“That won’t be necessary if you acknowledge my point.”
“I do.”
Hollis took the parkas from the wall hook. “Lead on, Commander.”
Hollis, Lisa, and Poole walked out into the cold night, Poole holding a flashlight to their front.
Hollis said, “Isn’t there a curfew here?”
“No. There used to be a lot of rules. There are very few rules now.” Poole added, “The Russians are a bit slow in the head, but they finally realized that totalitarianism doesn’t suit their purposes here and takes a lot of their time. They can run the rest of this benighted country with terror and fear, but this is the most free square mile in the Soviet Union.”
“I see. That was Burov’s idea?”
“Pretty much. He lived in the Scandinavian countries for a few years and learned that a well-fed and free population could be as cooperative and productive as a terrorized population. That’s a big leap for a Russian.” Poole laughed without humor.
They came up to the main road near the VFW hall and turned right, east toward the headquarters, walking on the shoulder of the unlit road. Poole said, “We follow world events closely, and we’re probably better informed about Soviet-American relations than the average stateside American. Certainly we know more than any Russian below the Kremlin level.”
As they walked, headlights approached from up the road, and the vehicle slowed as it drew closer to them, then stopped, its headlights glaring in their faces.
Hollis, Lisa, and Poole moved toward the driver’s side of the vehicle, out of the glare of the lights, and Hollis saw that the vehicle was a Pontiac Trans Am. Sitting behind the wheel was Colonel Burov. Burov said, “Good evening, Ms. Rhodes, Commander Poole, Colonel Hollis.”
Only Poole returned the greeting.
Hollis saw that the Trans Am’s windshield was intact, and there didn’t seem to be any body damage to the vehicle.
Burov said, “Yes, Mr. Fisher’s car. I suppose he didn’t get into an accident after all. Not in this car anyway.” Burov patted the steering wheel. “Nice machine.”
Lisa came up beside Hollis and looked at Burov. “You bastard.”
Burov ignored her and spoke to Hollis. “The seats are real leather, and there is even an air conditioner in the car. Do you all drive cars like this?”
Hollis looked at the low, sleek car, its engine humming on the lonely road in the Russian bor with a uniformed officer of the KGB behind the wheel.
Burov saw he wasn’t going to get a reply and continued, “I’m going for a drive. I’d ask you to come along to give me some pointers, but I’m leaving the camp. I want to get it out on the Minsk highway and see if it can really do a hundred and forty miles per hour.” Burov added, “Unfortunately I can only take it out at night when there are no foreigners about. Someone might see it and put two and two together, as you say.”
Lisa said, “I hope you kill yourself in it.”
Burov looked at her. “No, you don’t. I am the best thing that has happened to this camp. After me — who knows?” He looked back at Hollis. “I assume you are on your way to pay a courtesy call on General Austin. Or are you going to pick mushrooms?”
Hollis said, “General Austin. How about a lift?”
Burov laughed. “I’m afraid if I let you in this car, the temptation to try something stupid would be too great for you. You and Ms. Rhodes are slippery characters, as I discovered.” Burov raised his right hand and showed an automatic pistol. “So you will have to walk. It’s good for your heart. Good evening.” Burov let up on the clutch and hit the accelerator. The Pontiac chirped, lurched, then stalled. Burov restarted it and managed to leave a little rubber. Hollis watched the taillights disappear toward the main gate. Beneath the lighted license plate was a bumper sticker that read: POWs and MIAs — not forgotten.
Lisa said, “I still hope he kills himself.” She turned to Hollis. “That’s ghoulish. Driving the car of the man he killed. He’s sick.”
Poole asked, “That was the car of the American boy killed in an accident? Fisher?”
“Yes.”
“We read about it in the American newspapers. And Landis told us that you know about Jack Dodson through Fisher. They met? And Fisher contacted the embassy?”
Hollis said, “I can’t discuss this now.”
Poole nodded, then asked, “Where are we exactly?”
Hollis looked at him. “Where do you think you are?”
Poole replied, “A few kilometers north of Borodino battlefield.”
Hollis nodded.
Poole continued, “We know from the flight that took us from Hanoi that we were landing in European Russia. We’ve also done some star and sun plotting to confirm that. The climate too is probably mid-Russian and not Siberian. The biggest clue is all those aircraft we see descending to the southeast. The traffic has grown over the years. We figured that had to be Moscow.”
“And Borodino?”
“The cannon fire,” Poole replied. “Every September seventh and October fifteenth and sixteenth, we can hear a twenty-one-gun salute a few kilometers to the south. Those are the anniversaries of the two battles of Borodino. Correct?”
Hollis nodded again. He had actually attended the September ceremony the previous year.
“Well,” Poole said, “I guess the question is, did Jack Dodson make it to the embassy?”
“That,” Hollis replied, “is the question.”
They continued their walk. As they passed in front of the massive grey headquarters building, Poole said, “You spent some time in the back rooms there, did you?”
Hollis answered, “Not long by Russian standards.”
“Almost everyone here has done time in the cooler. But Burov has more subtle means of punishment. It’s counter-productive to throw instructors in the cells, so he throws the Russian wives or girlfriends in if one of us commits an offense. Most of us have wives or children now — hostages to fortune — so it makes it difficult for us to act.”
The road curved and dropped as they rounded the bend, and Hollis realized it had become darker. He looked up at the sky and saw nothing but blackness.
Poole said, “Camouflage net.”
Hollis thought this was the camouflaged area he’d seen from the helicopter.
Lisa said, “Look, Sam!”
Hollis looked ahead and saw dim lights suspended from lamp poles. As they got closer Hollis saw he was looking at a paved parking lot, complete with white lines. Set back from the parking lot was a row of about ten darkened storefronts, looking very much like a suburban shopping plaza. The main store in the row was a large 7-Eleven complete with the distinctive white, green, and red sign. Hollis said to Lisa, “See, there’s the Seven-Eleven we were looking for on the road to Mozhaisk.”
Lisa stared at the stores. “Incredible.” She moved across the dimly lit parking lot toward the row of red brick shops. Hollis and Poole followed.
To the left of the 7-Eleven was a laundromat, a Bank of North America complete with logo, a place called Sweeney’s Liquors, a barbershop called Mane Event, and a beauty parlor named Tresses. To the right of the 7-Eleven was Kruger’s Hardware store; a stationery and tobacco shop, Main Street Pharmacy; a bookstore that also carried audio- and videotapes; and at the end of the row, a sort of luncheonette-coffee shop called Dunkin’ Donuts.
Hollis asked, “Is that a legitimate franchise?”
Poole laughed. “No. But we’re trying to get an American Express travel agency here.”
Hollis walked past the luncheonette and peered into the bookstore.
Poole said, “To varying degrees these stores are all functioning operations. You need camp scrip to buy things at all of them except this book and tape store. Everything there is only for loan. It’s sort of the camp audiovisual department, though it’s set up as a retail bookstore for training purposes. We get a wide selection of publications, videotapes, and some decent cassettes and albums.”