The other reason was that each slab of precast concrete that the Soviets had supplied to the building site had been implanted with listening devices. After the bugging scandal broke, there followed the Marine guards’ sexual scandals at the old embassy, and the subsequent charges and counter-charges between Moscow and Washington. The American diplomatic mission to the Soviet Union had been in a shambles for over a year, and the whole mess had been making front-page news back in the States. The image of the Secretary of State conducting business in a trailer out on Tchaikovsky Street was rather embarrassing, she thought.
According to Seth Alevy’s sources, the Russians had a big laugh over the whole thing. And according to her own personal observations, the American diplomats in Moscow felt like fools and had for some time avoided social contact with other embassies.
Eventually, a little belated Yankee ingenuity and a lot of Yankee dollars had put things right in the new embassy. But Lisa Rhodes knew there was a good deal of residual bitterness left among the American staff, and it influenced their decision-making. In fact, she thought, whatever goodwill there had been between the embassy people and their Soviet hosts was gone, replaced by almost open warfare. The State Department was now seriously considering making a clean sweep of the entire staff, replacing the two hundred or so able and experienced men and women with less angry diplomats. She hoped not. She wanted to continue her tour of duty here.
Lisa Rhodes shook the ice in her drink. She closed her eyes and exhaled a stream of cigarette smoke at the ceiling.
She thought of Seth Alevy. Being involved with the CIA station chief in Moscow was not the worst thing for her career. He could pull strings to keep her in Moscow even if State ordered her home. And she did love him. Or once loved him. She wasn’t sure. But somehow, being involved with him meant being involved with his world, and she didn’t like that. It wasn’t what she wanted to do with her career or her life. It was also dangerous. Being in Moscow was dangerous enough by itself.
3
“Russian efficiency,” said the voice again.
Greg Fisher did not turn, did not breathe.
“American?”
Fisher found himself nodding in the dark.
“I’m over here.”
Fisher turned slowly toward the voice. He could make out the figure of a man standing among the pine boughs on the far side of the road. The man was tall, heavily built, and wore matching dark clothing that looked like a uniform.
The man stepped onto the road, and Fisher saw in his right hand the glint of steel. A gun. Fisher took a step back.
The man spoke as he walked. “Name’s Dodson. Yours?”
“Fisher.” He cleared his throat. “Gregory. American.” Fisher thought that if he had a serial number he’d give him that too. “Who are you?”
“Keep it down.” The man stopped a few feet from Fisher.
Fisher swallowed and inquired, “Tourist?”
The man smiled without humor. “Resident.”
“Oh.”
“Are you lost, Fisher?”
“Very.”
“Alone?”
Fisher hesitated, then replied, “Yes….” He saw now that the steel was not a gun but a knife. The man was about fifty years old with short, dark hair and eyes that glinted like the steel in his hand. There was something — blood, maybe — smeared on his chin.
Dodson said, “You might just be a graduate student.”
“I am. Was. Yale. Business school.”
Dodson smiled again. “No. I mean…” He regarded the Pontiac Trans Am, its engine running and its headlights on. “No… I think you’re the real thing.”
Fisher was confused, but he nodded. He took a deep breath and looked cautiously at the man. It was not a uniform but a blue warm-up suit with red piping. The man wore running shoes. Unreal, he thought.
Dodson slipped the knife into a scabbard beneath his waistband, then pointed at the Trans Am. “You drive that from Yale?”
“Yeah. Sort of. From Le Havre.”
“Amazing.”
“Yeah. Well, I have to get going. Not supposed to be driving after dark. Hey, nice meeting you.” Fisher glanced at his car but didn’t move toward it.
A dog barked again, and Dodson motioned Fisher toward the car. Dodson got in the passenger side and closed the door quietly. Fisher got behind the wheel. Dodson said, “I have to put some distance between me and this place.”
“What place?”
“I’ll tell you later. Turn it around. Kill the lights.”
“Right.” Fisher pulled the Trans Am up into the turnaround, backed out, and headed down the narrow road.
“Cut the engine and coast.”
Fisher glanced at his passenger, then put the transmission in neutral and shut off the engine. The car rolled down the slope he’d come up. “Hard to see the road.”
“Where are you heading, Greg?”
“Moscow.”
“Me, too.”
“Oh… well, I guess I can drop you off….” Fisher felt his head beginning to swim. “I mean—”
“Where are we?”
“Russia.”
“Yes, I know. How far are we from Moscow?”
“Oh, about a hundred kilometers.”
Dodson nodded to himself. “Closer than we thought.”
Fisher considered the big man sitting beside him. Resident. How far are we from Moscow? You might just be a graduate student. Clearly the man was nuts. Fisher said tentatively, “Someone after you?”
“Depends if they know I’m gone yet.”
“Oh.” Fisher stared out the windshield. “Getting harder to see.”
“Peripheral vision is better at night. Try it.”
“Yeah?” Fisher moved his eyes slightly and found that indeed he could see better. “Learn something every day.”
“Yes. Escape and evasion,” Dodson said. “They teach you that course at Yale?”
“No.” The road began to wind, and Fisher found himself gripping the wheel, tugging it left and right to try to make it respond without the power steering.
Dodson picked up a handful of maps and brochures from the console between them. “Can I borrow some of these?”
“Sure. Help yourself. Take them all.”
Dodson opened the glove compartment and sorted though the maps by the dim light. “Where are we in relation to Moscow?”
“West. A little north. We’re near Borodino. That’s where I got a little lost.”
“Borodino. The battlefield.”
“Right. I have to try to find the Minsk — Moscow highway. This road isn’t even on the map.”
Dodson nodded. “No, it wouldn’t be.”
Occasionally branches brushed either side of the Pontiac, and Fisher jerked the wheel the opposite way. The car went off the road to the right, and he felt the two tires sink into the sandy shoulder. The car slowed and he tugged at the wheel until he got the tires back on the blacktop and continued down the gradual slope.
Fisher turned his head slightly toward Dodson. As he tried to sort out the dark images in his peripheral vision, he focused now and then on his passenger. He saw the man running his fingers over the dashboard, then touching the rich leather on the side panels — like he’d never sat in an American car before, Fisher thought. Like a Russian.
They sat in silence as the car continued down the ridge line. The pine trees thinned toward the base of the slope, and Fisher was able to see better.