Charm School v1_0

by Nelson DeMille

  “It's the people,” Hollis decided. That was its one resource: Muscovites. Tough, stubborn, conniving, cynical bastards. And the city was a magnet, a mecca for every like-minded bastard in the Soviet Union. Hollis admired the bastards.

  He went into the men's room, straightened his tie, and combed his hair. “Burov.” Burov was no local Mozhaisk gendarme. He was a Muscovite by choice if not by birth. Furthermore Burov was somewhere directly involved with the Charm School. Hollis didn't know how he knew that. But he knew.

  Hollis got his topcoat and walked unannounced into Alevy's corner office down the hall. Hollis pulled the heavy drapes closed and turned on the tape player. Bob Dylan sang “Mr. Tambourine Man.” Hollis pulled a chair up close to Alevy and said softly, “Burov.”

  Alevy nodded. “That's our only name and face, isn't it?”

  “We want to draw Burov out, right? To get a fix on this guy and see if he's more than the phantom of the Mozhaisk morgue. Call Lefortovo restaurant. Make a dinner reservation for two in my name.”

  Alevy stayed silent for a while, then said, “Long shot.”

  “Not really. The embassy listeners are keyed for my name. Even if Burov is somewhere around Mozhaisk, he can be in Moscow within two hours.”

  “Who are you taking to dinner?”

  “Not you.”

  Alevy smiled wryly. “Okay. But if Burov shows and he wants to do more than talk, I'd be hard-pressed to bail you out in Lefortovo.”

  “I didn't need you to bail me out of Mozhaisk either.”

  “I think you're pushing your luck, Colonel. Not to mention our friends luck.”

  Hollis stood. “I'll put it to her straight, and she can decide.”

  Alevy stood also. “Sam, remember the lecture you gave me about helping Soviet Jews? Let me give you the same advice about possible American fliers. Make sure it's worth your life. Or at least make sure someone can pick up the ball after you're gone. In other words, fill me in on what you know before they kill you.”

  “If I did that, Seth, you wouldn't be so worried about my safety.”

  “My, aren't we thinking like a paranoid spy? Hey, did you find out where Gogol's grave is?”

  “I'm not even convinced he's dead.” Hollis left Alevy's office and took the elevator down to the ground floor of the chancery. The big open lobby was filled with embassy men and women leaving work. Some of them waited for spouses, children, or friends; some walked to the rear of the building toward the quad, a short commute home. A few people reboarded the elevators for the ride down to the recreation areas. A few men and women, always in groups of two or more, walked toward the gate, into the city of Moscow and a night of sightseeing or something more interesting.

  In some ways, Hollis thought, the scene before him resembled any highrise office lobby at quitting time. But on closer inspection, one knew that this was something quite different. These men and women, despite their respective job or rank, shared lives within the citadel walls, shared common bonds and experiences, problems, sorrows, and joys. They were three hundred Americans in a city of eight million Russians.

  Hollis spotted Lisa talking to three men whom he recognized from the commercial section. She didn't see him, and he watched her smiling and laughing with them. Two of the men were good-looking and obviously on the make. Hollis found he was annoyed.

  She glanced around the lobby and saw him. She excused herself and walked over to him. “Hello, Colonel.”

  “Hello, Ms. Rhodes.”

  “Do you know Kevin, Phil, and Hugh from FCS? I can introduce you.”

  “Some other time. We have a cab waiting.” He walked toward the door, and she followed. They went out into the cold air and headed toward the gates. She shivered. “Good Lord, that wind's from the north now. That's it until May.”

  Hollis said, “I wanted to call you the last two days…”

  “Forget it, Sam. Step at a time. I was swamped with work anyway. Dinner was a good idea. Thanks.”

  “Right.” He took her arm and turned her toward him. “I still think I owe you an explanation. Just listen. Before we went to Mozhaisk, I told you it could be dangerous, and you saw what I meant. Every day is a danger now, every time we leave this gate. This is not just dinner tonight… I guess what I'm asking is, do you want to get involved with me and with what I'm doing?”

  “Taxi's waiting.”

  Hollis took her hand, and they walked through the gate. The U.S. Marine guards saluted, and the Soviet militiamen eyed them. The KGB embassy watchers, sitting in the Chaikas, put down their newspapers and picked up their binoculars.

  Hollis saw two taxis at the curb waiting for fares. Moscow taxis as a rule didn't wait for anyone anywhere, but Western embassies were an exception. Hollis picked a white Lada and got in. He said to the driver, “Lefortovo.”

  The driver glanced back at him.

  Hollis said in Russian. “The restaurant, not the prison. It's on Red-something street. Does that help?”

  Lisa laughed.

  The driver pulled out. “I know where that place is.”

  Hollis glanced back and saw one of the Chaikas make a U-turn and follow.

  Lisa said to Hollis, “Lefortovo is the name of a restaurant?”

  “Yes.”

  “Never heard of it. Is that the KGB hangout you promised to take me to?”

  “That's it.”

  “The State Bureau of Naming Things is not known for market research, but that name is repellent. Like Lubyanka or Dachau.”

  “They're not looking for tourists.”

  Lisa said, “This is going to be an adventure. You're a lot more exciting than you look.”

  “Thank you.”

  The driver butted in as Moscow taxi drivers tended to do. “You speak Russian?”

  “A little.”

  “Maybe you want to pick another restaurant.”

  “Why?”

  “That one is not nice.”

  “Why not?”

  “Police. Too many police go there. No one else likes it.”

  “You mean KGB?”

  The driver didn't respond. He lit a cigarette and filled the cab with acrid smoke. “If you give me two dollars, we'll forget the meter.”

  “I can't give you dollars.”

  “Do you have any gum, lipstick, cigarettes?”

  Lisa rummaged through her bag. “Here's an Estee Lauder lip gloss for your wife.”

  “For my girlfriend. My wife gets my pay. Thank you.”

  Lisa said to Hollis in English, “Men are such pigs.”

  “I know.”

  The driver said, “You both speak good Russian. Are you spies?”

  Hollis answered, “Yes.”

  The driver laughed. He turned off the ring road into the Avenue of the Enthusiasts and headed east toward the Lefortovo suburb. “Traffic gets worse every year.”

  Hollis didn't notice much traffic. He asked, “Do you know that Washington and Moscow are talking about a summit meeting in January?”

  “Yes. I read that.”

  “What do you think of that?” Hollis asked.

  The driver looked around as if trying to determine if there were anyone else in the cab, then said, “They've been talking for forty fucking years. If they wanted peace, they'd have peace.”

  Hollis listened as the taxi driver gave his somewhat rambling view of the world. Hollis knew what Soviet diplomats thought, so an Ivan-in-the-street interview was useful now and then.

  The driver turned onto Krasno Kursantsky Street. They passed the grim Lefortovo prison compound, and the driver stopped in front of a modern building of glass and aluminum. The driver concluded, “So we should get together before the black asses and the yellow asses take over the world. We're going to blow each other up, and they'll take over. Tell that to your president.”

  “I'll pass it along.”

  “Are you sure you want to go here?”

  “Yes.” Hollis handed him five rubles and told him to keep the change, which he d
id. Hollis had been told that as few as ten years ago, the taxi drivers stuck to the rule of not accepting tips. But the Revolution was over, burned out, and no one took any of it seriously anymore. In two years he had not once heard anyone call anyone else comrade. The pride and fervor were gone, and everyone was on the make or on the take. The churches were crowded, party membership was down, suicides were up. The average life expectancy was dropping, and alcohol consumption, despite the anti-drinking campaign, had risen. Russia was a second-rate nation, but they had first-rate weapons and a world-class secret police.

  He and Lisa walked to the door of the restaurant. She said, “That man sounded like the last New York cabbie I had.”

  “God bless the proletariat. They get down to basics.”

  Lisa turned and looked up and down the street. “I've never been in this part of town. It's dark and grim.”

  “Part of the charm.”

  She stared at the KGB prison across the road, then noticed a car parked with its engine running. “Is that our favorite Chaika?”

  “Could be. In a country with four makes of cars, most of which are black, it's hard to tell if you're being followed.”

  Hollis showed her into the restaurant, and they handed their coats in at the checkroom. He took Lisa into the dinner area, a medium-sized room, unremarkable in its decor but interesting in its clientele. Most of the patrons were men, and more than half were in one sort of uniform or another. Many of the civilian-attired men were in brown suits, better cut than those of the average Muscovite. The dining room was darker than most Moscow restaurants, Hollis noted, though the effect was not romantic.

  Lisa said, “Sinister. I love it.”

  Hollis gave his name to a woman at the reservation counter. She looked him over, then looked Lisa up and down. She frowned, turned, and led them to a table in the center of the room. The table was laid with white linen and heavy flatware. Hollis pulled Lisa's chair out for her. She said, “Everyone is looking at us.”

  “You're so beautiful.”

  “They know we're Americans.”

  Hollis said, “By way of background, the gentlemen you see are mostly employees of Lefortovo—prison, not restaurant. They are a collection of KGB interrogators, torturers, and executioners. They work up big appetites. The food is good, and the service is the fastest in all Moscow, all Russia. It is also underpriced.”

  A man in uniform at the next table stared at Lisa. She stared back.

  Hollis added, “The KGB doesn't bug the tables here. Here, the KGB are at the tables.”

  A waitress came by with a bottle of mineral water and set it down with two menus. Hollis ordered a bottle of Georgian wine. The waitress left without a word.

  Lisa said, “What's this country coming to when an American military spy can sit in the same restaurant with a hundred KGB thugs? Where is Joe Stalin when they need him?”

  Hollis looked over the menu. “Unlike the restaurants in central Moscow, if it's on the menu, they've got it.”

  The waitress returned with the wine, and they ordered dinner. Lisa said, “That one bastard is still staring at me.”

  Hollis poured two glasses of red wine. “I'll ask him to step outside.”

  “No.” Lisa smiled. “We're even on restaurants.” She stuck her tongue out at the man who was staring at her. Several diners laughed. The man rose from his table, and Hollis wondered if his crew cut was going to brush the ceiling.

  A few of the other men hooted and howled. One yelled out, “Viktor! Don't be an uncultural lout. Buy the Americans a drink.”

  Someone else shouted, “No, show them how much of a lout you are and throw them out.”

  Lisa looked around but saw no restaurant employees. She said to Hollis, “Do you want to leave?”

  “No.”

  Viktor and Hollis sized each other up.

  The dining room became quiet as a tall, thin man in civilian clothes rose from a dark corner table and walked across the room. He snapped to Viktor, “Out!” Viktor hurried for the door.

  Colonel Burov motioned toward the table. “Please. Sit. May I?” He sat in a chair at their table, still motioning Hollis into his seat. Burov snapped his fingers, and a waitress suddenly appeared. “More wine.” He looked at Hollis and Lisa. “I must apologize on behalf of my compatriot.”

  Hollis replied, “Why? Hasn't he learned human speech?”

  Burov seemed puzzled, then got it and laughed. He turned and translated Hollis' words for the others. Everyone laughed.

  Hollis said to Burov, “Come here often?”

  “Yes. This is a favorite of my organization. Did you know that before you came?”

  Hollis ignored the question and asked, “Can I assume this isn't a chance meeting?”

  “It's a fateful meeting perhaps.”

  “What's on your mind, Colonel Burov?”

  “Many things, Colonel Hollis. Since our last unpleasant business at Mozhaisk, I've been thinking about you two.”

  “And we about you.”

  “I'm flattered. By the way, they tell me you never arrived at the state farm.”

  “So what?”

  Burov continued, “We found your rented car where you left it at Gagarin station, and I had it examined by the Criminal Investigation Division of the Moscow police. Tire marks, mud, pine twigs, and so on. I conclude that you entered a restricted area. Specifically an area two kilometers north of Borodino Field.” Hollis said, “Will you pass that butter, Colonel?” Burov slid a butter dish across the table.

  “So?” Hollis leaned toward Burov. “I suggest that if you want to speak to us, you go through your foreign ministry and arrange it with my embassy. Good evening.”

  Burov drummed a spoon on the table. “The hell with those people. This is intelligence business. I know who you are. I know you have scars on your neck and back from wounds received when you were shot down over Haiphong. I know your sister's name is Mary and your mother drank too much. Let's get down to business and forget the protocols of diplomacy.”

  Hollis took the spoon from Burov's hand and said, “All right, no more diplomacy. You murdered an American citizen. You beat my driver, and perhaps you would have murdered me and Miss Rhodes. Yet you sit here and talk to us as though you are a civilized human being. You are not.”

  Burov seemed not to take offense. He rubbed his finger over his lips thoughtfully, then nodded. “All right. There's no use denying some of the details that you possess in this matter. But what you conclude from those details is probably erroneous. This matter is quite beyond your understanding, Colonel Hollis, and certainly yours, Miss Rhodes. It is, I admit, somewhat beyond my understanding as well. It is a matter that concerns the higher-ups.”

  Lisa replied, “Then why kill the little people, Colonel?”

  Burov ignored this and continued, “Yes, I'll satisfy your curiosity. It's like this: the Major Jack Dodson, who the late Mr. Fisher referred to in his phone call to you, was a turncoat. While a prisoner of war in the People'sRepublic of Vietnam, Major Dodson sent a message to the Soviet embassy in Hanoi requesting an interview. It was granted, and during the discussion with a Soviet military attache, Major Dodson said he would welcome the opportunity to come to the Soviet Union and exchange his military knowledge for his release from the prison camp. He felt bitter and betrayed by his country. He stated that America was not waging the war properly, that the limited air war had endangered his life, wasted his talent, and caused the deaths of his friends. Perhaps you yourself felt that way, Colonel. So, anyway, Dodson asked if we would get him out of the Vietnamese POW camp. We did.”

  Neither Hollis nor Lisa spoke. Finally Hollis said, “And why didn't the Soviet Union announce his defection for propaganda purposes?”

  “Dodson didn't want that. That was part of the deal we struck with him.”

  Lisa asked, “And he let his family think he was dead?”

  Burov shrugged. “Major Dodson spoke of his wife's past infidelities. He was childless, I believe.”
>
  Hollis said, “Sounds like bullshit to me.” Hollis added, “What was Dodson doing in the pine forest at night when Gregory Fisher came upon him? Picking mushrooms?”

  “And,” Lisa added, “why did Gregory Fisher leave the Rossiya, after Colonel Hollis told him to stay there, and go back to Borodino, where he got himself killed in an auto accident? Come now, Colonel Burov.”

  Burov helped himself to some wine. He said, “Mr. Fisher's accident is not relevant to the subject of Major Dodson. However, as I did have the opportunity to listen to the tape of Mr. Fisher's conversation with you and Miss Rhodes, I think we can all agree that he sounded agitated. The militia report says that he was also drunk. My theory is he panicked and got back in his car with the idea of… well, who knows what a drunk man thinks? As for Major Dodson, he was hiking, as was his custom. He met Mr. Fisher, quite by chance, and out of nostalgia perhaps, told him something about himself. But he did not tell Mr. Fisher he was a prisoner, because he is not.”

  Burov took a sheet of folded paper from his pocket and handed it to Hollis. “This is a letter in Major Dodson's hand, dated January of 1973, requesting asylum in the Soviet Union. Your government has now been made aware of this, and what both governments are trying to do is to avoid any embarrassment that Major Dodson's defection would cause. It was a silent defection, and that is the way we all want it to remain.”

  Hollis pushed the letter back without looking at it. Hollis said, “I want to speak to Major Dodson and hear all this from him.”

  Burov nodded. “Yes, all right. If he's agreeable.”

  “I don't care if he's agreeable or not. You will make him speak to me. Tomorrow. Here in Moscow. I suggest the International Trade Center hotel as a somewhat neutral site.”

  Burov lit a cigarette and exhaled. “Well, I'll take it up with the proper authorities.”