The Charm School by Nelson DeMille Read Free Book Online Page A

watchtower. Behind him he could still see the headlights of the police car in his rearview mirror. Ahead, he saw an arched underpass beneath the ramp of a Moskva River bridge. Rising up beyond the ramp was the Rossiya Hotel. It was a massive, modern building with a glass and aluminum facade, and its width made its ten stories look squat. Fisher noticed that most of the windows were dark. He drove under the ramp and pulled around to the east side as his Intourist instructions said. In front of the east entrance was a small parking area bordered on three sides by a low stone wall. He came to a stop fifty feet from the front doors and looked around. There were no cars in the lot. The front of the Rossiya was stark. To the left of the entrance doors was another door that led to a Beriozka shop, found in nearly all Soviet hotels where Westerners with Western currency could buy Russian goods and occasionally Western toiletries and sundries. The Beriozka was closed.
    Fisher noticed that the parking lot hung out over a steep incline that ran down to the Moskva River. The hotel was a monstrosity, surrounded by small, old buildings and a half dozen tiny churches in bad repair.
    Fisher looked in his rearview mirror. On the entrance drive behind him he saw the police car parked. Fisher pulled up to the front doors of the hotel and shut off the engine.
    He saw a green-uniformed doorman standing inside the glassed-in outer foyer of the hotel. The man studied the Trans Am but made no move to open the door. Fisher got out of the car with his shoulder satchel. He had discovered that in a Soviet hotel a doorman’s job was not to help people in, but to keep Soviet citizens out, especially, but not limited to, black marketeers, prostitutes, dissidents, and the curious who might want to see how people on the West side of the tracks lived. Fisher opened the door himself and approached the doorman. “Allo.”
    “Allo.”
    Fisher motioned toward his car.
“Bagazh.
Okay?”
    “Okay.”
    He handed the doorman his car keys. “
Garazh.
Okay?”
    The doorman looked at him quizzically.
    It occurred to Fisher that there was probably not a parking garage in the whole of Moscow. Fisher was tired, scared, and annoyed. “Sweet Jesus… .” He realized he didn’t have a ruble on him. He reached into his satchel and grabbed an item he’d been saving. “Here.” He held up an eight-inch copper reproduction of the Statue of Liberty, complete with pedestal.
    The doorman’s eyes darted around, then he took it and examined it suspiciously.
“Religiozni?”
    “No, no. It’s the Statue of Liberty.
Svoboda.
For you.
Podarok.
Take care of the auto. Okay?”
    The doorman shoved the statue into the pocket of his tunic. “Okay.”
    Fisher pushed through the swinging glass door and entered the lobby, which seemed deserted and, like most public places, overheated. The Russians equated heat with luxury, Fisher suspected. He looked around. The lobby was mostly grey stone and aluminum. A mezzanine ran from end to end above the pillared lobby. There was no bar, no newsstand, no shops, no services in evidence. There was nothing in fact to suggest he was in a hotel except for a sort of ticket window in the left-hand wall that he assumed was the front desk. He walked to it, and a disinterested young woman looked up. He gave her his Intourist reservation, his passport and visa. She examined the passport a moment, then without a word disappeared through a door behind the desk.
    Fisher said aloud to himself, “Welcome to the Rossiya, Mr. Fisher. How long will you be staying with us?… Oh, until the KGB comes for me… . Very good, sir.”
    Fisher turned and looked down the long, narrow lobby. There were no bellhops or hotel staff in view except the doorman sitting in the glass-enclosed foyer. He could see his car, and parked right behind it was the police car.
    The place not only looked deserted, but spooky. “This is not a hotel.”
    Fisher now noticed a couple