Free The Charm School by Nelson DeMille

yet.”
    “Good.” Brennan suddenly cut hard left with squealing tires through Dobrynin Square and headed up Ordynka Street, straight north on a run that would take them to the center of Moscow and the Rossiya Hotel. Hollis knew that Brennan’s route may have taken them a few extra minutes, but it had avoided any KGB who were out to intercept them and avoided the militia posts around the Kremlin.
    Brennan said, “If I get nabbed speeding, they kick me out of the country.”
    “That bother you?”
    “No… but I have the Colt .45. That can get sticky. My diplomatic immunity status is a little shaky.”
    “I’ll take the gun and the rap if they nail us.”
    “Nah… that’s okay. I’m tired of this fucking country anyway.”
    “Drive on.”
    Brennan accelerated up Ordynka Street. He added more bubble gum to the already large mass, and the bubbles got bigger.
    Hollis hiked up the left leg of his blue jeans, reached into his boot, and pulled out a grey Air Force survival knife. He slipped the knife under his jacket and into his belt. Brennan watched him out of the corner of his eye but said nothing.
    Hollis could see the Moskvoretsky Bridge about a half kilometer ahead, and beyond the bridge he saw the Rossiya getting bigger with every second. The few cars on the road seemed to be standing still. Hollis heard a continuously honking horn behind them. He looked out the rear window. “The fuzz.”
    “I hear it. What kind of car?”
    “A Lada.”
    “A fucking joke. About as much power as an electric shaver.”
    “Nevertheless, he’s on our tail.”
    “Not for long.”
    The Ford shot forward, and Hollis watched as the Lada lost ground. The police car had no siren or revolving lights, and the horn grew more distant, though Hollis knew it was still sounding because the Lada’s headlights dimmed every time the driver hit the horn.
    Brennan took the narrow bridge at eighty miles per hour, and Hollis saw a blur of pedestrians staring at them from the bridge walkway. The Ford sailed off the bridge, bounced hard, then tore across the embankment road, cutting diagonally past the Kremlin’s corner tower. As they barreled up the approach lane to the Rossiya, Brennan asked, “East side?”
    “Yes. You keep going. Back to the embassy.”
    Brennan pulled the Colt .45 from his shoulder holster. “You need this?”
    “No. You keep it or ditch it. Your choice.”
    Brennan swung around toward the east entrance of the hotel. “Ready?”
    Hollis saw that the small parking area did not have a Trans Am in it, and he took this as a bad sign. “Ready. Nice job.”
    Brennan slowed the car in front of the hotel. “Good luck.” He popped a big bubble.
    “You too.” Hollis jumped out of the moving car and slammed the door as Brennan accelerated out the exit ramp.
    Hollis pushed through the front doors of the Rossiya, and the doorman said,
“Propusk.”
    “Komitet,”
Hollis replied as he brushed past him.
    The man literally jumped back and tried to open the second door, but Hollis was already through it. Hollis went directly to the elevator and hit the top floor button.
Komitet.
Committee. The Committee for State Security—the KGB. Magic words. Open sesame. The fact that he’d arrived in an American car, wearing American clothing, made no difference to the doorman. No one else would dare utter that word.
    The elevator arrived. Hollis rode up to the tenth floor and began the long trek to the west-facing side.
    The Rossiya, for the uninitiated, was a confusing amalgam of four separate wings containing over three thousand rooms, attached to form a square around a central court. The east wing was the Intourist hotel, the west wing was a hotel for Soviet and East Bloc citizens only, while the north and south wings were residences for favored communists. The wings were connected at a few floors though not at the ground floor. To pass from one wing to another, Hollis knew, you had to have a good reason. East was east, and west was