“Yes.”
“I said to myself, ‘Please, God, no more Afghanistans, no KAL airliners, no Nick Daniloffs this time.’”
“That’s like praying for an end to death and taxes.”
“But why does it always have to be something? This thing is going to ruin it all again, isn’t it? We’ll be kicking out each other’s diplomats and staff again, canceling cultural and scientific exchanges, and heading further down that fucking road to the missile silos. Won’t we?”
Hollis replied, “That’s not my area of concern.”
“It’s everybody’s area of concern, Sam. You live on this planet.”
“Sometimes. Once I was high above it, sixty thousand feet, and I’d look around and say, ‘Those people down there are nuts.’ Then I’d look into the heavens and ask, ‘What’s the big plan, God?’ Then I’d come in and release my bombs. Then I’d dodge missiles and MiGs and go home and have a beer. I didn’t get cynical or remorseful. I just got narrowed into my little problem of dropping my bombs and getting my beer. That’s the way it is today.”
“But you talked to God. You asked Him about the big plan.”
“He never answered.” Hollis added, “For your information, however, the word still seems to be détente. Think peace. Subject to change without notice.”
She pulled a pack of Kents from her bag. “Mind?”
“No.”
“Want one?”
“No. Crack the window.”
She lowered the window and lit up.
Hollis cut off the highway onto a farm road and continued at high speed, churning up gravel as the Zhiguli bounced along a narrow lane.
She asked, “Why did you leave the highway?”
Hollis referred to a sheet of paper in his hand and made a hard left onto another road, then a right. He said, “A Brit some years ago fortunately charted back routes to bypass a lot of major towns around Moscow. This route bypasses Mozhaisk. No road names, just landmarks. Look for a dead cow.”
She smiled despite her growing anxiety. She said, “You’re committing an itinerary violation.”
“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”
“We’re going to Borodino, I suppose.”
“That’s correct.” Hollis continued to navigate the intersecting farm lanes. He passed an occasional truck or tractor and waved each time. He said to Lisa, “The damned linkage does stick, but the car handles alright. They’re Fiats, you know, and this one handles like its Italian cousin. Good trail cars.”
“Men. Cars. Football. Sex.”
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing.”
They crossed the Byelorussian railroad tracks, and a short time later Hollis saw the utility poles of the old Minsk — Moscow road and the town of Mozhaisk in the distance. “Well, we got around Mozhaisk. I wonder if Boris and Igor are pacing up and down Main Street waiting for us.”
“Who are Boris and Igor?”
“Embassy watchers.”
“Oh.”
Hollis crossed the main road and continued on the farm roads. Within fifteen minutes he intersected the poplar-lined road to Borodino Field and turned onto it. Ahead he saw the stone columns and towering gates that led to the battlefield. The gates were closed, and as they drew near they could see the gates were chained.
Lisa said, “I think these outdoor exhibits and such close early this time of year.”
“That’s what I counted on.” Hollis swung the Zhiguli between two bare poplars and into the drainage ditch. He followed the ditch that skirted the gates, then cut back onto the road and proceeded toward the museum. “You’ve never been here?”
“As I said, I’ve never been able to get a pass out of Moscow… except to stay at the Finnish dacha.”
Hollis nodded. The Finnish dacha — so named because of its architecture and saunas — was a newly built country house for American embassy staffers on the Klyazma River, about an hour’s drive north of Moscow. The ambassador’s dacha for senior staff such as himself was nearby. An invitation to spend a weekend at the ambassador’s house was very nearly a punishment. But the Finnish dacha had quickly earned a reputation, and families did not go there. One night, from his bedroom window in the ambassador’s place, Hollis had listened to the happy noises of men and women and splashing hot tubs coming from the Finnish dacha in the woods until dawn. Katherine, who had been with him then, had commented, “Why are they allowed to have so much fun and we have to drink sherry with stuffed shirts?” Within the month she had departed on her shopping trip. Hollis asked Lisa, “Go there much?”
She glanced at him. “No… it was sort of like the office Christmas party and on Monday morning everyone avoided everyone else. You know?”
“I think so.” Hollis saw the gravel parking field ahead with the museum to the right. He said, “I was here once. A reception of military attachés last October on the anniversary of the German-Russian battle here in 1941. Interesting place.”
“It looks it.” They kept silent as the car continued through the lot onto a narrow lane. The sun was gone, and the night had become very still. She noticed bright twinkling stars between scattered clouds. The deep, dark quiet of the countryside at night surprised her. “Spooky.”
“Romantic.”
She smiled despite herself. The moon broke through the clouds and revealed a dozen polished obelisks standing like shimmering sentries over the dead.
“Borodino,” Hollis said softly. “Fisher would have come this way, past the museum. The trick is to retrace how he got lost. Reach back in my briefcase and find the aerial survey map.”
She did as Hollis said. “This it?”
“Yes. Unfold it and put it on your lap. If we’re stopped, hit it with your cigarette lighter. It’s flash paper and will go up in a second without too much heat, smoke, or ash.”
“Okay.”
“Under your seat should be a red-filtered flashlight.”
She reached beneath her seat and brought out the light.
Hollis said, “We know he drove through the battlefield, then he said he found himself on a road in the woods north of Borodino Field, about this time at night. Further north is the Moskva River and the power station and reservoir. So he must have been between here and the river. The only woods on that aerial map is the bor—the pine forest. See it?”
“Yes.” She looked up from the map. “I see pine trees there in the hills. See?”
“Yes. Those are the hills just south of the Moskva. Now I’m coming to a fork in the road.”
She shone the red light on the map. “Yes. I see it here. If you take the left fork it will loop back and begin to climb that hill.”
Hollis nodded. The left fork appeared to head back toward the museum but did not. This was where Fisher must have made his fatal error. Hollis took the left fork.
With the headlights off they drove on, and the land began to rise. A few pines stood on the grassy fields, then the road entered the thick tree line, and it became very dark. Lisa cleared her throat. “Can you see?”
“Just shine the red light out the window once in a while.”
She rolled down the window, letting in a cold blast of air. The red light picked out the narrow road, and Hollis followed the beam. He said, “How you doing?”
“Okay. How’re you doing?”
“Fine,” Hollis replied. “Nice woods. I like that word—bor. Very evocative, very Russian. I think of a deep, dark pine forest of old Muscovy, woodcarvers and woodcutters, log cabins, pine pitch boiling over fires of crackling logs. Sort of fairytalish. Bor.”