“Please?”
“Forget it.” Fisher looked around. It was a medium-sized room decorated in stark Scandinavian blondewood. The two single beds were undersized, and the mattress would be thin foam rubber, and the sheets, coarse cotton. The rug was brick-red, but that didn’t hide the fact that it needed a shampoo. He doubted, however, that such a thing existed east of Berlin. Oh, the things we take for granted. The rest of the room looked clean enough except for the window. He had not seen a single clean window in the whole of the Soviet Union. “Windex. I’ll sell them Windex.” A smell of pine disinfectant reminded him of his side trip to Borodino.
The bellman said, “Good room.” He tried a lamp switch and seemed surprised that it worked. “Good light.”
“Excellent fucking light. Volts, watts, lumens, the works.”
The bellman ducked into the bathroom for a second, opened the closet, pulled out a few bureau drawers, then held out his arms as if to say, “It’s all yours.”
Fisher sighed and rummaged through his satchel, finding a small sampler of Aramis cologne. “This drives the women wild.”
The Tartar took it and sniffed. “Ah.” The man beamed, his slanted eyes narrowing. “Thank you.” He turned and left.
Fisher examined the door. As in all other rooms he’d stayed in east of the curtain, this door had no peephole, no bolt, or security chain. He walked to the bed, fell back onto it, and kicked off his Reeboks. He stared at the ceiling awhile, then sat up and looked at the telephone. The hotel service directory was a single sheet of typed paper. He dialed a three-digit number, got room service, and ordered a bottle of vodka. “First thing that went right all day.”
He considered the events of the last few hours. He had managed to suppress his fear in front of the police and to act natural and a bit cocky as he checked in. But his resolve was draining away fast in the quiet, empty room. He began to shake, then bounded out of bed and paced the room. What if they come for me now? Maybe I should try to get to the embassy now. But that bastard said to stay in the hotel. They’re watching me. Can they know what happened at Borodino?
He stopped pacing. “This is not a business problem. This is life or death.” He realized he had to calm down before he could think. Don’t think about getting arrested or shot. Then you can go through the bullshit of problem solving.
He walked to the window and looked out through the grime. From his corner room he could see toward Red Square. The Kremlin was to the left, and he could look down into it. St. Basil’s ten phantasmal onion domes seemed to hang suspended like giant helium balloons above the dark cobbled pavement, and beyond them lay the huge GUM department store. The streets looked deserted, the buildings were dark, but the monuments were bathed in floodlight. A night fog, like a vapor, rolled off the Moskva and swirled around the streetlights, rolled over the Kremlin walls, and seemed to turn covers, as if it were looking for something. There was a sinister essence about this city, Fisher decided. Something unnatural about its cold, dead streets.
There was a loud rap on the door, and Fisher turned with a start. Another knock. Fisher took a breath, went to the door, and threw it open. A matronly woman stood there with an ice bucket from which protruded a liter of Moskovskaya. Fisher showed her in, gave her a tube of toothpaste, and showed her out.
His hand shook as he poured a half tumbler of the chilled vodka. He drank it down, and it made his eyes water. He refilled his glass and continued pacing. The next knock will be my luggage or the KGB. “The fucking K—” He stopped. He’d heard and believed that every room was bugged. He’d read somewhere that some rooms had a fiber optic embedded in the wall or ceiling and everything in the room could be seen. He put his glass on the nightstand, turned off the light, put on his shoes, and took his shoulder satchel. He went into the bathroom, flushed the toilet, and shut the light. As the toilet was still flushing, he left the bathroom and slipped quietly out of his room into the hallway. He looked both ways, then retraced his path and found the elevator lobby. The dezhurnaya’s face was hidden by the copy of Cosmopolitan. She didn’t seem to know he was there or didn’t care. Fisher read the string of subheads on the cover: Beating the Man Shortage! Cosmo Finds the Best Place to Meet Them; The Shy Girl — How She Can Compete; Why Friends Make the Best Lovers; The Joy of Resuming an Old Romance.
Fisher put his keys on her desk. She looked up. “Allo, Mr. Fisher.” She gave him his propusk.
He pushed the elevator button and prepared for a long wait. The vodka finally reached his brain. He said to the woman, “Good magazine?”
“Yes. Very sexy.”
“Right.”
“American women have too much.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
She tapped the magazine. “They have so many problems with men.”
“Cosmo women have more problems than most.”
“Ah.”
Fisher hesitated, then took a tube of lip gloss from his satchel. It was a frosted pink and seemed to match her coloring.
She smiled as she examined it. “Thank you.” She took a compact mirror from her bag and went to work immediately.
Fisher noticed it wasn’t really her color, but she didn’t seem to care. He liked the way she puckered her lips. The elevator came, and he stepped in. Two Russian men who smelled of salami stood quietly behind him. Fisher felt perspiration under his arms.
Fisher stepped out into the lobby and felt somewhat better in a public place. He found the foreign exchange window, but it was closed. He went to the front desk and asked the clerk if she would cash an Intourist voucher for five rubles. She said she wouldn’t. Fisher asked for the Intourist woman and was told she was gone.
He looked around. All he needed was a lousy two-kopek piece. For want of a nail… “Damn it.” He saw that the French couple was still there, and he approached them. “Pardon, monsieur, madame. J’ai besoin de… deux kopeks. Pour le téléphone.”
The man gave him an unfriendly look. The woman smiled nicely and searched through her bag. “Voilà.”
“Merci, madame. Merci.” Fisher moved off and found a single telephone booth in a short corridor that led to the Beriozka. He went inside, pulled the door closed, and took his Fodor guide from his satchel. Fisher found the number of the American embassy, inserted the two-kopek piece, and dialed.
Gregory Fisher listened to the short, distant ringing signals, very unlike the ones he was used to at home. He cleared his throat several times and said “hello” twice to try his voice. The blood was pounding in his ears. He kept his eyes on the corridor. The phone continued to ring.
4
Lisa Rhodes sat at the night duty officer’s desk on the first floor of the chancery building. The wall clock showed 8:45. The phone had been quiet all evening. This was not an embassy that was likely to be surrounded by angry mobs or blown up by a terrorist. Nor was Moscow a city where the police called to inform you they had a dozen of your compatriots in the drunk tank. She lit a cigarette as she crossed out a line of the press release she was working on.
The door opened, and Kay Hoffman, Lisa’s boss, stuck her head into the small office. “Hello. Anything exciting happening?”
“Yes, but it’s happening in Rome. Hello, Kay. Come on in.”
Kay Hoffman entered the office and sat on the windowsill air register. “Ah, that feels good on my buns. Cold out there.”