Fisher did as he was told. As he stood in front of the man he noticed that he was tall and very slender for a Russian. In fact, he was fair and Nordic-looking.
The man studied Fisher’s face, then his passport and visa pictures just as the uniformed man had done. Finally he said, “You come from Smolensk?”
“Connecticut.”
“You just arrived in Moscow from Smolensk?”
“Oh, yes.”
“You were driving in the country at night.”
“No.”
“But you said you just arrived in Moscow. It has been dark for two hours.”
“I didn’t say I just—”
“You were seen coming past the Arch.”
“Oh… is that the city limit?”
“What is your business in this quarter of the city?”
“Tourism.”
“Yes? Have you gone to your hotel yet?”
“No. I thought I’d just drive around—”
“Please don’t lie. That makes it worse. You were driving in the country at night.”
“Yes.” Fisher looked closely at the man. He was about forty, wore a leather coat and a black fur hat, probably sable. He seemed neither friendly nor hostile, just inquisitive. Fisher knew the type. “Well, I got a late start from Smolensk.”
“Did you?” The man looked at Fisher’s travel itinerary. “Yet it says here you left the Intourist office at thirteen-fifty — one-fifty P.M.”
“I got lost.”
“Where?”
“At Bor — at Mozhaisk.”
The man stared at Fisher, and Fisher stared back. Fuck you, Boris.
“I don’t understand.”
“Lost. You know.”
“What did you see in Mozhaisk?”
“The cathedral.”
“Where did you get lost?” The man added in a sarcastic tone, “Inside the cathedral?”
Fisher’s fear gave way to annoyance. “Lost means you don’t know where.”
The man suddenly smiled. “Yes. Lost means that.” The man seemed to be thinking. “So. That is what you say?”
Fisher stayed silent. He might not have the right to remain so, he thought, but he had enough brains not to incriminate himself any further.
The man regarded Greg Fisher for an uncomfortably long time, then motioned Fisher to follow him. They went to the rear of the car, and the man unlocked Fisher’s trunk and opened it. The trunk light revealed Fisher’s cache of spare parts, lubricants, and cleaning supplies. The man picked up a can of Rain Dance car wax, examined it, then put it back.
Fisher noticed that the citizens of Moscow slowed imperceptibly but did not stop and did not stare — the only time in the last thousand miles that the Pontiac did not stop traffic. Greg Fisher suddenly comprehended the full meaning of the words “police state.”
He noticed that the two uniformed men were bent over into the rear seat of his car, examining his luggage and burlap bags of fruit and vegetables.
“What does this mean?”
Fisher turned back to the civilian. “What?” Fisher saw he was pointing to the nameplate on the car. “Pontiac,” Fisher said.
“Yes?”
“Name of the company”—shithead—“General Motors. I think it’s an Indian word or something. Right. Chief Pontiac.”
The man didn’t seem enlightened. He stared at Fisher’s nationality plate, a red, white, and blue shield with stars and stripes that Fisher had been required to purchase at Brest. The man snapped his finger against the American shield, almost, Fisher thought, as though he intended to be insulting. He then pointed to the front fender. “Trans Am?”
“Trans — across. Am — America.”
“Across America.”
“Right.”
“Across Russia.” The man smiled again, and Fisher noticed it wasn’t a pleasant smile. The man came around to the driver’s side and put his hand on the seat. “Leather?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Oh… about eighteen thousand dollars.”
“Seventy — eighty thousand rubles.”
Fisher noticed the man had given the black market rate of exchange instead of the official rate. Fisher replied, “No. Fifteen thousand.”
The man smirked, then asked, “Are you a capitalist?”
“Oh, no. I’m an ex-student. I took a course in Soviet economics once. Read Marx and a book called The Red Executive. Very enlightening.”
“Marx?”
“Karl. And Lenin. I’m very interested in the Soviet Union.”
“For what reason?”
“Oh, just to know about the Soviet people. World’s first socialist state. Fascinating. Did you ever see Reds? Warren Beatty—”
The man turned away and joined the two policemen who were now standing on the sidewalk. They spoke for about five minutes, then the tall civilian returned. “You have broken a law: driving in the country at night. It is very serious, for a foreigner.”
Fisher said nothing.
The man continued, “You should have stopped in a town along the highway if you were lost.”
“You’re absolutely right.”
“I suggest you go now directly to the Rossiya and stay there for the evening. You may be asked to give a full accounting of yourself tomorrow, or perhaps tonight.”
“Okay.” And here, in an ironic twist, Fisher realized, they didn’t cuff or frisk you after charging you with a serious offense; they simply had no previous experience with armed or dangerous citizens. Nor did they arrest you on the spot, because the whole country was a sort of detention camp anyway; they simply sent you to your room. The arrest was at their convenience. “Right. The Rossiya.”
The man handed Fisher his papers and his keys. “Welcome to Moscow, Mr. Fisher.”
“Real glad to be here.”
The man walked away, and Fisher watched him descend into a Metro station. The two policemen got into their car without a word. They remained parked, watching Fisher.
Greg Fisher shut his trunk and his right side door, then climbed behind the wheel and started the engine. He noticed a crowd forming now. “Sheep.” He replayed the incident in his mind and decided he’d done all right. “Schmucks.” He threw the car in gear and pulled out into traffic. The police car followed.
“Assholes.” He was trembling so badly now he wanted to pull over but continued up Kalinin Prospect. The police car stayed with him, so the embassy was out of the question for the time being.
Fisher barely noticed his surroundings as he drove. When he did, he realized he had crossed the Inner Ring Road and was heading straight for the Kremlin. He recalled from the map what he was supposed to do and turned hard right onto Marx Prospect, went down to the embankment road, and cut left. On his right was the Moskva, to his left the high crenellated south wall of the Kremlin, punctuated by tall watchtowers. The Moskva reflected the glow of the red stars of the Kremlin’s towers and churches, and Fisher stared, mesmerized by a sight of unexpected beauty. He felt that he had come to the end of his uneasy journey.
The embankment road curved to the right, and the Kremlin wall ended at a massive watchtower. Behind him he could still see the headlights of the police car in his rearview mirror. Ahead, he saw an arched underpass beneath the ramp of a Moskva River bridge. Rising up beyond the ramp was the Rossiya Hotel. It was a massive, modern building with a glass and aluminum facade, and its width made its ten stories look squat. Fisher noticed that most of the windows were dark. He drove under the ramp and pulled around to the east side as his Intourist instructions said. In front of the east entrance was a small parking area bordered on three sides by a low stone wall. He came to a stop fifty feet from the front doors and looked around. There were no cars in the lot. The front of the Rossiya was stark. To the left of the entrance doors was another door that led to a Beriozka shop, found in nearly all Soviet hotels where Westerners with Western currency could buy Russian goods and occasionally Western toiletries and sundries. The Beriozka was closed.