Charm School v1_0

by Nelson DeMille

  Hollis thought that Burov had been forced into some independent thinking in his capacity here. He was not overly bright, but he was cunning, a survivor, and therefore open to outside reality.

  Lisa said, “There are better examples of the similarities between Russians and Americans.”

  “Yes, but none so interesting as their attitudes toward sex. Follow me, please.”

  They toured the remainder of the underground sports complex, and Hollis realized this place was at least a partial reason for Burov's not wanting to break camp and move the whole operation elsewhere. When the Charm School was in its cruder, more Russian form, it could easily be relocated. But with the introduction of good housing and this spa, Burov was bogged down in what he would call American decadence, if he thought about it.

  They left the underground complex by way of the elevator, which brought them back up into the concrete bunker. Burov led them outside the bunker and pointed to the south. “That barbed wire is the compound of the KGB Border Guard Directorate. They man the watchtowers and patrol the perimeter. There are a few of them inside the camp, mostly at headquarters. You have no reason to ever go near that compound nor to speak to any of them.” Burov added, “They don't like you anyway, as you murdered two of their comrades. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly,” Hollis replied. Beyond the barbed wire and watch-towers of this camp and all the other camps in this country, he reflected, was the larger Gulag called the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. And every meter of those all-encompassing prison walls was watched by the elite paramilitary arm of the KGB, called the Border Guards Directorate. Over a half million strong, they were often better trained and equipped than the Red Army, and their existence gave the KGB the means to bully not only the populace, but the military and the very party they were sworn to defend. As they walked along a path, Hollis asked, “And you are not in the Border Guard Directorate?”

  “You asked me about that once on the telephone, didn't you? Well, I can answer you now. I'm in the Executive Action Department. You know us, of course.”

  “Of course. Political murderers, saboteurs, kidnappers, and blackmailers.”

  “We don't define ourselves quite that way. But that's about what we do. I started my career in that department, working for some years in Scandinavia. But I've been at this camp ten years, as I said, five as deputy commandant and five as commandant. Like everyone here, I'm assigned for life. The Center does not encourage transfers out of this place. Many of the Russians who work here, including the entire medical staff, are political prisoners who have been assigned here from the Gulag.” He added, “So, I heard on the Fisher tape that the American instructors call this place Mrs. Ivanova's Charm School. Is sarcasm a trait peculiar to American pilots, or does it permeate your whole society?”

  “It's endemic in American society,” Hollis replied. “There are night classes on sarcasm.”

  “Now you're being sarcastic.”

  The three of them continued their walk through the woods, and to an outside observer, it would have looked like a companionable scene. Hollis questioned Burov on some things, and Burov answered easily, remarking several times that there were few secrets inside the perimeter of the camp. Burov pointed out, “The real deficiency of this school is that all the male instructors are former pilots. Their premilitary backgrounds are somewhat varied, which is good, but their job experiences and adult lives are naturally too similar and limited for us to get a good cross section of American society.” Burov added, “To have two people like you with some variables in your backgrounds would make excellent additions to the faculty.”

  “Please,” Hollis said, “spare me the college jargon.”

  “But we use it here.”

  “What do you call the guys with the submachine guns? Campus security personnel?”

  “No, they are definitely KGB Border Guards, well-trained, with orders to shoot to kill.”

  “So perhaps,” Hollis said, “I was only acting in self-defense when I killed two of them. Were you acting in self-defense when you murdered Gregory Fisher?”

  Burov thought a moment, then replied, “In a manner of speaking I was.”

  Lisa said tersely, “I don't think so, Colonel Burov. I thought about that. I mean, how you would have had to do that. You would have had to smash that boy's head through the windshield, smash his chest against the steering wheel—”

  “Please, Ms. Rhodes, we don't need graphic descriptions. Also, your moral outrage is getting tiresome.”

  “You said we could say what's on our minds. Don't you want to learn about Western moral outrage?”

  “No, and there are limits to my patience.”

  “And mine.”

  Burov seemed literally to bite his lip, and Hollis thought he was having second thoughts about releasing them from the cells.

  They crossed the soccer field again and came back to the main road near the headquarters building. Burov turned left, west toward the main gate. About a hundred meters down the road they saw the long wooden building with the pleasant front porch and the Coke machine. They stepped onto the porch, and Burov said, “You both look rather tired.” Burov put a fifty-kopek piece in the machine. “It takes our money.” He handed a can of Coke to Lisa, then the next one to Hollis, and kept the third for himself. “It's the real thing.” He laughed.

  Hollis and Lisa sipped at the cola drink and discovered that indeed it was the real thing.

  At Burov's invitation they sat in rockers and looked out across the road at the pine trees. Hollis had once sat on a similar porch in a hunting lodge in North Carolina, sipping a soft drink from a can, smelling the pine, and talking to his wife.

  Burov stared off into the distance and rocked slowly, giving Hollis the impression that he too was nostalgic for something, though Hollis could not imagine what. Perhaps his days in Scandinavia as an assassin.

  Burov said, “In this country there is only one master. Us. The KGB. We are known as the sword and shield of the Party, but in reality, we serve neither the Party nor the State, and certainly not the people. We serve ourselves. Even the military fears us, and they have guns too. But we've discovered that the ultimate weapon is illusion. We give the illusion that we are everywhere, so people dare not even whisper our name. And what you see here”—he waved his arm—“is illusion.” He asked Hollis, “What did your photo analysts think this was?”

  Hollis replied, “They thought it was probably the Russians' idea of a desert training school.”

  Lisa stifled a laugh.

  Burov's lips puckered as he stared at Hollis. His fingers tapped rhythmically on the arm of the rocker. “You might as well have your fun.” Burov stood. “Let's go inside.”

  Burov showed them into the building called VFW Post 000.

  To the right of the lobby was a large recreation room, and they stood at the door of it apart from the twenty or so people in the brightly lit room.

  On the opposite wall was the large American flag that Hollis had seen through the window. Also on the walls, hung randomly, and Hollis thought without much care, were cardboard decorations of the season: pumpkins, scarecrows, a black cat, a few turkeys, and a Pilgrim couple. They all looked like good quality party goods, probably, Hollis guessed, made in the States.

  Lisa scanned the autumnal display and said, “That's depressing.”

  Hollis was reminded of the Christmas tree in the rec room at Phu Bai air base. Some seasons didn't travel well.

  Hollis noticed a magazine rack on the wall in which were dozens of American periodicals, from Time to Road and Track, Playboy to Ladies' Home Journal. In the rear corner was a reading area with shelves stocked with hundreds of books. There were game tables for cards and board games, a pool table, and even a video game. Burov said, “The older men, of course, are your compatriots. They keep up-to-date with American life through videotapes that are sent to us in diplomatic pouches by our embassy and consulate staffs in Washington, New York, and San Francisco. Books, magazi
nes, and newspapers come daily through normal flights to Moscow.”

  A few of the middle-aged men glanced at Hollis and Lisa, but Hollis noticed none of them even looked at Burov, and no one made a move toward them.

  Hollis focused on a man in his middle fifties, a handsome, well-groomed man wearing corduroy pants, a button-down shirt, and cardigan sweater. He sat with a younger man, and both were watching television. Hollis could see the screen; Tony Randall and Jack Klugman were having an argument in the kitchen of their apartment. Hollis couldn't hear the sound, but he recognized the segment from The Odd Couple.

  The young man howled with laughter at something, then turned to the middle-aged man and spoke in New York-accented English. “I still don't understand if these guys are supposed to be Jewish or not.”

  The American instructor replied, “It's a little vague.”

  “Unger is a Jewish name, right?”

  “Right.”

  “So Unger is maybe a white Jew.”

  “What's a white Jew?” the American asked.

  “You never heard that expression? That's a Jew who acts like a gentile.”

  “Never heard it,” the instructor said.

  The student thought a moment. “Bill told it to me. He said it was a compliment. But I heard from someone else it was a slur. Now you say you never even heard it.”

  The American shrugged. “I don't know everything.”

  Burov turned to Hollis. “Is it a slur? Or a compliment?”

  Hollis replied, “It's a rather nice compliment.”

  Burov smiled. “I think you're lying.” He added, “There is some lying here. That has always been a problem. But we can usually check these things.”

  Hollis looked at the Americans in the room, his brother fliers from long ago, and his heart went out to them. He took Lisa's arm and moved her out the door. Burov hurried out behind them, and they stood on the covered porch in front of the building. Burov continued his previous thought. “You see, the lies of omission are the most difficult. Our instructors do not volunteer a great deal, so—” He looked at Hollis. “Is something bothering you?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, yes, those men. How insensitive of me. They're all right, Hollis. They've adjusted.”

  Lisa put her hand on his shoulder, and Hollis nodded. “All right.”

  Burov placed his can on top of the Coke machine. He waited a minute, then said to Hollis, “A man named Feliks Vasilevich called me from Minsk. He was upset over something you said about him, though he was somewhat vague on the details. I wonder, perhaps, if you know what and whom I am talking about.”

  “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 Kellumsl” 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 ail-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 attache, and Miss Lisa Rhodes, United States Information Service, also late of the American embassy.”