“Stop. Hold the line.” She hit the hold button. In the duty book she quickly found the apartment number of the air attaché, Colonel Sam Hollis, whom she knew casually. She rang him, but there was no answer. “Damn it, and Seth is at his damned Sukkot party….” She considered putting out an all-points page for Hollis but instead tried Hollis’ office two floors above. The phone was picked up on the first ring, and a voice answered, “Hollis.”
She said in a controlled voice, “Colonel Hollis, this is Lisa Rhodes on the duty desk.”
“Yes?”
“I have a U.S. national on the line, calling from the Rossiya. He sounds very distraught. He also says he wants to speak to a defense attaché, preferably an Air Force attaché.”
“Why?”
“I’ll play the tape for you.”
“Go ahead.”
Lisa Rhodes transferred the playback to Hollis’ line. When it was finished, Hollis said, “Put him through.”
She put the phone on conference call and released the hold button. “Mr. Fisher? Are you there?”
There was no answer.
“Mr. Fisher?”
“Yes…. There’s someone standing—”
“Here is the gentleman with whom you asked to speak.”
Hollis’ voice came on the line. “Mr. Fisher, you say you are calling from the lobby of the Rossiya?”
“Yes. I’m—”
“Is the lobby crowded?”
“No. Why?”
“Who is standing by the phone booth?”
“A man. Listen, should I try to get to the embassy—”
“No, sir. You stay there. Do not leave that hotel. Do not go back to your room. There is a restaurant on the top floor. Go to the lounge there and introduce yourself to some Westerners — English-speaking, if possible — and stay with them until I arrive. Is that clear?”
“Yes… yes.”
“What are you wearing?”
“Blue jeans… black windbreaker—”
“Okay, son. Get to the lounge quickly. If anyone tries to stop you, kick, scream, yell, and fight. Understand?”
“Yes… yes, I…” Fisher’s voice sounded strained. “Oh… God… hurry.”
Hollis’ tone was soothing. “Ten minutes, Greg. Get to the lounge.”
Lisa heard the phone click as Fisher hung up. Hollis’ voice came on. “Ms. Rhodes, I need a car—”
“I’ve already called for one, Colonel. With driver.”
“I’ll be bringing Mr. Fisher here. Have a visitor’s room ready in the residency and alert the appropriate security people.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Stay in the duty office.”
“Of course.”
There was a silence, then Hollis said, “Nicely handled, Ms. Rhodes.”
She heard him hang up before she could respond. Lisa Rhodes put the phone back in the cradle. “You, too, Colonel Hollis.”
5
Colonel Sam Hollis, American air attaché to the Soviet Union, left his office and took the elevator to the ground floor of the chancery building. He went directly to the duty office adjacent the empty lobby and opened the door.
Lisa Rhodes turned toward him. “Yes?”
“Hollis.”
“Oh….” She stood. “I didn’t recognize you in civvies.”
“Have we met?”
“A few times.” She regarded him a moment. He was wearing a leather bomber jacket, jeans, and leather boots. He was in his late forties, tall, and lanky. She thought he was rather good-looking in a tough sort of way. She remembered his pale blue eyes and unmilitary-length sandy hair. She also remembered that he and Seth had business dealings.
Hollis said, “I don’t want you to breathe a word of this to anyone.”
“I know that.”
“Good. There is someone however… do you know Seth Alevy? Political affairs officer.”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Alevy is attending a party in town—”
“I know that.”
“How do you know that?”
“He invited me.”
“I see. So you know how to reach him?”
“Yes, through his people here.”
“That’s right. Please do that.”
She hesitated, then said, “I’ve already asked his people to get him here.”
Hollis gave her a close look.
She returned his stare. “I guess I know he’s involved with things like this.”
Hollis went to the door, then turned back to her. “Are you involved with things like this?”
“Oh, no. I’m just a PIO. Seth and I are social friends.”
They looked at each other a moment. Hollis guessed she was in her late twenties. She was lightly freckled, with reddish auburn hair. She was not the type of woman you forgot meeting, and in fact, he had not forgotten the times they’d met in the embassy. He also knew that she and Alevy had been recent lovers. But by instinct and training he never offered information, only solicited it. “Hold the fort. See you later.” He left.
Lisa moved to the door and watched him walk quickly through the lobby to the front doors. “Strong, silent type. Silent Sam.”
Sam Hollis pushed through the glass doors into the damp, misty night. He zipped his leather jacket and headed toward a blue Ford Fairlane that sat in the forecourt with its engine running. Hollis jumped in the passenger side. “Hello, Bill.”
The driver, a security staff man named Bill Brennan, drove quickly through the court, around the traffic circle that held the illuminated flagpole, and moved toward the gates. “Where we going, Colonel?”
“Rossiya.” Hollis looked at Brennan. He was a man in his mid-fifties, heavyset and balding, and his nose had once been broken. Hollis always had the impression that Brennan wanted to break someone else’s nose. Hollis said, “You carrying?”
“Yup. You?”
“No. Didn’t have time to get it.”
“Loan you mine if you promise to kill a commie.”
“That’s all right.”
The gates swung open, and the car moved past the Marine guard post, then past the Soviet militia booth on the sidewalk. Brennan kept the speed down so as not to attract the attention of the KGB embassy watchers in the surrounding buildings, but Hollis said, “Step on it. They know where I’m going.”
“Okay.” Brennan accelerated up the dark, quiet side street and cut right onto the wide, well-lit Tchaikovsky Street. Traffic was sparse and Brennan made good time. He asked, “Do I stop for police?”
“No, you run them.” Hollis added, “Don’t take the direct route up Kalinin.”
“Gotcha.” The Ford picked up speed in the outside lane, passing buses and trams, and sailed past the Kalinin Prospect intersection. Brennan stuffed his mouth with bubble gum, chewed, and blew bubbles until they popped. “Want some?”
“No, thanks. Do you know the Rossiya?”
“Know the traffic patterns, parking, and all. Not the inside.”
“Fine.” Brennan knew the streets of Moscow better than a Moscow cabbie, but Hollis thought that Brennan cared not a whit about Moscow. He was into streets, and he claimed he’d never seen Red Square, because he couldn’t drive through it.
Brennan asked between chews, “Is this going to be messy?”
“Maybe. American national up the creek at the Rossiya.”
“How’d the Komitet know you were going there?”
“Well, the kid — the U.S. national — called the embassy and said he was in trouble.”
“Oh.”
Hollis thought about Fisher’s call. He assumed the traffic police had indeed stopped Fisher for nothing more than an itinerary violation. But Fisher had gotten paranoid because of the Borodino thing. If he’d kept his cool, he would have been able to come to the embassy and tell his story. Instead, Gregory Fisher’s two-kopek phone call might have already cost him his freedom — or his life.