The Charm School

by Nelson DeMille

  This brought some hisses and laughter. Everyone was clearly drunk by now, Hollis thought, except him. He saluted and stepped away from the podium to the accompaniment of applause.

  Martindale introduced Lisa, who also got a standing ovation, as the combo played “Lara’s Theme.” She took the microphone. “Thank you all so much. I’ve never been kicked out of a country before, and I never knew it could be so much fun.” Lisa thanked the people in her office who made her tour of duty tolerable and said, “I also want to thank Charles Banks, who tried so hard to keep me out of trouble. Charles, for those of you who are not honored to know him, is a man torn between his duty as the ambassador’s personal aide and his desire to be a human being. A man whose familiarity with Russia has prompted him to declare that Borodino is the best Italian red wine produced in the Soviet Union.”

  Banks called out, “I always order it with babushka.”

  Lisa concluded, “I wish I could stay with you and continue my work here. I know that somewhere down the line we’ll all cross paths again, but this will remain the incomparable assignment of a lifetime for all of us. Thank you.”

  As everyone clapped, Hollis unexpectedly took the microphone again and said, “I would be remiss if I did not thank a man who has become a friend of mine and of Lisa Rhodes, for his wise counsel and for showing me the ropes in Moscow. I’m speaking of a very industrious political affairs officer, Seth Alevy.”

  Alevy was standing off to the side, his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his vest. He nodded perfunctorily in acknowledgment of the scant applause. It was obvious to Hollis that very few of the three hundred people present knew Seth Alevy, and those who did were not his fans.

  Lisa glanced over at Hollis with a warm smile and a wink.

  Hollis and Lisa stepped down from the platform as Martindale said, “Dance music, maestro, please. Have fun, everyone.”

  The combo played “In the Still of the Nite,” and Lisa took Hollis onto the dance floor. As they danced, she said, “That was very nice of you to thank Seth.”

  Hollis grumbled a reply.

  “My alarm clock is crushing your pear.”

  Hollis took a bite out of the pear and passed it to her. She bit into it and laughed. She said between chews, “This is the first time we’ve danced. I love this song.”

  “Five Satins, 1956.”

  “Who? When?”

  Hollis smiled.

  She held him closer, and they glided over the parquet floor. “Did you grind to this when you were a horny little guy?”

  “Sure did.”

  “God, I can’t believe you were getting erections before I was born.”

  “I couldn’t wait for you.”

  The combo segued into “Since I Don’t Have You.”

  Lisa said, “I’m not being facetious, but there’s obviously some degree of status attached to being kicked out of the Soviet Union. I never realized just how much contempt and disdain we have for this country. I mean, Gary Warnicke’s skit was a mockery—no wonder the ambassador is coming late.”

  “It’s just a lot of frustration and nervous energy pouring out.”

  “It’s more than that, and you know it. It’s scary, Sam.”

  “What is?”

  “How much we hate them.”

  Hollis didn’t reply.

  Lisa looked around the dance floor. “These press people won’t report—”

  “They damned well better not, or they’ll never see the inside of this or any other American embassy again. This is strictly off-the-record, and they knew that when they were invited.”

  “Yes, they’re a good crew. Here in Moscow we realize we’re on the same side. They’re pleasant to work with.” She said, “I’m sad. I don’t want to leave.”

  “Things could be worse. We could be dead.”

  She didn’t reply.

  “Never look back on this place, Lisa. Never go back, even if they allow you to. Promise me that.”

  “No, I won’t promise that.”

  Hollis stepped away from her. “I badly need a drink.”

  “Stay sober enough to do me some good tonight.”

  “I won’t promise. You can dance with Alevy if you want. You don’t need my permission anyway.”

  “No, I don’t. But thanks for saying that.”

  Hollis made his way across the dance floor and found the bar, where he fell into conversation with four NATO attachés.

  The band suddenly stopped, and James Martindale announced the ambassador and his wife. Hollis noticed that the party calmed down a bit. Hollis excused himself and walked toward the ambassador, meeting Lisa heading the same way. She said to him, “Is it all right if we present ourselves to the ambassador together?”

  “It’s all right with me. Listen, I’d like to spend part of my home leave with you.”

  “I’ll think about that.”

  “What is there to think—”

  The ambassador and his wife approached and greeted Hollis and Lisa. They exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes, and everyone smiled. Neither the ambassador nor his wife commented on the sashes or the pear and alarm clock, which struck Hollis as the height of savoir faire if not stupidity. Lisa said, “You both missed some very funny speeches.”

  “Oh,” the ambassador’s wife said, “we’re so sorry we were detained.”

  They chatted a moment longer, then the ambassador said, “I’m deeply appreciative to both of you for your contributions to the diplomatic mission here. Charles tells me he’s spoken to you on certain matters of national importance and that you both understand the reasoning and so forth. I’m very happy that you do. Colonel Hollis, Ms. Rhodes—Sam and Lisa—have a pleasant and safe journey home.” Everyone shook hands.

  The ambassador’s wife said, “Please excuse us, we have another engagement that we accepted before this was arranged.”

  Lisa watched them go and commented, “They could send programmed androids for that job, and no one would notice.”

  “What is there to think about?”

  “Nothing. That’s the point. It would take ten minutes to program the ’droids.”

  “What is there to think about spending some time with me?”

  “Oh, that. I have to think about… well… my parents… you’re a little older than I, and you’re married.”

  “Did you just discover that?”

  She smiled wanly. “Let me think about how to make it right.”

  “Do that.”

  “Are we having our first fight?”

  “Quite possibly.” Hollis turned and walked toward his staff, who were standing together talking.

  Hollis was intercepted by Mike Salerno, a reporter for the Pacific News Service. Salerno took Hollis aside. “Funny speech, Colonel. Everyone is in a rare mood tonight. You guys should do that once a month. Catharsis. When one of us leaves, we get together at somebody’s place, and we do the same kind of thing.”

  “No wonder the KGB harasses you.”

  “Yeah… I guess they listen in, don’t they?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me in the least.” Hollis had met Salerno on a few occasions and found him somewhat pushy but straightforward and down to earth.

  Salerno went on, “You know that we’ve kicked out your counterpart in D.C. and also some Soviet Tass dork in retaliation for Lisa. The Reds are probably having a similar party in Washington tonight. Doing Uncle Sam skits.” He laughed, then finished his drink and said, “What’s the actual reason behind you guys leaving?”

  “Pretty much what the official version is, Mike. We took an unauthorized trip.”

  “Yeah. But they usually give you a break the first time for something petty like that. Especially with the sweet smell of détente in the air.”

  “It was actually the second time for both of us.” To forestall further questions, Hollis added, “As you may have deduced, we went to see the site of the famous Russian nonvictory at Borodino. Moscow gets claustrophobic.”

  “Hey, don’t I
know it? It takes me a month to get permission to visit some godforsaken tractor factory in the Urals.”

  “Tell them you don’t want to see a tractor factory in the Urals. You’ll be on the next train.”

  Salerno laughed. “You got that right, Br’er Bear.” He took two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and handed one to Hollis, saying, “To a safe trip.”

  Salerno finished the wine, seemed to consider a moment, then asked, “Are you leveling with me, Sam?”

  “Yes.”

  “You went out that way to take charge of the body of Greg Fisher.”

  “Right.”

  “And you detoured a few K’s to Borodino and were spotted.”

  “Correct.”

  “Hell of a fucked-up country, isn’t it?”

  Hollis replied, “When in the third Rome, do as they tell you. Excuse me.”

  “Hold on a second, Sam. Look, I know there’s more to this Greg Fisher story than anyone is saying. One theory is that he was killed by robbers and the Soviets don’t want that getting around. Makes the world’s first workers’ state look a little less like paradise. Right?”

  “I saw the inventory of the boy’s effects. Everything from money to felt-tip pens. There was no foul play.”

  “No? Can I tell you something I found out?”

  “If you’d like.”

  “I called Greg Fisher’s parents in New Canaan and found out that an autopsy had been performed. They told me a few other things. So I’m thinking about this kid who’s tear-assing along the Minsk–Moscow highway at night, under the influence of alcohol according to the autopsy, and I’m not buying it. I’m thinking about all the rules the kid had to sign in Brest when he crossed the border—seat belts, drinking and driving puts you in jail, and night driving can get you in trouble with the KGB. And Mr. and Mrs. Fisher tell me Greg was a very careful kid—okay, parents say that about dead kids. But I’m starting to wonder now.”

  Hollis said, “We’re not supposed to talk business here.”

  “Just hear me out, Sam. Okay? So, the other day I go on my own unauthorized trip in a car. First I poke around Mozhaisk, and for a few rubles a truck driver leads me to the accident site west of Mozhaisk. The car is gone by now of course, but I see where it went off the road heading east and plowed into the tree. I even find some glass from the windshield where the kid’s head went through. Okay. But the truck driver says something about the kid’s car causing a big stir in Mozhaisk. How did the kid get to Mozhaisk if he died west of the town?”

  “Beats me.”

  “Right. Me too. I think something stinks, Sam, and I’m wondering if you’d like to give me an off-the-record clue.”

  “I don’t have a clue,” Hollis replied. “But if what you say is true, it’s possible that Greg Fisher did pass through Mozhaisk, then doubled back for some reason, then later headed back for Moscow and ran off the road before he got to Mozhaisk again.”

  “Why is he running up and down the Minsk–Moscow road at that hour? Was he on some kind of cloak-and-dagger assignment for the spooks here in the embassy?”

  “There are no intelligence personnel in the American embassy,” Hollis said, “but if there were, they wouldn’t send people out in Pontiac Trans Ams.”

  “True.” Salerno added, “Look, I’m booked on that Pan Am flight to Frankfurt tomorrow. Let’s sit together, and I’ll tell you a few other things I discovered about this business.”

  “Maybe.” Hollis turned to leave.

  Lisa approached, and Salerno greeted her warmly. He said, “Going to miss you, Lisa. The only straight shooter in the embassy Ministry of Propaganda.” They spoke for a moment, then Salerno moved off. Lisa said, “What was he talking to you about?”

  “What do you think? He smells a rat.”

  “Eventually we may have to go to the press with this.”

  Hollis said curtly, “We are employees and representatives of the United States government. We are not press informants.”

  She put her hand on his shoulder. “True.”

  He said coolly, “If I’m more cautious than you, it’s because I’m much older than you.”

  She gave him a conciliatory smile and patted his arm. “Now, now…”

  Hollis, for the life of him, could not understand women. It seemed to him that she aggressively pursued him, then the moment he stopped being evasive, she backed off. He vaguely recalled that he’d had similar experiences with women when he was younger. There were some women and men he knew who enjoyed only the chase, and like fox hunters, had little use for the kill. He said, “Excuse me,” turned and headed back to the bar.

  Hollis saw Alevy standing there and had the impression that Alevy had been waiting for him. Alevy said, “It’s not a good idea to draw attention to the CIA station chief.”

  Hollis ordered a scotch and soda.

  “It makes some people uncomfortable.”

  Hollis moved away from the bar with his drink. “I thought you were a political affairs officer. Now you tell me you’re the CIA station chief.”

  Alevy smiled. “Well, I thank you for your thoughtfulness. What did Salerno want?”

  “He knows a few things, Seth. Any reporter in this room with a little pluck could come up with some inconsistencies in the Fisher story. Coupled with me and Lisa getting the boot, it smells a little.”

  “I suppose. You and Lisa have a spat?”

  “No.”

  “Good. I want you to stay close to her at least as far as Frankfurt.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Okay. By the way, if you have no other plans tonight, would you do me a favor?”

  “No.”

  “Stop by around midnight. My place.”

  “When do you sleep?”

  “At the ambassador’s staff briefings.” Alevy asked, “Do you know anything about the Mi-28 chopper?”

  “Only the technical stuff. Newest Soviet transport helicopter. Why?”

  “I have to do a report. Can you bring me what you have?”

  “I’ll have O’Shea drop it off.”

  “You can drop it off. Midnight, my place.” Alevy turned and walked off.

  Hollis said to himself, “I knew it.”

  Hollis spent the next hour talking to the various air attachés from the NATO member nations. There was information to be exchanged, thank-you’s to be said, and promises to stay in touch, professionally. The good thing to be said for military spies, Hollis thought, was that they were military first and spies second. Hollis made his farewells, then slipped out of the reception hall and went up to his office, where he intended to stay until his midnight meeting with Alevy.

  His phone rang, and he answered it, “Hollis.”

  “What are you doing in your office at eleven o’clock?”

  “Saying good-bye to my secretary.”

  “You’d better not be, Hollis. Are you coming home tonight?”

  Home. The word took him by surprise. “I have a midnight meeting with the political affairs officer.”

  “Where?”

  “His place.”

  “I expect you in my bed before dawn.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “What’s there to think about?”

  “I have some work to do here,” he said. “I have to go.”

  “I have your underwear. And your toothbrush.”

  “These are not secure phones.”

  “There was that thing I wanted to try, where I bring my legs up over my head—”

  “Okay, okay.” He smiled. “I’ll see you later.” He hung up.

  Hollis went to the window and looked out into the darkened city. “Meeting with Alevy. Then Novodevichy Convent tomorrow. Sheremetyevo Airport, Monday morning. Pan Am to Frankfurt.” Then London, Washington, or New York as the mood struck him. That was the plan. That was his plan. There were other, conflicting plans out there. He liked his plan the best.

  26

  The blue Ford Fairlane sat in the und
erground garage, deep below the trees and grass of the embassy compound’s main quad. Betty Eschman, the wife of the naval attaché, was behind the wheel. “Ready, Sam?”

  “Ready.” Sam Hollis sat on the floor in the rear of the car, his back to the door. Lisa was opposite him. In the rear seat, their legs tucked under them, were two young women from the consular section, Audry Spencer and Patty White. In the front passenger seat was Jane Ellis, a commercial officer.

  The engine started, and Hollis felt the Ford move forward. He said to Betty Eschman, “Remember, they’re not allowed to stop you when you’re leaving. If a mili-man steps in the driveway, hit the horn and keep going. He’ll move. Okay?”

  “Okay. I did this for my husband once.”

  Jane Ellis said, “Why bother with the horn? He’ll move. Sideways or horizontally.”

  The two women in the back laughed, a bit nervously, Hollis thought.

  Lisa offered, “Two points for a mili-man, Betty.”

  The Ford went up the ramp and surfaced beside the chancery building, into the grey morning that was gloomier than the subterranean garage. Betty Eschman drove slowly through the forecourt of the embassy compound.

  Hollis ran the simple plan through his mind again. There were only two places in all Moscow where Protestant services were being held this Sunday morning. One was a small Baptist church in a far suburb. The other was the chapel in the British embassy where an Anglican chaplain flew in from Helsinki on alternate Sundays. The American embassy did the honors on the alternating sabbaths and holy days. It was fortunate that today was the turn of the British and that the four women normally went over there together. There was nothing, therefore, that should arouse the curiosity of the embassy watchers, who knew the routines of the American embassy.