Charm School v1_0

by Nelson DeMille

  “If you say so.” He looked at the bed, and they both stood beside it awkwardly as if it were their first time. Lisa slipped off her robe, then standing beside the electric heater, pulled her nightgown over her head and laid it in front of the heater. She stood naked, the bright orange glow of the electric bars reflecting off her white skin.

  Hollis got out of his warm-up suit, and they embraced. He kissed her on the lips, then the breasts, then knelt and ran his tongue over her belly, down to her pubic hair, and touched his tongue to her labia.

  “Oooooh… my word…” She knelt in front of him and they fondled each other beside the electric warmth. She said, “This guy's as big as a billy club. You're all right.”

  “What a relief.”

  She looked at him sternly. “You conned me out of my clothes.”

  “Not me.”

  They rose together and lay in the heavily quilted bed. Hollis got on top of her, and she guided him in, then wrapped her legs around his back. She whispered, Sam… it was silly of me… this is what I needed … your love.

  “This is all we've got here, Lisa.”

  Sam, I want to live. We need more time together … it's too soon to have it end.

  “Yes, it would be too soon. I love you, Lisa. Remember that.”

  They moved slowly, unhurriedly, like people who know they have many hours to themselves but not many more days, like servicemen on leave from a war, as Hollis recalled, when time was measured in minutes, and each minute was full of self-awareness and small pleasures never before experienced or appreciated.

  Lisa's hands ran smoothly and slowly along his neck and shoulders down to the small of his back, then up his spine. Hollis cupped his hands under her buttocks and brought her up as he forced his groin down deeper into her. He came and his spasm brought her to climax.

  They lay still, listening to the absolute quiet of the room, their breathing, and the blood pounding in their ears.

  Lisa held him tight. “Our victory.”

  They jogged along the main road. Other joggers, mostly men, passed them in either direction. Everyone waved. Lisa said, “Friendly group. Just like Sea Cliff on a Saturday morning. But where are the women?”

  “Russian women don't jog, I guess.”

  “Right. I never saw one in Moscow.”

  They turned right on the main road and walked a few hundred meters. Lisa asked, “Where are we going?”

  “To call on Burov at home.”

  “You can go without me.” She turned, but he took her arm. Lisa said, “I will not call on that man's home.”

  “He's asked us to stop by.”

  “I don't care. Don't you understand? Try to put yourself in my place, as a woman. Do you want me to be graphic? He stood there in that cell while the matron gave me a very thorough search.”

  Hollis nodded. “I understand. I'll tell him you're not feeling well.”

  “Why do you want to go there?”

  “I have a job to do. I have to see whatever I can see.”

  “But for what reason?”

  “I don't know exactly, but I don't want to be unprepared for whatever is going to happen.”

  Lisa stayed silent a moment, then turned and walked toward Burov's house.

  The main road ended at a wide turnaround on the far side of which was a guardhouse, a tall razor-wire fence, and a wire gate. Two KGB Border Guards watched them approach. One of them unslung his rifle and cradled it under his arm. “Stoi!”

  Hollis and Lisa stopped and one of the guards walked toward them. “Go away!” he said in English. “Go!”

  Hollis said in Russian, “We have an appointment with Colonel Burov. I am Colonel Hollis.”

  The guard looked them up and down, then said in Russian, “Are you the new Americans?”

  “That's right. Though my Russian is somewhat better than yours.”

  The guard glared at him, then turned and went back to the guardhouse, where he made a telephone call. He motioned to Hollis and Lisa, and they passed through the gates onto a black-topped path, just wide enough for a vehicle. Adjacent to the guardhouse was a kennel where six German shepherds roamed inside a wire mesh enclosure. The dogs immediately began barking and pawing at the mesh.

  Hollis and Lisa continued up the path. Burov's dacha was set among towering pines that had been thinned out to let some light pass through to the house and grounds. Tree stumps dotted the carpet of brown pine needles and cones.

  The dacha itself was a two-story clapboard structure with somewhat contemporary lines and oversize windows. Parked in a gravel patch beside the house and enclosed in a newly built carport was the Pontiac Trans Am. Hollis walked up to the front door and knocked.

  The door opened, and a KGB Border Guard motioned them inside. They entered into a large anteroom that held the guard's desk, chair, and a coatrack.

  The guard showed them through to a large pleasant living room with knotty-pine walls.

  Burov stood in the center of the room wearing his uniform trousers, boots, and shirt but no tunic. “Good morning.”

  Hollis ignored him and looked around. The furniture, he saw, was all Russian but not the junk that the masses had to live with. Everything in the room looked as if it had been lifted from the lobby of the Ukraina Hotel—stolid, made-to-last lacquered furniture of the 1930s; what might be called art deco in the West, but what the Russians officially called Socialist Realism and the people called Stalinist. Adorning the walls were oversize canvasses of uncommonly handsome peasants, happy factory workers, and Red Army men prepared to do battle. The only thing missing from this 1930s time capsule, Hollis thought, was smiling Uncle Joe himself or at least a photograph of him.

  Burov followed Hollis' gaze. “As you say in America, they don't make it like this anymore. In recent years we've sacrificed quality for quantity. There are many who long to return to the time when shoddy goods and bad buildings were punished by firing squad.”

  “There are probably less extreme methods of quality control,” Hollis said dryly. “Are you a Stalinist then, Burov?”

  “We don't use that word,” Burov replied. “But certainly, I admired the man if not all of his methods. Please, sit.” Burov motioned to the far side of the room where there was an ancient Russian porcelain stove with a wood fire in it, the only antique piece in the room. Hollis and Lisa sat in armchairs whose frames were black lacquered wood inlaid with stainless steel.

  Burov motioned to the Border Guard, who left.

  Lisa said, “If I had to guess your taste, Colonel Burov, I would have said this was it.”

  He smiled doubtfully.

  She focused on a large canvas of peasants harvesting wheat, well-built men and women with grinning ruddy faces and flowing red bandannas. She commented, “I didn't see anything like that in the countryside, and I suspect the artist never did either.”

  “That is what we call the ideal.” He sat on the matching sofa across from them. “So how have you been faring?”

  Hollis replied, “We're in prison. How do you think we're faring?”

  “You are not in prison,” Burov said curtly. “Tell me then, what do you think of our school so far?”

  Hollis said, “I'm impressed.”

  Burov nodded as though he already knew that. He looked at Hollis. “First order of business. Your physical assault on Sonny Aimes.”

  “Why don't we first talk about the physical assaults on Ms. Rhodes and myself by Viktor, Vadim, and you?”

  “That was not assault. That was official business, and as it happened before you entered the world of the school, it cannot be discussed. Why did you hit Sonny? Because he insulted Ms. Rhodes?”

  “No, I was on official business.”

  “I make the rules here, Colonel Hollis. I'm very strict about law and order. And very fair. I've given students jail time for fighting, harassing women, stealing, and so on. I shot a student for rape once. If this place is to work, there must be law and order. Unlike America.” Burov added, “If you decid
e to stay on here, I will conduct a full inquiry into the matter and see who was at fault.”

  Lisa said, “The Landises were not at fault. We put them in a difficult situation. It was between me and Sonny. The man is a pig”

  Burov smiled. “Yes. He was a fine boy before he started seeing American movies.” Burov laughed.

  Lisa stood. “Good day.”

  Burov motioned her back to her seat. “No. Please. Enough verbal jabbing. I have things to discuss with you.”

  Lisa sat reluctantly.

  Burov looked at Hollis and Lisa for some time, then said, “You've probably heard a few things about me and how I run this camp. And you're probably wondering what makes me tick. That's what you people wonder about when you meet a strong personality.”

  Hollis said, “Yes, and when I meet an abnormal personality I try to guess at the type of psychosis that is affecting his brain.”

  Burov smiled thinly. “Don't delude yourself into thinking I'm crazy. I'm not. I have developed here the finest espionage school in all the world, Hollis. Every premier and each member of the Central Committee and the Politboro for the last ten years knows my name.”

  “That's not always an advantage,” Hollis reminded him.

  “So far, it has been. But I'll tell you what motivates me. Two things. One, my deep abiding hate for the West, which I think you know. And ironically, it is only since I have had to deal with hundreds of Americans that I've grown to hate them, hate their culture, their filthy books and magazines, their shallow movies, their selfish personalities, their total lack of any sense of history or suffering, their rampant consumption of useless goods and services, and above all, their plain dumb luck in avoiding disaster.”

  Hollis smiled. “That about covers it.” He asked, “But certainly you didn't learn all that from your prisoners?”

  “Instructors. No, I learned from the Western filth I've been exposed to. The irony of these fliers is that they're probably the best you've got to offer in your childish society. And your government and nation wasted them like it wastes every resource you have. As I suggested to you in Lefortovo restaurant, you might agree with that.”

  “I might, but I won't. I've already worked all that out, Burov. I don't feel betrayed or used. So if this is the standard psychological pitch to get me mad at America, forget it.”

  Burov leaned back in the sofa and crossed his legs. “All right. But think about it. I'll tell you something else that is ironic and that amuses me. My students, when they get to America, will make better, harder working, more knowledgeable, and more law-abiding citizens than you're able to produce yourselves over there.”

  “And they'll probably pay their taxes too.”

  Burov regarded Hollis for some seconds, then said, “And my second motivation is purely intellectual. Quite simply, I am fascinated with the challenge of turning Russians into Americans. I don't believe anything quite like this has ever been done on such a scale. And it has other ramifications for the future. Do you follow?”

  “I'm afraid so.”

  “Yes. There are other schools in the planning.”

  “And where will you get the instructors?”

  “Kidnap them as we kidnapped you and the American women here. But on a larger scale. I think we will use submarines to capture entire boatloads of pleasure sailors.” He smiled. “Perhaps in the Bermuda Triangle.”

  Lisa said, “How can that make you smile? That's so cruel.”

  Burov replied, “It's war. We know that. You don't.” He turned his attention back to Hollis. “Within ten years we will have a school for every major Caucasian nation in the world. All of Europe, South America, Canada, South Africa, Australia, New Zealand—any place where an ethnic Russian can pass for a native—we will have Russians burrowing into the very fabric of those nations. By the end of the century we will cover the globe with men and women who look and act like Germans, Frenchmen, Englishmen, or whatever, but who work for Moscow.” Burov asked Hollis, “What do you think of that?”

  “That's very ambitious for a country that has had seventy years to create the New Soviet Man and can't.”

  Burov leaned toward Hollis. “You're entirely too glib.”

  “I know. Gets me in trouble.”

  Burov nodded. “So that's what makes me tick.”

  “Good. Can we leave now?”

  “No. There are some other matters.”

  An elderly Russian woman entered the room carrying a tray on which was a teapot and cups. She set the tray down on the stove, stared at Lisa and Hollis, then left.

  Burov said, “Help yourselves.”

  Lisa replied, “If that woman is a prisoner, I won't touch a thing that has been served by your slave.” Burov made a clucking sound with his tongue. “What scruples you have. That was actually my dear mother.” Burov stood and poured three cups of tea. “Yes, I have a mother. And a wife and my little darling, Natalia.” He handed Lisa a cup, which she accepted, then he gave one to Hollis and remained standing by the stove. He stared at Lisa awhile, then asked her, “I was wondering if you would like to work here. In this house. To teach my Natalia English. She is ten now. Perhaps you could be a sort of governess.”

  “Colonel Burov, you must be joking.”

  “I wasn't. Do you want to meet Natalia?”

  “No.”

  “Do you find us all so repulsive?”

  “I have many Russian friends. You are not among them.”

  Burov shrugged. “We'll see. Time heals many hurts.”

  Hollis put his cup on the floor beside his chair. “Is that the only reason you asked us here?”

  “No. Unfortunately something has come up. My superiors in Moscow did not agree with my decision to extend you a week to meditate. So I must have your decision now. I trust you'll agree that you would both rather be here than in an unmarked grave.”

  Hollis stood. “My answer is no.”

  Burov looked at him incredulously. “No, you will not work for us here?”

  “That's what I said.”

  “Then you will be thoroughly interrogated, then shot.”

  “Then I have nothing to lose if I killed you right now.”

  Burov set his cup on the stove and stepped away from Hollis.

  Hollis took a step toward Burov.

  Lisa rose to her feet.

  Burov seemed undecided if he should call out for the guard or not. He said to Hollis, “Are you armed?”

  “I don't need a weapon to kill you.”

  “No? You think you're so strong? I keep myself fit also.”

  “Good. That should make it interesting.” Hollis moved closer to Burov.

  Burov snapped, “Stay where you are.”

  Lisa spoke. “Sam. Please.” She said to Burov, “I'll work for you.” She turned to Hollis. “Please, Sam. We discussed this. It's not worth our lives. Tell him yes. Please.” She grabbed his arm. “What difference does it make if there are two more instructors?” She turned back to Burov. “He'll do it. Just give me some time.”

  Burov seemed to consider. He stared at Lisa awhile, then said, “I have orders to get an answer from you today. If you don't say yes by six this evening, you'll be taken to the cells forthwith. Do you understand?”

  Lisa nodded.

  Burov said, “I'm in a good mood today, and I'll tell you why. Major Dodson has been captured. He was not two hundred meters from the west wall of your embassy. So whose side is fate on?”

  Hollis didn't reply, but turned to leave.

  Burov said, “Yes, you may go now. Report to me at my office at six P.M. with your answer.” He pointed the way out.

  Hollis and Lisa went out to the foyer, and the guard opened the door. They walked down the path to the guardhouse, where one of the KGB men opened the gate. As they headed back along the main road, Lisa said, “You want to buy time, don't you?”

  Hollis nodded. “But you didn't have to do that.”

  “I did it for you, Sam. I saw your ego was getting in the way of
your brain. I never thought you'd lose your cool like that.”

  Hollis replied, “I was okay when I went in there. But… I started thinking about him.”

  “About what he did to me? I shouldn't have told you that.”

  Hollis didn't reply.

  “And you were also angry at what he was saying about America.”

  “All of the above.” Hollis said, “Thanks for cooling the situation. I'm sure that wasn't an easy act for you.”

  “You owe me one.”

  “Right. And dinner.”

  They continued their walk away from Burov's dacha. Lisa said, “They captured Dodson.”

  Hollis nodded. “Damned bad break for Dodson. But maybe that takes the pressure off Burov to break camp.”

  “If you're concerned that this place stay put, you obviously believe someone is coming for us.”

  “That's a good deduction. You're starting to think like an intelligence officer.”

  “And you talk like one. Answer the question, Hollis.”

  He smiled. “I think it's better that we're here and not someplace else if a rescue attempt is made.” He added, “Don't press me on it, Lisa. I think out loud sometimes because I have no one to talk to about any of this. I'll think to myself now.”

  Hollis thought that undoubtedly Alevy knew he and Lisa were kidnapped and, in fact, had anticipated their kidnapping, which was why Alevy, in an uncharacteristic display of sentiment, had tried to talk Lisa out of taking that flight. And in the two early-morning sessions he had with Alevy, Alevy hinted at some sort of rescue operation at the Charm School—perhaps, as Burov had guessed, an operation to get at least two or three men out of here as evidence. Thus, all Alevy's questioning about the Soviet Mi-28 helicopter, which was obviously how Alevy planned to do it.

  But then Alevy, at Sheremetyevo, had indicated a swap, now that they could lay their hands on most of the three thousand Charm School graduates in the States. Alevy never actually lied to his peers; he just gave ten correct answers to the same question.

  He tried to get into Alevy's mind, which was not totally impossible because they were both in the same business and ostensibly had to think alike to solve the same sort of problems. He thought that Alevy not only knew he and Lisa had been kidnapped, but guessed that they had probably been taken to the Charm School. Alevy would not want Lisa to spend much time in Burov's hands, because Alevy, above being an intelligence officer, was a man in love. And Alevy would not want Hollis to spend too much time in Burov's hands either, because Alevy did not want Hollis' brain in Burov's possession too long.