The Charm School

by Nelson DeMille

Hollis made no reply.

  She asked, “What would you have done if she asked us for passports or identity cards?”

  “Are you asking out of curiosity, or are you trying to learn the business?”

  “Both.”

  “Well, then, I would have… you tell me.”

  Lisa thought a moment, then said, “I’d pretend I couldn’t find my ID, leave, and pay a peasant to buy two tickets.”

  Hollis nodded. “Not bad.”

  Lisa and Hollis walked down the cold, grey concrete platform, which looked like a scene out of Doctor Zhivago, crowded with black-coated and black-scarved humanity. Old peasants, men and women, with teenage boys to help them, lugged crates, boxes, and suitcases filled with dairy products and the last fresh produce of the year. They were all headed for one place: Moscow, the Center, where eight million mouths had to be fed and could not be fed properly through the government’s distribution system. Some of the peasants would go to the markets, the government’s grudging concession to capitalism, and some of the peasants would get no farther than a side street near the railroad terminal. Hollis had heard from some of the wives in the embassy that by November broccoli and cauliflower could sell for the equivalent of two dollars a pound, tomatoes for twice that, and lettuce was sold by the gram. By December the fresh produce disappeared until May.

  The peasant women sat like men, Hollis noticed, their legs spread and their hands dangling in their laps. Not a single man was shaven, and there was not one decent article of clothing among the two hundred or so people. The women wore rubber boots and galoshes, and though the men’s shoes and boots were leather, they were raw and cracked from long, hard use. The few young girls wore plastic boots of garish colors: red, yellow, pale blue. Hollis said softly to Lisa, “You might as well powder your nose again. Everyone’s staring at you anyway.”

  “My word, look at that. That man has dead rabbits in that sack.”

  The Byelorussian Express came lumbering down the track, and everyone stood and moved their wares to the edge of the platform, forming a veritable wall of boxes and crates. The train stopped, the doors opened, and Hollis vaulted inside followed by Lisa. They took two empty seats by the attendant’s tea cubicle.

  Within ten minutes every nook and cranny of the car was packed with bundles, and the train pulled out. Hollis checked his watch. It was nine-thirty. With stops in Mozhaisk and Golitsyno, the train should arrive at the Byelorussian station on Gorky Square well before noon.

  The grimness of the platform quickly gave way to animated conversation, jokes, and laughter. It was rough peasant talk, Hollis noted, but there was no profanity, and there seemed to be a bond between these people, though clearly many of them were getting acquainted for the first time. The bond was not only the journey, he thought, but the brotherhood of the downtrodden. How unlike the Moscow metro where you could hear a pin drop at the height of rush hour.

  Food was being passed around now, and there was good-natured teasing about the qualities of each person’s wares. Hollis heard a woman say, “Not even a Muscovite would buy these apples of yours.”

  Another woman answered, “I tell them they are radishes.”

  Everyone laughed.

  An old man across the aisle pushed a dripping slice of tomato under Hollis’ nose. Hollis took it from his brown fingers. “Thank you, father.” He passed it to Lisa. “Eat it.”

  She hesitated, then popped it into her mouth. “Good. See if anyone has orange juice.”

  “Low profile. Feign sleep or simplemindedness.”

  Lisa whispered in Russian, “Can I smoke?”

  “Not here. In the lav.”

  “Do you want another pear? Honey?”

  “No, honey.”

  “This is nice.”

  Hollis looked around the car. It was quite nice. Clean, lace curtains on the windows, and little bud vases attached to the windowsills, each with a real rosebud. The more he saw of Russia, he admitted, the less he understood it. The windows, however, were dirty, and this was somehow comforting.

  They spoke as little as possible, and Hollis urged Lisa to remain in her seat unless she really had to use the facilities. The conductor, a middle-aged woman, came through, took their tickets, and marked them rather than punching them. She said, “Are you Muscovites?”

  Hollis replied, “No. Estonians. From Moscow we go to Leningrad, then home to Tallinn.”

  “Ah. Your Russian is good.” She looked Lisa over and observed, “Those are very nice boots.”

  “Thank you.”

  “They have better things in our Baltic republics. I never understood that.” She handed Hollis the tickets. “Have a safe journey.”

  “Thank you.”

  The train gathered speed on the straight, flat trackbed. There was piped-in music now. It was not the classical or folk music usually heard in public places, Hollis noted, but soft, easy-listening music, Soviet Muzak.

  The train pulled into Mozhaisk, and there was the same crush of humanity on the platform carrying the same bursting cardboard suitcases and ungainly bundles. The train loaded the last two cars only. There were soldiers and militia on the platform. Hollis and Lisa slumped down into their seats and feigned sleep. The train pulled out and continued its journey through the bleak Russian landscape.

  Golitsyno was a five-minute stop, and within fifteen minutes of leaving the station they could see the tall spire of Moscow University in the Lenin Hills. “Almost home,” Lisa commented. She added, “No, not really home.”

  The train made short stops at suburban stations, Setun, Kuncevo, Fili, then Testovskaya. Lisa said, “Why don’t we get off here? We can walk to the embassy from here.”

  “We’re supposed to be going on to Leningrad, so we get off at the Byelorussian terminal.”

  “I want to get off here. I’ve had it.”

  “Sit down.”

  Lisa sat back in her seat. “Sorry. Getting edgy. I trust you. You did a magnificent job. Even if something happens and we don’t get into the embassy… . How are we going to get into the embassy if the watchers are waiting for us near the gate?”

  “I’ll show you a spy trick.”

  “You’d better.”

  The Byelorussian Express from Minsk pulled into Moscow’s Byelorussian Station at ten minutes to noon. Hollis and Lisa left quickly and pushed through the throngs packed into the hundred-year-old station. Hollis noticed that the people returning to the hinterlands had not appreciably lightened their loads, but were burdened now with plastic bags filled with clothing, new shoes, cooking utensils, and all manner of Moscow’s bounty. The most worthless thing they had on them were the leftover rubles in their pockets. A few passing Muscovites, well-dressed by comparison, gave the country folk hard looks to show they didn’t like the competition for consumer goods by peasants.

  Hollis and Lisa passed pairs of KGB Border Guards, who were at every transportation hub in the Soviet Union but were nonetheless intimidating to foreigner and native alike.

  Hollis and Lisa came out of the station into Gorky Square, dominated by a huge statue of the writer. The sky was the usual grey, and the air seemed filled with fumes compared to the fresh air of the countryside.

  They crossed the square and walked down Gorky Street, Moscow’s main street, toward the Kremlin. Hollis led Lisa into the Minsk Hotel, and he entered a phone booth off the lobby. He dialed the embassy, spoke to the Marine watch-stander, then the Sunday duty officer, who turned out to be his own aide, Captain O’Shea. “Ed, this is me. Okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This is a photoflash,” Hollis said, using the word for a personal emergency. “Get a car to me at location delta. Ten minutes.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll go myself.”

  “No, stay there and find me Mr. Nine. I want to see him.”

  “Mr. Nine was very worried about you. He’s in his office.”

  “Ten minutes.”

  “Yes, sir. Welcome home.”

  Hollis hung up the phone a
nd said to Lisa, “Seth is very worried about you.”

  Lisa didn’t reply. They left the Minsk Hotel and continued down Gorky Street. She said, “That was neat. Where is location delta?”

  “I forgot.”

  She looked at him. “Are you jerking me around?”

  “Yeah. It’s Gastronom One. You know it?”

  “Sure. But we Muscovites still call it Yeliseyevsky’s, its pre-Revolution name. Best gourmet store in Moscow. The only one actually.” She added, “We’re going to make it, aren’t we?”

  “Looks like it.”

  They passed the Stanislavsky Drama Theater, walked through Pushkin Square, and crossed the Garden Ring, which once had been the outer wall of the city. They came to the ornate facade of Gastronom One, then doubled back. Hollis said, “I’m assuming the KGB doesn’t know location delta from Times Square. We change the locations every time we have to use one. So there should be no one here from the KGB to meet us. However, they will have a car or two close behind the embassy car. As soon as the embassy car slows down, you jump in the rear, scoot over quick, and I follow. Okay?”

  “I saw this in a movie once.”

  They waited. Lisa lit a cigarette. “This is my last one. But I have a pack in my office. Or my room.”

  “That’s good news.”

  A black Ford came at a good pace up Gorky Street, and Hollis saw two security men in the front and a man who looked like Seth Alevy in the back. Behind the Ford was a black Chaika. The Ford suddenly swerved to the curb and braked hard. The back door flew open, Lisa slipped in beside Alevy, and Hollis got in, then slammed the door as the car accelerated. Lisa said, “Hello, Seth.”

  Alevy addressed Hollis directly, “You had better have a good explanation, Colonel.”

  Hollis didn’t reply.

  “Where is the car?” Alevy asked.

  “At the railroad station.”

  “What railroad station?”

  “Gagarin.”

  “Gagarin? What the hell were you doing there?”

  “Getting the train to Moscow.”

  Lisa opened her burlap bag. “Seth, do you want a pear?”

  “No.” Alevy folded his arms and looked out the side window.

  The Chaika got up close behind them, and the security driver sped up until another Chaika appeared in front of the Ford and boxed them in. The American driver pulled out, and the three cars continued their dangerous game, weaving through central Moscow and down Kalinin Prospect.

  Within ten minutes the Ford reached the embassy and shot past the militia booth, crossed the sidewalk, and entered the gates. The Chaika behind them sounded its horn, and the man in the passenger side put his arm out the window and extended his middle finger. The security men in the front of the Ford returned the salute of the KGB men in the Chaika, while Hollis returned the salute of the Marine watchstanders. The Ford went around the flagpole and stopped at the entrance to the chancery. Hollis, Lisa, and Alevy piled out. Alevy said, “No offense, but you both smell.”

  Lisa said, “I think I’ll go and shower.”

  “Not a half-bad idea.”

  Hollis said to Alevy, “Get a call through to the Mozhaisk morgue. Tell them not to wait for an escort and have them drive the body to Sheremetyevo airport freight terminal. Send a consular officer to the airport to take charge of the remains.” He took the manila envelope from his briefcase. “Here’s all the paperwork, including the export permit and a charge for the coffin that they want paid before they’ll ship it out.”

  “I thought you were in the damned coffin. I called the Soviet Foreign Ministry, the KGB—”

  “That’s like dialing M for murder, Seth.”

  “Where did you spend the night?”

  “Is that a professional question?” Hollis inquired.

  Lisa interjected. “We hid out in a village called Yablonya—”

  “Hid out? From whom?”

  Hollis answered, “From a guy named Burov. KGB type. Colonel.” Hollis described him. “Know the man?”

  “Maybe. I’ll ask around. Okay, please be in the sixth-floor safe room in thirty minutes. Both of you. Can you do that?”

  Lisa said, “I need an hour.” She turned and walked into the chancery.

  Alevy stared at Hollis, who stared back. Alevy said, “You know, it was my fault for letting you take her along.”

  “I think I cured her of her fascination with espionage.”

  “On the contrary, I think. Did you get along all right?”

  “She was an asset.”

  “Maybe I should recruit her,” Alevy said.

  “She has what it takes. And we have no female types now.”

  “I’ll wire Langley. What was her strongest asset?”

  “Humor in the face of danger.”

  “We must discuss this soon.”

  “Fine. But not out in the open where the directional microphones can eavesdrop.” Hollis turned and walked into the chancery. He went through the lobby and came out onto the rear terrace. She was there waiting for him. She said, “What were you talking to Seth about?”

  “Your assets.”

  They walked on the birch-lined path beside the quadrangle toward her unit. She said, “I wondered if I’d see this place again.”

  “No more bitching about your unit.”

  “No, sir. I love my bathroom. Kiss the tile.”

  Hollis looked out on the quadrangle. John Uhlman from the consular section was teaching his son how to ride a two-wheeler. The scarecrow had been built in their absence, and there were three oddly shaped pumpkins at its feet. Hollis observed, “No corn stalks.”

  She followed his gaze. “No corn stalks.”

  “Well…” He glanced at his watch.

  “Last chance for a pear.”

  “I’ll take one.”

  She held out the bag. “Take the honey too. I’m off sugar.”

  “I’m off too, sweets.”

  They both smiled. Finally Lisa asked, “How do we stand?”

  Hollis put his hands in his pockets and shrugged.

  “Is that an answer?”

  “How do you stand with Seth?”

  “It’s over.”

  “Then what’s he angry about?”

  She threw the bag over her shoulder. “Well, think about it.” She turned and walked down the path.

  Hollis stood awhile, then made his way across the quadrangle.

  13

  Seth Alevy said to Charles Banks, “John Uhlman from the consular section is headed for Sheremetyevo to take care of the business that Colonel Hollis did not complete.”

  Hollis noticed that Alevy was talking mostly to Banks, ignoring him and Lisa.

  Hollis saw that Banks was wearing his Sunday best, though since it was Sunday in Moscow, everyone else was dressed casually. Hollis had showered and put on jeans and a flannel shirt. Alevy wore pleated slacks and a V-necked sweater. Lisa, he thought, looked good in a white turtleneck and tight jeans, though she was somewhat cool to him. Hollis sat at the far end of the conference table in the ambassador’s safe room; Banks sat at the opposite end, and Lisa and Alevy sat in the center facing each other. Hollis noticed for the first time a framed piece of calligraphy hanging on the wall and read it:

  The issues of diplomacy are of ever greater importance, since a stupid move could destroy all of us in a few minutes.

  LORD HUMPHRY TREVEYAN, 1973

  Hollis thought that Banks and the ambassador would probably prove that true in the next few weeks.

  Alevy continued, “Obviously we can’t retrieve the rented Zhiguli, so we called the Intourist Hotel and told them it was broken down at Gagarin railroad station. We’ll get a hell of a bill for that.”

  Hollis knew that Alevy was not in the least interested in these petty administrative matters, but Charles Banks was. It was the nature of the diplomat to never break a local rule or offend a host country. Even if you were handing the foreign minister a note with a declaration of war on it, you were po
lite about it. Hollis perceived that Alevy was trying to make points with Banks at Hollis’ expense, so Hollis thought he’d be helpful for a change. He said, “The car needs a lot of body work too.”

  Banks turned to him. “Body work?”

  “Just hit a tree. Damage to the tree was minimal.”

  “Good.” Banks cleared his throat and said, “So…” He looked at Lisa, then back to Hollis, and he put a stern tone in his voice. “Neither of you returned to your quarters last night, and neither of you informed this embassy of your whereabouts. That is contrary to regulations as well as a dangerous breach of security, not to mention the element of personal danger to yourselves.” Banks looked from one to the other. “Do either of you have an explanation for this? Miss Rhodes?”

  Lisa replied, “We were together obviously. We were unable to finish our business in Mozhaisk by nightfall. There was no room at the inn—actually there was no inn—so we spent the night on a kolhoz—that’s a collective farm, Charles. There was no telephone there.”

  Banks said, “I appreciate the special conditions that exist in the countryside here. But it is your obligation to keep in contact with this embassy, not vice versa.”

  Hollis spoke. “As the senior person, I’ll take responsibility for the breach.”

  Banks nodded, satisfied.

  Alevy said, “I don’t quite understand how you two got such a late start and failed to complete this routine assignment before dark.”

  Hollis replied, “Lot of paperwork involved, Seth. Drop it.”

  But Alevy continued, “How did you wind up on a collective? Why didn’t you call from Mozhaisk?”

  Hollis looked directly at Alevy. “I don’t think Mr. Banks wants to be bored with those details.”

  Alevy nodded. “Right. Perhaps later you can bore me.” He looked at Lisa a moment, then turned back to Banks. “Sir?”

  Banks addressed Lisa. “The ambassador is writing an official letter of condolence to Mr. Fisher’s parents. I would like you to write a personal note indicating that you were involved with the disposition of the remains and the personal effects and so forth. And that the Soviet authorities assured you that Gregory Fisher died instantly and suffered no pain and so forth. There are sample letters on file.”