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found the duty officer’s procedure manual in a drawer and flipped through it as she spoke. “Are you an American citizen?”
    “Yes, I—”
    “What is your name?”
    There was a pause, then the voice answered, “Fisher. Gregory Fisher.”
    “Where are you now?”
    “The Rossiya Hotel.”
    “Are you checked in there?”
    “Yes.”
    “Did they take your passport when you checked in?”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, you can’t get past the mili-men—the Soviet militia outside the embassy—without it.”
    “Oh.”
    “Room number?”
    “Seven forty-five. But I’m not in my room.”
    “Where are you?”
    “In a phone booth in the lobby.”
    “What is your business in the S.U.?”
    “S.U. . . . ?”
    “Soviet Union.”
    “Oh . . . no business—”
    “Tourist?”
    “Yes.”
    “When did you arrive in country, Mr. Fisher?”
    “Last week.”
    “What tour group are you with?”
    “Group? No group. I drove—”
    “You drove to Moscow?”
    “Yes, my own car. That was part of the damned problem.”
    “What was?”
    “The car. A Trans Am sticks out—”
    “Yes. All right, tell me briefly why you need help and why you would like to speak to a defense attaché.”
    She heard what sounded like a sigh, then he said softly, “In case you can’t get here in time . . . I’m going to tell you all I can . . . before they get me.”
    Lisa Rhodes thought that Gregory Fisher had a good grasp of the situation. She said, “Then you’d better speak quickly.”
    “Okay. I was in Borodino, about five P . M . tonight—visiting the battlefield. I got lost in the woods—”
    “Were you stopped by the police?”
    “No. Yes, but in Moscow.”
    “Why?”
    “For driving in the country at night.”
    She thought that this wasn’t computing. A travel itinerary violation was one thing. Asking to speak to a defense attaché—a person who was more or less an intelligence officer, a spy—was quite another. “Go on, Mr. Fisher.”
    “On the road, north of Borodino, I think, I met a man, an American—”
    “An American?”
    “Yes. He said he was an American Air Force pilot—”
    “And he was on the road, north of Borodino, at night? Alone? In a car?”
    “Alone. On foot. He was hurt. Listen, I don’t know how much time I have—”
    “Go on.”
    “His name was Major Jack Dodson.”
    “Dodson.” Lisa had thought that it might have been a defense attaché at the embassy, but the name was unfamiliar.
    “Dodson said he was an MIA—a POW—shot down in Vietnam—”
    “What?” She sat up in her chair. “He told you that?”
    “Yes. And he said he had been a prisoner here in Russia for almost twenty years. A place he called Mrs. Ivanova’s Charm School. Near Borodino. He escaped. I gave him maps and money. He didn’t want us to travel together in my car. He’s heading cross-country to Moscow. To the embassy. There are other Americans held prisoner who—”
    “Stop. Hold the line.” She hit the hold button. In the duty book she quickly found the apartment number of the air attaché, Colonel Sam Hollis, whom she knew casually. She rang him, but there was no answer. “Damn it, and Seth is at his damned Sukkot party. . . .” She considered putting out an all-points page for Hollis but instead tried Hollis’ office two floors above. The phone was picked up on the first ring, and a voice answered, “Hollis.”
    She said in a controlled voice, “Colonel Hollis, this is Lisa Rhodes on the duty desk.”
    “Yes?”
    “I have a U.S. national on the line, calling from the Rossiya. He sounds very distraught. He also says he wants to speak to a defense attaché, preferably an Air Force attaché.”
    “Why?”
    “I’ll play the tape for you.”
    “Go ahead.”
    Lisa Rhodes transferred the playback to Hollis’ line. When it was finished, Hollis said, “Put him through.”
    She put the phone on conference call and released the hold button. “Mr. Fisher? Are you there?”
    There was no answer.
    “Mr.