The Charm School

by Nelson DeMille

  “You’re talking about Mike Salerno.”

  “Yes, that’s right. How did you catch on to him?”

  “He stood to attention and saluted every time a Soviet officer went past.”

  “Come now, Colonel Hollis. I’ll let you be sarcastic, but this is lying, and I told you about lying.”

  Hollis replied, “The way he smoked a cigarette.” Hollis explained perfunctorily.

  Burov nodded. “I see.”

  Lisa looked from one to the other. She asked Hollis, “Mike…?”

  Burov answered, “Yes. Were you fooled, Ms. Rhodes? Good.” He looked at Hollis. “But you know, Colonel, if someone wasn’t aware, as you were, of wolves in sheep’s clothing, that minor mistake would have passed unnoticed. Oh, I don’t belittle your intelligence. But smarter men than you have been completely fooled by my graduates. Ms. Rhodes’ good friend Seth Alevy for one has been fooled several times by some of our Americans. The Kellums, to name but two.”

  “The Kellums?” Lisa said. “Dick and Ann?” She looked at Hollis.

  Hollis nodded.

  Lisa shook her head. “My God… my God… I don’t believe this.”

  Burov smiled in pure delight. “And there are three thousand more in America, in your embassies, in your overseas military bases. Fantastic, isn’t it?”

  Lisa stared at Burov.

  Hollis glanced from one to the other. He hoped that Burov understood and believed how little Lisa knew. He hoped too that Lisa understood why she wasn’t kept as informed as she wished to be.

  Burov turned to Hollis and asked, “And how did you discover the Kellums?”

  “Simple background check. They’re quite good actors actually.”

  Burov looked thoughtful. “We’ve had no contact with them for ten days, so we assume Mr. Alevy is debriefing them. That’s very upsetting. Is he a good interrogator?”

  “I have no idea,” Hollis replied. He asked, “With Dodson on the loose and the Kellums in Alevy’s hands, will you move the school?”

  Burov shrugged. “I’d rather not. But things are getting hot, as you say. What would you do if you were the commandant here?”

  “Well, I’d say it was my country and I ran it, not the Americans. I wouldn’t be pressured by Americans or the Kremlin to run and hide somewhere else.” Hollis added mockingly, “Create an illusion.”

  Burov nodded to himself. “Perhaps it is you who is trying to create an illusion. Well, we’ll see.”

  Lisa stood at the porch rail watching a dozen joggers run by on the sandy shoulder of the road. The men were singing as they ran, “Anchors Aweigh.”

  Burov watched them. “All the students seem to like that one. I prefer your Air Force song myself.” Burov looked at his watch. “Come, we’ll walk, if you feel fit.”

  They followed Burov down the steps of the porch and along the road. He turned down a log-paved path, and they came to a small wood-shingled cottage, vaguely American in design, set among the pine trees. Burov said, “This is a four-student residence.” He knocked and opened the door. Four young men in a small sitting room were on the floor playing Trivial Pursuit. Burov motioned to them to continue.

  Hollis was struck again by their American casualness, their very un-Russian attitudes, sprawled out on the floor, shoeless, all wearing jeans and sweat shirts. And they were alone, Hollis thought, not expecting company. He noticed that one of the sweat shirts said “Jesus Is Lord.” Another read “Nuke the Whales.”

  One of the men said to Burov in an accent that Hollis recognized as from the Virginia-D.C. area, “This Baby Boomer edition is a real bitch. The regular trivia shit is sort of general knowledge. But the Boomer stuff is tough. I don’t think most Americans even know this crap.”

  “Yes?” Burov turned to Hollis. “You play this game?”

  Hollis shook his head. “Wouldn’t be caught dead.”

  Burov asked Lisa, “You?”

  “No.”

  Burov shrugged, then said to Hollis, “Do me a favor, Colonel. Ask a trivia question of my students. Please. It will be enlightening to you as well.”

  Hollis thought a moment, then said to the four men on the floor, “What is the approximate number of Soviet men, women, and children who died during the Stalin reign of terror?”

  The four looked at one another, then at Burov. Burov nodded. “Answer, if you know.”

  One of the men replied, “I’ve read it in books and magazines. I guess twenty million is about right.”

  “Do you believe that?” Hollis asked.

  Again there was a silence.

  Burov spoke. “I don’t believe it, and neither do they. But when they get to America, they will say they believe it.” Burov added coolly, “That is not the type of question I had in mind. Go on and ask them some trivia. You, Ms. Rhodes. Go ahead.”

  Lisa said, “I don’t know any trivia.”

  Burov handed her a stack of Trivial Pursuit cards.

  She shrugged and flipped through them. She read, “‘What country built the TU-144, the first SST to fly and crash?’”

  The man with the “Nuke the Whales” sweat shirt answered, “The Soviet Union.”

  Lisa found another. “‘What Russian erection started rising under floodlights shortly after midnight one fateful August thirteenth, 1961?’”

  The man with the “Jesus” sweat shirt replied, “The Berlin Wall.”

  Burov said, “Thank you, Ms. Rhodes, that will be enough.”

  The young man with the Virginia accent said to Lisa, “You know, we Americans call this trivia, but some of this stuff is heavy going for your average Russki.”

  Lisa looked at Hollis, and he could see in her eyes that she couldn’t quite believe these men were Russian. Burov saw this too and said to the one with the “Jesus” sweat shirt, “We will break the rules and you can be a Russian again for a moment.”

  The man jumped to his feet and said in Russian, “Yes, Colonel.” He looked at Hollis and Lisa and again in Russian said, “My name was once Yevgenni Petrovich Korniyenko. Eleven months ago I entered this school that we call Chrysalis—this sheltered state of being during which I will completely metamorphose and emerge a butterfly. I will be named Erik Larson. I may have some vague memory of the caterpillar I once was, but I will have beautifully colored wings and I will fly in the sunlight. No one who sees me will think of a caterpillar.”

  Burov nodded, and the man sat again. It seemed to Hollis that Yevgenni Petrovich was more believable as Erik Larson. Hollis also realized, as Burov suggested, that many of these men were picked for their physical attributes as well as intelligence. A majority of those that he’d seen were good-looking, and many had the fair complexions of the Nordic Russians, giving them a sort of all-American look when the props and costumes were added.

  Burov thanked the four men and motioned to the door, but Hollis said to the four, “Who knows who won the Battle of Borodino?”

  Larson replied, “I’m not much on history, but I think Napoleon just squeaked by on that one. Right, guys?”

  They all nodded.

  Hollis said to Burov, “You must reread your history, Colonel.”

  Burov didn’t reply, but escorted Hollis and Lisa outside. They continued their walk. Hollis saw that the buildings in the camp were spread out, and there were times when it seemed they were in an uninhabited woods, but then a building appeared, or men could be seen walking. Hollis spotted three men in overcoats walking toward them on the wood-planked path. Burov said, “Instructors.” Hollis watched them walking and talking, almost, he thought, as if they really were three dons, at some sylvan retreat, discussing tenure or Chaucer. They met on the path, and Burov made the introductions. “Commander Poole, Captain Schuyler, Lieutenant Colonel Mead, may I introduce Colonel Hollis, United States Air Force, former American embassy air attaché, and Miss Lisa Rhodes, United States Information Service, also late of the American embassy.”

  The five Americans looked at one another. Colonel Mead broke the silenc
e. “How the hell did you get here?”

  Hollis replied, “Kidnapped.”

  Mead said to Burov, “Christ, you people fucked up this time.”

  Burov smiled thinly. “If you followed the newspapers more closely as you’re supposed to do, gentlemen, you would have read of the deaths of Colonel Hollis and Ms. Rhodes in a helicopter accident.”

  Commander Poole nodded. “That’s right. You’re the air attaché.”

  “I was.”

  Captain Schuyler said, “Then you’re both real? I was thinking you might be two of Colonel Burov’s flying worms from a much earlier class.”

  “No,” Hollis replied. “We’re real.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Mead still seemed skeptical. “I did read about you, but are you you?”

  Burov replied, “You’ll be getting last week’s news magazines tomorrow, with pictures. And last week’s videotapes of network news programs also.”

  Schuyler nodded gravely. “Well, sorry to see you here.”

  “We’re sorry to be here,” Hollis replied. He could sense that they had a lot of questions for him, the question of Dodson being one, but this was not the time to address them. Hollis said, “We’ll talk soon.”

  They nodded.

  Burov made a hasty parting and led Lisa and Hollis on. He said, “As you can see, most of the houses here are American. Also, in another underground area, we have several training environments—American kitchen, several business and professional offices, rooms filled with American gadgets and such. I’ll show you that another day. But mostly we concentrate on the nuances of language and culture: facial expressions, clothing, interpersonal relationships, and that sort of thing. The day-to-day things such as supermarkets and gas stations can easily be assimilated in the States.”

  Hollis remarked, “Like how to smoke a cigarette.”

  Burov walked in silence awhile, then replied, “Little mistakes can be fatal.” He went on. “One of our biggest problems turns out to be facial expressions. How unique faces are, and how odd that different cultures do different things with their faces for different reasons.”

  Lisa commented, “Muscovites always have an expression of quiet desperation, except when they’re drunk, and then they look melancholy. They never smile except at their children.”

  “Is that so?” Burov said, “You know, I never noticed that. But that’s the point. You did. And the other major difficulty is the English language. The number of words alone is overwhelming. You have close to half a million words. We have less than a hundred thousand. English is a rich language, to be sure. I’d envy you your language but for the spelling and the grammar.”

  Burov continued his talk as they walked along the wooden paths through the woods. He said, “I just remembered a story about one of our graduates who recently arrived in America and had a bad experience in a supermarket with a can crusher. It seems he put a full can of cola into the machine, though I have no idea why.” He smiled at the thought, then added, “I suppose it’s like satellite-map reading. You can see everything, but it’s not like being on the ground. You have to put your feet into a country and smell its air and listen to its rhythm to really know it.”

  Lisa asked, “And what if you come to know it and love it?”

  “That,” Burov replied, “can be a problem. But we’ve worked that out. Again, it’s illusion. Our graduates are loyal, but we create the feeling within them that they are always being watched over in America. They know too that their families here are being well taken care of. You understand?”

  Hollis remarked, “You, Colonel, certainly know the nuances of our language.”

  “Thank you.”

  They crossed the main road again and took a path that ran behind the VFW hall, into the woods, and down a gentle slope. Burov said, “We are trying something new. Graduates who have spent at least six years in America are returning as instructors. This program must continue and expand; we can’t rely on foreign instructors forever.” Burov added, “Peter the Great finally realized that. He imported too many foreigners at first. That is the history of my country: trying to graft Western learning and culture onto this rough land. But eventually we have to take what we need from the West and perpetuate that learning here. This school will not die because the foreign teachers die, as happened to Peter. No, we will teach teachers to teach, and they will teach others. One day this school will put out two thousand Americans a year. By the end of the century, you will have a fifth column in your country whose size and influence will be sufficient for the Soviet Union to consider itself a minority shareholder in America, albeit a silent one. One day we might be chairmen of the board.”

  Neither Hollis nor Lisa responded.

  Burov showed them toward a small clapboard cottage built in a Cape Cod style, with green shutters and a cedar shingle roof. “This was Major Dodson’s quarters. You may use it for the week you need to make up your minds. Come in.” Burov opened the door and invited them to take off their coats, then turned on several portable electric heaters. At Burov’s urging, Hollis lit the kindling in the fireplace.

  Hollis looked around the room. It was rustic but comfortable. He examined the books on the shelves beside the fireplace and saw that Dodson’s taste ran to inspirational literature and British whodunits.

  Burov said to Lisa, “Through that door is a small kitchen. You’ll find glasses and something to drink.”

  “Really?”

  Burov hesitated, then said, “Would you be kind enough to make drinks?”

  Lisa gave him a nasty look, then went into the kitchen.

  Burov said to Hollis in a low voice, “That woman is very… independent.” He added, “American women. How do you put up with them?”

  “They’re interesting,” Hollis said.

  “They’re spoiled bitches.” Burov sat in an armchair near the fire. “The winter is here. Have you adjusted well to Russian winters?”

  “Quite well. I have the Joel Barlow award.”

  Burov nodded. “I heard that tape, you know.”

  Hollis didn’t reply.

  “One couldn’t make out everything, but I have to tell you I was enraged. It was insulting, vile, and hateful.”

  “It was in rather bad taste,” Hollis agreed. “Perhaps you shouldn’t listen to other people’s conversations.”

  “Your friend in there likes Russia.”

  “But not the people who run Russia now.”

  “Now and forever.”

  “I think not, Colonel Burov.”

  “Be realistic, Colonel Hollis.”

  “I try to be.”

  Burov shrugged. He said, “A word of advice: try to keep her mouth shut. We’re very lenient here, because that’s the only way we can suck your brains year after year. But a few instructors have gone too far.”

  “And you shot them.”

  Burov replied, “Only as a last resort. Have a seat. You don’t look your old self. Sit.”

  Hollis sat on a love seat facing the fire.

  Lisa came back with three glasses on a small metal tray and passed a glass to Hollis. “Brandy.” She took a glass for herself and put the tray on an end table. Burov took his glass and raised it. “To your new home.” He drank alone. “So, do you find this preferable to torture, starvation, and death?”

  Lisa replied, “Not yet.”

  Burov stared at her awhile, then said, “Sex. You both wondered about that. You saw some women. Some were students, and there are those six American female instructors whom you haven’t met yet. Also there are many other women here who have been provided for the American instructors. Russian women. It would be unrealistic to expect these men to function well for all these years without women. Dodson, however, was one of those who did not seem to avail himself of female companionship. Some say he was completely celibate, and I heard he was being faithful to a wife. Can you believe that?”

  Burov sipped his brandy. “Well, in the beginning most of these men were very promiscuous. But now most of
them have settled down into monogamous relationships. The women are all from the Gulag, mostly politicals, but a few criminal types as well. Economic crimes mostly. Thus, the women are mainly of the educated classes, so the Americans form rather good bonds with them. And most of the women are anti-Soviet, which is how they got into the Gulag in the first place. Many of them had life sentences, and those that didn’t, do now.”

  Lisa inquired, “Are these couples married in a legal way?”

  “No, not under Soviet law. I know that some quasi-religious marriages have been formed. Also, as I said, we still have the wild ones, the ones who go to the spa on Friday. Everything is coed on that night. Life here is what you make it. Like in the West.” Burov added, “I think in an ironic way you will be less homesick here than you were in the embassy.”

  Hollis found that the brandy had gone to his head and found too he was sick to death of Burov. He said to Burov, “We’d like to be alone.”

  Burov stood. “Of course. You’ve both had a trying few weeks.” He went to the door. “Speak to the quartermaster at headquarters if you need anything. There’s a shopping plaza at the east end of the main road. Everyone here draws a salary. I’ll get you your pay for the week in advance. You’ll find your overnight bags in the bedroom through that door. Unfortunately, your luggage has been sent to your next of kin.”

  Hollis asked, “Ms. Rhodes’ icon?”

  “Oh, I’ll have that sent over if you wish. Who cut that hammer and sickle into it?”

  Hollis replied, “The Kellums, I presume.”

  “Really? I remember them from when they were here—ten years ago it was. We don’t often send them over as a couple like that, but they had the idea of hiring themselves out as domestic servants to a powerful political family. Servants, I understand, are hard to come by in America and easy to place. Once they are in the house, they have unlimited access to things.” Burov added, “We teach individual initiative here too, which is unfortunately not a Russian character trait. But in the spy business it is half the game. Don’t you agree, Colonel?”