Fisher noticed that the parking lot hung out over a steep incline that ran down to the Moskva River. The hotel was a monstrosity, surrounded by small, old buildings and a half dozen tiny churches in bad repair.
Fisher looked in his rearview mirror. On the entrance drive behind him he saw the police car parked. Fisher pulled up to the front doors of the hotel and shut off the engine.
He saw a green-uniformed doorman standing inside the glassed-in outer foyer of the hotel. The man studied the Trans Am but made no move to open the door. Fisher got out of the car with his shoulder satchel. He had discovered that in a Soviet hotel a doorman’s job was not to help people in, but to keep Soviet citizens out, especially, but not limited to, black marketeers, prostitutes, dissidents, and the curious who might want to see how people on the West side of the tracks lived. Fisher opened the door himself and approached the doorman. “Allo.”
“Allo.”
Fisher motioned toward his car. “Bagazh. Okay?”
“Okay.”
He handed the doorman his car keys. “Garazh. Okay?”
The doorman looked at him quizzically.
It occurred to Fisher that there was probably not a parking garage in the whole of Moscow. Fisher was tired, scared, and annoyed. “Sweet Jesus….” He realized he didn’t have a ruble on him. He reached into his satchel and grabbed an item he’d been saving. “Here.” He held up an eight-inch copper reproduction of the Statue of Liberty, complete with pedestal.
The doorman’s eyes darted around, then he took it and examined it suspiciously. “Religiozni?”
“No, no. It’s the Statue of Liberty. Svoboda. For you. Podarok. Take care of the auto. Okay?”
The doorman shoved the statue into the pocket of his tunic. “Okay.”
Fisher pushed through the swinging glass door and entered the lobby, which seemed deserted and, like most public places, overheated. The Russians equated heat with luxury, Fisher suspected. He looked around. The lobby was mostly grey stone and aluminum. A mezzanine ran from end to end above the pillared lobby. There was no bar, no newsstand, no shops, no services in evidence. There was nothing in fact to suggest he was in a hotel except for a sort of ticket window in the left-hand wall that he assumed was the front desk. He walked to it, and a disinterested young woman looked up. He gave her his Intourist reservation, his passport and visa. She examined the passport a moment, then without a word disappeared through a door behind the desk.
Fisher said aloud to himself, “Welcome to the Rossiya, Mr. Fisher. How long will you be staying with us?… Oh, until the KGB comes for me…. Very good, sir.”
Fisher turned and looked down the long, narrow lobby. There were no bellhops or hotel staff in view except the doorman sitting in the glass-enclosed foyer. He could see his car, and parked right behind it was the police car.
The place not only looked deserted, but spooky. “This is not a hotel.”
Fisher now noticed a couple near a far pillar arguing in French, which echoed through the lobby. They were well dressed and both were good-looking. The woman seemed on the verge of tears. The man gave a very Gallic wave of dismissal and turned his back on her.
“Oh,” Fisher said, “give the woman a break. You should have my problems, buddy.” Fisher recalled Paris as he’d last seen it in June and wondered why he’d ever left. Napoleon probably wondered the same thing as Moscow burned around him and the snow was falling. He might have stood right here, Fisher thought, a hundred yards from the Kremlin wall, Red Square to his back and the Moskva to his front. And he would have felt that sense of doom that the Westerner feels when he enters this foreboding land, like I feel now.
He noticed that someone had moved his car, but he didn’t see his bags being brought in, and that bothered him. He thought about where his car might be. Probably at KGB headquarters, being stripped to its frame. The police car was also gone.
Fisher needed a drink. He looked at his watch: 8:30 P.M. Someone behind him said, “Gree-gory Feesher.”
He turned back to the desk. A middle-aged woman with short red hair, black roots, and a polyester pantsuit of aquamarine said, “I am from Intourist. I may see your papers?”
Fisher handed her the large envelope. She went through each paper carefully, then looked at him. “Why are you late?”
Fisher had rarely been asked that question in that tone by anyone, and he felt his anger rising in him again. He snapped, “Late for what?”
“We were worried about you.”
“Well, nothing to worry about now, is there? May I go to my room?”
“Of course. You must be tired.” She added, “It has been some time since I met an American who traveled by auto from the West. The young are so adventurous.”
“And stupid.”
“Perhaps.” She handed him his papers minus his passport and visa, then gave him a green hotel card. “This is your propusk. Carry this always with you. Your passport and visa will be returned when you check out. You must produce the propusk when anyone in authority asks for it.”
“Maybe I should just tape it to my forehead.”
She seemed to appreciate the joke and smiled. She leaned across the counter and said softly, “You have been here long enough to know that it is not easy for a Westerner traveling without a tour group, Mr. Fisher. Don’t call attention to yourself.”
Fisher didn’t respond.
“Avoid barter, currency deals, prostitutes, political talk, and itinerary violations. I give you good advice because you seem a pleasant young man.”
Fisher thought he’d been anything but pleasant. “Thank you. I’ll be good.”
She stared at him awhile, and Fisher had the disturbing thought that she knew he was already in trouble and was worried about him. He suddenly liked her. He asked, “Where is my luggage?”
“It will be along.”
“Shortly?”
“Presently.”
He thought it was being searched by now. He asked, “Will they park my car safely?”
“Of course. Who could steal an American car?”
Fisher smiled. “Couldn’t get too far.”
A bellhop suddenly appeared who Fisher thought looked like Genghis Khan’s nephew. He motioned Fisher to follow him to the elevator bank. They waited nearly five minutes before an elevator came. Fisher rode up with the Tartar to the seventh floor. The elevator doors opened to reveal a small vestibule where a pretty young woman sat at a desk. In Paris or Rome, Fisher would have been pleasantly surprised to find a floor concierge in attendance. But in Moscow, Fisher knew this woman was the floor’s dezhurnaya, a guardian of public morals, and according to a Pole he’d met in Warsaw, also a KGB snoop.
The blond woman looked up from a copy of Cosmopolitan. “Allo. Your propusk, please.”
Fisher gave it to her. She handed him his room key. “Give me key when you leave. I give you propusk.”
“Sounds fair.”
The bellman pointed down the hall, and Fisher found himself leading the way. At a turn in the corridor Fisher saw his room, 745, and opened the door with his key. He went in, followed by the bellman. Fisher said, “Your room, sir.”