Hollis didn’t know what to say to that, so he asked, “Brothers or sisters?”
“An older sister, divorced and living back home. I have a niece and nephew. My parents seem happy for the company. They want me to marry and move close by. They’re proud of my career in the diplomatic corps but aren’t too keen on my present assignment. Especially my mother. She has a phobia about Russia.”
“You look like you can take care of yourself. You know, my father was stationed on Long Island in the mid-fifties. Mitchel Air Force Base. I vaguely remember it.”
“Yes. It’s closed now.”
“I know,” Hollis replied. “What’s become of the place?”
“It’s been parceled out to Hofstra University and a community college. Part of the land was used to build the coliseum where the Islanders play. Do you follow hockey?”
“No. Like my parents, I’m not much of an American. It’s ironic, considering I’ve devoted my life to the service of my country. I’m a patriot, but I’m not plugged into the pop culture. For years I thought Yogi Bear and Yogi Berra were the same person.”
Lisa smiled. “So you wouldn’t pass the friend-or-foe test if someone asked you who plays center field for the Mets? You couldn’t pass for the American that you are.”
“No, I’m afraid I’d be shot on the spot.”
Lisa poured the last of the wine into their glasses. She looked at Hollis. “Well, now we know something about each other.”
“Yes. I’m glad we had a chance to talk.”
The food arrived, and Hollis inquired, “What the hell is this?”
“That’s dovta, a soup made of sour milk and rice. This cuisine is similar to Turkish. It’s somewhat complex, with more depth than Slavic cuisine. And the shit on the chipped blue plate is called gulubtsy.” She laughed.
Hollis smiled and helped himself. They ate in silence. More plates of spiced food arrived. They washed the meal down with weak Moscow beer. Hollis glanced at his watch.
She noticed and asked, “Do you have time to see the Train of Mourning?”
“The what?”
“The actual engine and coach that brought Lenin’s body back to Moscow. It’s on display at Paveletsky Station.”
“Oh, that train. I’ll pass.”
“Just kidding anyway. I don’t really go to places like the Marx-Engels museum either,” Lisa said. “I think it’s a joke how they try to create a secular religion in place of the one they destroyed. But if you are free this afternoon, perhaps we can do something.”
“Sure. How would you like to take a ride in the country?”
“Don’t joke.”
“No joke,” Hollis replied.
“Where? How?”
“I have to go to Mozhaisk on official business. I have a pass with your name on it.”
“Do you? I’d love to go. What sort of business?”
“Bad business, Lisa. Gregory Fisher is in the Mozhaisk morgue.”
Lisa stopped eating and stared down at the table for some time. She cleared her throat and said, “Oh, God, Sam. That poor boy….”
“Do you still want to go?”
She nodded.
The proprietress brought strong Turkish coffee and honey balls. Hollis had the coffee. Lisa sat silently. She lit a cigarette and said to Hollis, “Was he… trying to escape or what…?”
“No. They say he was heading toward Moscow. They say he had a car accident before the Borodino turnoff. They say he never got to the Rossiya.”
“They’re lying.”
“Be that as it may, it’s their country. I’ll brief you in the car. But I want you to understand now that if you come with me, I can’t guarantee your safety.”
“Safety?”
“I think the KGB is satisfied that they’ve contained the problem. They probably don’t think they have to engineer another accident. On the other hand, they’re not logical in the way we understand logic, therefore they’re not predictable.”
She nodded.
Hollis added, “They know you took Fisher’s call, and they know your name is on the pass. That shouldn’t make you a target, but you never know what they’ve talked themselves into. Still want to go?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Why are you going, Sam? Anybody from the consular section could go.”
“I’m going to snoop around. You know that.”
“And that’s why I’m wearing dark, casual clothes and why you have a gun in an ankle holster.”
“That’s right.”
“Well… I’ll help you snoop. I enjoy your company.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Also, I guess I feel I was in at the beginning of this… you know?”
“Yes.” He stood and put six rubles on the table. “Well, the food wasn’t so bad. The place has ambience and no electronic plumbing like at the Prague or the other top twenty. Two and a half stars. Send a letter to Michelin.”
She stood. “Thanks for being such a good sport. My treat next time.”
“Next time I pick.”
“Can you top this for ambience?”
“You bet,” Hollis said. “I know a KGB hangout.”
“Are you kidding?”
“No.”
“Neat. Take me.”
They left the restaurant, and Hollis found himself in an agreeable frame of mind for the first time in a long while.
Part II
Scratch a Russian, and you will wound a Tartar.
9
Sam Hollis and Lisa Rhodes came out of Arbat Street into the square of the same name. They walked past the statue of Gogol toward the star-shaped pavilion of the Arbatskaya metro station on the far side of the square. The Prague Restaurant was to their left, where a long line of people still waited for their lunch. On the north side of the square was Dom Svyazi, a glass and concrete post office and telephone exchange. Lisa said, “That’s where the church of Saint Brois used to stand, and over there was the seventeenth-century church of Saint Tikhon. The communists demolished both of them. I have old pictures though.”
“Are you trying to publish a book or draw up an indictment?”
“Both.”
They entered the metro pavilion and jostled their way through the crowd toward the escalators. At the last moment Hollis took Lisa’s arm and led her toward the opposite doors of the pavilion. They came back out onto the square behind a fountain. She said, “What are you doing?”
“We’re not taking the metro to the embassy.”
“Oh… don’t we have to pick up a car?”
“Follow me. Walk quickly.”
Hollis moved rapidly toward the east side of the square. Lisa followed. They passed a number of kiosks and cleaved through lines of people queued up for kvass, soft drinks, and ice cream. Lisa said, “Where are we going?”
He took her wrist and pulled her up to a black Zhiguli parked with its engine running at the curb in front of the Khudozhestvennyi Art Cinema. “Get in.”
Hollis went to the driver’s side, and a man whom Lisa recognized from the embassy got out immediately. Hollis slid behind the wheel, and the man closed the door. The man said, “Full tank, linkage is a bit sticky, your briefcase is in the backseat. Luck.”
“Thanks.” Hollis threw the Zhiguli into gear and pulled out into Kalinin Prospect, then made a sudden U-turn and headed west. He looked in his rearview mirror.