring livestock. Like on that train we took. Remember?”

“I’m not likely to forget.”

“Right.” Hollis went to a currency window and dumped his rubles on the counter but held on to some loose kopeks. “American dollars, please.”

The cashier, using an abacus, converted the amount, then gave Hollis some forms to sign. He signed, and she pushed some dollars toward him, saying, “No coins.”

“Chocolate?”

“Shokolad?”

“Forget it. Da svedahnya, sweetheart.” He joined Lisa and said, “That was the last Russian I’m ever using.”

From where they stood in the concourse, Hollis could see the international arrivals area where there were crowds at passport control and larger crowds at customs. Most of the arriving people looked to be from the Third World, and there were a good number of youth groups; pilgrims on Soviet-sponsored tours, coming to Moscow to talk peace, progress, disarmament, and equality. It never ceased to amaze him how a discredited philosophy and a repressive nation still attracted idealists.

Hollis scanned the rest of the terminal. Grey-clad militia men were all over the place, and Hollis spotted a few KGB Border Guards in their green uniforms. He picked out his embassy security people strategically placed around him and Lisa. He saw one man in a brown leather car coat and tie who might have been KGB, but he couldn’t spot any others. Hollis normally wouldn’t expect any trouble in a crowded public place, but to the KGB, the entire country was their private hunting preserve. He realized that Alevy had disappeared, then he noticed that Lisa was looking a bit tense. He said to her, “Did you ever fly Aeroplop?”

She laughed. “Aeroplop? Yes, once to Leningrad on business.”

“I used to take it once a month to Leningrad. The pilots are all military. There’s not much difference between civil and military aviation in this country. Did you notice how they circled the airport at high altitudes, then dove in?”

“Yes. Scared me.”

“Me too. And I used to fly fighter-bombers. In the States, the drinking rule for pilots is twenty-four hours between bottle and throttle. Here, Aeroplop pilots aren’t allowed to drink within twenty-four feet of the aircraft.”

She laughed again. “You’re terrible. What are you going to complain about in the States?”

“The quality of winter strawberries.” Hollis glanced at his watch.

Lisa noticed and asked, “Do you think there’s something wrong?”

“No. I think we’re getting jumpy. Oh, I was going to tell you about my last Aeroplop flight. It was a Yakovlev 42, a tri-jet with huge wheels so it can land on grass and dirt. It’s actually a military transport, but when they get old, they slap an Aeroflot logo on them and put in seats. The cabin had been painted by brush, and you could see the brush marks. Anyway, the stewardesses were Miss Piggy look-alikes, and the lav had backed up—”

“That was my flight. And the cabin smelled of sewage. And my barf bag had been previously used. I’m not kidding. I collect barf bags from different airlines, and I took this one out of the seat pocket, and—”

“You collect barf bags? Disgusting.”

They were both laughing now. She said, “Only unused ones. So, anyway, I—”

Alevy came up behind them. “Okay. Everything’s set. Let’s go.”

Hollis and Lisa picked up their flight bags and followed Alevy, accompanied by the six security men. They entered a long, narrow corridor off the concourse that took them to the diplomatic wing, where Alevy’s man, Bert Mills, was waiting.

The DPL wing consisted of a front desk and a comfortable modern lounge with small conference rooms to the sides. It was not much different from a private airline club or any VIP lounge in any airport except for the presence of a smartly uniformed KGB Border Guard near the front desk and another Border Guard with a submachine gun at the rear exit door that led to the tarmac.

Their luggage, which had diplomatic seals, had already been passed through X-ray and was now piled in a coatroom near the front desk. A passport control officer arrived and stamped their passports with exit visas, then left.

Hollis, Lisa, and Alevy sat in the small lounge. An embassy security man stood near the front desk, a few feet from the KGB Border Guard. Two more security men stood near the rear entrance, keeping the Border Guard there company. Bert Mills sat on the other side of the lounge. Hollis remarked to Alevy, “Why all the firepower? One or two would have done.”

“Show of force.”

It occurred to Hollis, not for the first time, that Seth Alevy relished the fact that his lifelong game against Moscow was being played in Moscow. Hollis wondered what would become of Seth Alevy when he had to leave here.

Three Hispanic-looking men walked into the lounge, wearing red Lenin pins on the lapels of their suit jackets. They gave Hollis, Lisa, and Alevy an unfriendly look, and one of them said something in Spanish that made the other two laugh. They sat down in the adjoining club chairs.

Alevy commented, “There’s a direct Aeroflot to Havana in half an hour.”

Lisa said, “I think they said something insulting. I heard the word gringo.”

“Let it pass,” Alevy advised.

There were drink lists printed in several languages on the coffee table, and Alevy said, “They sometimes have orange juice here. How about a little vodka with it?”

“Fine.”

He looked around for the waitress he’d seen before, then stood and went to the woman at the front desk. After a minute he came back and said, “No orange juice. So I got Bloody Marys. Okay?”

“Fine.”

A waitress came with four glasses of green fluid. Alevy said in English, “Everything in this fucking country is red, but the tomato juice is green. Would you call this a Bloody Grasshopper?”

The waitress set the four glasses down, then placed a plate of salmon and black bread on the table. “For hungry. Good-bye. Good trip.”

“Thank you.” Alevy remarked to Hollis and Lisa, “Every once in a while, somebody here is nice to you, and it makes you think.” Alevy raised his glass. “Safe trip.” He finished the entire drink and sighed. “Vodka. The one thing they do right, by God.”

Lisa said to Alevy, “You’re in a good mood today. Glad to see us go?”

“No, no. Just happy for you. Both of you.”

There were a few seconds of awkward silence, then Lisa said to Alevy, “Is that extra drink for you?”

“Oh, I forgot. It’s for Bert Mills.” Alevy picked up the drink and stood, seemed to lose his balance, and spilled the green tomato juice on the head of one of the Cubans. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry. Mucho fucking clumsy—”

The three Cubans sprang to their feet.

Hollis stood, and Bert Mills was suddenly there too. The Cubans sized up the situation quickly. They gathered their attaché cases amid a flourish of handkerchiefs and retreated to one of the side rooms. Alevy said, “I feel just awful.”

Mills laughed and walked back to his chair. Hollis noticed the two KGB Border Guards grinning.

Hollis always marveled at Alevy’s little army of well-mannered thugs. In addition to the twenty or so CIA intelligence officers, there were about a dozen embassy security men whom Alevy had use of. Alevy had once told Hollis that if he could get the thirty-man Marine contingent under his control, he could take the Kremlin.

Alevy wiped his hand with a cocktail napkin. “I always meet interesting people in the diplomatic lounge.”

Lisa smiled at Alevy but said nothing.

Hollis realized that Alevy was showing off one last time for Lisa. Hollis excused himself and left the lounge.

Alevy and Lisa remained standing. Alevy said, “I’m not happy to see you go. I’m sad to see you go.”

Lisa didn’t respond.

Alevy added, “I thought we could give it another try.”

“I thought about it too. But other things have happened.”

“I know.” Alevy picked up her glass and drank from it. “Well… maybe our paths will cross again, in some other godforsaken place. This is a strange life we’ve chosen.”

“The Russians say, ‘To live a life is not as easy as crossing a field.’”

“The Russians say a lot of things that don’t make any sense. Tartar haiku. You like the place. I don’t.”

“But you like being the premier spy in the capital of the evil empire.”

“Oh, yes.”

“That’s what bothers me. Try to see the evil side of what you do.”

“I don’t have time for moral abstractions. My job is to try to fuck the Soviets, and they respect me for it.”

“All right, we’ve been through this. I just ask you to try to understand these people. As people. It will help you professionally as well as personally if you understand them.”

“I try. We all try.”

“Do we?” She glanced at the door, but there was no sign of Hollis. She put her hand on Alevy’s arm. “Be careful, Seth. I worry about you.”

“Do you? You be careful yourself. You’re not home yet.” He finished her drink. “Piece of advice, Lady Lisa. His age is not that important. Neither is his present marital status. But if he enters that macho world of jet jockeys again, you’ve got a problem.”

“I’m not considering marriage. What, by the way, were you two talking about until six A.M.? You both look like hell.”

“I just needed some Red Air Force stats, and I needed Hollis’ name on the report as a cosigner. They respect him in Langley. Sorry if I intruded on your plans. Won’t happen again.” Alevy glanced at his watch. “I’m going to find Sam and say good-bye. You’ll be all right here.” He looked at her. “Well… there’s more I’d like to say, but they know too much about my personal life already.” He jerked his thumb up at the ceiling. “The evil ones. They get lots of tidbits from this room.”

She shook her head. “I still never think about that.”

“You don’t have to anymore. Just watch what you say when Sam returns. When you board the Pan Am 747, you can say whatever you like all the way to Frankfurt and beyond. The free world. I like that old Cold War phrase. The free world.”

They both stood awkwardly for a moment, then Lisa said, “Write to me.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll let you know where I wind up.” She suddenly laughed. “How stupid of me. You’ll probably know before I do. I guess that was part of our problem. A woman likes to have a little privacy and a little mystery about herself. But you knew everything about everyone inside the walls of our castle. You were our Merlin.”

“I never thought of it quite that way. Maybe that’s why no one asks me to bowl.” He smiled.

She gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Good-bye, Seth. Thank you for everything—” She wiped her eyes. “We’ll meet again.”

“I know we will.”

Alevy suddenly pulled her close to him, put his mouth to her ear, and whispered, “Listen to me. You don’t have to leave on this flight… you have until midnight to leave Russia. There are two more flights to Frankfurt today. Tell Sam you’re not feeling well, and—”

“Why?”

“I… I thought we could… spend some time… a proper good-bye.”

She looked at him. “Is that a proposition?”

“No. Really, I just… look, what I’m trying to say is that Hollis is a target. I don’t like the idea of you being near him—”

“I know that. He told me that, and I could figure that out for myself. But I’m not a wilting flower, Seth. I was willing to share any danger with you, and I will give him the same loyalty.”

Alevy looked at her, and a sad smile came across his face. He nodded. “That’s why I love you.”

They kissed, and Seth Alevy turned and walked quickly from the waiting room, the Russians and Americans in the room looking at him, then at Lisa.

She sat down again and dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief as she leafed through an old copy of Time. “Damn you, Alevy. Damn men.” She looked at her watch. “Come on, Sam.”

Alevy found Hollis in the narrow corridor that led back to the main concourse. Alevy pointed at the ceiling, and they walked back to the crowded terminal building. They stood quietly among the milling people for a minute, then Alevy said, “Did you want to speak to me?”

Hollis replied, “I assume the meeting went well, or you’d be in a less playful mood.”

“It went fine.”

“You got the microfilm?”

“I did.”

“Did you look at it?”

“Briefly.”

Hollis drew a deep breath of impatience. “I can either pull teeth, or I can knock them all out, right here.”

Alevy regarded Hollis a moment, then his eyes became unfocused as though his mind just got a phone call. He refocused on Hollis and said, “Sam, I promise you, you’re still on the case. You have my word on that.”

Hollis studied Alevy’s face a moment. “Okay. Was the microfilm good stuff?”

“The jackpot. But I don’t know how the FBI is going to proceed with it.”

“That’s their problem, not ours.”

“Well, it’s everyone’s problem. I’d like to see us just go public with the photos — TV and newspapers, movie theaters, shopping malls. That would blow every one of those Russian agents whether they’re White House janitors, defense workers, or congressional aides.” Alevy added, “However, I think the government wants the FBI to try to round them up quietly.”

“But you’d like it public. That would finish the summit and arms talks once and for all.”

“All that nonsense deserves to be dead and buried. What benefit is there to us to talk peace and trade, when the Soviets have massive economic problems and social unrest? As our mutual hero, Napoleon Bonaparte, said, ‘Never interrupt an enemy while he’s making a mistake.’”

Hollis smiled. “You are a manipulative son of a bitch.”

“Thank you. Speaking of manipulators, do you know who Charlie Banks works for?”

“Probably State Department Intelligence.”

“Right. You’re sharper than you look.” Alevy moved toward a group of Japanese businessmen who were talking loudly and animatedly, providing good sound cover from directional microphones. Hollis followed him. Alevy said, “State Department Intelligence here in Moscow spend most of their time spying on people like you and me. They think we’re trying to sabotage their diplomatic initiatives.”

“Where would they get an idea like that?”

“Beats me. Anyway, SDI would be harmless except that they’re an arm of the venerable and powerful Department of State. And in the matter of the Charm School, Charles Banks is watching the situation very closely and reporting, I believe, directly to the President.”

“He’s watching you very closely. What I don’t understand is how anyone is going to resolve the problem of the Charm School without all hell breaking loose.”

“There are ways to resolve it quietly. As long as Dodson doesn’t show up.”

“What if he does show up?”

Alevy replied, “I doubt if he’d make it over the wall. The militia and KGB have orders to shoot on sight. But if he did, by some miracle, get inside the embassy or get to a Western reporter in Moscow, then Banks, the Secretary of State, and the President will be singing my company song.”

Hollis said, “I keep thinking that if Dodson did get over the wall, he might not be home free. Is that an insane thought?”

“Yes, but it’s a good thought. I think old affable Charlie Banks is under orders to have Dodson killed to shut him up.” Alevy added, “And you think I’m nuts and immoral? Our government is ready to write off three hundred American airmen for some abstraction they call détente. Hell, I can’t even pronounce it, and the fucking Russians don’t even have a word for it.”

“Seth, I’ll try to separate the white hats from the black hats on the plane. Meet me in D.C., and we’ll talk to some of my people in the Pentagon. I won’t get involved in conspiracies, but we can talk about ways to bring those men home and not make them pawns in everyone’s power game.”

“All right. I’ll meet you in D.C.”

Hollis asked, “By the way, what did you think of General Surikov?”

“I spoke to him in the basement of the antique shop for half an hour. I don’t think he liked me.”

“He doesn’t have to like you. You’re not going to be his control officer. He’s leaving.”

“Well, that’s the other thing. I agree with you that he’s a legitimate defector. But I don’t think he’s going to make it in the West.”

“A lot of people who already live in the West aren’t making it. That’s not your concern. Just get him there.”

“I’m telling you, Sam, he’ll die when he leaves mother Russia. I know the type.”

“He has religion.”

“I’d love to keep him here in his job. He would be the highest-ranking agent we’ve ever had in the Soviet military. I’d turn him over to Bert Mills and—”

“Don’t give me that crap about him not surviving in the West. If you had an ounce of human compassion left in you, you’d see the man was suffering. If we ever do beat this system, it will be because we hold out an honest light to the decent people here. I never understood Surikov’s motives because I wasn’t thinking of the most obvious motive — the man wants to be free, whatever that means to him. He delivered, now you deliver.”

“All right… it was a thought—”

“Take a leave, Seth. You need it.”

“Oh, I know. By the way, I scanned that microfilm and found a picture of our custodian, Mr. Kellum, born Anatoli Vladimirovich Kulagin, in Kursk, USSR.”

Hollis nodded. “So we bagged the first one. How about Mrs. Kellum?”

“Didn’t come across her yet. Lots of work to do on that. She may be a real American, and she may or may not know who her husband is.”

“What are you going to do with the Kellums?”

“I’ll debrief them in the cellar for a few months. Dick, we know, is guilty, and as far as I’m concerned Ann is guilty by association. However, we can’t get them back to stand trial. And I can’t keep them locked up here forever. Also, they’re no good as trading cards because the Soviets will never claim them. So…” Alevy scratched his head. “I don’t know. Any ideas? What should I do with Dick and Ann, Sam?”

“Why don’t you shoot them in the head and drop them in the Moskva?”

“Excellent idea. Why didn’t I think of that?”

Hollis said, “I have to go.”

Alevy put his hand on Hollis’ arm. “When I was a young college liberal, I used to wonder how American airmen could drop bombs on the Vietnamese. Now I’m all grown up, contemplating cold-blooded murder for my country, and an airman is looking down his nose at me. Can’t win.”

“You’ve made your point. I apologize. Do what you have to do.”

“Thank you. I will. Well, so much for bad business. The good news is that the microfilm was an incredible counter-intelligence coup. Three thousand agents. My God, Sam, that’s the biggest single catch in history. And now with those Russian Americans in our hip pocket, we can tackle the problem of the Charm School itself.”

“A trade?”

Alevy nodded. “Three thousand of theirs for three hundred of ours. It’s a possibility. And we have you to thank for that. You did it, Sam. I think you got your people home.”

“But I thought there were people in Washington who didn’t want them home.”

“We’ll work on that. You have some clout yourself now. When you get to D.C., you’re going to be treated like a conquering hero. No parades, of course. Very quiet. But the top CIA people and your people in the Pentagon are going to present you with some awards. Real awards. And, you’re going to have an interview with the President, and don’t be surprised if he pins a general’s star on you. I just got that over the wire. I’d like to be there if you don’t mind.”

“Fine.”

“You outdid me this time, Sam.”

“Surikov just fell into my lap, Seth. You know that as well as I do.”

“Don’t be modest. Well… a personal note… on the subject of Lisa, all I can say is that I’m glad it was you and not some Foreign Service wimp.”

Hollis didn’t reply.

“Good luck. I wish you both happiness.”

“Thank you.” Hollis put out his hand. “And thanks for showing me around.”

Alevy took his hand. “We’ll meet again, in a better place than this.”

Hollis turned and walked toward the diplomatic wing. He said to himself, “That would be just about anyplace, Seth.”

Hollis also had the impression that Alevy did not think there was a better place. The truth was that Seth Alevy liked it here, or more accurately, needed to be here. He needed to breathe Moscow air and smell Moscow river fog. He needed the KGB, and in some perversely reciprocal arrangement they needed him, or they’d have had him expelled or killed long ago.

Possibly Seth Alevy was a living legend at the Lubyanka, and his stature increased the self-worth of his adversaries. But now their macabre dance of death and destiny was drawing to an end.

The further thought occurred to him that what Seth Alevy was saying about the Charm School wasn’t computing. If three thousand Russians were heading east and three hundred Americans were heading west, and that balanced the equation, then what was in it for Seth Alevy? Answer: zero. So back to the problem.

29

A man in a heavy overcoat opened the outside door to the diplomatic lounge and looked at Lisa and Hollis. “Pan Am. Frankfurt. Follow, please.”

Hollis and Lisa put on their coats and picked up their overnight bags.

Bert Mills came up to them. “I’ll go with you.”

Hollis said, “No need.”

“I have orders.”

Hollis, Mills, and Lisa walked past the Border Guard with the submachine gun and followed the Russian with the overcoat outside, down a set of steps where a small airport bus waited on the tarmac. A fine powdery snow sifted down from a softly overcast sky, and a wan sun peeked through, casting a sickly yellow haze over the snowy tarmac. They boarded the bus, on which they were the only passengers, and the driver headed out a taxiway where they saw a mammoth 747 bearing the blue and white markings of Pan Am.

Mills said, “Look at that. Look at that.”

Hollis said, “Looks good, guys.”

Mills said, “Let’s switch identities, Sam.”

“Can I go back to the embassy and sleep with your wife?”

Mills laughed. “Sure. I’ll wire her from Frankfurt.”

Lisa muttered, “Pigs.”

As they got closer to the plane, Hollis noticed four Border Guards around it with submachine guns.

They pulled up to the boarding stairs and got out of the bus. Mills said, “I’ll hang around awhile. But I think you’re home free.” He shook hands with Hollis and said, “It’s been a pleasure working with a pro.” He also took Lisa’s hand. “Safe trip.”

Hollis and Lisa went up the stairs and were met by a smiling woman who said in a twangy voice, “Hi, I’m Jo, your flight attendant in Clipper Class. How’re you folks this morning?”

Hollis noticed that she was deeply tanned, something he hadn’t seen in a while. He replied, “Just fine, Jo. You?”

“Real good. You folks traveling together?”

“Yes,” Lisa replied.

Jo looked at a boarding manifest. “You’re our DPLs, right?”

“Right,” Hollis replied. “That’s why we got the private bus and the bodyguard.”

Lisa poked him in the ribs.

Jo smiled and said, “Clipper Class is right up that little spiral staircase there. Can I help you with your bags?”

“That’s all right,” Hollis replied.

“How long you folks been here?”

“About two years,” Lisa replied.

“My Lord! I’ll bet you’re happy to be going home.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m sure glad we can help get you there.”

Hollis realized it had been a while since he’d had service with a smile, and it was sort of jarring. He said, “I’m glad too.”

“Make yourselves at home up there. Soon as the boarding buses get here, I’ll be up.”

Hollis led the way up the spiral staircase into the business section located in the dome of the 747. They hung their coats and stowed their bags in a closet, then took two seats near the front. There were two backward-facing seats across from them.

The domed cabin seemed eerily quiet, and Hollis had the fleeting thought that the 747 was a sham and Jo was a graduate of the Charm School. He laughed.

“What’s funny?”

Hollis took her hand. “I think this place finally got to me.”

“Well, the timing is good.”

The cockpit door opened, and a man in a blue uniform came through it. “Hi. I’m Ed Johnson, the captain. Colonel Hollis and Ms. Rhodes?”

“Right.”

Johnson looked around the empty cabin, then leaned over with his hands on the armrest. “I have a message from the embassy in Bonn saying you folks got into a little scrape here.”

Hollis nodded.

“They were just advising the crew to keep an eye on things. I don’t have any particulars except what I read in the papers.”

“That’s about all of it.”

“You Air Force, Colonel?”

“Right.”

“Flew what?”

“F-4’s mostly.”

“Nice.”

Johnson and Hollis talked airplanes for a while, and Lisa flipped through that week’s Time. Johnson went back to the cockpit, and Lisa observed, “You sounded like you were interested in a subject for a change.”

“I’m only interested in sex, sports, and religion.”

“Have you come to any decisions about flying?”

“I don’t think the decision is mine to make.”

“But would you go back if you could?”

“I don’t know. I know that the last aircraft I piloted came down without me in it. Yet… sometimes I can still feel the controls in my hands and feel the engines spooling up, and the vibrations through the airframe, full power, then the dash down the runway, rotate, climb out… you understand?”

“I guess if you put it that way, I do.” Lisa went back to her magazine, then looked up again. “I always feel like a stranger in my own country when I go home on leave.”

Hollis replied, “It takes a few weeks to get into sync with any country, including your own.”

“I know.” She added, “You know, Sam, I almost feel like Moscow and the embassy was home and I’m heading to a strange country. I miss my apartment and my office, my friends. I miss Moscow. I think I’m going to cry again.”

“I understand.” And he did, because he felt an inexplicable twinge of nostalgia himself. Though why he should feel that for a country that had almost killed him was a mystery. But he’d felt that for Vietnam too. He supposed there were some countries that in a perverse way alerted your senses and put you on full throttle every day. And whatever came afterward was just cruise control. “It’s a common emotion. You make good friends on hardship tours. Sort it out.”

She wiped her eyes with a tissue. “Sorry.”

The passengers started to board, and Hollis could hear footsteps on the stairs. Mike Salerno was the first person up the stairs, and he sat in one of the seats facing them. He said, “You guys get boarded before first class.”

“One of the lesser perks,” Hollis replied. “How did you get up here so fast?”

“Pushed and shoved. I’m a reporter.”

Lisa asked, “Are you going home for good?”

“No, I put in for two weeks’ therapeutic leave.”

On the tarmac below, Hollis saw two men in brown overcoats standing in the snow, speaking to two armed men who wore the green overcoats of the KGB Border Guards.

Lisa looked at her watch. “I hope this snow doesn’t delay the takeoff.”

Hollis noticed that only six more people had come into the Clipper Class section, which could hold about fourteen passengers. There was a middle-aged couple sitting near the staircase whom Hollis could hear speaking with British accents and four German businessmen sitting across the aisle in the other facing seats. One of them had spoken to Jo in English.

Jo went to the front of the cabin and announced without a PA microphone, “There’ll be a few minutes’ delay until we get clearance. The weather is slowing up takeoffs. Soon’s we get airborne, we’ll get the free drinks moving.” She turned to the four Germans. “Okay, gentlemen?”

The one who spoke English nodded to her and translated for the other three.

Hollis stood, went to the back of the small dome, and looked out the window. Their bus was still there, and Bert Mills was leaning against it. One of the men in a brown coat walked over with an armed Border Guardsman and had some words with Mills. Mills pulled out his diplomatic passport and shook it at the KGB men. Hollis could see that the bus driver was getting agitated, probably never having seen anyone argue with a gentleman of the Komitet. Mills didn’t speak much Russian, which was probably an advantage in that situation, Hollis thought. Mills was pointing to the ground at his feet, and Hollis could imagine him saying, “I’m staying right fucking here until that plane leaves.”

Finally the KGB man in the brown coat said something to the bus driver, and the bus moved off, leaving Mills on the snowy taxiway, a half kilometer from the terminal. The KGB man smirked, turned, and went back to his car. Mills made an uncomplimentary gesture with his middle finger, then stood with his hands in his pockets. The KGB man watched him from the car. Hollis went back to his seat.

Lisa asked, “Everything all right?”

“Yes.”

Salerno commented, “You guys jumpy? Don’t blame you.”

Hollis read that morning’s International Herald Tribune. Salerno read a pulp detective novel featuring a character named Joe Ryker, NYPD, and Lisa had exchanged her Time for Vogue. She said to Hollis, “If we’re going to live in the States, I’ll need clothes like this.”

He glanced at her magazine. “Maybe we should live someplace else.”

She commented, “I could have bought a black sable coat here for ten thousand and resold it in the States for forty.”

Hollis mumbled something behind his newspaper.

“What’s holding us up?”

“Weather.” Hollis heard the engines spool up, then wind down.

Jo came out of the cockpit and said, “Cleared for takeoff. Seat belts, please. No smoking.” She rattled off the preflight safety regulations, then took an empty seat. The 747 began to move.

As the aircraft rolled down the taxiway, Hollis saw Bert Mills waving, and Hollis waved back. The aircraft lumbered to the runway and turned onto it. The engines roared, the aircraft strained against its brakes, then began its race down the snowy concrete. No one spoke. The 747 nosed up, and the wheels bumped into their wells. Salerno said, “Airborne.”

The big aircraft began its climb over the white knobby hills northwest of Moscow. Lisa said, almost to herself, “Da svedahnya.”

Salerno snorted, “Good riddance. For two weeks.”

Lisa looked out the window at the snow-dusted landscape. She saw the Minsk — Moscow highway to the south, the tiny villages that dotted the open fields, and the dark green pine forests that covered much of the countryside. Her eyes followed the Moskva River west toward Mozhaisk and Borodino. The aircraft rose into the cloud cover, and she turned from the window. “I’ll never see this place again.”

Salerno commented, “Lucky you.”

Hollis said to him, “She likes Russia.”

Salerno grumbled, “Easy to say when you lived in decent housing and shopped in the embassy commissary. Try living like a Russian. I did for a story.”

“All right,” Lisa said. “We all know that. But you can like the people without liking the system.”

“The people are the system. The KGB is made up of Russian people.”

“You sound like him.” She pointed at Hollis.

Hollis turned the page of his newspaper. “I don’t even know what you two are talking about. Who are these Russians?”

Salerno laughed. “I love it, Sam.” Salerno looked at Lisa. “Listen, Lisa, I’ve been on assignment in a half dozen countries. I found good and bad in all of them. But this place is beyond hope.”

Lisa let out a breath of exasperation.

Salerno added, “Well, maybe you can appeal your nonperson status. The Soviets sometimes rehabilitate people for reasons known only to themselves.”

Hollis said, “Who are the Soviets?”

Salerno laughed again. “Look, Lisa, I understand you have mixed feelings. But bottom line, you’re feeling a little easier already. Right? That place”—he jerked his thumb toward the window—“is tense. Paranoia incorporated. Soon as you leave, you breathe normal. I’ve seen it on other flights out of here — tourists and business people — smiling, giddy. Do you know that the pilot announces when we cross into West German airspace? What does that tell you?”

Hollis yawned.

Lisa picked up a magazine.

Salerno said, “I’ll tell you something else I learned about that Fisher business.”

Neither Hollis nor Lisa responded.

Salerno went on. “I found out from his parents that he was booked at the Rossiya, so I went there on the hunch that he’d actually gotten to Moscow. And guess what? I found an English tourist who remembered the car parked in front of the Rossiya with Connecticut license plates.”

Lisa lowered her magazine. Hollis asked, “What do you think that means, Mike?”

“I’m not sure. What do the people in the embassy think it means?”

Hollis replied, “How can I tell you that, if we’re hearing this for the first time?”

Salerno leaned forward. “You know damned well that Fisher got to the Rossiya. Fact is, guys, he called the embassy from the hotel. Spoke to you, Lisa.”

Lisa asked, “How do you know that?”

“You got a leak. So how are the people there going to handle this? What is Seth Alevy’s office making of this?”

Hollis replied, “Seth Alevy is a political affairs officer and has nothing to do with the Fisher business.”

“Come on, Sam.”

Hollis thought a moment. He couldn’t conceive of how that call from Fisher to the embassy was leaked. Only he, Lisa, Alevy, Banks, and the ambassador knew of it. Although it might have been the Marine who took the call. Hollis said, “I’ll discuss this with you after we’re out of the USSR.”

Salerno said, “You’re on an American aircraft at twenty thousand feet and climbing.”

“Nevertheless, it will keep until Frankfurt.”

Jo came by with champagne, and they each took a glass. Salerno held out his glass. “Na zdorovie.”

They drank, and Hollis commented, “Your accent is terrible.”

“Is it? I seem to get by.”

“Where did you learn your Russian?”

“Berlitz.”

“Ask for your money back if you can’t even pronounce a standard toast.”

Salerno said, “Sam, can I talk to you in private a minute? Nothing to do with the Fisher business. Promise.” He motioned toward two empty seats.

Hollis replied, “Lisa Rhodes is a representative of the United States government. She has a secret clearance. You can talk right here.”

Salerno nodded. “No offense. Okay. Listen, I heard something weird. I heard that you guys were holding an American in the embassy. I don’t know if this guy is supposed to be a spy, or if he was somebody who got into trouble in Moscow and made it into the embassy, or both. It was a very strange story.”

“Sounds strange,” Hollis agreed.

Lisa took a cigarette from her bag. “Mind if I smoke? Mike, you smoke. Go ahead.”

“Yeah.” Salerno took a pack of Marlboros from his pocket and lit one. “Come on, guys. Give me a break on this one. You holding someone in the embassy? I know you got underground cells there. Someone, one of the service people, tipped me.” He drew on his cigarette. “Says there’s at least one American in an isolation cell. Maybe two.”

Hollis studied Salerno a moment. He wondered if Salerno was fishing for the Kellums or for Dodson. He wondered, too, where this man got his information. Salerno didn’t know it yet, but Frankfurt was as far as he was going for a while.

Lisa said to Salerno, “That’s absurd.”

Salerno replied, “No, it’s not. And I heard too that this guy in the isolation cell is also wanted by the KGB. He’s either one of theirs or a defector or something like that. But they want him.”

Hollis noticed that the fingers in which Salerno was holding his cigarette kept moving in a habitual way to straighten the cigarette to keep it from sagging. But since it was an American cigarette, it did not sag, giving Hollis the impression that Mike Salerno sometimes smoked cigarettes that did sag. Hollis said, “You two enjoy your nicotine, don’t you?” He asked Salerno, “You smoke the local brands?”

“Hell, no.”

“Did you ever?”

Salerno glanced at him quickly. “No, why?”

“Just wondered.”

Salerno stubbed out his cigarette and picked up his paperback.

The flight attendant, Jo, came over to them, carrying a brown parcel. “Ms. Rhodes?”

“Yes?”

“I was asked to give you this after we got airborne.” She handed the package to Lisa.

Lisa asked, “Who gave it to you to give to me?”

“A Russian guy. An airport official.” She added, “It’s usually against regulations to take anything aboard like that, but it was from an airport official, and he said it was x-rayed and all. So it’s okay.” She glanced at Hollis, then said to Lisa, “The Russian said it was a farewell gift.” She smiled and moved away.

Lisa sat looking at the package on the seat tray. She said to Hollis, “This is the icon, Sam, addressed to USIS in D.C.” She stared at it awhile, then looked at Hollis. “You said it was cleared for the diplomatic pouch.”

“It was,” Hollis replied. “I told them in the mailroom. What did they say when you brought it there?”

“I… didn’t. Mrs. Kellum saw it and said she was going to the mailroom, so she took it. I told her it was cleared for the pouch.” She looked at Hollis. “It’s been opened. The tape is broken.” She touched the brown paper. “The foam rubber I used is missing.”

Hollis didn’t say anything.

“I’m going to open it.”

“Don’t.”

She ripped at the paper, and Hollis held her wrist. She pulled her hand away and tore the paper off, then let out a stifled sob. “Oh… oh, my God… Sam…”

Hollis looked at the icon lying on the table. Deeply gouged into the painted wood, obscuring the face of the archangel, was a hammer and sickle.

Lisa looked at him and tried to say something, but no words came out. Tears formed in her eyes.

Hollis threw a piece of paper over the icon and took her hand.

Salerno looked up from his book and said, “What’s that? What’s the matter?”

The PA system crackled, and a voice came over the loudspeakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Johnson speaking. We’re experiencing a minor electrical problem, and we’ve been instructed to land in Minsk. Nothing to be concerned about. We’ll be on the ground in fifteen minutes, and hopefully airborne again shortly. Please fasten your seat belts for an approach to Minsk. Thank you.”

The seat-belt lights and no-smoking lights blinked on.

Salerno said, “It looks like our farewell to Russia was premature.” He looked at Hollis and smiled.

30

The Pan Am 747 touched down at Minsk Airport, its rollout bringing it near the end of the short runway. The sky was still overcast, but Hollis noticed it hadn’t snowed here. Lisa had slid the paper off the icon and was staring at it. Hollis asked, “How are you?”

She didn’t reply.

The aircraft taxied toward the small modern terminal building, and Hollis saw four mobile stairways coming out to meet them, which was not normal for a routine deplaning. Behind the stairways were four buses. Hollis also noted that the 747 was some distance from the terminal.

Hollis looked back at Lisa. “It can be restored. A museum restorer can do it. You’d never know.”

She looked at him blankly.

Salerno turned the icon toward him. “Goddamned shame. Who would do something like that?”

Hollis replied, “I can think of one outfit right away.”

“You mean the KGB?” Salerno plucked at his lip. “You mean they got the embassy penetrated? Hey, remember the ambassador’s Steinway? What a bunch of shits. But I thought you were all secure there now. Maybe it was that gardener you guys got. Vanya?”

Lisa took Hollis’ hand. “I feel so… violated.” She looked at him. “Why? Why, Sam?”

“You know.”

“Yes… but it’s so senseless. So petty and vengeful.”

“That’s them.”

“Those bastards… bastards!”

The four Germans looked over at them.

Salerno said, “It probably can be fixed up. A little wood filler, paint brush, good as new. Could have been worse.”

Lisa looked at the icon. The hammer and sickle had been gouged into the wood with a rough tool, the sickle’s curved blade running around three edges of the painting. The hammer’s handle slashed diagonally across the body, and the hammerhead was a rectangle of raw splintered wood where the angel’s face had been. Lisa took a deep breath. “I’m going to keep it just as it is.”

Hollis squeezed her hand. “Good.”

“Just the way they gave it to me.”

Salerno shrugged and glanced out the window. “Never been to Minsk.” He looked at Hollis. “You?”

“No.”

Salerno’s lips formed a thin smile. “Hey, guys, is your diplomatic immunity good here?”

Lisa looked up from the icon. “You know that it’s good all over the Soviet Union. But why would we need diplomatic immunity?”

“You never know.”

Before the 747 came to a halt, Jo stood near the forward galley door. She announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, the electrical repair might take a while, so what we’re going to do is deplane. Please take all your personal things. Okay?” She opened the closet and handed out coats and bags. The aircraft came to a halt.

The pilot, Ed Johnson, appeared at the door between the galley and cockpit and motioned to Hollis. Hollis said to Lisa and Salerno, “Go ahead.” He went over to Johnson, and they stood in the small galley. Johnson said, “It’s not an electrical problem. We got a radio message directly from Sheremetyevo tower saying they got a bomb threat.”

Hollis nodded.

“The Soviet civil aviation authorities instructed me to set it down in Minsk, which was the closest airport that could handle this craft.”

“So why aren’t we sliding down the emergency chutes?”

“Well, that’s the thing. As we’re making our final approach, Sheremetyevo calls again and says they have information the bomb is an altitude device, so we’re safe. That’s pretty screwy. I mean, do they actually have the guy who made the threat? Are they believing him about what kind of bomb it is? They wouldn’t answer any questions, they just said to land at Minsk and no emergency evacuation. They said they didn’t want to upset the passengers or have any injuries on the chutes. I demanded four stairways and got them.” Johnson looked Hollis in the eye. “I think it’s a hoax. Somebody wants this plane down in Minsk.”

“Could be.”

“Does this have anything to do with your problem?”

“Quite possibly.”

“Anything I or the crew can do?”

“Not without jeopardizing yourselves. If I don’t get to Frankfurt with you, call a General Vandermullen in the Pentagon. He’s my boss.” Hollis took a paper napkin from the galley counter and wrote a telephone number on it. “Just give him your professional opinion of this emergency landing.”

“Will do.”

“And not a word to anyone while you’re in East Bloc airspace. Not even your copilot.”

“Okay. Good luck.”

They shook hands, and Hollis went down the spiral stairs to the door, where the mobile staircase had already been set up. Hollis descended the stairs. In the bus were Lisa, Salerno, the English couple, and the four Germans from Clipper Class, plus about a dozen people from first class. The door closed behind him, and the bus pulled away. Hollis sat in an empty seat beside Lisa. She asked, “What did that pilot want?”

“Your phone number.”

“Why do I ask you questions?”

“Beats me.”

Salerno, in the seat behind them, asked Hollis, “Did he tell you what the hell is going on?”

“No.”

The bus took them to the terminal, where they were shown into a small waiting room not large enough to accommodate the coach passengers. Hollis had the feeling that he and Lisa had been neatly cut from the main pack, and there would be a further isolation when someone offered them diplomatic courtesies.

A short, squat man in a ludicrous mustard-colored suit walked into the room, followed by an attractive woman. The man held up his hand and said in accented English, “Please, please.” The room became quiet, and the man said, “I am Mr. Marchenko, the Intourist representative here. I must inform you that there is no electrical problem on the aircraft. Soviet authorities have received a bomb threat—”

There was a gasp from the group.

“Please, please. Nothing to fear. However, the entire aircraft must be searched, and all luggage must be searched. This takes a long time. So, Intourist will take you all to Sputnik Hotel to have lunch, and maybe you may stay overnight.”

The woman with him repeated the announcement in German, then in French. Hollis was impressed with this uncharacteristic Soviet efficiency on such short notice. Obviously, they’d had help from another, more efficient Soviet agency.

Lisa said, “I don’t like this, Sam.”

Salerno lit a cigarette. “I hope the damned Sputnik has a bar.”

Hollis said, “I’ll be right back.”

“Where you going?” Salerno asked.

“Men’s room.” Hollis walked out the door of the waiting room and into a corridor, but a Border Guard with a holstered pistol motioned him back. Hollis said in Russian, “I have to use the toilet.”

The Border Guard seemed surprised at his Russian. “There’s a toilet in the waiting room.”

“It’s occupied.”

“Can’t you wait?”

“No. I have a bad bladder.”

The Border Guard pointed down the hallway.

Hollis went into the small men’s room, picked up a metal trash can, and threw it against the tile wall.

A second later the door swung open, and the Border Guard charged in as Hollis’ foot shot up into the man’s groin. The man made a grunting sound and doubled over. Hollis grabbed him by his high tunic collar and gunbelt and propelled him headfirst into the wall. The man moaned and sank to his knees. Hollis, still holding his collar, dragged him into a stall and sat him on the toilet, then closed the stall door, righted the trash can, and threw the man’s cap into it. Hollis went back into the corridor and moved quickly to the main concourse of the terminal. He found the pay phones in a recess of a wall and put two kopeks in the slot and dialed the Minsk long-distance operator. “Put me through to Moscow, two five two, zero zero, one seven.”

“Have sixty kopeks ready.”

Hollis heard a series of clicks as the call was routed through the Moscow operator, then through the KGB listening station on the way to the embassy. The phone rang twice before his direct office line was picked up. He barely heard a faraway voice say, “Captain O’Shea.”

The operator cut in, “Deposit sixty kopeks now.” Hollis shoved the first twenty-five-kopek piece in the slot, and O’Shea, knowing by the loud humming that someone was paying for a long-distance call, held the line. Hollis pushed the remainder of the kopeks in the slot, cursing the Soviet phone system. The humming stopped, and Hollis heard a clear line. “Hel—”

A hand reached over Hollis’ shoulder and pushed down the phone cradle. Hollis turned around and found himself looking down at the short, squat Mr. Marchenko, now wearing an overcoat and flanked by two Border Guards whose shoulder boards were higher than the short man’s head. Marchenko said, “Colonel Hollis, everything is all arranged. No need to call.”

Hollis snapped, “Where the hell do you get off interrupting my phone call?”

“Please?”

Hollis said in Russian, “Move away!” He turned and put another two-kopek piece in the coin slot.

Marchenko said, “Come, sir, Ms. Rhodes is waiting for you. She seems anxious about you.”

Hollis turned back to the man. “Where is she?”

“In the car. Please allow me to introduce myself again. I am Mr. Marchenko, the senior Intourist representative in Minsk. The Soviet Foreign Ministry has wired, instructing me to extend special courtesies to you and Ms. Rhodes. Will you follow me?”

“We require no special courtesies. We’ll stay here at the airport.”

Marchenko shook his head. “No, Colonel. I have strict instructions. Ms. Rhodes is even now in the car awaiting you.”

Hollis’ eyes went past the two uniformed Border Guards, and he spotted three men in brown leather trench coats in the center of the crowded concourse, hands in their pockets, looking at him. He said to Marchenko, “I want Ms. Rhodes brought here to me. Now.” He turned and dialed the long-distance operator again and said in Russian, “Connect me with Moscow, two five two, zero zero, one seven.”

“Colonel, there is no need to call. We will be late!”

“For what?” Hollis heard humming, buzzing, faraway voices, and other assorted sounds in the earpiece.

“A helicopter, sir. To take you back to Sheremetyevo. There is a Lufthansa flight leaving there at three-fifty-five for Frankfurt. This Pan Am flight in truth will not leave today. Come.”

Hollis considered several courses of action, none of which seemed promising. “We’re in no hurry. We’ll stay here. I told you I want you to bring Ms. Rhodes here.”

“But we have no choice. I have a cable from Moscow.”

“I’m sure you do. The question is, was the cable from the Foreign Ministry or Dzerzhinsky Square.”

“I don’t comprehend you. Please, at least come out to the car and talk to Ms. Rhodes and see what she wants to do. Come, she is most anxious about you.”

Hollis heard a voice come on the line. “Moscow Central.” Hollis said, “I want to be connected with two five two, zero zero, one seven.”

Marchenko added, “And you perhaps are anxious about her.”

“You son of a—” The operator came on again. “I cannot complete your call.” Hollis knew how to argue with Ma Bell, but if Moscow Central said they couldn’t complete your call, that could mean anything from a busy phone to a KGB intercept on the line. Hollis would have faked a conversation with O’Shea, except that his coin was still half in the slot and wouldn’t go in unless the call were completed. Hollis put the phone back on the hook.

Marchenko said, “Intourist has already wired your embassy with your new departure. Please, sir, Miss Rhodes—”

Salerno suddenly appeared out of the corridor. “There you are. What’s all this?”

Hollis said, “This is the answer to your question about my diplomatic status. It’s still good.”

Marchenko said to Salerno, “Do you hold a diplomatic passport?”

“Hell, no. I work for a living.” He pulled his Soviet press credentials from his pocket. “Zhurnalista.”

Marchenko responded, “Then I must ask you to go back to the waiting room. Your bus will be leaving shortly.”

“Hold your horses.” He said to Hollis, “They told Lisa you wanted her. What the hell’s going on?”

“We’re being offered a helicopter ride to Sheremetyevo to catch a Lufthansa to Frankfurt.”

“Well, lucky you. While I’m eating lard with mushroom gravy in the Sputnik, you guys will be landing in Frankfurt. In my next life I want to be a diplomat.”

“What were you in your last life?”

“A Russian.” Salerno laughed, then said to Marchenko, “Hey, any chance of taking me back to Sheremetyevo?”

“Impossible.”

Salerno said to Hollis in Russian, “Nelzya. That’s all you hear in this country. Everything is nelzya. Somebody ought to teach them ‘can do.’”

Marchenko was at the end of his patience. “Please, Colonel! Your companion is waiting.”

Salerno said to Hollis, “I don’t think you can refuse the honor, Sam.” Salerno motioned to the phones. “I’ll call the embassy right now and tell them that Intourist has rolled out the red carpet, pardon the pun. I doubt if there’s anything funny about this, but the ambassador will straighten these people out if there is. So rest easy. Maybe I’ll catch up with you in Frankfurt.”

Hollis said to Salerno in Russian, “It was the cigarette, Michael. You kept straightening it with your fingers.”

Salerno smiled and winked, then replied in Russian, “Don’t tell anyone, and I’ll owe you a favor. You’ll need one shortly.” Salerno slapped Hollis on the shoulder, turned, and walked away.

Marchenko motioned toward the front doors of the terminal. Hollis walked through the small lobby, flanked by the two KGB Border Guards. They went out the glass doors, and Marchenko opened the rear door of a waiting Volga sedan.

Hollis saw Lisa in the rear seat. “Lisa, get out of the car.”

Before she could respond, the driver pulled the car forward a few feet, and Marchenko slammed the door shut. Marchenko said to Hollis, “Colonel, you’re making this more difficult than it has to be.”

Hollis found himself being crowded by the two KGB Border Guards. The three men he’d seen in trench coats were standing a few feet away in front of the terminal doors. He thought he’d feel better if he made them work a bit, but the end result would be a clubbing or chloroforming, followed by handcuffs and a bad headache. He walked to the car, and Marchenko again opened the door with a silly courtliness. Hollis got in, and Lisa threw her arms around him. “Sam! I was worried — what’s going on—?”

“It’s all right.”

Marchenko got into the front, and the driver pulled away from the terminal.

Lisa took Hollis’ hand in both of hers. “They told me you were waiting for me, then—”

“I know.”

“Are we going back to Sheremetyevo?”

“Good question.” Hollis pushed on the door handle, but it moved only a fraction of an inch. A bell sounded, and a light on the dashboard came on.

Marchenko said, “Colonel Hollis, you must be leaning on the door handle.”

Hollis didn’t respond. He glanced out the rear window and saw another Volga in which were the three men in brown leather coats.

Lisa whispered into his ear, “Are we being kidnapped?”

“In this country it’s hard to tell. Sometimes you just have to ask.” Hollis leaned toward Marchenko. “Komitet?”

Marchenko moved around in his seat and looked back. “No, no. Please. Intourist.” Marchenko smiled. “Like you are an air attaché.” He laughed. “So, winter is here now. How was Moscow?”

“Colder,” Hollis replied.

“It is always colder in Moscow. Do you know why?”

“No. Why?”

“Eight million cold hearts in Moscow. That is why. Me, I’m Byelorussian. The Great Russians are half Tartar, all of them. We’re more Western here. Did you like Moscow?”

“Loved it.”

“Yes? You’re joking. I hate Moscow. But sometimes I go there for business. Minsk is a beautiful city. The Germans destroyed ninety percent of it and killed a third of the population, including most of my family. What bastards. But we rebuilt it all. With not much help from Moscow. You see? The arrogant Germans and the cruel Muscovites. And who got caught in the middle? Us.”

“I know the feeling.”

The Volga turned onto a narrow concrete road that paralleled the airport fence.

Marchenko shifted his bulk back toward the front and continued his talk. “But when Moscow gets a cold, we sneeze. Is that the expression?”

“The other way around,” Hollis said.

“Yes? When Moscow sneezes, we get a cold?” He shrugged and turned his head back to Lisa and Hollis. “We are going to the helipad of course. There was no time to disengage your luggage from the others’, so it will go on to Frankfurt airport tomorrow. You can have it sent to your Frankfurt hotel. But for tonight, you have your flight bags in the trunk. If there is anything I can do through Intourist, please let me know.”

Lisa replied, “You’ve done enough.”

Marchenko chuckled.

The Volga turned into a wide concrete apron on which was painted a yellow X. “Ah,” Marchenko said. “Here we are. But no helicopter. We rushed for nothing.”

“Perhaps,” Hollis said, “someone has misappropriated it.”

“Yes, we have that problem here. You know about that? Too much misappropriation. But I think this is the other problem we have. Lateness.”

The Volga sat at the edge of the concrete apron, its engine running. The backup car pulled alongside, and the three men got out but stayed near their car.

Marchenko looked at his watch, then leaned forward to peer through the windshield at the sky. “Ah, there it is. You will make your Lufthansa flight,” Marchenko said, not bothering to put any sincerity in his voice any longer.

Lisa put her mouth to Hollis’ ear. “Tell me not to be frightened. Tell me everything’s all right.”

“I think a little apprehension might be appropriate. Let’s see what they’re up to. They might just want to chat.”

Marchenko said, “I don’t like helicopters myself. In fact, there was a crash not far from here just today. The pilot and copilot and two passengers, a man and a woman, were killed. All burned beyond recognition. Cremated, really. How are the families to know if they have the correct remains?”

Hollis understood now how it was being done. He could hear the sound of helicopter blades beating the dank, heavy air. A black shape appeared over the bare tree line, silhouetted against the grey sky. The helicopter hung for a second, then began its sloping descent toward them. Hollis recognized the shape as that of the Mi-28, a six-seat passenger craft with a jet turboshaft, somewhat like the Bell Jet Ranger. Aeroflot, in fact, did use these for VIP service between Moscow’s airports and the city heliports. However, as the Mi-28 dropped in closer, Hollis saw it had the markings of the Red Air Force. He said, “Mr. Marchenko, this is very special treatment indeed.”

“Oh, yes,” Marchenko replied. “You are very important people. In fact, I have been instructed to escort you. Please step out of the car.”

Hollis and Lisa got out of the Volga. The driver retrieved their bags and Lisa’s icon from the trunk and set everything on the concrete near their feet. One of the men from the other Volga stood behind Hollis. Marchenko moved to Hollis’ side and shouted over the noise of the approaching helicopter, “The gentleman behind you is called Vadim. He will accompany us.”

Hollis thought he might have had a chance to try his hand at flying an Mi-28, but apparently Marchenko thought he’d remove the temptation.

The Mi-28 set down on the yellow X, and Marchenko shouted, “Go, go!”

Hollis and Lisa moved toward the helicopter with Marchenko and Vadim behind them. A crewman slid open a small door in the side of the fuselage, and Hollis got in first, then helped Lisa up. The crewman motioned them to the two rear seats. They stowed their bags beneath the seats and sat. Vadim climbed in and sat in front of Lisa. Marchenko struggled to climb aboard, but the crewman didn’t seem inclined to help, so Vadim reached over and pulled Marchenko into the cabin. The crewman slid the door shut and settled into the copilot’s seat. The helicopter rose.

Marchenko fell heavily into the last empty seat in front of Hollis and tried to catch his breath. “Ah…” He turned to Hollis behind him. “I’m getting old.”

Hollis replied in Russian, “And fat.”

Vadim turned his head and gave Hollis a nasty look, confirming Hollis’s suspicion that Marchenko was Vadim’s boss and that neither Marchenko nor Vadim were Intourist guides.

The helicopter spun around and headed east, back in the direction of Moscow. Hollis noted that the pilot and the copilot were both Red Air Force officers. Hollis then looked at the profile of Vadim. He was a man of about thirty and looked muscular beneath his leather trench coat. He had one of the thickest necks Hollis had ever seen outside a zoo. Hollis doubted if he could get his hands around that neck, though perhaps he could garrote him with his tie and go for the man’s pistol. But he knew not to underestimate fat Marchenko or indeed the two Red Air Force officers. He thought about how it could be done.

Marchenko, as though guessing at his thoughts, turned in his seat and said, “Relax and enjoy the flight. We’ll be at Sheremetyevo within three hours. You’ll catch the Lufthansa flight in good time.”

Lisa replied, “You’re full of baloney, Marchenko.”

“Baloney?”

Hollis noticed that the helicopter was at about two thousand feet, traveling on a due east heading, the pilot land-navigating by the Minsk — Moscow highway. Snow began to appear on the ground, and a stiffening north wind caused the pilot to tack to port to compensate for the drift. The Mi-28 was capable of close to three hundred knots, and Hollis thought they’d get where they were going very fast.

Hollis put his arm around Lisa and massaged her shoulder. “How you doing, kid?”

“Awful.” She looked down at the icon lying in her lap. “This is what real faith is all about, isn’t it? The belief that someone up there is looking after you.”

“Yes.” The key, Hollis thought, was to take out Vadim immediately, then find Vadim’s pistol before Marchenko drew his. Shoot Marchenko and the two pilots, then fly the Mi-28 to the embassy quad. This was all presupposing, of course, that Marchenko was not simply a helpful Intourist man who was under strict orders from the Soviet Foreign Ministry to get the American diplomats on that Lufthansa flight to Frankfurt. But Hollis had to act on what he believed, not what Marchenko wanted him to believe. He thought about how to take out Vadim quickly.

Lisa said to Hollis, “This icon has probably been kissed ten thousand times over the last three centuries. I’ve never kissed it…”

“Go ahead. Can’t hurt.”

She brought the icon up to her face and pressed her lips to it.

Vadim sensed the movement and turned quickly in his seat. He looked at the heavy wooden icon, seeing and thinking what Hollis was simultaneously thinking. As Lisa lowered the icon, Vadim reached back with his right hand and grabbed it. Hollis brought his left knee up under Vadim’s forearm and sliced the edge of his right hand down on Vadim’s wrist. Above the sound of Vadim’s scream, Hollis heard the wrist snap. Hollis snatched the icon from Lisa’s lap and raised it, aiming the corner edge at the top center of Vadim’s head where it would penetrate the coronal suture of the skull.

Marchenko had reacted faster than Hollis anticipated, sliding off his seat onto the floor, and he was now kneeling on one knee, pointing a heavy revolver at Hollis’ chest. “Stop! Stop!”

Hollis hesitated a moment, and Vadim slid down in his seat, then reappeared with his own pistol in his left hand. Hollis noticed that the color had drained out of Vadim’s face and his right arm hung limply. The copilot had come back into the cabin holding a small-caliber automatic, suitable for inflight gunplay. He aimed the pistol at Lisa.

Marchenko said to Hollis, “Put that down, slowly.”

Hollis lowered the icon, and Marchenko grabbed it away from him, then said to Vadim in Russian, “Put your gun away.”

Vadim shook his head. “I’m going to kill him.”

“Then I’ll kill you. Put that away,” Marchenko snapped with authority.

Vadim put his pistol in the pocket of his trench coat. The Russians, Hollis recalled belatedly, like many Europeans, were not fond of holsters and preferred their pockets for their pistols, which was how Marchenko had gotten his out so quickly.

Marchenko stood and his head just touched the top of the cabin. He said to Hollis, “It has always been my experience that people will believe any little lie that will comfort them and allow them to behave well while on the way to their execution. But I see you don’t believe you’re going to Sheremetyevo to board a Lufthansa flight, and you’re quite correct.”

Hollis replied, “I also know I’m not going to my execution, or you’d have taken care of it in Minsk.”

“Well, they want to talk to you first. And yes, I have orders not to kill you in transit under any circumstances. But I can and will kill Miss Rhodes the very next time you try something foolish.” He reached into his pocket and took out a pair of handcuffs. “We don’t have much need for these here, as Soviet citizens do what we tell them. However, I took these along as I know Americans have no respect for the law. Put them on.”

Hollis looked at Lisa, who was pale but composed. She said, “I’m all right.”

Hollis snapped the cuffs on his wrists and sat back in his seat. Marchenko nodded to the copilot, who took his seat. Marchenko, too, sat down and said to Vadim in Russian, “Is it broken?”

“Yes.”

“You can inquire what can be done about it when we land.”

Hollis suspected Marchenko wasn’t talking about a cast for Vadim’s wrist, but a break for Hollis’ wrist.

Marchenko examined the icon, which was now on his lap. “This has been desecrated. Did we do this?”

Lisa replied, “Who else?”

Marchenko made a clucking sound with his tongue. “I don’t like all this destruction of cultural treasures. I have my differences with the Russians, but we are all Slavs nonetheless. This is terrible.”

Hollis felt that Marchenko meant it, but if Marchenko were ordered to burn every church in Byelorussia he’d do it, with no more moral protest than the clucking of his tongue. Hollis said, “Why don’t you shut up?”

Marchenko turned his head and looked at Hollis with a hurt expression. “There’s no need to be rude.”

“On the fucking contrary, fat boy. You’re more despicable than the swine in Moscow because you’re a traitor to your own country and a Muscovite lackey.”

Marchenko seemed to be trying to control himself. He took a deep breath, then forced a smile. “You see? I tell you a little about myself, and you exploit it. A typical treacherous Westerner. And you think you can abuse me because you know you are to be taken alive. Well, let me tell you something — you’re going to stand trial for the murder of two Border Guards and perhaps a third if the one you left in the toilet dies. We don’t let that sort of thing go unpunished as you well know. You will probably be convicted and sentenced to death. They will tell you to write an appeal to the president of the Supreme Soviet, as that is a right under the Soviet constitution. As you are writing your appeal, someone will shoot you in the back of the head. That’s how it’s done. Very humane if you don’t know what’s coming. But I wanted you to know, Colonel Hollis, so that if they tell you you’re going to draft an appeal of your death sentence, now you know you are probably going to your death. I thought I’d extend that kindness to you. Even if you are a murderer.”

“Shut up, Marchenko.”

Marchenko looked angry for the first time. He turned to Lisa. “You seem all right, which is why I don’t want to shoot you. But your friend here… well, I don’t meet many Westerners. Perhaps I shouldn’t judge by one spy. Yes?”

Lisa said, “Will you give me my icon back? I promise not to bash it over your head.”

Marchenko laughed. “I must have your oath to God.”

“I swear to God I won’t bash it over your head.”

“Good.” Marchenko leaned back and handed it to her. “You see? This religious relic started all of this unpleasantness. But I respect the believers. I have a female cousin my own age who believes in God. She became a Baptist for some reason. Another Western corruption, this Baptist religion. At least she could have become Orthodox if she wanted to be a martyr. Does this religion bring you comfort even now?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Perhaps someday when I’m old, right before the end, I will talk to a priest about getting into heaven. God will understand. No?”

Lisa replied, “I think even God can get pissed off by some people.”

“‘Pissed off?’”

Hollis said, “Marchenko, please, I implore you, shut the fuck up.”

“Yes? I think perhaps I talk too much. Not good in my job. Perhaps I should work for Intourist. I could talk all day to Westerners.” He turned to Vadim and asked in Russian, “Do I talk too much?”

“No, sir.”

“See? Well, maybe I’ll be quiet for a while.” Marchenko settled back in his seat.

Hollis looked at Lisa. “Relax.”

She forced a smile and took his cuffed hands in hers. “Don’t feel bad.”

“Okay.”

They didn’t speak much for the next two hours, and true to his word, Marchenko didn’t say much either. Vadim was in worsening pain, and Hollis could see his wrist was twice its normal size. Vadim muttered an obscenity from time to time. The copilot belatedly remembered a first aid kit, and Vadim found codeine tablets in it. He took several of them.

Hollis was certain that the pilot and copilot remembered perfectly well they had the first aid kit all along. Hollis had observed that casual cruelty in Russians before, a real indifference to the suffering of strangers. Once you drank with them or ate with them or had your little dusha dush, they’d give you the shirt off their backs, no matter how brief the relationship. But if you weren’t kith, kin, lover, or soul mate, you shouldn’t expect anyone to volunteer painkillers for a smashed wrist, and Hollis had even heard of that sort of indifference in hospitals. And to add insult to cruelty, the copilot offered the painkillers not to make Vadim feel better, but to let Vadim know they were available for the last two hours. Also, Hollis thought, the flight crew being Red Air Force, and the charter passengers being KGB, the cruelty was not altogether casual. Even more bizarre, Hollis thought, was the fact that Vadim was not angry with the pilots for their lack of sympathy, but was still glaring at Hollis as the source of his pain. Primitive, Hollis thought. But Russians reacted to the moment, not to abstractions. That was something to keep in mind in the days ahead.

Hollis said to Lisa in a light tone, “Well, do you want to say the words, ‘I quit’?”

She looked at him and said softly so no one else could hear, “I’ve been thinking. You and Seth promised I would be kept informed in exchange for my help.”

“I’m keeping you informed. We’ve been kidnapped.”

“Not funny, Sam. I think you both knew this might happen.”

Hollis stayed silent a moment, then replied, “We suspected.”

“More than suspected, I think. Do you know that Seth didn’t want me to get on that flight?”

“No, I didn’t know that.” But that was very interesting, Hollis thought. He said, “No one ever promised to keep you informed, Lisa. Not in this business. I’m not fully informed, obviously.”

She nodded. “He… he was trying to tell me something, but I guess I wasn’t listening.”

“Nor were you telling me what he said.”

“Sorry.” She added, “He said you were a target and I should stay away from you.”

“But you came along anyway.”

“I love you, stupid.”

Marchenko piped in, “I hear whispers. No whispers. No secrets.”

Lisa ignored Marchenko and said to Hollis, “If I didn’t love you, I’d really be pissed at you.”

“I’ll make it up to you. Dinner?”

“At Claridge’s.”

“You got it.”

Marchenko said, “Dinner? Yes, we missed our lunch. I’m hungry.”

Hollis said to him, “You can live a month on your fat.”

Marchenko turned and looked at Hollis. “You will be eating rats to stay alive in the Gulag.”

“Go to hell.”

“That’s where we are going, my friend.”

Nearly three hours after they’d begun their flight, the helicopter began to descend. Hollis spotted the old Minsk road running along the Moskva River and noticed a dozen clusters of izbas, any one of which could have been Yablonya. Then, unexpectedly, he did spot Yablonya. He knew it was Yablonya because it was a stretch of black charred log cabins along a dirt road. Grey ash lay where kitchen gardens and haystacks once were. A bulldozer had dug a long slit in the black earth, and half the burned village had already been pushed into it. Hollis looked away from the window. To the list of scores to be settled — Fisher, Bill Brennan, and the three hundred American fliers — was now added the village of Yablonya.

About three minutes later, Hollis looked back out the window. They were at about five hundred feet now, and he saw the beginning of Borodino Field, the earthworks, monuments, then the museum. The pine forest came up, and the helicopter dropped more quickly. He saw the wire fence and the cleared area around it, then the helipad that Alevy had pointed out in the satellite photograph.

Lisa leaned over beside him and looked out the window. “Are we landing?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“At the Charm School.”