In some ways, Hollis thought, the scene before him resembled any highrise office lobby at quitting time. But on closer inspection, one knew that this was something quite different. These men and women, despite their respective job or rank, shared lives within the citadel walls, shared common bonds and experiences, problems, sorrows, and joys. They were three hundred Americans in a city of eight million Russians.
Hollis spotted Lisa talking to three men whom he recognized from the commercial section. She didn’t see him, and he watched her smiling and laughing with them. Two of the men were good-looking and obviously on the make. Hollis found he was annoyed.
She glanced around the lobby and saw him. She excused herself and walked over to him. “Hello, Colonel.”
“Hello, Ms. Rhodes.”
“Do you know Kevin, Phil, and Hugh from FCS? I can introduce you.”
“Some other time. We have a cab waiting.” He walked toward the door, and she followed. They went out into the cold air and headed toward the gates. She shivered. “Good Lord, that wind’s from the north now. That’s it until May.”
Hollis said, “I wanted to call you the last two days….”
“Forget it, Sam. Step at a time. I was swamped with work anyway. Dinner was a good idea. Thanks.”
“Right.” He took her arm and turned her toward him. “I still think I owe you an explanation. Just listen. Before we went to Mozhaisk, I told you it could be dangerous, and you saw what I meant. Every day is a danger now, every time we leave this gate. This is not just dinner tonight… I guess what I’m asking is, do you want to get involved with me and with what I’m doing?”
“Taxi’s waiting.”
Hollis took her hand, and they walked through the gate. The U.S. Marine guards saluted, and the Soviet militiamen eyed them. The KGB embassy watchers, sitting in the Chaikas, put down their newspapers and picked up their binoculars.
Hollis saw two taxis at the curb waiting for fares. Moscow taxis as a rule didn’t wait for anyone anywhere, but Western embassies were an exception. Hollis picked a white Lada and got in. He said to the driver, “Lefortovo.”
The driver glanced back at him.
Hollis said in Russian, “The restaurant, not the prison. It’s on Red-something street. Does that help?”
Lisa laughed.
The driver pulled out. “I know where that place is.”
Hollis glanced back and saw one of the Chaikas make a U-turn and follow.
Lisa said to Hollis, “Lefortovo is the name of a restaurant?”
“Yes.”
“Never heard of it. Is that the KGB hangout you promised to take me to?”
“That’s it.”
“The State Bureau of Naming Things is not known for market research, but that name is repellent. Like Lubyanka or Dachau.”
“They’re not looking for tourists.”
Lisa said, “This is going to be an adventure. You’re a lot more exciting than you look.”
“Thank you.”
The driver butted in as Moscow taxi drivers tended to do. “You speak Russian?”
“A little.”
“Maybe you want to pick another restaurant.”
“Why?”
“That one is not nice.”
“Why not?”
“Police. Too many police go there. No one else likes it.”
“You mean KGB?”
The driver didn’t respond. He lit a cigarette and filled the cab with acrid smoke. “If you give me two dollars, we’ll forget the meter.”
“I can’t give you dollars.”
“Do you have any gum, lipstick, cigarettes?”
Lisa rummaged through her bag. “Here’s an Estée Lauder lip gloss for your wife.”
“For my girlfriend. My wife gets my pay. Thank you.”
Lisa said to Hollis in English, “Men are such pigs.”
“I know.”
The driver said, “You both speak good Russian. Are you spies?”
Hollis answered, “Yes.”
The driver laughed. He turned off the ring road into the Avenue of the Enthusiasts and headed east toward the Lefortovo suburb. “Traffic gets worse every year.”
Hollis didn’t notice much traffic. He asked, “Do you know that Washington and Moscow are talking about a summit meeting in January?”
“Yes. I read that.”
“What do you think of that?” Hollis asked.
The driver looked around as if trying to determine if there were anyone else in the cab, then said, “They’ve been talking for forty fucking years. If they wanted peace, they’d have peace.”
Hollis listened as the taxi driver gave his somewhat rambling view of the world. Hollis knew what Soviet diplomats thought, so an Ivan-in-the-street interview was useful now and then.
The driver turned onto Krasno Kursantsky Street. They passed the grim Lefortovo prison compound, and the driver stopped in front of a modern building of glass and aluminum. The driver concluded, “So we should get together before the black asses and the yellow asses take over the world. We’re going to blow each other up, and they’ll take over. Tell that to your president.”
“I’ll pass it along.”
“Are you sure you want to go here?”
“Yes.” Hollis handed him five rubles and told him to keep the change, which he did. Hollis had been told that as few as ten years ago, the taxi drivers stuck to the rule of not accepting tips. But the Revolution was over, burned out, and no one took any of it seriously anymore. In two years he had not once heard anyone call anyone else comrade. The pride and fervor were gone, and everyone was on the make or on the take. The churches were crowded, party membership was down, suicides were up. The average life expectancy was dropping, and alcohol consumption, despite the anti-drinking campaign, had risen. Russia was a second-rate nation, but they had first-rate weapons and a world-class secret police.
He and Lisa walked to the door of the restaurant. She said, “That man sounded like the last New York cabbie I had.”
“God bless the proletariat. They get down to basics.”
Lisa turned and looked up and down the street. “I’ve never been in this part of town. It’s dark and grim.”
“Part of the charm.”
She stared at the KGB prison across the road, then noticed a car parked with its engine running. “Is that our favorite Chaika?”
“Could be. In a country with four makes of cars, most of which are black, it’s hard to tell if you’re being followed.”
Hollis showed her into the restaurant, and they handed their coats in at the checkroom. He took Lisa into the dinner area, a medium-sized room, unremarkable in its decor but interesting in its clientele. Most of the patrons were men, and more than half were in one sort of uniform or another. Many of the civilian-attired men were in brown suits, better cut than those of the average Muscovite. The dining room was darker than most Moscow restaurants, Hollis noted, though the effect was not romantic.
Lisa said, “Sinister. I love it.”
Hollis gave his name to a woman at the reservation counter. She looked him over, then looked Lisa up and down. She frowned, turned, and led them to a table in the center of the room. The table was laid with white linen and heavy flatware. Hollis pulled Lisa’s chair out for her. She said, “Everyone is looking at us.”
“You’re so beautiful.”
“They know we’re Americans.”
Hollis said, “By way of background, the gentlemen you see are mostly employees of Lefortovo — prison, not restaurant. They are a collection of KGB interrogators, torturers, and executioners. They work up big appetites. The food is good, and the service is the fastest in all Moscow, all Russia. It is also underpriced.”