Free The Charm School by Nelson DeMille Page B

however, east and west nearly met in this Byzantine and schizoid building. Hollis approached the entrance to the restaurant and bar, where one of the ubiquitous angry ladies who seemed to guard every door in Moscow sat at a desk. She looked him over.
    “Bar,” Hollis said.
    She nodded curtly and pointed to the doors. Hollis went through into a large foyer. To the left was a black, closed door marked with the English word BAR . Straight ahead, two open doors revealed a huge restaurant filled to capacity. Hollis could tell by the din, the toasts, the laughter, and the attire that they were mostly Russians. He looked inside. A band played American jazz, and the dance floor was crowded with people who seemed to have trouble just standing. A wedding party occupied a large round table, and the bride, a pretty young girl in white, was the only person still sitting upright. Hollis had the fleeting impression she was having second thoughts. Hollis surveyed the room and satisfied himself that Fisher would not have gone in there. A man came toward him shaking his head. The man pointed over Hollis’ shoulder. “Bar.”
    “Spasibo.”
Hollis went through the black door and entered the bar, where, for Western hard currency, you could buy Western hard liquor and brand name mixers; a night spot of capitalist decadence, high above Red Square. Hollis scanned the dark lounge.
    The bar was full, but in contrast to the Russian restaurant, the drunken chatter was more subdued and less lusty. The clientele, Hollis knew, were mostly Western Europeans, and nearly all were guests at the hotel. The Rossiya attracted few Americans, and he wondered how Fisher wound up here. Mixed with the Europeans were always a few Soviet high rollers with access to Westerners and their money. Every hard currency bar in Moscow also had a resident KGB snoop who could eavesdrop in ten languages.
    Hollis walked around the lounge but didn’t see anyone who could be Gregory Fisher. This, he decided, was not good.
    There was a service bar where patrons were obliged to get their own drinks. Hollis elbowed through the crowd and spoke to the bartender in fluent Russian. “I’m looking for my friend. An American. He is young and has on blue jeans and a short, black jacket.”
    The bartender glanced at him quickly but continued to make drinks as he replied, “American, you say? No, I didn’t see anyone like that.”
    Hollis left the bar and walked quickly to the east-wing elevators. He rode down to the seventh floor and got off. The
dezhurnaya
looked at him curiously.
“Gost?”
    “No. Visitor.” He leaned over her desk, looked the blond woman directly in the eye, and said, “Fisher.”
    She looked away.
    “Gregory Fisher. American.”
    She rolled a tube of lip gloss in her fingers, then shook her head.
    Hollis looked at the keyboard behind her desk and saw that the key for 745 was missing. He walked past her and she called after him, “You may not go there.”
    Hollis ignored her. He found room 745 and knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again, harder.
    A voice from behind the door said, “Who is it?”
    “I’m from the embassy.”
    “Embassy?”
    Hollis heard the lock turn, and the door opened. A paunchy, middle-aged man with sleep in his eyes, wearing a robe, peered out. “Is everything all right?”
    Hollis looked at him, then past him into the room. “I’m looking for Mr. Fisher.”
    The man seemed relieved. “Oh, I thought something happened at home. My wife. My name is Schiller. Everything’s all right, isn’t it?”
    “Yes.” Hollis stared at him.
    Schiller said, “I heard ‘embassy,’ and you know—”
    “Mr. Fisher just called me and said he was in seven forty-five.”
    Schiller’s manner went from worried to slightly annoyed. “So? He’s not here, pal. I don’t know the guy. Try four fifty-seven. Anything’s possible in this fucked-up country.”
    Which, Hollis thought, was not only true, but offered another possible