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Authors: Nelson DeMille
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that sat in the forecourt with its engine running. Hollis jumped in the passenger side. “Hello, Bill.”
The driver, a security staff man named Bill Brennan, drove quickly through the court, around the traffic circle that held the illuminated flagpole, and moved toward the gates. “Where we going, Colonel?”
“Rossiya.” Hollis looked at Brennan. He was a man in his mid-fifties, heavyset and balding, and his nose had once been broken. Hollis always had the impression that Brennan wanted to break someone else’s nose. Hollis said, “You carrying?”
“Yup. You?”
“No. Didn’t have time to get it.”
“Loan you mine if you promise to kill a commie.”
“That’s all right.”
The gates swung open, and the car moved past the Marine guard post, then past the Soviet militia booth on the sidewalk. Brennan kept the speed down so as not to attract the attention of the KGB embassy watchers in the surrounding buildings, but Hollis said, “Step on it. They know where I’m going.”
“Okay.” Brennan accelerated up the dark, quiet side street and cut right onto the wide, well-lit Tchaikovsky Street. Traffic was sparse and Brennan made good time. He asked, “Do I stop for police?”
“No, you run them.” Hollis added, “Don’t take the direct route up Kalinin.”
“Gotcha.” The Ford picked up speed in the outside lane, passing buses and trams, and sailed past the Kalinin Prospect intersection. Brennan stuffed his mouth with bubble gum, chewed, and blew bubbles until they popped. “Want some?”
“No, thanks. Do you know the Rossiya?”
“Know the traffic patterns, parking, and all. Not the inside.”
“Fine.” Brennan knew the streets of Moscow better than a Moscow cabbie, but Hollis thought that Brennan cared not a whit about Moscow. He was into streets, and he claimed he’d never seen Red Square, because he couldn’t drive through it.
Brennan asked between chews, “Is this going to be messy?”
“Maybe. American national up the creek at the Rossiya.”
“How’d the
Komitet
know you were going there?”
“Well, the kid—the U.S. national—called the embassy and said he was in trouble.”
“Oh.”
Hollis thought about Fisher’s call. He assumed the traffic police had indeed stopped Fisher for nothing more than an itinerary violation. But Fisher had gotten paranoid because of the Borodino thing. If he’d kept his cool, he would have been able to come to the embassy and tell his story. Instead, Gregory Fisher’s two-kopek phone call might have already cost him his freedom—or his life.
Yet, Hollis thought, it was a brave thing to do. Stupid, but brave. Hollis would tell him that without making him feel bad. How to get Fisher out of the country was tomorrow’s problem.
Brennan asked, “What kind of trouble is he in?”
“Itinerary violation.”
“Am I asking too many questions?”
“Not yet.”
“Okay, why am I tear-assing across Moscow with a military attaché in my car to rescue a kid who went to the fucking zoo instead of the fucking park or whatever?”
“You’re asking too many questions.”
“Right.”
Neither man spoke for a while. The popping gum was getting on Hollis’ nerves. Hollis thought about the phone call. Who was Major Jack Dodson? What, in the name of God, was a POW doing in the woods at Borodino? Only Gregory Fisher could answer that.
Brennan said, “I just passed a parked cop car.”
Hollis glared back. “He’s on a break.”
“Right.”
Hollis looked at the speedometer and saw they were doing seventy miles per hour. Tchaikovsky Street changed names several times as it curved south and east in what was generally known as the Second Ring Road. They crossed the Moskva at the Crimea Bridge, skirted Gorky Park to the right, and continued east up the wide, six-lane road. Hollis glanced at his watch. It had been twelve minutes since they’d left the embassy.
“Do you see him?” Brennan asked.
Hollis looked out the rear window. “Not
The driver, a security staff man named Bill Brennan, drove quickly through the court, around the traffic circle that held the illuminated flagpole, and moved toward the gates. “Where we going, Colonel?”
“Rossiya.” Hollis looked at Brennan. He was a man in his mid-fifties, heavyset and balding, and his nose had once been broken. Hollis always had the impression that Brennan wanted to break someone else’s nose. Hollis said, “You carrying?”
“Yup. You?”
“No. Didn’t have time to get it.”
“Loan you mine if you promise to kill a commie.”
“That’s all right.”
The gates swung open, and the car moved past the Marine guard post, then past the Soviet militia booth on the sidewalk. Brennan kept the speed down so as not to attract the attention of the KGB embassy watchers in the surrounding buildings, but Hollis said, “Step on it. They know where I’m going.”
“Okay.” Brennan accelerated up the dark, quiet side street and cut right onto the wide, well-lit Tchaikovsky Street. Traffic was sparse and Brennan made good time. He asked, “Do I stop for police?”
“No, you run them.” Hollis added, “Don’t take the direct route up Kalinin.”
“Gotcha.” The Ford picked up speed in the outside lane, passing buses and trams, and sailed past the Kalinin Prospect intersection. Brennan stuffed his mouth with bubble gum, chewed, and blew bubbles until they popped. “Want some?”
“No, thanks. Do you know the Rossiya?”
“Know the traffic patterns, parking, and all. Not the inside.”
“Fine.” Brennan knew the streets of Moscow better than a Moscow cabbie, but Hollis thought that Brennan cared not a whit about Moscow. He was into streets, and he claimed he’d never seen Red Square, because he couldn’t drive through it.
Brennan asked between chews, “Is this going to be messy?”
“Maybe. American national up the creek at the Rossiya.”
“How’d the
Komitet
know you were going there?”
“Well, the kid—the U.S. national—called the embassy and said he was in trouble.”
“Oh.”
Hollis thought about Fisher’s call. He assumed the traffic police had indeed stopped Fisher for nothing more than an itinerary violation. But Fisher had gotten paranoid because of the Borodino thing. If he’d kept his cool, he would have been able to come to the embassy and tell his story. Instead, Gregory Fisher’s two-kopek phone call might have already cost him his freedom—or his life.
Yet, Hollis thought, it was a brave thing to do. Stupid, but brave. Hollis would tell him that without making him feel bad. How to get Fisher out of the country was tomorrow’s problem.
Brennan asked, “What kind of trouble is he in?”
“Itinerary violation.”
“Am I asking too many questions?”
“Not yet.”
“Okay, why am I tear-assing across Moscow with a military attaché in my car to rescue a kid who went to the fucking zoo instead of the fucking park or whatever?”
“You’re asking too many questions.”
“Right.”
Neither man spoke for a while. The popping gum was getting on Hollis’ nerves. Hollis thought about the phone call. Who was Major Jack Dodson? What, in the name of God, was a POW doing in the woods at Borodino? Only Gregory Fisher could answer that.
Brennan said, “I just passed a parked cop car.”
Hollis glared back. “He’s on a break.”
“Right.”
Hollis looked at the speedometer and saw they were doing seventy miles per hour. Tchaikovsky Street changed names several times as it curved south and east in what was generally known as the Second Ring Road. They crossed the Moskva at the Crimea Bridge, skirted Gorky Park to the right, and continued east up the wide, six-lane road. Hollis glanced at his watch. It had been twelve minutes since they’d left the embassy.
“Do you see him?” Brennan asked.
Hollis looked out the rear window. “Not
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