The Charm School by Nelson DeMille Page B

took his shoulder satchel. He went into the bathroom, flushed the toilet, and shut the light. As the toilet was still flushing, he left the bathroom and slipped quietly out of his room into the hallway. He looked both ways, then retraced his path and found the elevator lobby. The dezhurnaya ’s face was hidden by the copy of Cosmopolitan. She didn’t seem to know he was there or didn’t care. Fisher read the string of subheads on the cover: Beating the Man Shortage! Cosmo Finds the Best Place to Meet Them; The Shy Girl—How She Can Compete; Why Friends Make the Best Lovers; The Joy of Resuming an Old Romance.
    Fisher put his keys on her desk. She looked up. “Allo, Mr. Fisher.” She gave him his propusk.
    He pushed the elevator button and prepared for a long wait. The vodka finally reached his brain. He said to the woman, “Good magazine?”
    “Yes. Very sexy.”
    “Right.”
    “American women have too much.”
    “I hadn’t noticed.”
    She tapped the magazine. “They have so many problems with men.”
    “Cosmo women have more problems than most.”
    “Ah.”
    Fisher hesitated, then took a tube of lip gloss from his satchel. It was a frosted pink and seemed to match her coloring.
    She smiled as she examined it. “Thank you.” She took a compact mirror from her bag and went to work immediately.
    Fisher noticed it wasn’t really her color, but she didn’t seem to care. He liked the way she puckered her lips. The elevator came, and he stepped in. Two Russian men who smelled of salami stood quietly behind him. Fisher felt perspiration under his arms.
    Fisher stepped out into the lobby and felt somewhat better in a public place. He found the foreign exchange window, but it was closed. He went to the front desk and asked the clerk if she would cash an Intourist voucher for five rubles. She said she wouldn’t. Fisher asked for the Intourist woman and was told she was gone.
    He looked around. All he needed was a lousy two-kopek piece. For want of a nail . . . “Damn it.” He saw that the French couple was still there, and he approached them. “Pardon, monsieur, madame. J’ai besoin de . . . deux kopeks. Pour le téléphone.”
    The man gave him an unfriendly look. The woman smiled nicely and searched through her bag. “Voilà. ”
    “Merci, madame. Merci.” Fisher moved off and found a single telephone booth in a short corridor that led to the Beriozka. He went inside, pulled the door closed, and took his Fodor guide from his satchel. Fisher found the number of the American embassy, inserted the two-kopek piece, and dialed.
    Gregory Fisher listened to the short, distant ringing signals, very unlike the ones he was used to at home. He cleared his throat several times and said “hello” twice to try his voice. The blood was pounding in his ears. He kept his eyes on the corridor. The phone continued to ring.

 
    4
    Lisa Rhodes sat at the night duty officer’s desk on the first floor of the chancery building. The wall clock showed 8:45. The phone had been quiet all evening. This was not an embassy that was likely to be surrounded by angry mobs or blown up by a terrorist. Nor was Moscow a city where the police called to inform you they had a dozen of your compatriots in the drunk tank. She lit a cigarette as she crossed out a line of the press release she was working on.
    The door opened, and Kay Hoffman, Lisa’s boss, stuck her head into the small office. “Hello. Anything exciting happening?”
    “Yes, but it’s happening in Rome. Hello, Kay. Come on in.”
    Kay Hoffman entered the office and sat on the windowsill air register. “Ah, that feels good on my buns. Cold out there.”
    Lisa smiled and regarded Kay Hoffman a moment. She was a woman near fifty with thick chestnut hair and large brown eyes. She could be described as pleasantly plump or perhaps full-figured. In any case, men seemed to like her lustiness and easy manner.
    Lisa said, “I can’t offer you a drink.”
    “That’s all right.