The Charm School

by Nelson DeMille

  The guard said, “Come with me.” He led them to the east wing of the building and through a door marked Klinika. They were met by a female nurse, who took them into separate examining rooms. The guard stayed with Hollis. Presently, a plump middle-aged woman entered the room and introduced herself as the camp doctor.

  She gave Hollis a perfunctory examination, being interested mostly in his heart, Hollis thought, recalling the Russian obsession with heart disease. He said curtly in Russian, “I am malnourished and have been sitting in a cold cell for about two weeks. I’ve been punched in the jaw, kicked in the testicles and the solar plexus. Also, I hear fluid in my lungs.”

  She moved the stethoscope back to his lungs, told him to breathe deeply, listened, and tapped his chest. “Yes. A little congestion. You’ll be all right.”

  “All right for two more weeks of starvation?”

  The guard said, “No talking.”

  Hollis looked at the man. “I’ll talk to the doctor. Why don’t you shut up?”

  The guard snapped back, “Only medical talk!”

  The doctor gave Hollis a pill and a glass tumbler that looked as if it could use a washing.

  Hollis asked, “What is this?”

  “Just a vitamin.”

  “Then you take it.” He handed it back to her.

  She looked at him a moment, then put the pill in her mouth and washed it down with the water. She said in a low voice, “I too am a prisoner here. A political prisoner.”

  “I see. I apologize for my rudeness.”

  She gave him another vitamin, and he took it. She said, “You’ll be fine. Your heart is good.”

  Hollis got down from the examining table and dressed. He asked, “What dies first here, the heart or the soul?”

  “The soul dies. The heart breaks.”

  Hollis looked closely at the woman. He should have seen immediately that she was not free, but in Russia it was sometimes hard to tell and very relative. Hollis said to her, “Thank you.”

  The guard took Hollis to the waiting room, and within five minutes, Lisa joined him. The guard said, “Follow me.” He led them upstairs to Burov’s office. As they entered, Burov said, “Sit down.” They sat in chairs facing Burov.

  Burov said, “Now you are Americans again. Right, Hollis?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you feel well?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. You’ll feel much better when I tell you that both your death sentences have been conditionally commuted to life in prison.”

  “What,” Hollis asked, “is the condition?”

  “Two conditions. One is that you pass a polygraph test. The other is that you agree to work for us here.”

  Neither Hollis nor Lisa replied.

  Burov added, “If you say no, you’ll be executed for murder.”

  Lisa said, “What you’re asking is that we become traitors. The answer is no.”

  Burov didn’t respond to that, but said, “You should know, Ms. Rhodes, that your friend has already indicated he would work for us here in exchange for his life.”

  She looked at Hollis.

  Hollis said to Burov, “I didn’t say I would subject myself to a polygraph interrogation.”

  “No,” Burov replied, “but you will be thoroughly debriefed nonetheless. There are several methods of interrogation. I prefer polygraph and sodium pentothal over electroshock and a truncheon, especially as the results of the former are more reliable than the latter. I’m sure you and Ms. Rhodes would prefer that too.”

  Hollis said, “Working here for you is one thing. But I cannot give you intelligence secrets that would compromise or endanger the lives of other agents.”

  Burov tapped his fingers on his desk and looked from one to the other. “You’re not in a position to make deals. You’re already dead, and no one knows you are here. And the reason you are here is that you know entirely too much about this place, and we want to know what you know.”

  “We’re here for killing two Border Guards,” Hollis reminded him. “That’s what we are under a death sentence for.”

  “Well, that too, of course.” Burov regarded Hollis a moment. “You know, as soon as the blood sugar goes up, people revert to their former selves. In your case, Hollis, I don’t like your former self. Please try to control your sarcasm.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Burov turned to Lisa. “In your case, a debriefing would most probably yield very little and would in no way endanger anyone. Correct?”

  Lisa nodded hesitantly.

  “So the question for you is this? Do you want to live and work here, or do you want to be shot? Answer.”

  “I… I want to be with Colonel Hollis.”

  Burov grinned. “Here? Or in heaven?”

  “Anywhere.”

  Burov looked at Hollis. “Such loyalty. So what is your decision?”

  Hollis thought a moment, then replied, “I would like for both of us to be let out of the cells, to live here awhile before we decide if we want to become willing instructors in this place.”

  Burov nodded. “All right. I think when you see how comfortable you can be here, you’ll decide you don’t want to die in front of a firing squad. But we haven’t resolved the question of your interrogation.”

  Hollis replied, “Let’s resolve that after Ms. Rhodes and I resolve the question of working here or not. We’ll need ten days.”

  Burov smiled. “You’re stalling.”

  “For what? I’m dead. We are both dead.”

  Burov stood and went to the window. He stared out into the trees for a while, then nodded. “One week.” He turned to Hollis and stared at him. “The very first moment I think you are up to something or lying to me”—Burov pointed to Lisa—“she dies. And as I told you, not by firing squad.”

  Neither Hollis nor Lisa spoke.

  Burov walked toward them. He looked at Hollis. “You are intelligent enough to know that I let you bargain with me because I’d rather have you alive. I want you alive so I can question you, not only now, but anytime something comes up in American intelligence matters that you can enlighten us on. I also want you alive because we went through a great deal of trouble making you dead. You are both valuable commodities here, potential assets for this school. And lastly, but not least, I want you both under my thumb. Forever. You amuse me.”

  “But you’re not smiling,” Hollis pointed out.

  Burov stared at Hollis for a long time, his face impassive, then he turned and went to his desk. Burov took a heavy revolver from the top drawer and emptied five of the six chambers. He walked over to Hollis and Lisa. “No, not what you call Russian roulette. Stand up.” He handed the revolver to Hollis. “See that the loaded chamber will fire if you pull the trigger.”

  Hollis checked the cylinder.

  Burov stepped back a pace. “Go ahead.”

  Hollis stood with the revolver in his hand.

  “I’m giving you the opportunity to be a hero to your country, albeit an unknown one, and to indulge your own fantasy. Go ahead.”

  Hollis glanced at Lisa.

  Burov continued, “Well? At least make me crawl a bit. Tell me to get on my knees and beg for my life.”

  Hollis said nothing.

  “No? Are you learning something? How much power comes from the muzzle of a gun? That depends on who is holding the gun. Me or you. And authority never came from the muzzle of a gun.” He looked at Lisa. “Stand.”

  She stood.

  “Take the revolver.”

  She hesitated, then took it from Hollis.

  “You see,” Burov said, “you do what I tell you even though you have the gun now. Shoot me.”

  “No.”

  “Ah, what are we learning now? Civilized people think ahead. What happens after you kill me? Are your problems over? No, they have just begun.” Burov smirked. “But a real patriot would have sacrificed his life to take mine.”

  Lisa looked at the revolver in her hand. She said, “There is o
nly one reason I won’t shoot you. Perhaps you can comprehend it. I am a believer in God. I will not take a life, not even yours.”

  Burov snatched the pistol from her. “Yes? Christians don’t kill people? Perhaps I should go back to my history books. How does that little rhyme go… ‘After two thousand years of masses, you’ve progressed to poison gasses?’ What hypocrites you all are.”

  “We’re trying. You’re not.”

  Burov sat on the edge of his desk and stared down at her. “Let me give you some advice, Ms. Rhodes. If you can convince your friend here to submit to us, you will be safe. Without him, you are nothing. Just a woman. Do you remember at Mozhaisk morgue when you pulled your hand away from me in revulsion? Well, picture, if you will, so many more dirty Russian hands on you—no, don’t swear at me. I know you both have a little backbone left. Just shut your mouths and think about everything we’ve discussed here. Stand.” Burov threw the pistol on the desk and spoke in an almost friendly tone, “Well, then. Are you feeling up to a walk in the fresh air? I’m sure you’re curious.” Burov motioned them toward the door and spoke to the guard. He said to Hollis and Lisa, “I’ll join you in a while.”

  The guard led them downstairs and indicated a bench near the front doors where they had first entered the building, then left them alone.

  Hollis looked around the lobby. Like the rest of the place, it was sparse, but there was, as always, the picture of Lenin staring down at them. The picture was hung over the front desk, and Hollis noticed that the duty officer there was the same lieutenant who had played games with his pistol when Hollis was writing his appeal. The lieutenant glanced up at him and smiled.

  From where Hollis sat he could see the open door to the communications room and saw an operator sitting at the switchboard. The man connected a call manually, and Hollis realized it wasn’t an automatic board. To the operator’s left was the radio console he’d seen when he first entered this building. He recognized a shortwave set but couldn’t see the rest of the console.

  The lieutenant said in Russian, “Curiosity is how you got here.” He stood and closed the door of the communications room. He turned to Hollis and Lisa and held out a pack of cigarettes. “Smoke?”

  They both shook their heads.

  “My name is Cheltsov.”

  Hollis replied in Russian, “I really don’t give a shit.”

  Lieutenant Cheltsov shrugged and sat back at his desk. He stared at them. “I’ve come to like Americans.”

  Hollis asked, “Do they like you?”

  The lieutenant smiled. “Everyone here gets along as best he can. This is not a prison.”

  “You could have fooled me.”

  “Well, you’ll see. Colonel Burov is a very smart man. There is much freedom here for the Americans. That’s because Americans are used to much freedom. Correct?”

  “Except for American communists.”

  “That’s not completely true. We know what goes on in America.”

  “And how does that knowledge compare with what you were taught in school? About American communists for instance?”

  The young officer shrugged. “The Party knows what’s best for the people to know.”

  Lisa spoke. “You certainly don’t believe that anymore.”

  Cheltsov lit a cigarette. “I certainly do. So you will be instructors here?”

  “We’re considering the offer,” Hollis replied. “Tell me more about how smart Colonel Burov is.”

  The man smiled. “Well, he is smart enough to let you people have the run of this place as long as you produce results. If he discovers that an American instructor has lied to a Russian student about something in America, then…” The man put his forefinger to his temple and cocked his thumb. “You understand?”

  Hollis asked, “And are you the executioner, Cheltsov?”

  The man didn’t reply.

  “Do you speak English?” Lisa asked.

  “No. None of the cadre—the KGB—speaks English.”

  “And the American instructors?” Hollis asked. “Do they speak Russian?”

  “They are not supposed to know Russian, but they pick up a little. You see, here the Russian students and American instructors may communicate in English only. The Border Guards may not speak to students or instructors unless absolutely necessary.”

  “Then how is it,” Lisa asked, “that you know about America?”

  Cheltsov smiled. “One picks up a bit here and there.”

  “And what if Burov knew you picked things up here and there?” she inquired as she put her finger to her head.

  The lieutenant went back to the paperwork on his desk. “Your Russian is excellent. Be careful how you use it.”

  They sat in silence awhile, then Hollis said to Lisa in English, “Did you give up smoking?”

  “I guess I did.” She added, “But there must be an easier way.”

  “You’ll live longer.”

  “Will I?” After a few minutes she said, “Sam… I know we’re in a bad situation here. But… I’m not going to… submit to them.”

  Hollis rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, the embassy signal to remind people of electronic eavesdropping.

  She touched her chin in acknowledgment and whispered in his ear, “It was an act, wasn’t it? I mean your… your…”

  “Submissiveness.”

  “Yes. That.”

  He said, “We’ll talk later.”

  They waited for nearly half an hour, and Hollis suspected that Burov intended this to be a period of psychological adjustment, a place to reflect on the relative freedom outside the doors and the hell at the rear of the building.

  Finally Burov appeared in his greatcoat, and Lieutenant Cheltsov jumped to attention. Burov said to the man, “Get them some parkas.” He addressed Hollis and Lisa and said, “I’d like you to do two things. First, when you walk out those doors, forget what happened to you in here. Secondly, remember what happened to you in here. Do I make myself clear?”

  Hollis replied, “We understand.”

  “Good.”

  The lieutenant handed them each a white parka, and they put them on. Burov said, “Follow me.”

  They went with him out of the headquarters building into the chill morning air. There was some thin sunlight, and Hollis noticed how pale Lisa looked in it. He drew a breath of pine-scented air.

  Burov too seemed to be enjoying the morning. He said, “It’s a pleasant day though a bit cold. I suppose you both feel it more without that little layer of fat you had.”

  Hollis replied, “Will you be having much difficulty not making inane allusions to what happened in the past?”

  Burov smiled thinly. “Thank you for reminding me. We start with a clean slate here. Here there is no past. That is the underlying philosophy of this institution. The instructors have no personal past, only a cultural past that they transmit to the students. The students have no personal or cultural past, only a political past that they cherish but never mention.”

  Hollis had the distinct impression that Burov had anticipated this moment and was looking forward to showing them his school, to see and hear their reactions. “Fascinating,” Hollis said.

  “Very,” Burov agreed. “And please, speak your mind. You have carte blanche to criticize, complain, even indulge your sarcastic wit. Come, let us walk.”

  They followed Burov around the headquarters building and entered a log-paved lane that led south toward what Hollis had determined was an athletic field. They broke out of the woods behind the bleacher stands that he’d seen, and Burov took them around to the open grass field. On the field Hollis saw two teams of young men playing touch football. The quarterback was calling signals, the ball was hiked, and the passer faded back. The offensive line blocked, but the defense got through easily. The quarterback spotted a free receiver in the right flat and threw. The ball was wide, and the receiver lunged for it but fell. Burov observed, “It’s a difficult game.”

  Hollis replied dryly, “Th
ey make it look more difficult than it is.”

  “Yes?”

  Hollis noticed two middle-aged men on the opposite sideline and two on the field.

  Burov said, “The coaches and two referees. I wish the students could play with their instructors as they did years ago. We used to have some good games. But in truth, the instructors are getting on in years.”

  “The Americans, you mean.”

  “The instructors and students are all Americans, so we don’t use that term to distinguish one from the other.”

  “I see.”

  “Anyway, the idea is to just teach the basics. All exercise here is some sort of American or universal sport. But we’re limited because of your satellites. We play a little baseball, but if we had laid out a baseball diamond, your people would wonder what that was doing in the middle of Russia.” Burov smiled. “But now that it has been discovered that we invented baseball, we are beginning to perfect the game and I may build a court here.”

  “A diamond.”

  “Whatever.”

  Hollis said, “That must be particularly galling to you. The satellites.”

  “Oh, yes. And it hinders so many of our activities. So we retreated to the bor, like we did with the Tartars, Napoleon, Hitler, and the rest.” Burov looked up at the sky. “We all come here to this field now and then just to see the open expanse and feel the sun. You understand?”

  “Yes.”

  Burov nodded and said, “Come.” He led them across the field and spoke as he walked. “Now they are playing much soccer in America, so my students can excel at something over there if they have an athletic inclination. Incidentally, one of the best amateur soccer teams in northern New Jersey is coached by one of our graduates.”

  “Is that a fact? Do you know what becomes of all your students?”

  “Alas, no. They are turned over to Directorate S for infiltration into the States. You are familiar with D-S?”

  “Yes. A branch of the First Chief Directorate.”

  He glanced at Hollis as they walked. “But anyway, we get a few anecdotal stories back from Directorate S. It’s good for our morale.”