Charm School v1_0

by Nelson DeMille

  “No, Mrs. Kellum, you can give it a once-over.”

  She looked around. “Oh, they've got you all boxed up.”

  “Pretty much. Just hit the bathrooms and kitchen, if you would.”

  Dick Kellum, also carrying a utility bucket, walked over to the boxes. “You speak German, Colonel?”

  “No, I don't, Dick.”

  “You know, sometimes I wonder what the Russkies think of us getting German movers, sending sick people to Finland and England, flying in Europeans to fix things in the embassy. They've got to be a little insulted. Right?”

  Hollis thought, You tell me, Ivan. He said, “They don't insult easily.” He looked at the Kellums. They were in their mid or late forties, both somewhat swarthy, with black, greying hair and dark eyes. They moved like people who'd done heavy menial labor all their lives, and their accents seemed to be working class, though they were far from stupid. Hollis recalled a somewhat interesting conversation he'd had with Dick Kellum on the virtues and varieties of Milwaukee beer. Ann Kellum had once confided in him that her husband drank too much of those famous brews.

  Ann Kellum asked, “Did they pack your vacuum cleaner?”

  “Probably. Don't worry about that. You can do a complete job for the next tenant after I've gone.”

  “You got a replacement yet, Colonel?” Mr. Kellum inquired.

  “Yes, a lieutenant colonel named Fields. I know him and his wife. They're trying to get him here before I leave, and if they do, I'll introduce you to him. His wife will probably come in later.”

  “I hope he speaks Russki like you so someone can talk to that crazy Russian groundkeeper for me.”

  Hollis smiled at Dick Kellum. You son of a bitch. I'd like to cut your heart out. “He's fluent too but likes to keep that under his hat, if you know what I mean. So don't push him on it.”

  “Gotcha.” Mr. Kellum winked.

  Mrs. Kellum asked, “This will be their unit then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will the lady be working, do you know?”

  “I believe so. She's an accredited teacher and will probably try to get a position at the Anglo-American School.”

  “Okay,” Mrs. Kellum said. “That makes things easier to schedule.”

  “I know,” Hollis replied.

  Mr. Kellum hefted his bucket. “I'll get going on the head.” He walked to the second-floor bathroom.

  Mrs. Kellum watched him go, then said in a low voice, “Colonel, this is none of my business, and you can tell me to shut up, but are you joining Mrs. Hollis? She still in London?”

  “I'm not sure, Mrs. Kellum.”

  The woman seemed to be fighting some sort of inner battle, then blurted out, “Colonel, Dick and me like you, and I talked to him about this, and he told me to keep quiet about it, but I think you got to know. Your wife… Mrs. Hollis…” She glanced at Hollis, then looked away. “Well, she was seeing a gentleman here, a gentleman from the commercial section. I can't say his name, but he'd come by whenever you were in the city or something or up to Leningrad on business.” She added quickly, “They could've just been friends, you know, and maybe they were, but I don't think it's right for a woman to be having male friends in her place without her husband being around.” Mrs. Kellum fidgeted for a moment, then picked up her bucket and went into the kitchen.

  Hollis took a drink of his scotch. Spies lie, he thought. Maybe the KGB were just indulging themselves in a last joke before he left. Then again, it might be true. In fact, the gentleman in question could have been Ken Mercer, one of the men Lisa had been speaking to in the lobby of the chancery. Hollis said, “Who gives a damn?”

  He heard the front door open again, and this time it was Lisa who came up the stairs. “Are you alone?” she called out. “Did I catch you? Are you screwing someone, Hollis?”

  Hollis greeted her at the top of the stairs. “Hello, Lisa.”

  “At least you have your pants on.”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Kellum are here.”

  She put her hand over her mouth, and her cheeks reddened. She whispered, “You idiot, why didn't you tell me?”

  “I just did.”

  “Did they hear me?”

  “I'm sure they did.”

  She buried her face in his chest and muffled a laugh. “That'll be all over the compound in an hour. Oh, my God, I'm embarrassed.”

  “They're discreet.” He kissed her. “Why don't we go to your place?”

  She looked around. “My place is a mess too. Let's go into town. It's not raining or freezing today.”

  Hollis hesitated, then replied, “All right, but…”

  “Oh, don't let them run your life. Isn't that our motto?”

  “Yes, it is.” He called into the kitchen, “Mrs. Kellum, I'm leaving.”

  She appeared at the kitchen door. “Oh, Ms. Rhodes, I didn't know you were here.”

  Lisa exchanged a smirking glance with Hollis. She said, “Hello, Ann. Not much to do here, is there?”

  “No. Have they packed you too?”

  “All packed.”

  “Are you sad to be leaving?”

  “Yes, very.”

  “I don't see why they couldn't give you another chance.”

  “Well, they take minor violations very seriously here.”

  “Everything's a violation here. No freedom of anything. Will your replacement be moving into your unit?”

  “I don't think I'm getting a replacement. No use sending someone here if they have to start shipping people—”

  “Let's go,” Hollis interrupted. “Good-bye, Mrs. Kellum. See you before I leave.”

  “I hope so, Colonel.”

  “I'll make a point of it.”

  He took Lisa's arm, and they went down to the foyer, where Hollis got his trench coat and a black felt fedora.

  “You look like a spy in that getup.”

  “No, that blue topcoat and porkpie hat is my spy outfit.”

  They walked outside into the thin sunshine. There was a damp chill in the air, but it was above freezing, and the snow of a few nights before lay in patches on the quad. They left through the rear pedestrian gate beside the Marine barracks, and Hollis said, “Where do you want to go?”

  “Nowhere in particular. We'll just be tourists. We'll walk up Gorky Street, hand in hand, and stop in a funny little cafe for cappuccino and pastry.”

  “There are no cafes with cappuccino on Gorky or any other street.”

  “Pretend.”

  “All right.” They walked through the streets of the old Presnya district, past a sculpture of a barricade fighter and then another sculpture entitled “The Cobblestone—Weapon of the Proletariat.” Nearby was an obelisk erected to the Heroes of the 1905 Insurrection. Hollis said, “This is romantic. Can we kiss in Insurrection Square?”

  “Oh, stop griping. Romance is in the heart, not in stone or marble, even on the Via Veneto.”

  “Well said.”

  “Anyway, I've developed a perverse fondness for this city and its people.”

  “Some of its perverse people have been following us. You know what 'embassy watchers' are, of course.”

  “Yes. Are they following us?” She glanced around.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure? I don't think I've ever been followed.”

  “Well, they follow everyone once in a while. But with military attaches, they stick like glue all the time. We're going to lose them. It's fairly simple to do on the metro. Just stay with me. Here's some five-kopek pieces.”

  They walked up Rampart Street and entered the 1905 Street Metro, taking the first train to come along. Sitting in a half-empty car, Hollis said, “We'll have to make a few random transfers until I'm sure we've lost them.”

  “Okay. But who cares if they follow us? We're not doing anything.”

  “It's the principle. Also, they may still have a room waiting for us at Lefortovo.”

  “Oh.”

  They rode the metro toward the city center and made sever
al last-minute transfers at the more crowded stations, then took the Prospect Mira line to the northern reaches of the city. Hollis settled in his seat and said, “We lost them back at Revolution Square.”

  She sat beside him in the nearly empty car. “How do you know?”

  “I saw them looking upset on the platform as our train pulled away.”

  “You knew what they looked like?”

  “I hope so.”

  “This is neat. This is romantic. Running from the KGB.” She looked at her watch. “It's nearly one. I'm starving. Whose turn to buy?”

  “I think you forgot to pay at Lefortovo. So it's your turn.”

  “Right.” She took his hand. “You know, Sam, my boss, Kay Hoffman, says I shouldn't get involved with a married man.”

  “Really? Does she write an advice column on the side?”

  “Be serious. She's an experienced woman—”

  “So I've heard.”

  “And she's sort of my mentor. She said that married men either go back to their wives, or they consider you a transitional woman.”

  “Here's Cosmos Station. The next stop is the woods. We better get off here.”

  They came out of the metro pavilion and looked around. To their left was the soaring space obelisk, a three-hundred-foot curved shaft of polished titanium that represented the blast and plume of a rocket, atop which was the huge rocket itself.

  Lisa observed, “It's so phallic… look at that curve… that thrusting power… that rocket—”

  Hollis smiled. “Calm down.”

  She laughed. “Sorry, lost my head.” She surveyed the vast open spaces around her. “I've been up here once. It's all so Soviet here, almost nothing of old Russia.”

  Hollis nodded. Beyond the space obelisk was the Cosmos Cinema and beyond that the Moscow TV tower, a rocket-shaped structure nearly 1,500 feet high, which held a revolving restaurant with the odd name of Seventh Heaven. Fifty yards from the metro pavilion was the huge entrance arch to the USSR Economic Achievements Exhibition, a two-hundred-acre park with some two dozen pavilions. A sort of theme park, Hollis thought, and the theme was Soviet power. He'd toured the place once, and it was impressive. The buildings, like the obscenely expensive titanium rocket, were built of the finest stone and metals. The exhibits, ranging from atomic energy and rocketry to agriculture and animal husbandry, were well-preserved and well-maintained. Yet, a few kilometers to the north were the log cabins, the mud streets, the outhouses, and the women carrying water buckets on yokes.

  Lisa said, “We can try to get into the Seventh Heaven or one of the snack bars in the exhibition, or maybe we can try the Cosmos Hotel.”

  Hollis looked across the six-lane Prospect Mira at the massive concave facade of the thirty-story aluminum-and-glass hotel. It had been a joint French and Yugoslav project, completed in time for the 1980 Olympics, and though it was stunning to look at, Hollis had heard rumors that the last maintenance and cleaning people had departed with the Olympic guests. He said, “All right, the hotel.”

  They crossed the wide avenue and walked up a long concrete ramp that took them to the front doors. A doorman asked for their propusks, and Hollis gave him two rubles instead, which got the door open.

  They entered the massive, blondwood-paneled lobby, surrounded by a mezzanine level, and consulted a wall directory. The theme here, as across the street, was rocketry and space travel. There was the Orbit Lounge, the Lunar Restaurant, and so forth. Hollis said, “I hope they don't serve drinks in space capsule glasses.”

  “With rocketship stirrers.” She looked around the crowded lobby. The furniture was discolored and sagging, the floors were dirty, and half the lights didn't work. She said, “What is that smell?”

  “I'd rather not speculate.”

  She shrugged. “I hope it's not one of the restaurants. Let's try the Lunar.”

  They walked up the closest out-of-order escalator to the sweeping mezzanine level and found the Lunar Restaurant. Hollis spoke to the hostess in English, which she partly understood. She seemed surprised to discover they weren't hotel guests and had actually come from somewhere else to eat at the Lunar. She showed them into the dining room, a fairly pleasant if plain room with clean blue tablecloths.

  The Cosmos was an Intourist hotel, and as the Soviets considered it one of the best, they put Americans and West Europeans there, though Hollis thought it was inconveniently far from central Moscow. The restaurant was crowded with tourists on their lunch break, the two-hour respite between the bus jaunts of their Intourist-planned stay. The hostess pointed to the far end of the restaurant and said, “British and Americans.”

  “How about Canadians and Australians?”

  “Yes, yes. There, please.”

  They walked unescorted through the restaurant, which consisted entirely of tables for eight and twelve. Hollis said, “Tables for two in Russia are only in interrogation rooms.”

  “Always griping.”

  “Just making observations.” Hollis determined that they were now walking through the German section of the restaurant. There were well over a hundred of them, predominantly middle-aged couples. Most of them, like a good many Germans he'd seen in Moscow, looked dour and withdrawn. He could not imagine how they felt comfortable in a country that had lost twenty million of its people to the German armies and where half the tourist sights were memorials to the dead. He wouldn't have been surprised to discover that some of the men had last seen Russia from the turret of a Panzer tank.

  In the English-speaking section of the dining room, Hollis and Lisa found a table occupied by only one other couple, and Lisa introduced herself and Hollis as Sam and Lisa Randall, tourists.

  The couple introduced themselves as George and Dina Turnbill of Rhode Island.

  Hollis and Lisa sat. The table, Hollis noticed, was set for ten, and he knew the busboys had no intention of removing the other settings. On the table were two bottles of mineral water, four bottles of a popular pear soda that Hollis had tried once, and two bottles of Russian Pepsi-Cola. Hollis had tried the Pepsi once, and it wasn't.

  There was a basket of the ubiquitous black bread near them, white butter that was more like stiff cream than butter, and a bowl of pickled beets. There was apparently no menu, and a waitress brought four pannikins of mushrooms floating in hot cream. A waiter set down a tureen of borscht on which floated a film of sour cream.

  Hollis and Lisa fell into conversation with the Turnbills. They were a casually dressed couple, attractive and in their mid-thirties. They were both instructors at Brown; he taught anthropology and she taught psychology. Hollis told them he was a used car salesman from Hoboken, New Jersey, and Lisa was a housewife, which earned him a kick under the table.

  George Turnbill said to Hollis, “Our tour group is having lunch at the downtown Intourist so they can go to GUM department store afterward. But Dina and I came back here to see more of this Economic Exhibition across the street.”

  Hollis replied, “We're in the same situation.”

  Dina said, “Isn't it marvelous?”

  “What?”

  “The exhibition. They've done so much in so short a time.”

  Hollis thought the old “so short a time” tagline was wearing a little thin after seventy years.

  George exclaimed, “You can eat off the streets here! Have you seen the subways yet? My God, they're marble and brass!”

  Lisa smiled. “We've been exploring the subways quite a bit.”

  Dina said, “George and I walked around Red Square last night—eleven o'clock at night, and we never once felt afraid. Right, George?”

  “There's no crime here,” George agreed. “This is a very well-run city and country. The people seem content, prosperous, healthy, and well fed.”

  Hollis poured the pannikin of mushrooms into the beet soup and studied the result.

  Lisa responded, “I've noted that almost no one smiles—”

  “That,” Dina interrupted, “is just a national character trait. It
doesn't mean they're not happy.”

  “For instance,” George explained, “Orientals smile when they're embarrassed.”

  Hollis had the feeling he was getting a combined psychology and anthropology lecture. He tried the pear soda, then washed the taste out with the mineral water, then tried the borscht and mushroom concoction. Hollis badly wanted a drink, but the anti-alcohol campaign made it impossible to buy the stuff before four P.M., not even wine or beer in a tourist restaurant. He poured Pepsi, pear soda, and mineral water into one glass and swirled it around.

  George asked him, “Did you notice how cheap everything is? Five kopeks for the metro, two kopeks for the telephone. I bought a beautiful photo book of Moscow for two rubles, and the room here is about thirty rubles, and there's no tipping.”

  Hollis thought about mentioning the price of fresh food if you could get it, or that badly made shoes cost about sixty dollars, junk cars about nine thousand dollars, and freedom couldn't be bought at any price. He said to George, “What exactly did you come here to find?”

  George answered without hesitation. “The truth. I came to Moscow to look for the truth.”

  “That,” Hollis said, “is sort of like going to Forty-second Street to look for virtue.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Lisa interjected, “We're having a somewhat different experience here than you.”

  “You have to stay open-minded,” Dina advised.

  Hollis turned to Lisa and said in Russian, “I'm not sure I want to go back to America if there are any more shitheads like these two here.”

  Lisa replied, “Just stay away from college campuses.”

  George asked, “Is that Russian?”

  “Polish,” Hollis said.

  They finished the mushrooms, the bread, the mineral water, and the pickled beets, but there was no sign of the main course. From where he sat, Hollis could see behind the screen that shielded the kitchen door. Six waiters and waitresses sat there at a table, drinking tea and talking. Hollis said dryly, “I'm glad they're having a good time on their day off.”

  The Turnbills were extolling the virtues of black bread, mineral water, and pear soda, though they couldn't find much good to say about the communist Pepsi.