Charm School v1_0

by Nelson DeMille

  “Hell, no.”

  “Did you ever?”

  Salerno glanced at him quickly. “No, why?”

  “Just wondered.”

  Salerno stubbed out his cigarette and picked up his paperback.

  The flight attendant, Jo, came over to them, carrying a brown parcel. “Ms. Rhodes?”

  “Yes?”

  “I was asked to give you this after we got airborne.” She handed the package to Lisa.

  Lisa asked, “Who gave it to you to give to me?”

  “A Russian guy. An airport official.” She added, “It's usually against regulations to take anything aboard like that, but it was from an airport official, and he said it was x-rayed and all. So it's okay.” She glanced at Hollis, then said to Lisa, “The Russian said it was a farewell gift.” She smiled and moved away.

  Lisa sat looking at the package on the seat tray. She said to Hollis, “This is the icon, Sam, addressed to USIS in D.C.” She stared at it awhile, then looked at Hollis. “You said it was cleared for the diplomatic pouch.”

  “It was,” Hollis replied. “I told them in the mailroom. What did they say when you brought it there?”

  “I… didn't. Mrs. Kellum saw it and said she was going to the mailroom, so she took it. I told her it was cleared for the pouch.” She looked at Hollis. “It's been opened. The tape is broken.” She touched the brown paper. “The foam rubber I used is missing.”

  Hollis didn't say anything.

  “I'm going to open it.”

  “Don't.”

  She ripped at the paper, and Hollis held her wrist. She pulled her hand away and tore the paper off, then let out a stifled sob. “Oh… oh, my God… Sam…”

  Hollis looked at the icon lying on the table. Deeply gouged into the painted wood, obscuring the face of the archangel, was a hammer and sickle.

  Lisa looked at him and tried to say something, but no words came out. Tears formed in her eyes.

  Hollis threw a piece of paper over the icon and took her hand.

  Salerno looked up from his book and said, “What's that? What's the matter?”

  The PA system crackled, and a voice came over the loudspeakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Johnson speaking. We're experiencing a minor electrical problem, and we've been instructed to land in Minsk. Nothing to be concerned about. We'll be on the ground in fifteen minutes, and hopefully airborne again shortly. Please fasten your seat belts for an approach to Minsk. Thank you.”

  The seat-belt lights and no-smoking lights blinked on.

  Salerno said, “It looks like our farewell to Russia was premature.” He looked at Hollis and smiled.

  * * *

  30

  The Pan Am 747 touched down at Minsk Airport, its rollout bringing it near the end of the short runway. The sky was still overcast, but Hollis noticed it hadn't snowed here. Lisa had slid the paper off the icon and was staring at it. Hollis asked, “How are you?”

  She didn't reply.

  The aircraft taxied toward the small modern terminal building, and Hollis saw four mobile stairways coming out to meet them, which was not normal for a routine deplaning. Behind the stairways were four buses. Hollis also noted that the 747 was some distance from the terminal.

  Hollis looked back at Lisa. “It can be restored. A museum restorer can do it. You'd never know.”

  She looked at him blankly.

  Salerno turned the icon toward him. “Goddamned shame. Who would do something like that?”

  Hollis replied, “I can think of one outfit right away.”

  “You mean the KGB?” Salerno plucked at his lip. “You mean they got the embassy penetrated? Hey, remember the ambassador's Steinway? What a bunch of shits. But I thought you were all secure there now. Maybe it was that gardener you guys got. Vanya?”

  Lisa took Hollis' hand. “I feel so… violated.” She looked at him. “Why? Why, Sam?”

  “You know.”

  “Yes… but it's so senseless. So petty and vengeful.”

  “That's them.”

  “Those bastards… bastards!”

  The four Germans looked over at them.

  Salerno said, “It probably can be fixed up. A little wood filler, paint brush, good as new. Could have been worse.”

  Lisa looked at the icon. The hammer and sickle had been gouged into the wood with a rough tool, the sickles curved blade running around three edges of the painting. The hammer's handle slashed diagonally across the body, and the hammerhead was a rectangle of raw splintered wood where the angel's face had been. Lisa took a deep breath. “I'm going to keep it just as it is.”

  Hollis squeezed her hand. “Good.”

  “Just the way they gave it to me.”

  Salerno shrugged and glanced out the window. “Never been to Minsk.” He looked at Hollis. “You?”

  “No.”

  Salerno's lips formed a thin smile. “Hey, guys, is your diplomatic immunity good here?”

  Lisa looked up from the icon. “You know that it's good all over the Soviet Union. But why would we need diplomatic immunity?”

  “You never know.”

  Before the 747 came to a halt, Jo stood near the forward galley door. She announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, the electrical repair might take a while, so what we're going to do is deplane. Please take all your personal things. Okay?” She opened the closet and handed out coats and bags. The aircraft came to a halt.

  The pilot, Ed Johnson, appeared at the door between the galley and cockpit and motioned to Hollis. Hollis said to Lisa and Salerno, “Go ahead.” He went over to Johnson, and they stood in the small galley. Johnson said, “It's not an electrical problem. We got a radio message directly from Sheremetyevo tower saying they got a bomb threat.”

  Hollis nodded.

  “The Soviet civil aviation authorities instructed me to set it down in Minsk, which was the closest airport that could handle this craft.”

  “So why aren't we sliding down the emergency chutes?”

  “Well, that's the thing. As we're making our final approach, Sheremetyevo calls again and says they have information the bomb is an altitude device, so we're safe. That's pretty screwy. I mean, do they actually have the guy who made the threat? Are they believing him about what kind of bomb it is? They wouldn't answer any questions, they just said to land at Minsk and no emergency evacuation. They said they didn't want to upset the passengers or have any injuries on the chutes. I demanded four stairways and got them.” Johnson looked Hollis in the eye. “I think it's a hoax. Somebody wants this plane down in Minsk.”

  “Could be.”

  “Does this have anything to do with your problem?”

  “Quite possibly.”

  “Anything I or the crew can do?”

  “Not without jeopardizing yourselves. If I don't get to Frankfurt with you, call a General Vandermullen in the Pentagon. He's my boss.” Hollis took a paper napkin from the galley counter and wrote a telephone number on it. “Just give him your professional opinion of this emergency landing.”

  “Will do.”

  “And not a word to anyone while you're in East Bloc airspace. Not even your copilot.”

  “Okay. Good luck.”

  They shook hands, and Hollis went down the spiral stairs to the door, where the mobile staircase had already been set up. Hollis descended the stairs. In the bus were Lisa, Salerno, the English couple, and the four Germans from Clipper Class, plus about a dozen people from first class. The door closed behind him, and the bus pulled away. Hollis sat in an empty seat beside Lisa. She asked, “What did that pilot want?”

  “Your phone number.”

  “Why do I ask you questions?”

  “Beats me.”

  Salerno, in the seat behind them, asked Hollis, “Did he tell you what the hell is going on?”

  “No.”

  The bus took them to the terminal, where they were shown into a small waiting room not large enough to accommodate the coach passengers. Hollis had the feeling that he and
Lisa had been neatly cut from the main pack, and there would be a further isolation when someone offered them diplomatic courtesies.

  A short, squat man in a ludicrous mustard-colored suit walked into the room, followed by an attractive woman. The man held up his hand and said in accented English, “Please, please.” The room became quiet, and the man said, “I am Mr. Marchenko, the In-tourist representative here. I must inform you that there is no electrical problem on the aircraft. Soviet authorities have received a bomb threat—”

  There was a gasp from the group.

  “Please, please. Nothing to fear. However, the entire aircraft must be searched, and all luggage must be searched. This takes a long time. So, Intourist will take you all to Sputnik Hotel to have lunch, and maybe you may stay overnight.”

  The woman with him repeated the announcement in German, then in French. Hollis was impressed with this uncharacteristic Soviet efficiency on such short notice. Obviously, they'd had help from another, more efficient Soviet agency.

  Lisa said, “I don't like this, Sam.”

  Salerno lit a cigarette. “I hope the damned Sputnik has a bar.”

  Hollis said, “I'll be right back.”

  “Where you going?” Salerno asked.

  “Men's room.” Hollis walked out the door of the waiting room and into a corridor, but a Border Guard with a bolstered pistol motioned him back. Hollis said in Russian, “I have to use the toilet.”

  The Border Guard seemed surprised at his Russian. “There's a toilet in the waiting room.”

  “It's occupied.”

  “Can't you wait?”

  “No. I have a bad bladder.”

  The Border Guard pointed down the hallway.

  Hollis went into the small men's room, picked up a metal trash can, and threw it against the tile wall.

  A second later the door swung open, and the Border Guard charged in as Hollis' foot shot up into the man's groin. The man made a grunting sound and doubled over. Hollis grabbed him by his high tunic collar and gunbelt and propelled him headfirst into the wall. The man moaned and sank to his knees. Hollis, still holding his collar, dragged him into a stall and sat him on the toilet, then closed the stall door, righted the trash can, and threw the man's cap into it. Hollis went back into the corridor and moved quickly to the main concourse of the terminal. He found the pay phones in a recess of a wall and put two kopeks in the slot and dialed the Minsk long-distance operator. “Put me through to Moscow, two five two, zero zero, one seven.”

  “Have sixty kopeks ready.”

  Hollis heard a series of clicks as the call was routed through the Moscow operator, then through the KGB listening station on the way to the embassy. The phone rang twice before his direct office line was picked up. He barely heard a faraway voice say, “Captain O'Shea.”

  The operator cut in, “Deposit sixty kopeks now.” Hollis shoved the first twenty-five-kopek piece in the slot, and O'Shea, knowing by the loud humming that someone was paying for a long-distance call, held the line. Hollis pushed the remainder of the kopeks in the slot, cursing the Soviet phone system. The humming stopped, and Hollis heard a clear line. “Hel—”

  A hand reached over Hollis' shoulder and pushed down the phone cradle. Hollis turned around and found himself looking down at the short, squat Mr. Marchenko, now wearing an overcoat and flanked by two Border Guards whose shoulder boards were higher than the short man's head. Marchenko said, “Colonel Hollis, everything is all arranged. No need to call.”

  Hollis snapped, “Where the hell do you get off interrupting my phone call?”

  “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 attache.” He laughed. “So, winter is here now. How was Moscow?”