The Charm School by Nelson DeMille

down the hall, and Fisher found himself leading the way. At a turn in the corridor Fisher saw his room, 745, and opened the door with his key. He went in, followed by the bellman. Fisher said, “Your room, sir.”
    “Please?”
    “Forget it.” Fisher looked around. It was a medium-sized room decorated in stark Scandinavian blondewood. The two single beds were undersized, and the mattress would be thin foam rubber, and the sheets, coarse cotton. The rug was brick-red, but that didn’t hide the fact that it needed a shampoo. He doubted, however, that such a thing existed east of Berlin.
Oh, the things we take for granted.
The rest of the room looked clean enough except for the window. He had not seen a single clean window in the whole of the Soviet Union. “Windex. I’ll sell them Windex.” A smell of pine disinfectant reminded him of his side trip to Borodino.
    The bellman said, “Good room.” He tried a lamp switch and seemed surprised that it worked. “Good light.”
    “Excellent fucking light. Volts, watts, lumens, the works.”
    The bellman ducked into the bathroom for a second, opened the closet, pulled out a few bureau drawers, then held out his arms as if to say, “It’s all yours.”
    Fisher sighed and rummaged through his satchel, finding a small sampler of Aramis cologne. “This drives the women wild.”
    The Tartar took it and sniffed. “Ah.” The man beamed, his slanted eyes narrowing. “Thank you.” He turned and left.
    Fisher examined the door. As in all other rooms he’d stayed in east of the curtain, this door had no peephole, no bolt, or security chain. He walked to the bed, fell back onto it, and kicked off his Reeboks. He stared at the ceiling awhile, then sat up and looked at the telephone. The hotel service directory was a single sheet of typed paper. He dialed a three-digit number, got room service, and ordered a bottle of vodka. “First thing that went right all day.”
    He considered the events of the last few hours. He had managed to suppress his fear in front of the police and to act natural and a bit cocky as he checked in. But his resolve was draining away fast in the quiet, empty room. He began to shake, then bounded out of bed and paced the room.
What if they come for me now? Maybe I should try to get to the embassy now. But that bastard said to stay in the hotel. They’re watching me. Can they know what happened at Borodino?
    He stopped pacing. “This is not a business problem. This is life or death.” He realized he had to calm down before he could think. Don’t think about getting arrested or shot.
Then
you can go through the bullshit of problem solving.
    He walked to the window and looked out through the grime. From his corner room he could see toward Red Square. The Kremlin was to the left, and he could look down into it. St. Basil’s ten phantasmal onion domes seemed to hang suspended like giant helium balloons above the dark cobbled pavement, and beyond them lay the huge GUM department store. The streets looked deserted, the buildings were dark, but the monuments were bathed in floodlight. A night fog, like a vapor, rolled off the Moskva and swirled around the streetlights, rolled over the Kremlin walls, and seemed to turn covers, as if it were looking for something. There was a sinister essence about this city, Fisher decided. Something unnatural about its cold, dead streets.
    There was a loud rap on the door, and Fisher turned with a start. Another knock. Fisher took a breath, went to the door, and threw it open. A matronly woman stood there with an ice bucket from which protruded a liter of Moskovskaya. Fisher showed her in, gave her a tube of toothpaste, and showed her out.
    His hand shook as he poured a half tumbler of the chilled vodka. He drank it down, and it made his eyes water. He refilled his glass and continued pacing.
The next knock will be my luggage or the KGB.
“The fucking K—” He stopped. He’d heard and believed that every room was bugged.