“It’s better for everyone.”
“Is it? The old place at least had charm, and it was right on Tchaikovsky Street, not far from the American Express office.” She smiled. “And we all lived in that delightfully grim apartment house off Gorky Street. My bathroom — they were prefab, remember? — was pulling away from the rest of the building. There was a six-inch gap and I could actually see into the bathroom below.”
“Was that you?”
She laughed. They walked on in silence awhile, then Lisa said, “But I suppose this is better. We have the quadrangle. I guess you’re used to this institutional living. I mean, you lived on Air Force bases.”
“Sometimes. Depended on the assignment.”
Lisa stopped. “This is my cell. Actually, they’re quite nice. Just a bit sterile.”
“Eight million Muscovites would trade places with you.”
“Oh, I know. I’m just getting cabin fever.”
“Take a leave.”
“In January. There’s a place called Jumby Bay, a small island off the coast of Antigua. Very private and very lovely. I may defect there.”
They stood in the cold mist, and he noticed in the dim lamplight that her face and hair were wet. He noticed, too, she was about twenty years younger than he was.
Lisa said, “I’ve never seen you at the Friday night follies.”
“I usually wind up at some embassy reception on Fridays.”
“Right. The follies are for the rank and file. But I get to go to a lot of cultural events. Do you like the ballet?”
“Only at the end when the fat lady sings.”
“That’s opera.”
“Right. I get them mixed up.” He took his hands out of his jacket pockets. “Well, I suppose we’d better get out of the rain.” He held out his hand.
She seemed not to notice and said, “Seth is very intense.”
“Is he?”
“Yes. Some people would mistake it for abrasiveness.”
“Would they?”
“Do you know him well?”
“Well enough.”
“You both seemed short with each other. Are you enemies or just rivals?”
“Neither. We enjoy each other. It’s just our way of speaking.”
“Like when you suggested he shove the caviar up his ass?”
“Yes, like that.”
She considered a moment. “He never mentioned that he knew you.”
“Why should he?”
“I suppose there were a lot of things he didn’t discuss with me.” She added, “He is very professional. There was no loose pillow talk.”
“But you know he’s not a political affairs officer.”
“Yes, I know that. And I know that most defense attachés are military intelligence.”
“How do you know that?”
“One knows these things. Didn’t you know I was seeing Seth Alevy?”
“He never mentioned it.”
“I thought it was hot gossip in the lunchroom. Oh, well, as a French philosopher once said, ‘People who worry about what others think of them would be surprised at how little they did.’”
“Precisely.”
She asked, “Do you have antiseptic for those cuts? You have to be careful in foreign countries.”
“I had three glasses of Russian antiseptic.”
“Be serious. I have some witch hazel….”
“I’m going to the infirmary to see Brennan. I’ll get something there.”
“Good. Be sure you do.”
“I will. Good night.”
“I have tomorrow off. I usually sleep late after night duty.”
“Good idea.”
“I wanted to go to the Marx and Engels museum tomorrow. I haven’t seen it yet. Have you?”
“It’s not on my list.”
“Anyway, I’m a little… concerned now. About going out alone, I mean. I guess they know who I am now. From the tape. Right?”
“Yes. But I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
She reached out and picked a wet twig from his fleece collar and handed it to him.
He examined the twig thoughtfully, then spoke in a soft voice. “You see, Ms. Rhodes, you can’t let them dictate how you are going to live. They are not omnipotent, nor omnipresent. They want you to think that. It makes their job easier.”
“Yes, I know that, but—”
“But you may be right. Perhaps you ought to stay in the compound until we get a better fix on this.”
She replied in an impatient tone, “That is not what I had in mind, Colonel. I’m asking you if you would like to come with me tomorrow.”
Hollis cleared his throat. “Well… why don’t we have lunch and save the Marx-Engels museum for a special occasion?”
She smiled. “Call for me here at noon.” She turned and walked to her door.
“Good night, Colonel Hollis.”
“Good night, Ms. Rhodes.”
7
“Yes… yes, I… Oh, God… hurry.”
“Ten minutes, Greg. Get to the lounge.”
Seth Alevy hit the stop button on the tape player.
Charles Banks, special aide to the American ambassador to the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, sat at the head of the long mahogany table in the ambassador’s safe room, a worried look on his face.
Sam Hollis sat to his right, across from Alevy. Hollis had been in the room a number of times and was always struck by its patina of age, though the room was barely a year old. Apparently everything in the room, including the wainscoting and moldings, had been taken from somewhere else and reconstructed here. The ambassador, a wealthy man, was supposed to have paid for it himself. Hollis would have wondered why, except that everyone in this loony place had an idiosyncrasy that defied explanation.
Alevy said to Charles Banks, “A voice-stress analysis was done on the tape early this morning. Our expert says that Gregory Fisher was most probably telling the truth and was under actual stress.”
Banks looked curiously at Alevy. “Really? They can tell that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Amazing.”
Hollis regarded Charles Banks, a man near sixty, with snow-white hair, a ruddy, avuncular face, and sparkling blue eyes. Hollis remembered last Christmas when Banks dressed as Santa Claus for the embassy children. When not wearing his Santa suit, Banks favored dark, three-piece pinstripes. He was a career diplomat, with the standard Eastern credentials, easy social graces, and the voice of a 1940s radio announcer. Yet beyond the Santa facade and the diplomat’s polish, Hollis recognized a kindred spirit; Hollis thought that Charles Banks was the third spy in this room. But Hollis did not know for whom Banks was spying.
Alevy continued his briefing for Banks. “And as I’ve indicated, Colonel Hollis believes he can establish that Mr. Fisher was at the Rossiya last night.”
Banks turned to Hollis. “You have this Englishman, the French couple, and the black-market fellow.”
Hollis replied, “I don’t actually have them. I spoke to them.”
“Yes, of course. But they could identify Mr. Fisher?”
“I hope so. We’re getting facsimiles of passport photos transmitted here from the State Department’s files of all passport applicants with the name Gregory Fisher. There are about a dozen.”
“And you will show the photos to these people?”
“I called my counterpart in the French embassy this morning,” Hollis explained, “and he found out for me that a Monsieur and Madame Besnier have contacted their embassy, stating they were involved in a difficulty at the Rossiya. They are leaving the country on today’s Finnair flight out of Sheremetyevo at twelve forty-five. If we miss them there with the photos, we can locate them in Helsinki or in France. Keep in mind, sir, the woman did know the name ‘Gregory Fisher.’”