The Charm School by Nelson DeMille
“In the last two years I’ve heard every piece of music written since 1685. I really don’t care anymore.”
“How about bagpipes? Listen to this. The Scots Highland Regiment. A limey at the U.K. embassy gave me this one. He says the Russians hate the sound of bagpipes.” Alevy put on the tape of pipes and drums, and the regiment swung into “The Campbells Are Comin’.”
Alevy said, “Let’s return to the question of why these fliers are still in Soviet hands. After they were wrung dry by the Red Air Force and GRU, why did the KGB come in and co-opt the place?”
Hollis sipped on his coffee. “Mental labor. A sort of think tank. A KGB think tank. An extension course of the Institute of Canadian and American Studies.”
“Something like that,” Alevy replied. “But a little more sinister.”
“Meaning?”
“We think those POWs are causing us damage, God forgive them. So our concern is not purely humanitarian. If it were, then you’d be correct in your cynical assumption that we’d just as soon let them rot in order to save détente. Fact is, Sam, our concern—my company’s concern—is very deep and has to do with urgent matters of national security.” Alevy walked toward Hollis and said, “To put it bluntly, we think that fucking prison camp is a training school for Soviet agents who talk, look, think, act, and maybe even fuck like Americans. Do you understand?”
Hollis nodded. “I know that. I’ve known that from the beginning. A finishing school, graduate school, charm school… whatever.”
“Right. If our theory is correct, a graduate of that place is indistinguishable from a man born and raised in the good old U.S. of A. When an agent leaves there, he has a South Boston accent like Major Dodson or maybe a South Carolina accent or a Whitefish, North Dakota, accent. He can tell you the name of Ralph Kramden’s wife and beat you at Trivial Pursuit. See?”
“Whitefish is in Montana, Seth.”
“Is it?”
“Who played shortstop for the 1956 Dodgers, Seth?”
Alevy smiled grimly. “Phil Rizzuto.” He waved his arm. “Anyway, I can’t be one of them.”
“Why not?”
“My company doesn’t let you in just because you talk the talk. They want to interview mothers, fathers, and high school teachers. Point is though, most private companies just want to see documentary evidence that you were born, educated, and so forth.” Alevy grinned. “But it was a good question. You’ll be asking it again.” Alevy added, “You’ve met a graduate of the Charm School.”
“The man in Fisher’s room. Schiller.”
“Yes. Was he perfect?”
“Chillingly so.” Hollis thought a moment. “So you think these… graduates of this school have entered American life, in America?”
“We believe so. They might not work for my company, but they could work for contractors we hire, and they could live next door to me in Bethesda or empty the trash in CIA headquarters. They could install my telephone and audit my taxes. They can go to computer schools or other technical schools and could most probably join the military.” He looked at Hollis. “Who did play shortstop for the 1956 Dodgers?”
“Howdy Doody.”
“Bang, you’re dead.” Alevy poured brandy into his empty coffee cup. “Want anything?”
Hollis could see that Alevy was fatigued, high on caffeine, and low on alcohol. Hollis went to the sideboard and poured the last of the coffee. He said, “So they quack like a duck, look like a duck, and even lay eggs like a duck. But they ain’t ducks.”
“No, they ain’t, Sam. They’s red foxes. In the chicken coop. Or if you prefer, Satan in the sanctuary.”
“How many do you think have graduated that place?”
“When the school was first started, there were probably more Americans—let’s call them instructors. The Charm School, as an offshoot of the Red Air Force school, has been in existence maybe twelve to fifteen years. The Charm School course would have to take at least a year. Probably a one-on-one situation. The little Red student assimilates the sum total of the American’s knowledge, personality, accent, and so forth.”
“The invasion of the body snatchers,” Hollis said.
“Precisely. So the school may once have had the capacity to graduate several hundred agents a year. But we assume some of the Russkies flunked out, and we assume some of the American instructors flunked in the ultimate sense, and also we don’t think the KGB undergraduate schools here in Moscow or in Leningrad could supply that many qualified students to the graduate school—that’s what we called it. But Major Dodson called it Mrs. Ivanova’s Charm School, and that’s from the horse’s mouth. I guess the Americans there call it that as a joke. We still don’t know what the Russians call it. Probably Spy School Five. Anyway, we can’t be sure all of the graduates were infiltrated into the States. So to answer your question, I would guess maybe fifteen hundred to two thousand. Maybe more.”
“You mean there may be as many as two thousand Russian agents in America posing as Americans?”
“Posing is not the word,” Alevy said. “They are Americans. The earlier graduates have been there nearly fifteen years. Long enough to have realized the American dream—with a little help from their friends. Long enough to have married and have kids in Little League. Long enough to be in positions to do real harm.”
“And none of them has been caught?”
Alevy shook his head. “Not that I know of. No one was even looking until recently. And what do we look for? Someone who drinks tea from a glass and writes his k’s backward?”
“Someone who is caught spying.”
“They probably don’t spy in the conventional sense. Their people are probably divided into several categories: sleeper agents, agents in place, agents of influence, and so forth. Their covers are perfect, and they never draw attention to themselves. Even if we nabbed one spying, we’d be hard-pressed to prove the guy was born and raised in Volgograd, as long as he stuck to his legend.”
“If you attached electrodes to his balls and jolted him until he spoke Russian, you’d know.”
“You know something? I don’t think the guy would speak Russian. And even if he exposed himself, what good would it do? He’s not part of a cell or a ring. He’s got to be on his own if this thing is going to work for them.”
“But he’s got to have a control officer, Seth. Someone in the Soviet embassy in D.C. or the UN delegation in New York or the consulate in San Francisco. What good is he if he’s really on his own? How does he deliver his work product? They’re not going to trust clandestine radios or drop sites.”
“No. He’s got to hand over his product and make oral reports. So he goes on foreign vacations like other Americans. Maybe he even takes one of these package tours to Moscow. As far as we can figure, all agent contact is made overseas.”
Hollis walked to a tall curio cabinet. The shelves contained small figurines in porcelain and bisque, eighteenth-century ladies in low-cut gowns and goldilocks curls, and gentlemen in knickers and wigs. They could be Frenchmen or Englishmen of the same period, Hollis thought, but there was something about them that was not quite right, not quite like the real thing you’d see in a London antique shop. Hollis opened the cabinet and took out a six-inch statuette of a man in riding livery. He said, “What is it, Seth? The Tartar influence? The Kazak influence? Why aren’t they exactly like us? I know they can look Scandinavian or Germanic, like Burov, but it’s something more than genetic. It’s a whole different soul and psyche, an ancestral memory; it’s the deep winter snow, and Mongols sweeping over the steppe, and always feeling like they’re inferior to the West and getting shafted by Europe and Cyrillic letters and Slavic fatalism and an off-brand Christianity and who the hell knows what else. But whatever it is, you can spot it, spot them, like an art expert can spot a forgery across the room.” He looked at the figure in his hand and threw it to Alevy. “You understand?”
Alevy caught it gingerly. “I understand. But we can’t find two thousand of them that way
“No.” Hollis began to close the cabinet door and saw the Palekh box that Lisa had bought in the Arbat. He recalled his conversation with her and understood that he’d known then what Alevy was telling him now about the nature of the Charm School. He had the bizarre thought that Lisa herself could be a product of the Charm School, but of course that wasn’t possible considering her verifiable background, which was double-checked by State Department Intelligence. But if he had that passing thought, he could imagine the fear and distrust that would run rampant in American society, defense industries, institutions, and government offices if it became known that there could be two thousand KGB agents among them.
Alevy said, “Actually, I think we found two. Right here. In the embassy, Sam. Right under our noses. Any guesses?”
Hollis thought a moment. He had to discount the men and women with high-level clearances, which left the nonworking spouses, the Marines, and the service people. Suddenly two names came immediately to him, as if he’d known all along. Bits and pieces of conversation ran through his mind, small details that had struck him as odd but had not fully alerted him because he had not known about the Charm School then. He said to Alevy, “Our nice handyman and housekeeper. The Kellums.”
Alevy replied, “Great minds think alike. When they were hired, they were given only low-level security investigations commensurate with the job. I wired Langley a while ago. Now it seems their backgrounds are not checking out.” Alevy rubbed his eyes wearily and continued, “I’m having the bartender, the cooks, the chauffeurs, and the whole American service staff rechecked. We thought when we kicked out the FNs, we were getting rid of the security problem we had. But with the Russian staff, you watched them like hawks and kept them in designated areas. Now with all these low-level, low-security classification Americans, they wander around freely because they’re American. But evidently some of them are Russian wolves in designer clothes.”
Hollis thought about the Kellums’ going through his rooms, his desk, his letters. Burov even knew how much scotch he drank and the brand of undershorts he preferred. He pictured the Kellums, a pleasant middle-aged couple, ostensibly from Milwaukee, and recalled his brief conversations with them.
Alevy seemed to be reading his thoughts. He asked, “So, could you tell the Kellums weren’t exactly like us?”
“No, but then we’re not exactly like each other either. America is as diverse as the Soviet Union. You and I do the Baltic bit when we’re snooping around in Russia, but in the Baltic, we’re Ukrainians or Byelorussians. They must do the same sort of thing. The ones who have developed, say, a Boston accent and legend, won’t operate in Boston, because they couldn’t pull it off there. But to answer your question, the Kellums had me fooled.”
“Me too. But now that we know, we can clean house a bit. However, a lot of damage has been done. And we have only two down and about two thousand to go. We have to come up with a hell of a lot better way to find these people who are scattered from one end of America to another. Not to mention overseas military bases and, as we are embarrassed to discover, our embassies.”
Hollis seemed lost in thought, then said, “But something you said before… these Soviet agents have married, formed relationships, have American children, live the good life.”
“And may now, as you are suggesting, Sam, be having very mixed feelings. And yet, not one has defected. Why not? Partly, we think, because there’s no reason to defect. In a bizarre sort of way some of them have already defected. The KGB knows that but doesn’t care as long as they go on their overseas vacations a few times a year and turn in good work product. And maybe the reward for fifteen or twenty years’ service is retirement—in America, if they wish. Irony of ironies. Of course, there are other inducements to lead a double life: ideology, money, and fear. The KGB is perfectly capable of wiping out a person’s family in Russia or in America if that person betrays them. But realize, too, that these are handpicked agents. Many of them need no threats or inducements. Many of them are not going to be seduced by the American lifestyle or by democracy or anything they see.”
“You don’t think so?”
Alevy massaged his temples. “You know, Sam, we tend to overrate the seductiveness and quality of our system. That’s heresy, I know, but it’s true. Two hundred million Ivans and Natashas do not want to move to America just because they know we have freedom and dishwashers. There is a certain purity of the Russian soul, a fierce patriotism somewhat like our own and a half-assed belief which still lingers, that things will one day get better for them.” Alevy refilled his glass. “That’s not to say we won’t get a defector or two one day, but as I said, that won’t roll up the operation.”
Hollis looked at Alevy in the dim light. Alevy was far more understanding of the Russians than Hollis had been led to believe. A lot of CIA types liked to dwell on all the signs and portents of a Soviet society that was falling apart. They made reports on this to succeeding administrations, who enjoyed the good news. But this was a society that had been falling apart for as long as anyone could remember, and it was still around, and in the end the Russians always stood and fought to protect their identity, their culture, their language, and their motherland.
Hollis poured himself a scotch and fished a half-melted ice cube out of a sterling silver bucket. “Where’s the weakness in their operation, Seth?”
“I’m not sure. I have some thoughts. But I know what our problem is. We have two major ones. The first is to identify and roll up this network that isn’t a network but is more like toxic organisms in American society. Then we have to stop this school from pumping out more disease. I didn’t make up that analogy. That’s from headquarters. They like analogies.”
“You forgot the third thing, Seth. Getting the fliers out of there.”
Alevy glanced at Hollis. “Yes. But that’s part of closing up the school. The tough nut to crack is the two thousand agents already entrenched in America. I hate to say it, or even think it, but we may have to live with that for another forty or fifty years.”
“If America is around that long,” Hollis said.
Alevy didn’t reply to that but said, “So that’s the story you’ve helped uncover, Sam.”
“What am I supposed to do with this information?”
“Well, Colonel, we had several options a few days ago. But now, with you getting booted, with Dodson on the loose and Fisher dead and then with you snooping around out there, and your goading Burov, now they know that we know, and our options are shutting down fast. They’re going to shut that place up and remove every scrap of evidence. They’ll transfer the operation someplace, and they’ll offer to take an American delegation through the suspected site. By the time we get there, it’ll be a rest home for Moscow pensioners or something. So, as you said, we have to act quickly.”
“Why don’t we start by arresting the Kellums and making them talk?”
“I’d like to, but we haven’t absolutely proven they’re Russian agents yet, and we don’t want to tip off the KGB any more than they’re already tipped. So we’ll be careful with the Kellums. Also, they may be real Americans, complete with civil rights.”
“Are you asking me to help you or not?”
“You can help by not becoming part of the problem.”
“I never was part of the problem. I want those fliers out of prison, and I’ll work with you to do that, or I’ll pursue my own course of action.”
Alevy nodded. “Yes, of course you would. I guess if you or any military man was jeopardizing the lives of three hundred CIA agents, I’d do the same. Loyalty is okay.”
“I don’t need you to tell me that.”
Alevy replied, “Listen, Sam, I told you everything—State secrets and diplomatic policy and an issue so hot it could blow Soviet-American relations to hell for years to come. I did that to convince you we’re not sleeping on this. We’re working on getting those pilots home. I’m taking it on pure faith that you will be reason
“Okay.” Hollis did not think for one second that Seth Alevy took anything on faith. He also didn’t think that Alevy intended to follow the government’s line of pursuing détente. Alevy would like nothing better than for him to get the Pentagon all worked up. And neither did Hollis think that Alevy spent an hour briefing him just to tell him to keep his mouth shut. With a few days left in the country and officially relieved of his duties, Hollis knew he hadn’t heard the last of the Charm School or of Seth Alevy.
“Don’t tell Lisa any of this. It’s your job to neutralize her. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“And remember that your persona non grata status raises some questions about your diplomatic immunity. Tell Lisa that. Be very cautious if you decide to go outside the gate.”
“Right.”
“Oh, one last thing. I want you to do me a favor.”
“What?”
“Come up on the roof with me.”
“What for?”
“Once a month or so I go on the roof and vilify the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. I get up there and yell, ‘Hello, KGB shits!’ Then I go into my analysis of why Soviet society sucks.”
“Christ, no wonder they beat the shit out of you.”
“Fuck them. I’m in the mood tonight. Come up with me.”
Hollis glanced at his watch. “Well, I—” He wondered if Lisa had stayed at his place or gone home.
“Come on. Don’t be so stuffy. You’ll feel good.”
“I guess the fresh air will do me good.”
“That’s the spirit. What are they going to do to you? Kick you out? Kill you?”
“They can’t do both,” Hollis observed.
Hollis took the brandy bottle from the sideboard, and Alevy led him up to the third-floor hallway, climbed a ladder, and opened the roof hatch.
Alevy and Hollis came up onto the flat roof above Alevy’s apartment. They stood in the gently falling snow and looked out over the city as the bells of the Ivan Tower chimed two. Alevy said, “Early snow.” The stars on the Kremlin’s domes and towers were luminous red, but the crosses, which for some inexplicable reason had never all been taken down, were dark and invisible. “There is probably not one thing open in Moscow at this hour,” Alevy said, “except the militia and KGB offices. Even the metros are closed. In Stalin’s day Lubyanka would start disgorging its predators at this hour.” He took the brandy bottle from Hollis and took a long pull, then shouted, “Do you hear me out there? Wake up, K-goons! This is Seth Alevy, superspook, super-Jew!” He turned to Hollis and continued in a slurred voice, “The goons would prowl the city with lists, and all Moscow would hold its breath until morning. And each dawn would break over a city of frightened human beings, hurrying to offices and factories, pretending not to notice if someone did not show up at work. And they say you could really hear the sounds of screams and gunshots coming out of Lubyanka. What a barbaric place this was! I look out there, Sam, and I see an alien cityscape. Strange lettering on signs, fantastic-shaped buildings, and the sky above the city always tinged with that eerie red glow, and I think I’m on Mars sometimes.”