Charm School v1_0

by Nelson DeMille

  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 only 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 show
ing 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, “They 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.”

  Lisa asked, “What happens to the students who flunk out?”

  Burov didn't reply for a while, then said, “Well, they're asked to sign a statement swearing never to breathe a word of anything they've seen here. The same as in any other intelligence operation.”

  Lisa remarked, “I think you probably kill them.”

  “Come, come, Ms. Rhodes. Really.”

  They walked in silence across the field and entered the tree line by way of another path. The path ended at a small concrete structure that resembled a bunker, and they entered it. The bunker was completely bare, and Hollis wondered why they were there. Burov directed them to the middle of the steel-plate floor, then pressed a button on the wall and stood beside them. The center plate of the floor began sinking.

  They rode down a shaft for a few seconds, then stopped. Two sliding doors parted, and Burov showed them out into a smartly appointed room of chrome furniture and suede-covered walls. A young man sat at a countertop desk in the corner, wearing a T-shirt and reading a New York Times. Burov said to Hollis and Lisa, “Welcome to the Holiday Spa.”

  Hollis in fact smelled chlorine, and he noticed that steaminess peculiar to health clubs.

  The young man behind the counter put down his newspaper and said in cheery English, “Hello, Colonel. Who you got there?”

  “New members, Frank. Colonel Hollis and Ms. Rhodes.”

  “Great.” The young man put out his hand. “Frank Chapman. I read your obit last week, Colonel.”

  Hollis hesitated, then shook hands with him and said, “If you're Frank Chapman, I'm Leo Tolstoy.”

  Chapman did not smile.

  Burov said to Chapman, “I'll just show them around.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Burov led them through steamy glass doors into an anteroom. “Men's locker there. Ladies' over there. We don't have many female students because we only have six female instructors. Maybe seven now.”

  Lisa said nothing.

  Burov said, “This place is our gem. It cost over a million rubles to build underground, and there's a half million dollars' worth of Western athletic equipment here. It's boosted morale among students, instructors, and staff.”

  They followed Burov down a long corridor. Burov said, “Finnish saunas here, steam baths there, sunrooms, whirlpools. Here's the workout room. Universal gym. Those two women are new students. They're trying to get American figures like yours, Ms. Rhodes.” Burov smiled and watched the two Russian women sweating on stationary bicycles. Burov said, “We know that many important contacts are made in athletic clubs and that most successful Americans are involved in some sort of athletic pastime. Golf and tennis I know are the most important to the upper and ruling classes. But there is not a single golf course in all of Russia, so our students watch golf tournaments on videotape, then sign up for lessons in America. We play a little tennis here, but the real game is learned there. Here we mostly stress physical conditioning for its own sake. Social sport comes later. This way, please.”

  They walked to the end of the corridor, which opened into a large gymnasium. Several young men were engaged in gymnastics, working on the bars, beams, and rings. Burov said, “This is something at which we excel. It produces very good bodies. Our students, male and female, are partly chosen for their physical attributes. Many of them, when they go West, form romantic liaisons with Americans who can be of some help. Do you understand?”

  Lisa replied tersely, “Do you have any idea how morally corrupt you are?”

  “Yes, by your standards. We have different standards.”

  “You have no standards. That's why this country is morally and spiritually bankrupt. Do you teach your students Judeo-Christian morality?”

  “There's not an overwhelming amount of that over there as far as I can determine.”

  “Have you ever been to America?”

  “Unfortunately not. Do you think it would do me some good, Ms. Rhodes?”

  “Probably not.”

  Burov smiled. He pointed to the far end of the gym where six young men in shorts were shooting baskets. “Come.” They walked around the hardwood gym floor and approached the six students. Hollis noted that their hairstyles were very American, and he was surprised at how they carried themselves: their walk, their smiles, their facial expressions, and hand movements. They were like no Russians he had ever seen, and he thought they closely approximated the American subtleties of physical presence.

  Burov said to them, “Gentlemen, this is Sam Hollis and Lisa Rhodes. They may be joining the faculty. Introduce yourselves.”

  The six young men greeted them pleasantly, pumping their hands and saying things such as, “Nice meeting you.”

  “Glad you could come,” and “Welcome aboard.”

  Their names, Hollis learned, were Jim Hull, Stan Kuchick, John Fleming, Kevin Sullivan, Fred Baur, and Vince Panzarello.

  Hollis thought their Anglo and ethnic names somewhat fit their appearance.
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br />   Fred Baur asked, “Didn't I read about you two in the newspapers?”

  Burov replied, “Yes. They died in a helicopter crash.” The young men seemed to light up with recognition. They all chatted awhile, and Hollis was impressed with not only their English, but with their informal manner in front of and with Colonel Burov. This, he knew, must have been a difficult cultural breakthrough for them and for Burov.

  Lisa listened to the conversation awhile, then looked at the man named Jim Hull. He was in his early twenties, blond, and rather good-looking, dressed in only shorts and sneakers. Lisa surveyed his body up and down, then caught his eye and gave him a look of unmistakable meaning. Hull seemed alternately ill at ease and interested. Finally he broke into a silly grin, dropped his eyes, and lowered his head. Burov and Hollis both noticed, and Hollis realized that Jim Hull suddenly didn't look American anymore. American men of that age could be shy and awkward with women, Hollis knew, but Hull's manner of expressing his shyness and discomfort revealed the Russian boy behind the mask.

  Lisa commented to Burov, “That man doesn't get out much, does he?”

  Burov seemed annoyed and said curtly, “I'm afraid my students aren't used to aggressive American women.” He added, “Let's go.”

  They walked through the gymnasium. Lisa spoke to Hollis as though Burov weren't there. You know, Sam, when a young man's hormones are bubbling and his heart is racing and the

  color comes to his face, he is not in complete control of himself.

  “I think I remember that.”

  Burov interjected, “Well, aside from that, what did you think of them? Truthfully, now.”

  “I think,” Hollis answered, “your six basketball players smelled of kolbassa and cabbage.”

  “You mean literally or figuratively?”

  “Both.”

  “I don't think so.”

  “Then don't bother to ask me.”

  Burov turned down a short corridor and opened a glass door that led to a large swimming pool. Burov motioned toward the pool in which two men and two women were swimming laps. He said, “This is a focal point of social activity at night and, I'm afraid, for some rather uninhibited parties on Friday night. That's skinny-dipping night. The wilder bunch congregates here then. I'm not sure if that's Russian decadence or American decadence.” Burov thought a moment, then observed, “I'll tell you something I've discovered. In America, as in Russia, there is a puritanical streak in the people, a high public morality, but privately there is a good deal of looseness. I think, as great empires we associate spiritual and moral decay with political decline and fall. We think of Rome. What do you think?”