The bartender glanced at him quickly but continued to make drinks as he replied, “American, you say? No, I didn’t see anyone like that.”
Hollis left the bar and walked quickly to the east-wing elevators. He rode down to the seventh floor and got off. The dezhurnaya looked at him curiously. “Gost?”
“No. Visitor.” He leaned over her desk, looked the blond woman directly in the eye, and said, “Fisher.”
She looked away.
“Gregory Fisher. American.”
She rolled a tube of lip gloss in her fingers, then shook her head.
Hollis looked at the keyboard behind her desk and saw that the key for 745 was missing. He walked past her and she called after him, “You may not go there.”
Hollis ignored her. He found room 745 and knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again, harder.
A voice from behind the door said, “Who is it?”
“I’m from the embassy.”
“Embassy?”
Hollis heard the lock turn, and the door opened. A paunchy, middle-aged man with sleep in his eyes, wearing a robe, peered out. “Is everything all right?”
Hollis looked at him, then past him into the room. “I’m looking for Mr. Fisher.”
The man seemed relieved. “Oh, I thought something happened at home. My wife. My name is Schiller. Everything’s all right, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Hollis stared at him.
Schiller said, “I heard ‘embassy,’ and you know—”
“Mr. Fisher just called me and said he was in seven forty-five.”
Schiller’s manner went from worried to slightly annoyed. “So? He’s not here, pal. I don’t know the guy. Try four fifty-seven. Anything’s possible in this fucked-up country.”
Which, Hollis thought, was not only true, but offered another possible explanation. “They may have assigned you a roommate. They do that sometimes.”
“Do they? Christ, what a place.”
“Could there be anyone’s luggage in your closet?”
“Hell, no. I paid extra for a fucking single, and there’s no one here. Hey, is he with that American Express group? Did you see that little Intourist guide they have? Christ, she looked edible. Maybe your friend is talking politics with her.” He laughed. “Well, see ya at the Bolshoi.” The man closed the door.
Hollis stood there a moment, then walked back to the elevators. The dezhurnaya was gone. Hollis went behind her desk and found the drawer full of propusks. He flipped through them but could not find one with 745 on it. How did Schiller get the key to 745 without turning in his propusk?
Hollis took the elevator down to the lobby, which was deserted. He went to the front desk and rang the bell. The clerk appeared at the door behind the counter. Hollis said in Russian, “What room is Gregory Fisher in?”
The clerk shook her head. “Not here.”
“Who is in room seven forty-five?”
“I cannot tell you.”
“Is there an Intourist representative here?”
“No. Tomorrow morning at eight. Good evening.” She turned and disappeared into the inner office. He looked toward the foyer and saw there was a different doorman on duty. “People are disappearing left and right, before my very eyes. Amazing country.”
Hollis thought a moment. Several possibilities came to mind, including the possibility that this was all a KGB provokatsiya, a ruse to draw him into some sort of compromising situation. But if they wanted to entrap him, there were less elaborate schemes. If they wanted to kill him, they’d just pick a morning he was jogging along the Shevchenko Embankment and run him over.
Hollis thought about Fisher’s voice, the words, the very real fright in his tone. “Fisher is real.” But Hollis had to prove that Fisher had reached this hotel alive and had fallen into the hands of the KGB. For if he could prove that, then what Fisher had said about Major Jack Dodson was probably true.
Hollis reached over the clerk’s counter and took her telephone. He dialed 745 and let the phone ring a dozen times then hung up. “Not good.”
Hollis looked around. He realized he was alone and exposed. They could take him anytime they wanted now.
He walked quickly across the lobby, his footsteps echoing on the stone floor. He entered the dark passage that led to the Beriozka shop, drew his knife, and slid into the phone booth that Fisher must have used. Hollis thought that if the Rossiya was causing people to disappear, it might be a good idea if he proved that he had reached the Rossiya alive. He inserted a two-kopek piece and dialed the embassy. The Marine duty man answered, and Hollis asked to be put through to the duty office. Lisa Rhodes answered quickly.
Hollis asked, “Have you heard from our friend?”
“No. Isn’t he there?”
“Apparently not.”
There was a silence, then she said, “Are you returning here?”
“That is my plan.”
“Do you need assistance?”
Hollis did, but he did not want this thing to escalate. He, Seth Alevy, and the other men and women in their profession had been made to understand by the ambassador that their shenanigans were their own business and should never embarrass the diplomatic mission. Hollis continued in that cryptic and stilted way they all spoke over the telephone. “Have my car and driver returned yet?”
“No. Isn’t he with you?”
“No, I let him go on. I thought he should be back there by now.”
“I’m sure he’s not. Could he have had an accident or a breakdown?”
“He could very well have. You may be hearing from the authorities on that.”
“I see.” She drew a deep breath. “Can I send transportation for you?”
“No. I’ll find public transportation. Is your friend back from his party yet?”
“He should be here within minutes. Do you want him to join you?”
“No need for that,” Hollis replied.
“Can he call you there?”
“No. But I may call you again.”
“What shall we do here if I don’t hear from you?”
“Let him make that decision when he arrives.”
“All right.” She added, “I’ve replayed that tape we both like. It sounds realistic.”
“Yes. I’ve thought about that. I’ll do what I can to find the original.”
“Good luck.”
Hollis hung up and went back down the dark corridor, knife in hand. He reached the lobby and slipped the knife under his jacket. “Well, if I don’t make it back, the ambassador can raise a little stink about it.” His estranged wife, Katherine, would get his pension and life insurance. He kept meaning to write to his lawyer in Washington to change his will. The complications inherent in international matrimonial problems were endless. “Endless.” There were times when he wished he were in his old F-4 Phantom with nothing more to worry about than MiGs and missiles converging on his radar screen.
Hollis considered the evidence. Fisher’s phone call to the embassy had tipped the KGB, but they would have needed time to react. “Therefore Fisher made it to the lounge.”
Hollis took the elevator back up to the top floor and went to the lounge. He ordered a Dewar’s and soda at the service bar and said to the bartender in Russian, “Have you seen my friend yet?”
“No. I’m sorry. Three dollars.”
Hollis paid him.
A well-dressed man next to Hollis thrust his glass toward the bartender and said with a British accent, “Gin and tonic — Gordon’s and Schwepps. Slice of lemon this time, spasibo.”
Hollis said to the man, “They’ve been out of lemons since the Revolution.”