The Charm School

but—”
    “But you may be right. Perhaps you ought to stay in the compound until we get a better fix on this.”
    She replied in an impatient tone, “That is not what I had in mind, Colonel. I’m asking you if you would like to come with me tomorrow.”
    Hollis cleared his throat. “Well… why don’t we have lunch and save the Marx-Engels museum for a special occasion?”
    She smiled. “Call for me here at noon.” She turned and walked to her door.
    “Good night, Colonel Hollis.”
    “Good night, Ms. Rhodes.”

 
7
    “Yes… yes, I… Oh, God… hurry.”
    “Ten minutes, Greg. Get to the lounge.”
    Seth Alevy hit the stop button on the tape player.
    Charles Banks, special aide to the American ambassador to the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, sat at the head of the long mahogany table in the ambassador’s safe room, a worried look on his face.
    Sam Hollis sat to his right, across from Alevy. Hollis had been in the room a number of times and was always struck by its patina of age, though the room was barely a year old. Apparently everything in the room, including the wainscoting and moldings, had been taken from somewhere else and reconstructed here. The ambassador, a wealthy man, was supposed to have paid for it himself. Hollis would have wondered why, except that everyone in this loony place had an idiosyncrasy that defied explanation.
    Alevy said to Charles Banks, “A voice-stress analysis was done on the tape early this morning. Our expert says that Gregory Fisher was most probably telling the truth and was under actual stress.”
    Banks looked curiously at Alevy. “Really? They can tell that?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Amazing.”
    Hollis regarded Charles Banks, a man near sixty, with snow-white hair, a ruddy, avuncular face, and sparkling blue eyes. Hollis remembered last Christmas when Banks dressed as Santa Claus for the embassy children. When not wearing his Santa suit, Banks favored dark, three-piece pinstripes. He was a career diplomat, with the standard Eastern credentials, easy social graces, and the voice of a 1940s radio announcer. Yet beyond the Santa facade and the diplomat’s polish, Hollis recognized a kindred spirit; Hollis thought that Charles Banks was the third spy in this room. But Hollis did not know for whom Banks was spying.
    Alevy continued his briefing for Banks. “And as I’ve indicated, Colonel Hollis believes he can establish that Mr. Fisher was at the Rossiya last night.”
    Banks turned to Hollis. “You have this Englishman, the French couple, and the black-market fellow.”
    Hollis replied, “I don’t actually
have
them. I spoke to them.”
    “Yes, of course. But they could identify Mr. Fisher?”
    “I hope so. We’re getting facsimiles of passport photos transmitted here from the State Department’s files of all passport applicants with the name Gregory Fisher. There are about a dozen.”
    “And you will show the photos to these people?”
    “I called my counterpart in the French embassy this morning,” Hollis explained, “and he found out for me that a Monsieur and Madame Besnier have contacted their embassy, stating they were involved in a difficulty at the Rossiya. They are leaving the country on today’s Finnair flight out of Sheremetyevo at twelve forty-five. If we miss them there with the photos, we can locate them in Helsinki or in France. Keep in mind, sir, the woman did know the name ‘Gregory Fisher.’”
    “Yes, but I would like her to identify a photograph.”
    “Of course. And the Englishman, Wilson, is still at the Rossiya, according to John Crane at the British embassy. Mr. Wilson is here on the gas pipeline business. The black marketeer, Misha, said that his friends saw only the car, but I believe that was Mr. Fisher’s car. There are few Pontiac Trans Ams in Moscow. Probably none. So that is my hard evidence, if we should need it, sir.”
    Banks nodded. “Thank you.” He turned to Alevy. “So, despite the fact that the Rossiya and Intourist say Mr. Fisher was never at the hotel, you two are convinced he was and that he called the embassy from there. Let me ask you this: Are you sure there is an American Gregory Fisher in the Soviet Union?”
    Alevy answered, “The Soviet Foreign Ministry has been suspiciously quick to confirm that it issued a visa to a Mr. Gregory Fisher of New Canaan, Connecticut, age twenty-four, and Intourist has been helpful for a change, informing us that this Mr. Fisher crossed the frontier at Brest