“Sample letters of personal notes from me?”
“No,” Banks replied coolly. “Sample personal condolence notes….” Banks seemed to grasp the contradiction in that, so he said, “Personalize the sample.”
Lisa tapped her fingers on the table, then replied, “Shall I tell them I spoke to their son before his death? That he called this embassy from the Rossiya Hotel and asked for help?”
“Certainly not. I just told you what to write, Miss Rhodes.” Banks added, “Perhaps Colonel Hollis will write a similar letter to the deceased’s parents.”
Hollis replied, “I’ll study the samples.”
Lisa looked at Hollis, then at Alevy and Banks. She said, “I have phone messages on my desk from Peter Stills of The New York Times, Faith Lowry of The Washington Post, Mike Salerno of the Pacific News Bureau, and four or five other news agencies. Apparently in my absence someone in my department issued a press release regarding Gregory Fisher. Apparently, too, some journalists smell a bigger story.”
Banks leaned toward her. “There is no story beyond the fact that an American tourist died in an automobile accident.”
“If the auto accident had happened in France or England that would not be news,” Lisa said. “But in the Soviet Union, people get curious. This is a curious country, Charles. You may have noticed.” She added, “That’s why we sit in windowless rooms like this when we talk. It’s not paranoia; it’s reality, though no one in the West would believe half of it.”
At length Charles Banks responded, “Your office has indeed issued a press release. They may issue another if new facts warrant it. Kay is handling the press on this. You are not assigned to this story.”
Lisa drew a deep breath. “Why didn’t the press release give all the facts? The call from the Rossiya—”
Alevy cut in. “We may reveal that in time. For now, we’re not going to. We’re as aware as you are that there is more to this. But we’re trying to get the facts before we make any accusations. You appreciate the current diplomatic thaw. Trust us.”
Lisa nodded reluctantly.
Hollis took a piece of paper from his pocket, a decoded radio message. “I sent a query to Defense yesterday asking if a Major Jack or John Dodson was on the Vietnam MIA list. They replied in the negative.” He threw the paper on the table.
Charles Banks said, “We made the same inquiry of State and also received a negative. So right there we have to wonder about Mr. Fisher’s story.”
“Do you?” Hollis continued, “We were talking about trust. In my business, as in Seth’s, rule number one is trust no one, including your own people.” Hollis poured himself a glass of mineral water and added, “So I went to our library here yesterday and found a book written by a former Navy flier who was a POW in Vietnam. In the book was an appendix listing some one thousand men who are still unaccounted for. Among them is an Air Force major, named Jack Dodson.”
No one spoke.
Hollis said, “I know my query elicited a negative, but I don’t know if yours did. I think someone is playing games.”
Alevy said, “Sam, leave it alone.”
Charles Banks added, “Colonel, we are conducting an official investigation through diplomatic and other channels. In the meantime, neither you nor Miss Rhodes are to concern yourselves with this unless requested to give testimony. This is obviously beyond your respective duties.” He added, “The ambassador would like a written report of your activities and whereabouts from the time you left Moscow yesterday afternoon. Thank you for taking care of the remains.”
Hollis stood. “Mr. Banks, please tell the ambassador that unless or until I receive orders from my superiors to the contrary, I will pursue my own line of investigation into this matter.”
Lisa stood also. “Charles, an American citizen named Gregory Fisher died under mysterious circumstances in the Soviet Union. Furthermore, Gregory Fisher told me on the telephone of another American citizen whom he met in a pine forest north of Borodino and who was apparently on the run from Soviet authorities—”
Seth Alevy interrupted. “I recall on the tape that Mr. Fisher mentioned the woods, but I don’t recall him saying anything about a pine forest.” He tilted his chair forward and looked at her, then at Hollis. “What pine forest?”
Hollis replied, “We must compare notes one of these days.” Hollis left.
He waited for Lisa at the elevator. He gave it two minutes, then five, then took the elevator down alone.
14
Sam Hollis walked up Kalinin Prospect, Moscow’s answer to Fifth Avenue. At the corner of Tchaikovsky Street, a line of hopeful diners waited in front of the popular Arbat restaurant, and Hollis had to make his way around them. Moscow’s rush hour was in full swing, everyone lugging bags, trying to buy anything that was for sale. Muscovites, peasants, and townsmen from the hinterlands descended on central Moscow daily for what they called shopping, though Hollis thought it more resembled the sack of the city.
Hollis stopped in front of the window of Podarki Pyatero—Gift Shop Five — and examined his reflection. His dark blue overcoat of wool was Moscow-standard as was his narrow-brimmed black hat and his oversize briefcase, which was useful for carrying fresh produce and meat when available. He supposed he blended in superficially, but he knew that Muscovites picked him out as a Westerner. Aside from his facial features he knew he carried himself differently than the people around him, and he remembered what Lisa said about how Russian men walk and a joke someone in the embassy told him when he’d first arrived: Two Muscovite men were walking down the street. One was carrying a huge bundle on his back and was bowed and stooped by the weight, taking each step as though it were his last. The other Muscovite was carrying nothing at all and was bowed and stooped, taking each step as though it were his last.
Hollis went inside the gift shop. It was not crowded as were the shops selling necessities, and the section in the rear that accepted only Western currency was empty.
Hollis picked out a carved wooden bear balancing a ball on its foot and a small aluminum znachok—a lapel pin — on which was a profile of Lenin. He handed over six American dollars, and the clerk, claiming she had no American coins for change, pushed some foil-wrapped chocolate toward him. Hollis had a dresser drawer full of chocolate change. “I’ll take pence.”
“Nyet.”
“Centimes.”
“Nyet.”
“Green stamps. Anything, but no more chocolate.”
“Nyet.”
Hollis stuck his purchases in his overcoat and went back into the chilly dusk.
Kalinin Prospect was a recently widened thoroughfare of twenty-story glass and concrete flats with shops on the ground floors. It cut through the quaint Arbat district, and Hollis, though he did not share Lisa’s fondness for old Moscow, didn’t think much of new Moscow either. The street was as wide as an expressway and the shops too far apart, which might be just as well.
Hollis stopped again, this time at the window of a woman’s clothing store named Moskvichka, which translated to something like “Miss Moscow,” a name that always amused him for some reason. He looked at the passing crowd reflected in the window but couldn’t spot his tail. He continued north, crossing October Square.