The Charm School

by Nelson DeMille

  “Please?”

  Hollis said in Russian, “Move away!” He turned and put another two-kopek piece in the coin slot.

  Marchenko said, “Come, sir, Ms. Rhodes is waiting for you. She seems anxious about you.”

  Hollis turned back to the man. “Where is she?”

  “In the car. Please allow me to introduce myself again. I am Mr. Marchenko, the senior Intourist representative in Minsk. The Soviet Foreign Ministry has wired, instructing me to extend special courtesies to you and Ms. Rhodes. Will you follow me?”

  “We require no special courtesies. We’ll stay here at the airport.”

  Marchenko shook his head. “No, Colonel. I have strict instructions. Ms. Rhodes is even now in the car awaiting you.”

  Hollis’ eyes went past the two uniformed Border Guards, and he spotted three men in brown leather trench coats in the center of the crowded concourse, hands in their pockets, looking at him. He said to Marchenko, “I want Ms. Rhodes brought here to me. Now.” He turned and dialed the long-distance operator again and said in Russian, “Connect me with Moscow, two five two, zero zero, one seven.”

  “Colonel, there is no need to call. We will be late!”

  “For what?” Hollis heard humming, buzzing, faraway voices, and other assorted sounds in the earpiece.

  “A helicopter, sir. To take you back to Sheremetyevo. There is a Lufthansa flight leaving there at three-fifty-five for Frankfurt. This Pan Am flight in truth will not leave today. Come.”

  Hollis considered several courses of action, none of which seemed promising. “We’re in no hurry. We’ll stay here. I told you I want you to bring Ms. Rhodes here.”

  “But we have no choice. I have a cable from Moscow.”

  “I’m sure you do. The question is, was the cable from the Foreign Ministry or Dzerzhinsky Square.”

  “I don’t comprehend you. Please, at least come out to the car and talk to Ms. Rhodes and see what she wants to do. Come, she is most anxious about you.”

  Hollis heard a voice come on the line. “Moscow Central.” Hollis said, “I want to be connected with two five two, zero zero, one seven.”

  Marchenko added, “And you perhaps are anxious about her.”

  “You son of a—” The operator came on again. “I cannot complete your call.” Hollis knew how to argue with Ma Bell, but if Moscow Central said they couldn’t complete your call, that could mean anything from a busy phone to a KGB intercept on the line. Hollis would have faked a conversation with O’Shea, except that his coin was still half in the slot and wouldn’t go in unless the call were completed. Hollis put the phone back on the hook.

  Marchenko said, “Intourist has already wired your embassy with your new departure. Please, sir, Miss Rhodes—”

  Salerno suddenly appeared out of the corridor. “There you are. What’s all this?”

  Hollis said, “This is the answer to your question about my diplomatic status. It’s still good.”

  Marchenko said to Salerno, “Do you hold a diplomatic passport?”

  “Hell, no. I work for a living.” He pulled his Soviet press credentials from his pocket. “Zhurnalista.”

  Marchenko responded, “Then I must ask you to go back to the waiting room. Your bus will be leaving shortly.”

  “Hold your horses.” He said to Hollis, “They told Lisa you wanted her. What the hell’s going on?”

  “We’re being offered a helicopter ride to Sheremetyevo to catch a Lufthansa to Frankfurt.”

  “Well, lucky you. While I’m eating lard with mushroom gravy in the Sputnik, you guys will be landing in Frankfurt. In my next life I want to be a diplomat.”

  “What were you in your last life?”

  “A Russian.” Salerno laughed, then said to Marchenko, “Hey, any chance of taking me back to Sheremetyevo?”

  “Impossible.”

  Salerno said to Hollis in Russian, “Nelzya. That’s all you hear in this country. Everything is nelzya. Somebody ought to teach them ‘can do.’”

  Marchenko was at the end of his patience. “Please, Colonel! Your companion is waiting.”

  Salerno said to Hollis, “I don’t think you can refuse the honor, Sam.” Salerno motioned to the phones. “I’ll call the embassy right now and tell them that Intourist has rolled out the red carpet, pardon the pun. I doubt if there’s anything funny about this, but the ambassador will straighten these people out if there is. So rest easy. Maybe I’ll catch up with you in Frankfurt.”

  Hollis said to Salerno in Russian, “It was the cigarette, Michael. You kept straightening it with your fingers.”

  Salerno smiled and winked, then replied in Russian, “Don’t tell anyone, and I’ll owe you a favor. You’ll need one shortly.” Salerno slapped Hollis on the shoulder, turned, and walked away.

  Marchenko motioned toward the front doors of the terminal. Hollis walked through the small lobby, flanked by the two KGB Border Guards. They went out the glass doors, and Marchenko opened the rear door of a waiting Volga sedan.

  Hollis saw Lisa in the rear seat. “Lisa, get out of the car.”

  Before she could respond, the driver pulled the car forward a few feet, and Marchenko slammed the door shut. Marchenko said to Hollis, “Colonel, you’re making this more difficult than it has to be.”

  Hollis found himself being crowded by the two KGB Border Guards. The three men he’d seen in trench coats were standing a few feet away in front of the terminal doors. He thought he’d feel better if he made them work a bit, but the end result would be a clubbing or chloroforming, followed by handcuffs and a bad headache. He walked to the car, and Marchenko again opened the door with a silly courtliness. Hollis got in, and Lisa threw her arms around him. “Sam! I was worried—what’s going on—?”

  “It’s all right.”

  Marchenko got into the front, and the driver pulled away from the terminal.

  Lisa took Hollis’ hand in both of hers. “They told me you were waiting for me, then—”

  “I know.”

  “Are we going back to Sheremetyevo?”

  “Good question.” Hollis pushed on the door handle, but it moved only a fraction of an inch. A bell sounded, and a light on the dashboard came on.

  Marchenko said, “Colonel Hollis, you must be leaning on the door handle.”

  Hollis didn’t respond. He glanced out the rear window and saw another Volga in which were the three men in brown leather coats.

  Lisa whispered into his ear, “Are we being kidnapped?”

  “In this country it’s hard to tell. Sometimes you just have to ask.” Hollis leaned toward Marchenko. “Komitet?”

  Marchenko moved around in his seat and looked back. “No, no. Please. Intourist.” Marchenko smiled. “Like you are an air attaché.” He laughed. “So, winter is here now. How was Moscow?”

  “Colder,” Hollis replied.

  “It is always colder in Moscow. Do you know why?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Eight million cold hearts in Moscow. That is why. Me, I’m Byelorussian. The Great Russians are half Tartar, all of them. We’re more Western here. Did you like Moscow?”

  “Loved it.”

  “Yes? You’re joking. I hate Moscow. But sometimes I go there for business. Minsk is a beautiful city. The Germans destroyed ninety percent of it and killed a third of the population, including most of my family. What bastards. But we rebuilt it all. With not much help from Moscow. You see? The arrogant Germans and the cruel Muscovites. And who got caught in the middle? Us.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  The Volga turned onto a narrow concrete road that paralleled the airport fence.

  Marchenko shifted his bulk back toward the front and continued his talk. “But when Moscow gets a cold, we sneeze. Is that the expression?”

  “The other way around,” Hollis said.

  “Yes? When Moscow sneezes, we get a cold?” He shrugged and turned his head back to Lisa and Hollis. “We are going to the helipad of course. There was no time
to disengage your luggage from the others’, so it will go on to Frankfurt airport tomorrow. You can have it sent to your Frankfurt hotel. But for tonight, you have your flight bags in the trunk. If there is anything I can do through Intourist, please let me know.”

  Lisa replied, “You’ve done enough.”

  Marchenko chuckled.

  The Volga turned into a wide concrete apron on which was painted a yellow X. “Ah,” Marchenko said. “Here we are. But no helicopter. We rushed for nothing.”

  “Perhaps,” Hollis said, “someone has misappropriated it.”

  “Yes, we have that problem here. You know about that? Too much misappropriation. But I think this is the other problem we have. Lateness.”

  The Volga sat at the edge of the concrete apron, its engine running. The backup car pulled alongside, and the three men got out but stayed near their car.

  Marchenko looked at his watch, then leaned forward to peer through the windshield at the sky. “Ah, there it is. You will make your Lufthansa flight,” Marchenko said, not bothering to put any sincerity in his voice any longer.

  Lisa put her mouth to Hollis’ ear. “Tell me not to be frightened. Tell me everything’s all right.”

  “I think a little apprehension might be appropriate. Let’s see what they’re up to. They might just want to chat.”

  Marchenko said, “I don’t like helicopters myself. In fact, there was a crash not far from here just today. The pilot and copilot and two passengers, a man and a woman, were killed. All burned beyond recognition. Cremated, really. How are the families to know if they have the correct remains?”

  Hollis understood now how it was being done. He could hear the sound of helicopter blades beating the dank, heavy air. A black shape appeared over the bare tree line, silhouetted against the grey sky. The helicopter hung for a second, then began its sloping descent toward them. Hollis recognized the shape as that of the Mi-28, a six-seat passenger craft with a jet turboshaft, somewhat like the Bell Jet Ranger. Aeroflot, in fact, did use these for VIP service between Moscow’s airports and the city heliports. However, as the Mi-28 dropped in closer, Hollis saw it had the markings of the Red Air Force. He said, “Mr. Marchenko, this is very special treatment indeed.”

  “Oh, yes,” Marchenko replied. “You are very important people. In fact, I have been instructed to escort you. Please step out of the car.”

  Hollis and Lisa got out of the Volga. The driver retrieved their bags and Lisa’s icon from the trunk and set everything on the concrete near their feet. One of the men from the other Volga stood behind Hollis. Marchenko moved to Hollis’ side and shouted over the noise of the approaching helicopter, “The gentleman behind you is called Vadim. He will accompany us.”

  Hollis thought he might have had a chance to try his hand at flying an Mi-28, but apparently Marchenko thought he’d remove the temptation.

  The Mi-28 set down on the yellow X, and Marchenko shouted, “Go, go!”

  Hollis and Lisa moved toward the helicopter with Marchenko and Vadim behind them. A crewman slid open a small door in the side of the fuselage, and Hollis got in first, then helped Lisa up. The crewman motioned them to the two rear seats. They stowed their bags beneath the seats and sat. Vadim climbed in and sat in front of Lisa. Marchenko struggled to climb aboard, but the crewman didn’t seem inclined to help, so Vadim reached over and pulled Marchenko into the cabin. The crewman slid the door shut and settled into the copilot’s seat. The helicopter rose.

  Marchenko fell heavily into the last empty seat in front of Hollis and tried to catch his breath. “Ah…” He turned to Hollis behind him. “I’m getting old.”

  Hollis replied in Russian, “And fat.”

  Vadim turned his head and gave Hollis a nasty look, confirming Hollis’s suspicion that Marchenko was Vadim’s boss and that neither Marchenko nor Vadim were Intourist guides.

  The helicopter spun around and headed east, back in the direction of Moscow. Hollis noted that the pilot and the copilot were both Red Air Force officers. Hollis then looked at the profile of Vadim. He was a man of about thirty and looked muscular beneath his leather trench coat. He had one of the thickest necks Hollis had ever seen outside a zoo. Hollis doubted if he could get his hands around that neck, though perhaps he could garrote him with his tie and go for the man’s pistol. But he knew not to underestimate fat Marchenko or indeed the two Red Air Force officers. He thought about how it could be done.

  Marchenko, as though guessing at his thoughts, turned in his seat and said, “Relax and enjoy the flight. We’ll be at Sheremetyevo within three hours. You’ll catch the Lufthansa flight in good time.”

  Lisa replied, “You’re full of baloney, Marchenko.”

  “Baloney?”

  Hollis noticed that the helicopter was at about two thousand feet, traveling on a due east heading, the pilot land-navigating by the Minsk–Moscow highway. Snow began to appear on the ground, and a stiffening north wind caused the pilot to tack to port to compensate for the drift. The Mi-28 was capable of close to three hundred knots, and Hollis thought they’d get where they were going very fast.

  Hollis put his arm around Lisa and massaged her shoulder. “How you doing, kid?”

  “Awful.” She looked down at the icon lying in her lap. “This is what real faith is all about, isn’t it? The belief that someone up there is looking after you.”

  “Yes.” The key, Hollis thought, was to take out Vadim immediately, then find Vadim’s pistol before Marchenko drew his. Shoot Marchenko and the two pilots, then fly the Mi-28 to the embassy quad. This was all presupposing, of course, that Marchenko was not simply a helpful Intourist man who was under strict orders from the Soviet Foreign Ministry to get the American diplomats on that Lufthansa flight to Frankfurt. But Hollis had to act on what he believed, not what Marchenko wanted him to believe. He thought about how to take out Vadim quickly.

  Lisa said to Hollis, “This icon has probably been kissed ten thousand times over the last three centuries. I’ve never kissed it…”

  “Go ahead. Can’t hurt.”

  She brought the icon up to her face and pressed her lips to it.

  Vadim sensed the movement and turned quickly in his seat. He looked at the heavy wooden icon, seeing and thinking what Hollis was simultaneously thinking. As Lisa lowered the icon, Vadim reached back with his right hand and grabbed it. Hollis brought his left knee up under Vadim’s forearm and sliced the edge of his right hand down on Vadim’s wrist. Above the sound of Vadim’s scream, Hollis heard the wrist snap. Hollis snatched the icon from Lisa’s lap and raised it, aiming the corner edge at the top center of Vadim’s head where it would penetrate the coronal suture of the skull.

  Marchenko had reacted faster than Hollis anticipated, sliding off his seat onto the floor, and he was now kneeling on one knee, pointing a heavy revolver at Hollis’ chest. “Stop! Stop!”

  Hollis hesitated a moment, and Vadim slid down in his seat, then reappeared with his own pistol in his left hand. Hollis noticed that the color had drained out of Vadim’s face and his right arm hung limply. The copilot had come back into the cabin holding a small-caliber automatic, suitable for inflight gunplay. He aimed the pistol at Lisa.

  Marchenko said to Hollis, “Put that down, slowly.”

  Hollis lowered the icon, and Marchenko grabbed it away from him, then said to Vadim in Russian, “Put your gun away.”

  Vadim shook his head. “I’m going to kill him.”

  “Then I’ll kill you. Put that away,” Marchenko snapped with authority.

  Vadim put his pistol in the pocket of his trench coat. The Russians, Hollis recalled belatedly, like many Europeans, were not fond of holsters and preferred their pockets for their pistols, which was how Marchenko had gotten his out so quickly.

  Marchenko stood and his head just touched the top of the cabin. He said to Hollis, “It has always been my experience that people will believe any little lie that will comfort them and allow them to behave well while on the way to their execution.
But I see you don’t believe you’re going to Sheremetyevo to board a Lufthansa flight, and you’re quite correct.”

  Hollis replied, “I also know I’m not going to my execution, or you’d have taken care of it in Minsk.”

  “Well, they want to talk to you first. And yes, I have orders not to kill you in transit under any circumstances. But I can and will kill Miss Rhodes the very next time you try something foolish.” He reached into his pocket and took out a pair of handcuffs. “We don’t have much need for these here, as Soviet citizens do what we tell them. However, I took these along as I know Americans have no respect for the law. Put them on.”

  Hollis looked at Lisa, who was pale but composed. She said, “I’m all right.”

  Hollis snapped the cuffs on his wrists and sat back in his seat. Marchenko nodded to the copilot, who took his seat. Marchenko, too, sat down and said to Vadim in Russian, “Is it broken?”

  “Yes.”

  “You can inquire what can be done about it when we land.”

  Hollis suspected Marchenko wasn’t talking about a cast for Vadim’s wrist, but a break for Hollis’ wrist.

  Marchenko examined the icon, which was now on his lap. “This has been desecrated. Did we do this?”

  Lisa replied, “Who else?”

  Marchenko made a clucking sound with his tongue. “I don’t like all this destruction of cultural treasures. I have my differences with the Russians, but we are all Slavs nonetheless. This is terrible.”

  Hollis felt that Marchenko meant it, but if Marchenko were ordered to burn every church in Byelorussia he’d do it, with no more moral protest than the clucking of his tongue. Hollis said, “Why don’t you shut up?”

  Marchenko turned his head and looked at Hollis with a hurt expression. “There’s no need to be rude.”

  “On the fucking contrary, fat boy. You’re more despicable than the swine in Moscow because you’re a traitor to your own country and a Muscovite lackey.”

  Marchenko seemed to be trying to control himself. He took a deep breath, then forced a smile. “You see? I tell you a little about myself, and you exploit it. A typical treacherous Westerner. And you think you can abuse me because you know you are to be taken alive. Well, let me tell you something—you’re going to stand trial for the murder of two Border Guards and perhaps a third if the one you left in the toilet dies. We don’t let that sort of thing go unpunished as you well know. You will probably be convicted and sentenced to death. They will tell you to write an appeal to the president of the Supreme Soviet, as that is a right under the Soviet constitution. As you are writing your appeal, someone will shoot you in the back of the head. That’s how it’s done. Very humane if you don’t know what’s coming. But I wanted you to know, Colonel Hollis, so that if they tell you you’re going to draft an appeal of your death sentence, now you know you are probably going to your death. I thought I’d extend that kindness to you. Even if you are a murderer.”