The Charm School

by Nelson DeMille

  “Sample letters of personal notes from me?”

  “No,” Banks replied coolly. “Sample personal condolence notes… .” Banks seemed to grasp the contradiction in that, so he said, “Personalize the sample.”

  Lisa tapped her fingers on the table, then replied, “Shall I tell them I spoke to their son before his death? That he called this embassy from the Rossiya Hotel and asked for help?”

  “Certainly not. I just told you what to write, Miss Rhodes.” Banks added, “Perhaps Colonel Hollis will write a similar letter to the deceased’s parents.”

  Hollis replied, “I’ll study the samples.”

  Lisa looked at Hollis, then at Alevy and Banks. She said, “I have phone messages on my desk from Peter Stills of The New York Times, Faith Lowry of The Washington Post, Mike Salerno of the Pacific News Bureau, and four or five other news agencies. Apparently in my absence someone in my department issued a press release regarding Gregory Fisher. Apparently, too, some journalists smell a bigger story.”

  Banks leaned toward her. “There is no story beyond the fact that an American tourist died in an automobile accident.”

  “If the auto accident had happened in France or England that would not be news,” Lisa said. “But in the Soviet Union, people get curious. This is a curious country, Charles. You may have noticed.” She added, “That’s why we sit in windowless rooms like this when we talk. It’s not paranoia; it’s reality, though no one in the West would believe half of it.”

  At length Charles Banks responded, “Your office has indeed issued a press release. They may issue another if new facts warrant it. Kay is handling the press on this. You are not assigned to this story.”

  Lisa drew a deep breath. “Why didn’t the press release give all the facts? The call from the Rossiya—”

  Alevy cut in. “We may reveal that in time. For now, we’re not going to. We’re as aware as you are that there is more to this. But we’re trying to get the facts before we make any accusations. You appreciate the current diplomatic thaw. Trust us.”

  Lisa nodded reluctantly.

  Hollis took a piece of paper from his pocket, a decoded radio message. “I sent a query to Defense yesterday asking if a Major Jack or John Dodson was on the Vietnam MIA list. They replied in the negative.” He threw the paper on the table.

  Charles Banks said, “We made the same inquiry of State and also received a negative. So right there we have to wonder about Mr. Fisher’s story.”

  “Do you?” Hollis continued, “We were talking about trust. In my business, as in Seth’s, rule number one is trust no one, including your own people.” Hollis poured himself a glass of mineral water and added, “So I went to our library here yesterday and found a book written by a former Navy flier who was a POW in Vietnam. In the book was an appendix listing some one thousand men who are still unaccounted for. Among them is an Air Force major, named Jack Dodson.”

  No one spoke.

  Hollis said, “I know my query elicited a negative, but I don’t know if yours did. I think someone is playing games.”

  Alevy said, “Sam, leave it alone.”

  Charles Banks added, “Colonel, we are conducting an official investigation through diplomatic and other channels. In the meantime, neither you nor Miss Rhodes are to concern yourselves with this unless requested to give testimony. This is obviously beyond your respective duties.” He added, “The ambassador would like a written report of your activities and whereabouts from the time you left Moscow yesterday afternoon. Thank you for taking care of the remains.”

  Hollis stood. “Mr. Banks, please tell the ambassador that unless or until I receive orders from my superiors to the contrary, I will pursue my own line of investigation into this matter.”

  Lisa stood also. “Charles, an American citizen named Gregory Fisher died under mysterious circumstances in the Soviet Union. Furthermore, Gregory Fisher told me on the telephone of another American citizen whom he met in a pine forest north of Borodino and who was apparently on the run from Soviet authorities—”

  Seth Alevy interrupted. “I recall on the tape that Mr. Fisher mentioned the woods, but I don’t recall him saying anything about a pine forest.” He tilted his chair forward and looked at her, then at Hollis. “What pine forest?”

  Hollis replied, “We must compare notes one of these days.” Hollis left.

  He waited for Lisa at the elevator. He gave it two minutes, then five, then took the elevator down alone.

  14

  Sam Hollis walked up Kalinin Prospect, Moscow’s answer to Fifth Avenue. At the corner of Tchaikovsky Street, a line of hopeful diners waited in front of the popular Arbat restaurant, and Hollis had to make his way around them. Moscow’s rush hour was in full swing, everyone lugging bags, trying to buy anything that was for sale. Muscovites, peasants, and townsmen from the hinterlands descended on central Moscow daily for what they called shopping, though Hollis thought it more resembled the sack of the city.

  Hollis stopped in front of the window of Podarki Pyatero—Gift Shop Five—and examined his reflection. His dark blue overcoat of wool was Moscow-standard as was his narrow-brimmed black hat and his oversize briefcase, which was useful for carrying fresh produce and meat when available. He supposed he blended in superficially, but he knew that Muscovites picked him out as a Westerner. Aside from his facial features he knew he carried himself differently than the people around him, and he remembered what Lisa said about how Russian men walk and a joke someone in the embassy told him when he’d first arrived: Two Muscovite men were walking down the street. One was carrying a huge bundle on his back and was bowed and stooped by the weight, taking each step as though it were his last. The other Muscovite was carrying nothing at all and was bowed and stooped, taking each step as though it were his last.

  Hollis went inside the gift shop. It was not crowded as were the shops selling necessities, and the section in the rear that accepted only Western currency was empty.

  Hollis picked out a carved wooden bear balancing a ball on its foot and a small aluminum znachok—a lapel pin—on which was a profile of Lenin. He handed over six American dollars, and the clerk, claiming she had no American coins for change, pushed some foil-wrapped chocolate toward him. Hollis had a dresser drawer full of chocolate change. “I’ll take pence.”

  “Nyet.”

  “Centimes.”

  “Nyet.”

  “Green stamps. Anything, but no more chocolate.”

  “Nyet.”

  Hollis stuck his purchases in his overcoat and went back into the chilly dusk.

  Kalinin Prospect was a recently widened thoroughfare of twenty-story glass and concrete flats with shops on the ground floors. It cut through the quaint Arbat district, and Hollis, though he did not share Lisa’s fondness for old Moscow, didn’t think much of new Moscow either. The street was as wide as an expressway and the shops too far apart, which might be just as well.

  Hollis stopped again, this time at the window of a woman’s clothing store named Moskvichka, which translated to something like “Miss Moscow,” a name that always amused him for some reason. He looked at the passing crowd reflected in the window but couldn’t spot his tail. He continued north, crossing October Square.

  Hollis walked over a stone footbridge that led to the gate beneath the Troitsky Tower set in the red brick wall of the Kremlin. Two green-uniformed guards looked him over but said nothing. Hollis entered the sixty-acre complex of magnificent cathedrals, monuments, and public buildings, the heart of Soviet power and the soul of old Russia. Sam Hollis, who was not easily impressed, was still impressed by the Kremlin.

  He walked past the Arsenal across Ivanovsky Square, threading his way through hundreds of tourists snapping pictures in the last light of day, the time when the Kremlin photographed best. He spotted two men engaged in conversation near the Troitsky gate. Like him they wore narrow-brim hats and dark overcoats. The two men stood out because they carried no briefcase or bags. Their hands were stuffed in their
pockets, much like policemen everywhere, and you never knew what was in those hands. Hollis walked toward Spassky Tower on the northeast wall of the irregularly shaped citadel. The tower gate was not meant for pedestrian traffic and in fact was closed as he approached. But soon a black Volga sedan pulled away from the Presidium building, and Hollis followed it, quickening his pace. The wooden gates were pulled open by two sentries, and Hollis followed the Volga out, noticing the sentries exchanging nervous glances, but no one challenged him.

  As the gates closed behind him, Hollis walked into Red Square opposite St. Basil’s Cathedral. Only Kremlin vehicles were allowed in the square, and pedestrian traffic was heaviest now at rush hour, which was why he liked this place and this hour to lose people. Hollis darted through the throng, diagonally in front of the Lenin mausoleum where a long line of people waited to view the embalmed corpse. He walked quickly past the huge GUM department store at the north end of the square and glanced back but didn’t see the two men in overcoats. Hollis went down a set of steps in the sidewalk, and the stairs split—metro to the right, an underground passage beneath Red Square to the left. He went right, put five kopeks in the turnstile, and jumped on the fast-descending escalator. He stepped off into the huge marble station with crystal chandeliers. A train came within a minute, and he squeezed on with the commuters, taking the train north one stop to Dzerzhinsky Station.

  Hollis came up the stairs into a small park area at the southern end of Dzerzhinsky Square. He approached a group of twenty or so people standing in a tight crowd. A pretty young woman with flaming red hair was addressing the group. She said in barely accented English, “Behind you is the State Polytechnical Museum, whose exhibits trace the development of Russian engineering. This is worth visiting when you have a free day.”

  A middle-aged woman to Hollis’ left said in a New England accent, “Free day? What free day?”

  Her male companion said, “Sh-h-h-h!”

  The Intourist guide gave the couple a glance, then looked curiously at Hollis before continuing. “To your left is the Museum of the History and Reconstruction of Moscow. There you can see how Soviet socialist planning has made old Moscow into one of the most beautiful cities in the world.”

  Hollis noticed that the American tourists were stealing glances at him, and he knew at least some of them were imagining he was KGB, which was what they wanted to believe. It was part of the tour package, a deliciously sinister tale to tell to the folks back home.

  “To your right,” the redhead continued in a hoarse but sexy voice, “is the Mayakovsky Museum, the flat where the famous poet spent the last eleven years of his life.”

  Someone in front of Hollis asked his neighbor, “Will there be a test?”

  Hollis thought if there were a test, one question should be, “Is it true that Vladimir Mayakovsky’s suicide was a result of his disillusionment with Soviet life?”

  “In the center of the square you see the handsome bronze statue of Felix Dzerzhinsky, eminent party leader, Soviet statesman, and close comrade of Lenin.”

  Hollis thought she should add, “Mass murderer and founder of the dreaded State Security apparatus.” How could anyone pass a test without these facts?

  The guide motioned over her shoulder across the square. “That handsome building with the tall, arched windows is Detsky Mir—Children’s World—Moscow’s largest toy store. Russians love to spoil their children,” she added, more from rote, Hollis thought, than from any personal experience.

  A murmur came from the crowd, and a woman called out, “Oh, can we go there?”

  “On your free time.”

  Someone laughed.

  “But come,” the guide said curtly. “We will go to the bus now, yes?”

  “What is that large building there?” a man asked.

  “That,” the guide said smoothly without even looking up, “is the office of the electric power agency.”

  And it was, Hollis thought, if one’s idea of electric power was fifty volts to the scrotum. He watched the procession wend its way back to the red and white Intourist bus. Passing Muscovites scrutinized the foreigners’ clothes, and Hollis wished American tourists would learn to dress better. A few people in the group turned and took pictures of the electric power agency, knowing from some more reliable source that it was the headquarters of the KGB, the infamous Lubyanka prison.

  The streetlights snapped on, though there was some daylight left. Hollis took the Lenin pin from his pocket and stuck it in his lapel, then sat on a bench that faced up Marx Prospect. From his briefcase he took a green apple, a hunk of goat’s cheese, and a small paring knife. He laid a cloth napkin on his lap and went to work on the apple and cheese with his knife. On a bench to his right an older man was eating black bread. The park benches were Moscow’s fast-food chain. Hollis threw an apple paring toward a group of sparrows, who scattered, then came back and pecked at it.

  Hollis saw him coming down Marx Prospect, past the remnants of the sixteenth-century walls, his tailored overcoat belted at the waist, marking him as a military man in mufti. His stride, too, was military, and he wore a smart cap of fur. He carried his familiar pigskin attaché case, too thin for apples or cheese.

  General Valetin Surikov, of the Red Air Force, walked directly in front of Hollis, scattering the sparrows. Surikov saw the lapel pin signifying it was safe and sat at the opposite end of the bench from Hollis. The general lit a cigarette, put on a pair of gold-rimmed glasses, and took a copy of Pravda from his attaché case. Without looking up he said in English, “The cheese should be wrapped in cellophane not newspaper. We have cellophane. A peasant would use newspaper.”

  Hollis crumpled the piece of newspaper and put it in his briefcase.

  “Why did you pick this place?” Surikov asked.

  “Why not?”

  “This is no game, my friend. We don’t do this so you can have something amusing to talk about with your friends.”

  “No, we don’t, General.”

  “If they catch you, they kick you out with your diplomatic immunity. If they catch me, they take me there”—he cocked his head toward the Lubyanka—“and shoot me.”

  Sam Hollis did not particularly like General Valentin Surikov, but he wasn’t sure why. Hollis said, “Do you know what they did to Colonel Penkovsky when they caught him?”

  “I don’t know who Colonel Penkovsky is.”

  “Was.” Hollis was newly amazed each time he discovered how little these people knew about the society in which they lived. Even generals. “Penkovsky did what you are doing. Quite famous in the West. The fellows over there tortured him for six months, then threw him alive into a furnace. Firing squads are for lesser offenses.” Hollis cut out a section of apple, then made several crosscuts looking for worms. Finding none whole or halved, he put the small pieces of apple into his mouth and chewed.

  General Surikov chain-lit another cigarette. “You’re absolutely certain you weren’t followed here?”

  Hollis shrugged. “I do my best. How about you?”

  “I certainly can’t take overt evasive actions like you can. I have to walk normally.”

  “What’s your business in this quarter, Comrade General?”

  “I have reservations at the Berlin Hotel restaurant in one hour. I’m meeting my granddaughter for dinner.”

  “Good. I like that.”

  Surikov asked, “How do you know they threw him in a furnace?”

  “What? Oh, Penkovsky. I don’t know. I was told by my boss. But my boss lies just like yours does. Sounds good. Supposed to make me hate the KGB more.”

  “And do you?”

  “Not personally,” Hollis replied. “They haven’t fucked up my whole life like they have yours and everyone else’s from Vladivostok to East Berlin. Do you hate them?”

  Surikov didn’t reply, which Hollis found intriguing. He couldn’t get a handle on Surikov’s motivation.

  Surikov said, “Your note said it was urgent.”

  Hollis nodd
ed. They had worked out a simple expedient for arranging unscheduled rendezvous. Hollis would simply messenger a note to his counterpart, Colonel Andreyev, in the Soviet Defense Ministry and request an inconsequential bit of information regarding the ongoing arms limitation talks. Andreyev would naturally buck the request up the line, and it would eventually come across General Surikov’s desk. Surikov would place Hollis’ note over a small, detailed map of central Moscow. A pinprick in the note would pinpoint the meeting place. The time was always five-thirty of that day. If there was a pencil smudge in any corner of the note, the meeting was for the following day. The word “response” anywhere in the note meant urgent.

  Hollis said, “Yes, urgent, but nothing for you to worry about.” Hollis thought he’d probably upset Surikov’s day.

  Surikov turned a page of the oversize newspaper and held it up to catch the light. “What is it then?”

  “Who won the battle of Borodino?”

  Surikov glanced at Hollis. “What?”

  Hollis said, “Tolstoy gives an accurate description of a French Pyrrhic victory, yet there are some Russians who think that it was a Russian victory. How do you reconcile these facts? Who won the battle?”

  Surikov replied, “What are you talking about?”

  “Reality. Truth, I need the truth. The real truth, not the Soviet truth. I need some information on a former Red Air Force training facility.”

  “Yes?”

  “North of Borodino.”

  Surikov did not reply.

  “A former ground school. The Komitet uses it now for other purposes. You know the one I mean, don’t you?”

  Again Surikov made no reply.

  Hollis said, “If you know nothing about it, I’ll leave now.”

  Surikov cleared his throat. “I know something about it.”

  “But it must not be too important, General, or you’d have told me long ago.”

  Surikov let a full minute pass before he replied, “It is so important, Colonel, so potentially dangerous for the future of Soviet-American relations and world peace, that it is better left alone.”