The Charm School by Nelson DeMille
As the aircraft rolled down the taxiway, Hollis saw Bert Mills waving, and Hollis waved back. The aircraft lumbered to the runway and turned onto it. The engines roared, the aircraft strained against its brakes, then began its race down the snowy concrete. No one spoke. The 747 nosed up, and the wheels bumped into their wells. Salerno said, “Airborne.”
The big aircraft began its climb over the white knobby hills northwest of Moscow. Lisa said, almost to herself, “Da svedahnya.”
Salerno snorted, “Good riddance. For two weeks.”
Lisa looked out the window at the snow-dusted landscape. She saw the Minsk–Moscow highway to the south, the tiny villages that dotted the open fields, and the dark green pine forests that covered much of the countryside. Her eyes followed the Moskva River west toward Mozhaisk and Borodino. The aircraft rose into the cloud cover, and she turned from the window. “I’ll never see this place again.”
Salerno commented, “Lucky you.”
Hollis said to him, “She likes Russia.”
Salerno grumbled, “Easy to say when you lived in decent housing and shopped in the embassy commissary. Try living like a Russian. I did for a story.”
“All right,” Lisa said. “We all know that. But you can like the people without liking the system.”
“The people are the system. The KGB is made up of Russian people.”
“You sound like him.” She pointed at Hollis.
Hollis turned the page of his newspaper. “I don’t even know what you two are talking about. Who are these Russians?”
Salerno laughed. “I love it, Sam.” Salerno looked at Lisa. “Listen, Lisa, I’ve been on assignment in a half dozen countries. I found good and bad in all of them. But this place is beyond hope.”
Lisa let out a breath of exasperation.
Salerno added, “Well, maybe you can appeal your nonperson status. The Soviets sometimes rehabilitate people for reasons known only to themselves.”
Hollis said, “Who are the Soviets?”
Salerno laughed again. “Look, Lisa, I understand you have mixed feelings. But bottom line, you’re feeling a little easier already. Right? That place”—he jerked his thumb toward the window—“is tense. Paranoia incorporated. Soon as you leave, you breathe normal. I’ve seen it on other flights out of here—tourists and business people—smiling, giddy. Do you know that the pilot announces when we cross into West German airspace? What does that tell you?”
Hollis yawned.
Lisa picked up a magazine.
Salerno said, “I’ll tell you something else I learned about that Fisher business.”
Neither Hollis nor Lisa responded.
Salerno went on. “I found out from his parents that he was booked at the Rossiya, so I went there on the hunch that he’d actually gotten to Moscow. And guess what? I found an English tourist who remembered the car parked in front of the Rossiya with Connecticut license plates.”
Lisa lowered her magazine. Hollis asked, “What do you think that means, Mike?”
“I’m not sure. What do the people in the embassy think it means?”
Hollis replied, “How can I tell you that, if we’re hearing this for the first time?”
Salerno leaned forward. “You know damned well that Fisher got to the Rossiya. Fact is, guys, he called the embassy from the hotel. Spoke to you, Lisa.”
Lisa asked, “How do you know that?”
“You got a leak. So how are the people there going to handle this? What is Seth Alevy’s office making of this?”
Hollis replied, “Seth Alevy is a political affairs officer and has nothing to do with the Fisher business.”
“Come on, Sam.”
Hollis thought a moment. He couldn’t conceive of how that call from Fisher to the embassy was leaked. Only he, Lisa, Alevy, Banks, and the ambassador knew of it. Although it might have been the Marine who took the call. Hollis said, “I’ll discuss this with you after we’re out of the USSR.”
Salerno said, “You’re on an American aircraft at twenty thousand feet and climbing.”
“Nevertheless, it will keep until Frankfurt.”
Jo came by with champagne, and they each took a glass. Salerno held out his glass. “Na zdorovie.”
They drank, and Hollis commented, “Your accent is terrible.”
“Is it? I seem to get by.”
“Where did you learn your Russian?”
“Berlitz.”
“Ask for your money back if you can’t even pronounce a standard toast.”
Salerno said, “Sam, can I talk to you in private a minute? Nothing to do with the Fisher business. Promise.” He motioned toward two empty seats.
Hollis replied, “Lisa Rhodes is a representative of the United States government. She has a secret clearance. You can talk right here.”
Salerno nodded. “No offense. Okay. Listen, I heard something weird. I heard that you guys were holding an American in the embassy. I don’t know if this guy is supposed to be a spy, or if he was somebody who got into trouble in Moscow and made it into the embassy, or both. It was a very strange story.”
“Sounds strange,” Hollis agreed.
Lisa took a cigarette from her bag. “Mind if I smoke? Mike, you smoke. Go ahead.”
“Yeah.” Salerno took a pack of Marlboros from his pocket and lit one. “Come on, guys. Give me a break on this one. You holding someone in the embassy? I know you got underground cells there. Someone, one of the service people, tipped me.” He drew on his cigarette. “Says there’s at least one American in an isolation cell. Maybe two.”
Hollis studied Salerno a moment. He wondered if Salerno was fishing for the Kellums or for Dodson. He wondered, too, where this man got his information. Salerno didn’t know it yet, but Frankfurt was as far as he was going for a while.
Lisa said to Salerno, “That’s absurd.”
Salerno replied, “No, it’s not. And I heard too that this guy in the isolation cell is also wanted by the KGB. He’s either one of theirs or a defector or something like that. But they want him.”
Hollis noticed that the fingers in which Salerno was holding his cigarette kept moving in a habitual way to straighten the cigarette to keep it from sagging. But since it was an American cigarette, it did not sag, giving Hollis the impression that Mike Salerno sometimes smoked cigarettes that did sag. Hollis said, “You two enjoy your nicotine, don’t you?” He asked Salerno, “You smoke the local brands?”
“Hell, no.”
“Did you ever?”
Salerno glanced at him quickly. “No, why?”
“Just wondered.”
Salerno stubbed out his cigarette and picked up his paperback.
The flight attendant, Jo, came over to them, carrying a brown parcel. “Ms. Rhodes?”
“Yes?”
“I was asked to give you this after we got airborne.” She handed the package to Lisa.
Lisa asked, “Who gave it to you to give to me?”
“A Russian guy. An airport official.” She added, “It’s usually against regulations to take anything aboard like that, but it was from an airport official, and he said it was x-rayed and all. So it’s okay.” She glanced at Hollis, then said to Lisa, “The Russian said it was a farewell gift.” She smiled and moved away.
Lisa sat looking at the package on the seat tray. She said to Hollis, “This is the icon, Sam, addressed to USIS in D.C.” She stared at it awhile, then looked at Hollis. “You said it was cleared for the diplomatic pouch.”
“It was,” Hollis replied. “I told them in the mailroom. What did they say when you brought it there?”
“I… didn’t. Mrs. Kellum saw it and said she was going to the mailroom, so she took it. I told her it was cleared for the pouch.” She looked at Hollis. “It’s been opened. The tape is broken.” She touched the brown paper. “The foam rubber I used is missing.”
Hollis didn’t say anything.
“I’m going to open it.”
“Don’t.”
She ri
Hollis looked at the icon lying on the table. Deeply gouged into the painted wood, obscuring the face of the archangel, was a hammer and sickle.
Lisa looked at him and tried to say something, but no words came out. Tears formed in her eyes.
Hollis threw a piece of paper over the icon and took her hand.
Salerno looked up from his book and said, “What’s that? What’s the matter?”
The PA system crackled, and a voice came over the loudspeakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Johnson speaking. We’re experiencing a minor electrical problem, and we’ve been instructed to land in Minsk. Nothing to be concerned about. We’ll be on the ground in fifteen minutes, and hopefully airborne again shortly. Please fasten your seat belts for an approach to Minsk. Thank you.”
The seat-belt lights and no-smoking lights blinked on.
Salerno said, “It looks like our farewell to Russia was premature.” He looked at Hollis and smiled.
30
The Pan Am 747 touched down at Minsk Airport, its rollout bringing it near the end of the short runway. The sky was still overcast, but Hollis noticed it hadn’t snowed here. Lisa had slid the paper off the icon and was staring at it. Hollis asked, “How are you?”
She didn’t reply.
The aircraft taxied toward the small modern terminal building, and Hollis saw four mobile stairways coming out to meet them, which was not normal for a routine deplaning. Behind the stairways were four buses. Hollis also noted that the 747 was some distance from the terminal.
Hollis looked back at Lisa. “It can be restored. A museum restorer can do it. You’d never know.”
She looked at him blankly.
Salerno turned the icon toward him. “Goddamned shame. Who would do something like that?”
Hollis replied, “I can think of one outfit right away.”
“You mean the KGB?” Salerno plucked at his lip. “You mean they got the embassy penetrated? Hey, remember the ambassador’s Steinway? What a bunch of shits. But I thought you were all secure there now. Maybe it was that gardener you guys got. Vanya?”
Lisa took Hollis’ hand. “I feel so… violated.” She looked at him. “Why? Why, Sam?”
“You know.”
“Yes… but it’s so senseless. So petty and vengeful.”
“That’s them.”
“Those bastards… bastards!”
The four Germans looked over at them.
Salerno said, “It probably can be fixed up. A little wood filler, paint brush, good as new. Could have been worse.”
Lisa looked at the icon. The hammer and sickle had been gouged into the wood with a rough tool, the sickle’s curved blade running around three edges of the painting. The hammer’s handle slashed diagonally across the body, and the hammerhead was a rectangle of raw splintered wood where the angel’s face had been. Lisa took a deep breath. “I’m going to keep it just as it is.”
Hollis squeezed her hand. “Good.”
“Just the way they gave it to me.”
Salerno shrugged and glanced out the window. “Never been to Minsk.” He looked at Hollis. “You?”
“No.”
Salerno’s lips formed a thin smile. “Hey, guys, is your diplomatic immunity good here?”
Lisa looked up from the icon. “You know that it’s good all over the Soviet Union. But why would we need diplomatic immunity?”
“You never know.”
Before the 747 came to a halt, Jo stood near the forward galley door. She announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, the electrical repair might take a while, so what we’re going to do is deplane. Please take all your personal things. Okay?” She opened the closet and handed out coats and bags. The aircraft came to a halt.
The pilot, Ed Johnson, appeared at the door between the galley and cockpit and motioned to Hollis. Hollis said to Lisa and Salerno, “Go ahead.” He went over to Johnson, and they stood in the small galley. Johnson said, “It’s not an electrical problem. We got a radio message directly from Sheremetyevo tower saying they got a bomb threat.”
Hollis nodded.
“The Soviet civil aviation authorities instructed me to set it down in Minsk, which was the closest airport that could handle this craft.”
“So why aren’t we sliding down the emergency chutes?”
“Well, that’s the thing. As we’re making our final approach, Sheremetyevo calls again and says they have information the bomb is an altitude device, so we’re safe. That’s pretty screwy. I mean, do they actually have the guy who made the threat? Are they believing him about what kind of bomb it is? They wouldn’t answer any questions, they just said to land at Minsk and no emergency evacuation. They said they didn’t want to upset the passengers or have any injuries on the chutes. I demanded four stairways and got them.” Johnson looked Hollis in the eye. “I think it’s a hoax. Somebody wants this plane down in Minsk.”
“Could be.”
“Does this have anything to do with your problem?”
“Quite possibly.”
“Anything I or the crew can do?”
“Not without jeopardizing yourselves. If I don’t get to Frankfurt with you, call a General Vandermullen in the Pentagon. He’s my boss.” Hollis took a paper napkin from the galley counter and wrote a telephone number on it. “Just give him your professional opinion of this emergency landing.”
“Will do.”
“And not a word to anyone while you’re in East Bloc airspace. Not even your copilot.”
“Okay. Good luck.”
They shook hands, and Hollis went down the spiral stairs to the door, where the mobile staircase had already been set up. Hollis descended the stairs. In the bus were Lisa, Salerno, the English couple, and the four Germans from Clipper Class, plus about a dozen people from first class. The door closed behind him, and the bus pulled away. Hollis sat in an empty seat beside Lisa. She asked, “What did that pilot want?”
“Your phone number.”
“Why do I ask you questions?”
“Beats me.”
Salerno, in the seat behind them, asked Hollis, “Did he tell you what the hell is going on?”
“No.”
The bus took them to the terminal, where they were shown into a small waiting room not large enough to accommodate the coach passengers. Hollis had the feeling that he and Lisa had been neatly cut from the main pack, and there would be a further isolation when someone offered them diplomatic courtesies.
A short, squat man in a ludicrous mustard-colored suit walked into the room, followed by an attractive woman. The man held up his hand and said in accented English, “Please, please.” The room became quiet, and the man said, “I am Mr. Marchenko, the Intourist representative here. I must inform you that there is no electrical problem on the aircraft. Soviet authorities have received a bomb threat—”
There was a gasp from the group.
“Please, please. Nothing to fear. However, the entire aircraft must be searched, and all luggage must be searched. This takes a long time. So, Intourist will take you all to Sputnik Hotel to have lunch, and maybe you may stay overnight.”
The woman with him repeated the announcement in German, then in French. Hollis was impressed with this uncharacteristic Soviet efficiency on such short notice. Obviously, they’d had help from another, more efficient Soviet agency.
Lisa said, “I don’t like this, Sam.”
Salerno lit a cigarette. “I hope the damned Sputnik has a bar.”
Hollis said, “I’ll be right back.”
“Where you going?” Salerno asked.
“Men’s room.” Hollis walked out the door of the waiting room and into a corridor, but a Border Guard with a holstered pistol motioned him back. Hollis said in Russian, “I have to use the toilet.”
The Border Guard seemed surprised at his Russian. “There’s a toilet
“It’s occupied.”
“Can’t you wait?”
“No. I have a bad bladder.”
The Border Guard pointed down the hallway.
Hollis went into the small men’s room, picked up a metal trash can, and threw it against the tile wall.
A second later the door swung open, and the Border Guard charged in as Hollis’ foot shot up into the man’s groin. The man made a grunting sound and doubled over. Hollis grabbed him by his high tunic collar and gunbelt and propelled him headfirst into the wall. The man moaned and sank to his knees. Hollis, still holding his collar, dragged him into a stall and sat him on the toilet, then closed the stall door, righted the trash can, and threw the man’s cap into it. Hollis went back into the corridor and moved quickly to the main concourse of the terminal. He found the pay phones in a recess of a wall and put two kopeks in the slot and dialed the Minsk long-distance operator. “Put me through to Moscow, two five two, zero zero, one seven.”
“Have sixty kopeks ready.”
Hollis heard a series of clicks as the call was routed through the Moscow operator, then through the KGB listening station on the way to the embassy. The phone rang twice before his direct office line was picked up. He barely heard a faraway voice say, “Captain O’Shea.”
The operator cut in, “Deposit sixty kopeks now.” Hollis shoved the first twenty-five-kopek piece in the slot, and O’Shea, knowing by the loud humming that someone was paying for a long-distance call, held the line. Hollis pushed the remainder of the kopeks in the slot, cursing the Soviet phone system. The humming stopped, and Hollis heard a clear line. “Hel—”
A hand reached over Hollis’ shoulder and pushed down the phone cradle. Hollis turned around and found himself looking down at the short, squat Mr. Marchenko, now wearing an overcoat and flanked by two Border Guards whose shoulder boards were higher than the short man’s head. Marchenko said, “Colonel Hollis, everything is all arranged. No need to call.”
Hollis snapped, “Where the hell do you get off interrupting my phone call?”