Charm School v1_0

by Nelson DeMille

“Where?”

  “At the Charm School.”

  * * *

  PART IV

  Wherever your travels in the Soviet Union take you,

  consult our Guidebook, and you will find the addresses

  of the camps, jails, and psychiatric prisons in your area:

  Slaves are building Communism… Visit them!

  —Avraham Shifrin

  The Guidebook to

  Prisons and

  Concentration Camps

  of the Soviet Union

  31

  “The Charm School,” Lisa said. “Mrs. Ivanova's Charm School.”

  “Yes.”

  She spoke as if to herself. “The place Gregory Fisher mentioned, the place Major Dodson came from, where we went on the way to Mozhaisk… We're going to get a closer look at it now, aren't we?”

  “Yes.” Hollis added, “They are going to question you, so the less you know, the better.”

  “Question me? Interrogate me?”

  “Yes.” He could feel her hand tightening over his. He said, “Just prepare yourself for some unpleasantness. Be brave.”

  She drew a deep breath and nodded.

  Marchenko turned in his seat and smiled at them. “Not Sheremetyevo. But you knew that.”

  “Yeb vas,” Hollis said.

  “Yeb vas,” Lisa agreed.

  “Fuck you,” Marchenko replied.

  Vadim poked his head between the seats, looked at Hollis and Lisa, and made a cutting motion across his throat.

  The helicopter continued its sloping descent toward the landing area, which Hollis noted was a natural clearing of tall yellow grass in the pine forest. On the south edge of the clearing was a log cabin he'd seen in the satellite photo. A narrow dirt track, barely visible among the pine trees, began at the cabin and ran a hundred yards south to the main camp road.

  Most of the mile-square camp was not much more discernible from a few hundred feet, Hollis saw, than it had been from the satellite a few hundred miles up. Yet, because he had seen much of the world from the air, he could sense the general layout. There was a roughly circular gravel road that ran around the inside of the perimeter, probably a service road for the watchtow-ers. The main camp road was two lanes of winding blacktop that roughly bisected the camp from east to west. This road passed through the main gate and was actually a continuation of the one they had taken up from Borodino Field.

  As they descended to about a hundred feet, Hollis saw on the main road a grim-looking concrete building in the center of the camp, probably the headquarters. Not far from that was a long wooden building with a green roof whose purpose he could not guess.

  Some distance south of these two buildings was another clearing, but this one was man-made, a perfect rectangle, the size of a soccer field, which it undoubtedly was, and which could double as a parade ground or assembly area, a standard facility for any school or prison camp. In fact, as the helicopter got lower, he could see bleacher stands that would accommodate close to five hundred people.

  Between the soccer field and the south perimeter of the camp, he saw the metal roofs of long barracks-like buildings that would be the separate compound within the compound for the KGB Border Guard detachment.

  Hollis sketched an aerial map in his mind and committed each detail to memory.

  As they descended to about fifty feet, his eye caught something odd, and he looked at an area of the treetops about midway between the dachas and the headquarters. He realized that he was looking at a huge camouflage net covering about an acre, supported by living pine trees whose tops poked through the net. An axiom of both combat flying and spying was that neither aerial photographs nor overflights were a substitute for a man on the ground. He was about to be the man on the ground.

  The helicopter settled onto the snow-dusted landing field. The copilot drew his pistol and slid open the door. Marchenko climbed out first, followed by Vadim. The copilot motioned with his gun at Lisa, and she took her bag and icon and jumped down from the helicopter, refusing Marchenko's hand. The copilot looked at Hollis a moment and asked, “Where did you think you were going to take this helicopter?”

  “That's my business.”

  “The American embassy, perhaps?” He glanced at the pilot and said, “Neither of us would have flown you there.”

  Hollis got his bag and held it in his cuffed hands. He stood, crouched over in the low cabin. “Then I would have killed you both and flown it myself.”

  The copilot backed away from Hollis. “You're a real murderer.”

  “No, I'm an American Air Force officer who is being kidnapped.”

  The copilot's eyes widened in surprise. “Yes?”

  Marchenko called out, “Come along!”

  “Call my embassy and tell them Colonel Hollis is here. I'll see you get fifty thousand rubles for you and your friend here.”

  Again, the copilot glanced over his shoulder. “Get moving.”

  Hollis edged toward the open door.

  The copilot said softly, “You shouldn't have broken that man's wrist. Do you know who those two are?”

  “Intourist guides. Remember my offer.” Hollis jumped down from the helicopter to where Marchenko stood with Lisa and Vadim near a Zil-6, a Red Army vehicle somewhat like an American jeep but larger. Hollis heard the helicopter lift off and felt the rush of wind pushing him forward.

  Marchenko opened the rear door of the Zil and said, “Colonel Hollis, then Vadim, then Miss Rhodes.”

  Hollis pushed his cuffed wrists under Marchenko's nose, “Unlock these.”

  Marchenko shook his head. “Get in, please.”

  Hollis said to Lisa, “Get in first.”

  She got in, and as Vadim tried to follow, Hollis shouldered him aside and got in the middle beside Lisa. Vadim sat beside Hollis and said in Russian, “I'm going to beat your fucking face to a pulp.”

  “With which hand?”

  “You shit—”

  “Please!” Marchenko shouted. “Enough!” He got into the front passenger seat and said to the driver, “Headquarters.”

  The Zil moved across the grass field toward the log cabin about a hundred yards off. Hollis looked at the cabin as they drove by and guessed it was probably once a woodsman's izba, a relic from a time when such a thing as a lone woodsman existed in this communal nation. But now it sprouted two antennas and was probably the radio shack for the helipad.

  The Zil entered the narrow track that cut through the dark pine forest. Lisa took Hollis' hand and said into his ear, “I'm going to be brave.”

  “You are brave.”

  The Zil came to the end of the track and turned left onto the main blacktop road. Hollis noticed that the pine trees on either side of the road were huge, rising forty to fifty feet into the air, and the spreading bough canopy was so heavy that little light reached the ground. Now and then he saw log-paved lanes, what the military called corduroy roads, leading off the main road. Down some of these lanes he saw houses that he hadn't seen from the air. He was surprised but not shocked to catch sight of an American ranch house, then a white clapboard bungalow. They were most probably residences, he thought, for the Charm School students and their American instructors, set in the Russian bor to enhance the illusions that made this place so unique.

  Lisa spotted one and said to him, “Look!”

  “I see them.”

  “This is bizarre. What is—?”

  “No questions.”

  She nodded. “All right.”

  Marchenko, too, was staring out the window. He said to Hollis, “This is very odd indeed. Do you know what this place is?”

  Hollis had assumed that Marchenko didn't know much beyond his kidnapping assignment. Hollis replied, “It's a secret CIA base camp. You're under arrest, Marchenko.”

  Marchenko turned around in his seat and looked at Hollis in a way that led Hollis to think the man almost believed him. What a country. Marchenko finally smiled. “You joke. Tell me, what kind of structures are those in
the woods?”

  “They're called houses.”

  “Yes? I saw American houses in a movie once. Those are American houses.”

  “Very good.”

  Marchenko turned back to the front and peered out the windows. “I don't understand this place.”

  Hollis noticed that the light snow was mostly on the pine branches and little of it had reached the moss-covered ground. This was a place, he thought, of perpetual darkness, a place where even at high noon in the summer there would be little light.

  Lisa said, “I haven't seen a single person.”

  Hollis nodded. Neither had he, and the unsettling thought came to him that they were all gone, moved to another location as had happened when the American rescue force had raided Son Tay POW camp in North Vietnam. But as he peered through the forest he saw lit windows in some of the houses, and smoke rose from the chimneys. No, he thought, they are still here. The KGB had not properly evaluated the situation and had not broken camp yet.

  The Zil continued slowly along the road, and coming up on the right was the long green-roofed building Hollis had spotted from the air. It was a single-story building of white clapboard with a very homey-looking front porch. There were rockers on the porch and a red-and-white Coke machine against the wall near the double front doors. Through a large picture window Hollis got a glimpse of some men and women, and on a wall hung a large American flag. Hollis had the impression of a small-town Veterans of Foreign Wars hall, and as the Zil passed by, he saw a black-and-white sign over the double doors that said just that: VFW, POST 000.

  The Zil moved on, then came to a halt in front of the headquarters building, a grey two-story hulk of precast concrete slabs, most of which had the familiar cracks that were a trademark of the prefab industry in these parts. Steel reinforcing rods protruded here and there and bled orange rust over the deteriorating concrete. A KGB Border Guard stood in a plywood booth, and to the right of the booth was the headquarters' entrance. Standing in front, wearing the long green greatcoat with red shoulder boards of the KGB, was Colonel Petr Burov.

  Marchenko got out and said, “Come, come. You don't keep a colonel waiting.”

  Vadim opened the rear door and got out, followed by Hollis and Lisa.

  Burov looked at them a long time, then said, “Well, this is what you wanted to see, wasn't it, Hollis?”

  Hollis didn't reply.

  Burov said to Marchenko, “Why is he handcuffed?”

  “He tried to hijack the helicopter.” Marchenko explained to Burov with great diffidence in his voice, altering somewhat the exact events at the airport and on the helicopter.

  Burov looked at Vadim's swollen wrist, now the size of an orange, then looked at Hollis but said nothing. Burov stared at the icon in Lisa's hands. He said to her, “If you were Catholic or Protestant, you'd have to carry only a small cross for comfort.” He laughed, and Marchenko and Vadim laughed also.

  Lisa said in Russian, “Go to hell.”

  Burov slapped her hard across the face, knocking her to the ground.

  Hollis bent down to help Lisa to her feet, and as he did, Burov swung at him, catching him on the jaw and sending him staggering back. His knees sagged, and he dropped to the ground, then stood unsteadily.

  Burov flexed his right hand and watched Hollis as he straightened up. Burov said, “Well, that evens the score for Lefortovo.” Burov looked at Vadim and said in Russian, “The stomach.”

  Vadim's right foot shot out and caught Hollis in the solar plexus, causing him to double over, but he managed to stay on his feet.

  Hollis straightened up and tried to catch his breath. Coming at him, as if in a bad dream, was the towering hulk of Viktor from Lefortovo. Hollis heard Burov's voice. “The balls.”

  Viktor's foot came up between Hollis' legs and caught him full in the testicles. Hollis heard himself yell, then found he was on the frozen ground rolling around in blinding pain. He heard Lisa scream, then the scream was cut off by the sound of a blow. Lisa fell beside him, holding her midsection, her eyes dull with pain.

  Viktor took a step past Hollis, and Hollis got the handcuff chain under Viktor's foot and around the man's ankle. Hollis pulled and sent Viktor sprawling to the ground with a thud.

  Burov came at Hollis but walked over him and planted his heavy jackboot in Lisa's side, causing her to cry out. Burov said to Hollis, “Any more heroics?” He put his boot on Lisa's head. “No? Get up.”

  Hollis got to his feet at the same time as Viktor. Viktor grabbed Lisa by the collar of her coat and pulled her to her feet.

  Burov motioned to Marchenko. “Uncuff him.”

  Lisa moved unsteadily toward Hollis, but Burov pushed her away. Burov said to Marchenko in Russian, “That vehicle will take you and your subordinate to the Center, where you will make a full report. If you ever breathe a word about anything you saw here, you'll both be shot. Dismissed.”

  Marchenko and Vadim saluted, did an about-face, and got back into the Zil.

  Burov said to Hollis and Lisa, “Get inside.”

  The Border Guard opened the door, and Hollis and Lisa entered with Burov and Viktor behind them.

  They found themselves in a lobby or waiting room where a duty officer sat at a desk facing the door. The man stood when he saw Burov. Burov said to Hollis and Lisa, “Leave your bags and that religious thing with this man.”

  Hollis set his bag down and noticed an open door to the left through which he could see a telephone switchboard and a radio transmitter.

  Burov said to them, “Now take off your coats and shoes.”

  Hollis removed his trench coat and shoes while Lisa pulled off her boots and overcoat.

  The duty officer put the coats and footwear on his desk, examining them as he did.

  Viktor fingered Hollis' tie, then pulled it off him and stuffed it in his own pocket. He unbuckled Hollis' belt and ripped it off, throwing it on the desk, then took Hollis' watch and put it on his wrist.

  Burov snapped, “This way.” He led them down a long corridor toward the rear of the building. A Border Guard with an AK-47 followed. The guard threw open a steel door and shoved Lisa inside. Burov said to her, “Take off your clothes and wait for the matron to come and search you. Or, if you have a means to end your life, do it before she comes. You have a few minutes.”

  Viktor said to her in Russian, “I'm not through with you, bitch.” He slammed the door shut and bolted it.

  Burov opened the next door and pushed Hollis into a small, windowless cell, then followed him in. He said to Hollis, “For your information, I am the camp commandant here. I never had an escape for the ten years I've been here. Then Dodson escapes and two of my men are murdered.” He glared at Hollis. “I know you killed them, and I think you and your Jew friend Alevy know too goddamned much about this place. Don't you?”

  Hollis said nothing, and Burov punched him in the stomach. Burov waited for Hollis to straighten up, then said, “I'll tell you something else, smart guy—from the moment I laid eyes on you and your snotty girlfriend I wanted you both here. The Center said impossible, but I showed them how we could kidnap two American diplomats. They thought it quite brilliant. Your death in a helicopter crash is now being reported to your embassy. Your incinerated remains—actually a male and female prisoner—are being gathered from the crash site. No one knows you're here, Hollis. No one is looking for you. You're all mine now, and you're dead.”

  Hollis tried to clear his head. Between the lines he read that Burov was in trouble and was trying to redeem himself with Lubyanka. So far, Burov was doing fine.

  Burov snapped, “Take off your clothes and give them to Viktor.”

  Hollis removed his suit, shirt, and underwear, handing each piece to Viktor while the Border Guard kept his AK-47 trained on him.

  Burov said, “If I find any of your stupid spy gadgets, I'll kill you with my own hands. Someone will be along shortly to see if you've got anything up your ass. Welcome to the Charm School, Hollis.” Burov, Viktor, a
nd the guard left. The door slammed, and Hollis heard the bolt drive home.

  Hollis stood naked in the cell and looked around. Four bare concrete walls enclosed a space about ten feet square. There was no window, and the only light came from a dim recessed bulb in the ceiling, covered by a steel grating. Somewhere up there, though he could not see it, was a fiber-optic device watching him.

  There was no furniture at all in the cell, and as far as he could see, no heat source either. In the far left corner of the cell a water spigot protruded from the wall about four feet off the floor. Beneath the spigot was a waste hole. Hollis turned on the spigot and rinsed the blood out of his mouth, then splashed cold water on his face. He felt his jaw swelling, and one of his teeth was loose. His testicles were beginning to swell too, and his midsec-tion was turning purplish. He washed his hands, then drank some water, but his stomach heaved, and he spit it into the waste hole.

  The door opened, and two uniformed men came in. One of them held a pistol in one hand, and the other performed a body search, then both men left.

  Hollis stood in the center of the cold, concrete room. He had once spent ten very unpleasant days in prison, an intelligence school training facility located in a building similar to this one in northwest Washington, D.C., called Lubyanka West. The first few days there and probably here were the standard “shock days,” a blur of dehumanizing treatment, psychological torture, and physical abuse. This softened you up, stripped away your self-esteem, and set you up for what was to come. Then they left you alone to think about things, but the welcome solitude soon became maddening isolation. Then when you yearned to hear and see another human being, they scheduled “interviews” with you and were conditionally pleasant, and you began to like them for letting you live. You began talking, enjoying the company, and when you were talked out, you were sent to a regular prison camp or shot.

  There was some advantage in knowing what was coming, Hollis thought, but no comfort in the knowledge. He was glad Lisa didn't know anything.

  He went to the wall that separated their cells and struck it with his palm, but it was solid, and he heard no answering signal.