The grimness of the platform quickly gave way to animated conversation, jokes, and laughter. It was rough peasant talk, Hollis noted, but there was no profanity, and there seemed to be a bond between these people, though clearly many of them were getting acquainted for the first time. The bond was not only the journey, he thought, but the brotherhood of the downtrodden. How unlike the Moscow metro where you could hear a pin drop at the height of rush hour.
Food was being passed around now, and there was good-natured teasing about the qualities of each person’s wares. Hollis heard a woman say, “Not even a Muscovite would buy these apples of yours.”
Another woman answered, “I tell them they are radishes.”
Everyone laughed.
An old man across the aisle pushed a dripping slice of tomato under Hollis’ nose. Hollis took it from his brown fingers. “Thank you, father.” He passed it to Lisa. “Eat it.”
She hesitated, then popped it into her mouth. “Good. See if anyone has orange juice.”
“Low profile. Feign sleep or simplemindedness.”
Lisa whispered in Russian, “Can I smoke?”
“Not here. In the lav.”
“Do you want another pear? Honey?”
“No, honey.”
“This is nice.”
Hollis looked around the car. It was quite nice. Clean, lace curtains on the windows, and little bud vases attached to the windowsills, each with a real rosebud. The more he saw of Russia, he admitted, the less he understood it. The windows, however, were dirty, and this was somehow comforting.
They spoke as little as possible, and Hollis urged Lisa to remain in her seat unless she really had to use the facilities. The conductor, a middle-aged woman, came through, took their tickets, and marked them rather than punching them. She said, “Are you Muscovites?”
Hollis replied, “No. Estonians. From Moscow we go to Leningrad, then home to Tallinn.”
“Ah. Your Russian is good.” She looked Lisa over and observed, “Those are very nice boots.”
“Thank you.”
“They have better things in our Baltic republics. I never understood that.” She handed Hollis the tickets. “Have a safe journey.”
“Thank you.”
The train gathered speed on the straight, flat trackbed. There was piped-in music now. It was not the classical or folk music usually heard in public places, Hollis noted, but soft, easy-listening music, Soviet Muzak.
The train pulled into Mozhaisk, and there was the same crush of humanity on the platform carrying the same bursting cardboard suitcases and ungainly bundles. The train loaded the last two cars only. There were soldiers and militia on the platform. Hollis and Lisa slumped down into their seats and feigned sleep. The train pulled out and continued its journey through the bleak Russian landscape.
Golitsyno was a five-minute stop, and within fifteen minutes of leaving the station they could see the tall spire of Moscow University in the Lenin Hills. “Almost home,” Lisa commented. She added, “No, not really home.”
The train made short stops at suburban stations, Setun, Kuncevo, Fili, then Testovskaya. Lisa said, “Why don’t we get off here? We can walk to the embassy from here.”
“We’re supposed to be going on to Leningrad, so we get off at the Byelorussian terminal.”
“I want to get off here. I’ve had it.”
“Sit down.”
Lisa sat back in her seat. “Sorry. Getting edgy. I trust you. You did a magnificent job. Even if something happens and we don’t get into the embassy…. How are we going to get into the embassy if the watchers are waiting for us near the gate?”
“I’ll show you a spy trick.”
“You’d better.”
The Byelorussian Express from Minsk pulled into Moscow’s Byelorussian Station at ten minutes to noon. Hollis and Lisa left quickly and pushed through the throngs packed into the hundred-year-old station. Hollis noticed that the people returning to the hinterlands had not appreciably lightened their loads, but were burdened now with plastic bags filled with clothing, new shoes, cooking utensils, and all manner of Moscow’s bounty. The most worthless thing they had on them were the leftover rubles in their pockets. A few passing Muscovites, well-dressed by comparison, gave the country folk hard looks to show they didn’t like the competition for consumer goods by peasants.
Hollis and Lisa passed pairs of KGB Border Guards, who were at every transportation hub in the Soviet Union but were nonetheless intimidating to foreigner and native alike.
Hollis and Lisa came out of the station into Gorky Square, dominated by a huge statue of the writer. The sky was the usual grey, and the air seemed filled with fumes compared to the fresh air of the countryside.
They crossed the square and walked down Gorky Street, Moscow’s main street, toward the Kremlin. Hollis led Lisa into the Minsk Hotel, and he entered a phone booth off the lobby. He dialed the embassy, spoke to the Marine watch-stander, then the Sunday duty officer, who turned out to be his own aide, Captain O’Shea. “Ed, this is me. Okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“This is a photoflash,” Hollis said, using the word for a personal emergency. “Get a car to me at location delta. Ten minutes.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll go myself.”
“No, stay there and find me Mr. Nine. I want to see him.”
“Mr. Nine was very worried about you. He’s in his office.”
“Ten minutes.”
“Yes, sir. Welcome home.”
Hollis hung up the phone and said to Lisa, “Seth is very worried about you.”
Lisa didn’t reply. They left the Minsk Hotel and continued down Gorky Street. She said, “That was neat. Where is location delta?”
“I forgot.”
She looked at him. “Are you jerking me around?”
“Yeah. It’s Gastronom One. You know it?”
“Sure. But we Muscovites still call it Yeliseyevsky’s, its pre-Revolution name. Best gourmet store in Moscow. The only one actually.” She added, “We’re going to make it, aren’t we?”
“Looks like it.”
They passed the Stanislavsky Drama Theater, walked through Pushkin Square, and crossed the Garden Ring, which once had been the outer wall of the city. They came to the ornate facade of Gastronom One, then doubled back. Hollis said, “I’m assuming the KGB doesn’t know location delta from Times Square. We change the locations every time we have to use one. So there should be no one here from the KGB to meet us. However, they will have a car or two close behind the embassy car. As soon as the embassy car slows down, you jump in the rear, scoot over quick, and I follow. Okay?”
“I saw this in a movie once.”
They waited. Lisa lit a cigarette. “This is my last one. But I have a pack in my office. Or my room.”
“That’s good news.”
A black Ford came at a good pace up Gorky Street, and Hollis saw two security men in the front and a man who looked like Seth Alevy in the back. Behind the Ford was a black Chaika. The Ford suddenly swerved to the curb and braked hard. The back door flew open, Lisa slipped in beside Alevy, and Hollis got in, then slammed the door as the car accelerated. Lisa said, “Hello, Seth.”
Alevy addressed Hollis directly, “You had better have a good explanation, Colonel.”
Hollis didn’t reply.
“Where is the car?” Alevy asked.
“At the railroad station.”
“What railroad station?”
“Gagarin.”
“Gagarin? What the hell were you doing there?”
“Getting the train to Moscow.”
Lisa opened her burlap bag. “Seth, do you want a pear?”
“No.” Alevy folded his arms and looked out the side window.