The Charm School (16 page)
“I speak a little Polish too.”
“You’ve been around the Bloc.” She laughed at her own pun.
Hollis smiled. “It’s an article of faith with the Russians that only a Russian can speak
Russian
Russian. Yet Seth Alevy is nearly perfect. If he were trying to pass, a Muscovite would think he was probably a Leningrader and vice versa.”
Russian
Russian. Yet Seth Alevy is nearly perfect. If he were trying to pass, a Muscovite would think he was probably a Leningrader and vice versa.”
“Perhaps on the telephone. But there’s more to being a Russian than the language. It’s like that with any nationality, but the Russians
are
different in unique ways. Did you ever notice that Russian men walk from the shoulders down? American men use their legs.”
are
different in unique ways. Did you ever notice that Russian men walk from the shoulders down? American men use their legs.”
“I’ve noticed.”
She continued, “And their facial expressions are different, their mannerisms. To be a Russian is the sum total of the national and cultural experience. Neither you nor I nor Seth could pass for a Russian any more than we could pass for an Oriental.”
“I detect some Russian mysticism there, Ms. Putyatova.”
Lisa smiled.
Hollis said, “Yet I wonder if it could be done? I mean, given the right training, cultural immersion, and so forth, could an American pass for a Russian in a group of Russians? Could a Russian pass for an American at a backyard barbecue?”
Lisa thought a moment before replying. “Perhaps for a while, if no one was looking for a counterfeit. But not under close examination. Something would betray the person.”
“Would it? What if a Russian who already knew English went to a special school? A school with an American instructor? A sort of . . . finishing school? A total immersion in Americana for, let’s say, a year or more. Would you get a perfect copy of the American instructor?”
Lisa considered a moment, then replied, “The instructor and the student would have to be very dedicated. . . . There would have to be a very good reason for an American to go along with that—” She added, “We’re talking about spies, aren’t we?”
“You are. I’m not. You’re very bright.” Hollis changed the subject. “Your Russian is grammatically perfect. Your colloquialisms are good. But I noticed your accent, rhythm, and speech patterns are not Muscovite, nor do you sound as if you learned Russian at Monterey or Wiesbaden.”
“No, I didn’t go to our language schools. My grandmother taught me Russian.”
“Evelina Vasileva Putyatova?”
“So, you were paying attention. Odd for a man.”
“I’m a spy. I listen.”
“And look and file things away. Anyway, my grandmother was a wonderful woman.” Lisa stubbed out her cigarette and continued, “I was born and raised in Sea Cliff, a neat sort of village of Victorian houses on Long Island’s north shore. Sea Cliff has a large Russian community that goes back to czarist times. Then the Revolution and civil war brought a second wave of immigrants, among whom were my grandmother and grandfather. They were in their early twenties and recently married. My grandfather’s father was a czarist officer, and he was killed fighting the Germans, so my grandfather, Mikhail Aleksandrovich Putyatov, inherited the estate and title, which by this time had become a distinct liability. My grandmother’s parents had already been arrested by the local Bolsheviks and shot, and Mikhail’s mother, my great-grandmother, shot herself. Relatives on both sides of the family were scattered all over Russia or were at the front or already in exile. So sensing the party was over, Mikhail and Evelina grabbed the jewels and the gold and got out. They didn’t arrive in America broke. Anyway, Mikhail and Evelina wound up in Sea Cliff, a long way from the Volga.”
“And your grandmother told you all this?”
“Yes. Russians are perhaps the last of the Europeans to put so much emphasis on oral history. In a country where there has always been censorship, who can you go to for the facts if not the old people?
“They’re not always the most reliable witnesses to the past.”
“Perhaps not in the sense of the larger issues. But they can tell you who was hanged for hoarding food and who was shot for owning land.”
“Yes, that’s true. Go on.”
“Well, in the parlor of our nice old Victorian house in Sea Cliff, we had a silver samovar, and when I was a child, Evelina would sit me by the samovar and tell me Russian folktales, then when I got older, about her life on her parents’ estate and about my grandfather. When I was about sixteen, she told me about the Revolution, the civil war, the epidemics, and the famine. It affected me very deeply, but I suppose her stories were colored by her hate of the communists, and I suppose, too, that I was influenced by her hate, though I don’t know if that was her purpose.”
Hollis made no comment.
Lisa continued, “But she taught me love, too, love of old Russia, the people, the language, the Orthodox church. . . .” Lisa stared off into space for a few seconds, then continued, “In my grandmother’s room there were three beautiful icons on the wall and a curio cabinet that held folk art and miniature portraits on porcelain of her family and of Nicholas and Alexandra. The atmosphere in our community, even as late as when I grew up, was vaguely anticommunist—anti-Bolshevik, I suppose you’d say. There is a Russian Orthodox church close by, and ironically the Soviet mission to the United Nations has an old estate that they use as a weekend retreat a few miles from the church. Sundays my grandmother and I would go to church, and sometimes we’d walk with the priests and the congregation to the gates of the Soviet estate and pray. Our Holy Saturday candlelight procession would always march past the Soviet place. Today we’d call that a demonstration. Then, we called it bringing light to the anti-Christs. So you see, Sam, Evelina Vasileva Putyatova had a deep and lasting influence on me. She died when I was away at college.”
Neither spoke for some time, then Lisa said, “I went to the University of Virginia and got my degree in Soviet studies. I took the Foreign Service Entrance Exam, went through the oral assessment, the background investigation, and was vetted for a top secret clearance. I placed high on the USIS list but had to wait a year for an appointment. I did my year of consular service in Medan, Indonesia. There were six of us in a run-down two-story house, and I couldn’t figure out what we were supposed to do to further American interests there. Mostly we drank beer and played cards. I almost went nuts. Then I got my first real USIS job at the American library in Madras, India, and spent two years there. Then I came back to Washington for a year of extra training and staff work with the USIS in D.C. Then off to East Berlin for two years, where I finally used my Russian. That was a good embassy—exciting, mysterious, spies all over the place, and a ten-minute car ride to the West. After Berlin, I finally got what I wanted. Moscow. And here I am. With another spy.”
“You like spies.”
“I’m a spy groupie.”
Hollis smiled.
She added, “I’ve never married and never been engaged. I’m turning twenty-nine next month.”
“Invite me to your office birthday party.”
“Sure will.”
He asked, “And your parents?”
“They both still live in that house in Sea Cliff. My father is a banker; my mother, a teacher. They can see the harbor from their porch, and in the summer they sit out there and watch the boats. It’s very lovely, and they’re very happy together. Maybe someday you can stop by.”
Hollis didn’t know what to say to that, so he asked, “Brothers or sisters?”
“An older sister, divorced and living back home. I have a niece and nephew. My parents seem happy for the company. They want me to marry and move close by. They’re proud of my career in the diplomatic corps but aren’t too keen on my present assignment. Especially my mother. She has a phobia about Russia.”
“You look like you can take care of yourself. You know, my father was stationed on Long Island in the mid-fifties. Mitchel Air Force Base. I vaguely remember it.”
“Yes. It’s closed now.”
“I know,” Hollis replied. “What’s become of the place?”
“It’s been parceled out to Hofstra University and a community college. Part of the land was used to build the coliseum where the Islanders play. Do you follow hockey?”
“No. Like my parents, I’m not much of an American. It’s ironic, considering I’ve devoted my life to the service of my country. I’m a patriot, but I’m not plugged into the pop culture. For years I thought Yogi Bear and Yogi Berra were the same person.”
Lisa smiled. “So you wouldn’t pass the friend-or-foe test if someone asked you who plays center field for the Mets? You couldn’t pass for the American that you are.”
“No, I’m afraid I’d be shot on the spot.”
Lisa poured the last of the wine into their glasses. She looked at Hollis. “Well, now we know something about each other.”
“Yes. I’m glad we had a chance to talk.”
The food arrived, and Hollis inquired, “What the hell is this?”
“That’s
dovta,
a soup made of sour milk and rice. This cuisine is similar to Turkish. It’s somewhat complex, with more depth than Slavic cuisine. And the shit on the chipped blue plate is called
gulubtsy.
” She laughed.
dovta,
a soup made of sour milk and rice. This cuisine is similar to Turkish. It’s somewhat complex, with more depth than Slavic cuisine. And the shit on the chipped blue plate is called
gulubtsy.
” She laughed.
Hollis smiled and helped himself. They ate in silence. More plates of spiced food arrived. They washed the meal down with weak Moscow beer. Hollis glanced at his watch.
She noticed and asked, “Do you have time to see the Train of Mourning?”
“The what?”
“The actual engine and coach that brought Lenin’s body back to Moscow. It’s on display at Paveletsky Station.”
“Oh,
that
train. I’ll pass.”
that
train. I’ll pass.”
“Just kidding anyway. I don’t really go to places like the Marx-Engels museum either,” Lisa said. “I think it’s a joke how they try to create a secular religion in place of the one they destroyed. But if you
are
free this afternoon, perhaps we can do something.”
are
free this afternoon, perhaps we can do something.”
“Sure. How would you like to take a ride in the country?”
“Don’t joke.”
“No joke,” Hollis replied.
“Where? How?”
“I have to go to Mozhaisk on official business. I have a pass with your name on it.”
“Do you? I’d love to go. What sort of business?”
“Bad business, Lisa. Gregory Fisher is in the Mozhaisk morgue.”
Lisa stopped eating and stared down at the table for some time. She cleared her throat and said, “Oh, God, Sam. That poor boy. . . .”
“Do you still want to go?”
She nodded.
The proprietress brought strong Turkish coffee and honey balls. Hollis had the coffee. Lisa sat silently. She lit a cigarette and said to Hollis, “Was he . . . trying to escape or what . . . ?”
“No. They say he was heading
toward
Moscow. They say he had a car accident before the Borodino turnoff. They say he never got to the Rossiya.”
toward
Moscow. They say he had a car accident before the Borodino turnoff. They say he never got to the Rossiya.”
“They’re lying.”
“Be that as it may, it’s their country. I’ll brief you in the car. But I want you to understand now that if you come with me, I can’t guarantee your safety.”
“Safety?”
“I
think
the KGB is satisfied that they’ve contained the problem. They probably don’t think they have to engineer another accident. On the other hand, they’re not logical in the way we understand logic, therefore they’re not predictable.”
think
the KGB is satisfied that they’ve contained the problem. They probably don’t think they have to engineer another accident. On the other hand, they’re not logical in the way we understand logic, therefore they’re not predictable.”
She nodded.
Hollis added, “They know you took Fisher’s call, and they know your name is on the pass. That shouldn’t make you a target, but you never know what they’ve talked themselves into. Still want to go?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Why are
you
going, Sam? Anybody from the consular section could go.”
you
going, Sam? Anybody from the consular section could go.”
“I’m going to snoop around. You know that.”
“And that’s why I’m wearing dark, casual clothes and why you have a gun in an ankle holster.”
“That’s right.”
“Well . . . I’ll help you snoop. I enjoy your company.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Also, I guess I feel I was in at the beginning of this . . . you know?”
“Yes.” He stood and put six rubles on the table. “Well, the food wasn’t so bad. The place has ambience and no electronic plumbing like at the Prague or the other top twenty. Two and a half stars. Send a letter to Michelin.”
She stood. “Thanks for being such a good sport. My treat next time.”
“Next time I pick.”
“Can you top this for ambience?”
“You bet,” Hollis said. “I know a KGB hangout.”
“Are you kidding?”
“No.”
“Neat. Take me.”
They left the restaurant, and Hollis found himself in an agreeable frame of mind for the first time in a long while.
Part II
Scratch a Russian, and you will wound a Tartar.
—Napoleon Bonaparte
Sam Hollis and Lisa Rhodes came out of Arbat Street into the square of the same name. They walked past the statue of Gogol toward the star-shaped pavilion of the Arbatskaya metro station on the far side of the square. The Prague Restaurant was to their left, where a long line of people still waited for their lunch. On the north side of the square was Dom Svyazi, a glass and concrete post office and telephone exchange. Lisa said, “That’s where the church of Saint Brois used to stand, and over there was the seventeenth-century church of Saint Tikhon. The communists demolished both of them. I have old pictures though.”
“Are you trying to publish a book or draw up an indictment?”
“Both.”
They entered the metro pavilion and jostled their way through the crowd toward the escalators. At the last moment Hollis took Lisa’s arm and led her toward the opposite doors of the pavilion. They came back out onto the square behind a fountain. She said, “What are you doing?”
“We’re not taking the metro to the embassy.”
“Oh . . . don’t we have to pick up a car?”
“Follow me. Walk quickly.”
Hollis moved rapidly toward the east side of the square. Lisa followed. They passed a number of kiosks and cleaved through lines of people queued up for
kvass,
soft drinks, and ice cream. Lisa said, “Where are we going?”
kvass,
soft drinks, and ice cream. Lisa said, “Where are we going?”
He took her wrist and pulled her up to a black Zhiguli parked with its engine running at the curb in front of the Khudozhestvennyi Art Cinema. “Get in.”
Hollis went to the driver’s side, and a man whom Lisa recognized from the embassy got out immediately. Hollis slid behind the wheel, and the man closed the door. The man said, “Full tank, linkage is a bit sticky, your briefcase is in the backseat. Luck.”
“Thanks.” Hollis threw the Zhiguli into gear and pulled out into Kalinin Prospect, then made a sudden U-turn and headed west. He looked in his rearview mirror.
Lisa said nothing.
Hollis accelerated up the broad avenue and within two minutes crossed Tchaikovsky Street, then crossed the Moskva River over the Kalinin Bridge and passed the Ukraina Hotel, continuing west on Kutuzov Prospect. A few minutes later they drove by the Borodino Panorama and left the inner city at the Triumphal Arch. Hollis accelerated to fifty kilometers per hour. He commented, “How many cities of eight million people can you get clear of in ten minutes? Moscow is a driver’s paradise.”
Lisa didn’t respond.
Hollis reached under his seat and pulled out a black wool cap and a dark blue scarf. He put the cap on and handed Lisa the scarf. “A babushka for madam. Please try it on.”
She shrugged and draped the scarf over her head, tying it at her throat. She finally said, “I saw this in a movie once.”
“A musical comedy?”
“Yes.”
Some minutes later they passed scattered highrise projects, looking like grey concrete ships adrift in a sea of undulating grassland. Lisa said, “It’s against the law for us to drive cars without diplomatic plates.”
“Is it?”
“Where is this car from?”
“The Intourist Hotel. Rented and paid for with an American Express card.”
She said in a sarcastic tone, “Then you’ve provided them with hard currency to use against us in Washington. Some spy.”
“It was only forty dollars. A K-man could barely buy a defense worker lunch.”
Again she shrugged.
Hollis observed, “Moscow is getting too big for the KGB. Too much Western influence. Rental cars, AMEX, a couple of Western banks. It’s easier for us to operate now.”
“You sound like him.”
“Who?”
“Seth. Very narrow perspective.”
“I know.” Hollis could sense that her good mood had become subdued. Probably, he thought, she was nervous as well as upset over Fisher’s death.
Hollis thought too that bringing an amateur along, an innocent, might not be the brightest thing he’d done all week. But in some vague way he felt it would be good for her. Alevy had understood that. And from the standpoint of pure tradecraft, a woman who had no known intelligence connections was good cover. If Alevy and Hollis had applied for the passes together, the KGB would have called for an armored division to follow them.
Hollis realized that he
was
thinking like Alevy. How else could he explain the logic of asking Lisa Rhodes to take a drive with him from which she might not return alive? He said aloud, “Sorry.”
was
thinking like Alevy. How else could he explain the logic of asking Lisa Rhodes to take a drive with him from which she might not return alive? He said aloud, “Sorry.”
“For what?”
“For sounding like Seth.”
She smiled. “Boy, that’s a loaded one.”
He didn’t respond.
Lisa looked out the window and said thoughtfully, “If Greg Fisher came in from Smolensk and Borodino, this is the road he took.”
“Yes, it was.”
“He drove right by the embassy.”
“I know.”
They crossed the Outer Ring highway, and Lisa informed him, “There used to be signs on this road reading ‘Forward to Communism.’ But I suppose the authorities realized the unfortunate imagery of that slogan on a road that goes in circles.”
Hollis smiled. “You’re a good guide. I’ll speak to Intourist about a weekend job for you.” Hollis pulled a piece of flimsy greyish paper from his pocket and handed it to her. “Your pass.”
She glanced at the red Cyrillic letters and the Foreign Ministry stamp, then stuffed it in her bag. “It’s only good until midnight.”
“We’ll be there and back before then.”
“I thought we could stay in the country overnight.”
Hollis did not reply immediately, then said, “I don’t have a toothbrush.”
Lisa smiled at him, then turned her attention to the countryside. A small village of about two dozen houses sat starkly in an open field. Rough fences sectioned off garden plots from poultry and swine, and mud paths connected dilapidated dwellings to outhouses. The cottages were roofed with corrugated sheet metal, and she imagined that a hard rain must drive the inhabitants crazy. She wondered, too, how they kept the heat in when the windchill factor got to fifty or sixty below. “Unbelievable.”
He followed her gaze. “Yes. It’s striking, isn’t it? And fifteen kilometers back is the capital of a mighty nuclear power.”
“This is my first trip into the country.”
“I’ve been around a bit, and it gets worse when you head east toward the Urals or north toward Leningrad. Over half the rural population is ill-housed, ill-clothed, and ill-fed, though
they
grow the food.”
they
grow the food.”
Lisa nodded. “You hear and read about this, but you have to see it to believe it.”
Hollis pointed. “Do you see that rise over there? Beyond that is a pine forest in which is hidden a very sophisticated phased-array radar site that is the command center for all the Soviet antiballistic missile silos around Moscow. For the price of that installation, half the peasants in this region could be put in decent farmhouses with indoor plumbing and central heat. Guns or butter. Some societies can’t afford both.”
She nodded. “Half our national budget and sixty percent of theirs . . . incredible wealth sunk into missile silos.”
“The current optimistic theory in Washington is that we’re spending them to death.” He added, “Forget what I said about the location of that ABM site.”
She nodded distractedly.
They drove on in silence for some time before she spoke again. “In my work I meet Russians who understand the contradictions in their system. They like us, and they would like to build grain silos instead of missile silos. But the government has made them believe the missiles are necessary because we want to conquer them.”
“Well, they’re right. You make a distinction between the people and the government here. But I think people get the kind of government they deserve. In this case, probably better.”
“That’s not true, Sam. The Russians may not understand democracy, but in some curious way they are passionately devoted to
svoboda
—freedom.”
svoboda
—freedom.”
Hollis shrugged.
“I always thought that communism is an historical fluke here. It won’t make it to its hundredth birthday.”
Hollis replied dryly, “I’d hate to think what these people will come up with next.”
“Are you really so hard-line, or are you just giving me a hard time?”
“Neither. I’m just processing information. That’s what I was told to do here.”
“Sometimes I think I’m the only person in the embassy who is trying to find some good here, some hope. It’s so damned depressing being around cynics, hawks, oily diplomats, and paranoics.”
“Oh, I know. Look, if we’re going to be friends, let’s cool the politics.”
“Okay.”
Again they lapsed into silence. The sky had become gloomy again, and drops of rain streaked across the windshield. There was a sense of quiet oppressiveness in the air, a greyness that entered through the eyes and burrowed its way into the brain, heart, and soul. Lisa said, “Out here, on the plains, I think I understand that legendary Slavic melancholy.”
“Yes, but you ought to see the endless fields of giant sunflowers in the summer. They take your breath away.”
She looked at him. “Do they?” Lisa thought that statement told her more about Sam Hollis than Hollis had intended. “You’ll have to show me in the summer.”
“Okay.”
“I wish I had a camera.”
“I’ll stop at the next camera store.”
“Okay.” She looked at her watch. “Are we going to get to the morgue on time?”
“If it’s closed, someone will open it.” Hollis suddenly cut the wheel, and the Zhiguli angled off onto a dirt track, fishtailing and throwing up a cloud of dust.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” Hollis took the car around the far side of a
kochka,
one of the small knobby knolls that added small terrain relief to the plains that swept west from Moscow. He brought the Zhiguli to a halt out of sight of the road. Hollis reached back, opened the briefcase on the rear seat, and took out a pair of binoculars, then got out of the car. Lisa followed, and they climbed the grassy knoll to the top. Hollis knelt and pulled Lisa down beside him. He focused the binoculars down the long straight road and said, “I think we’re alone.”
kochka,
one of the small knobby knolls that added small terrain relief to the plains that swept west from Moscow. He brought the Zhiguli to a halt out of sight of the road. Hollis reached back, opened the briefcase on the rear seat, and took out a pair of binoculars, then got out of the car. Lisa followed, and they climbed the grassy knoll to the top. Hollis knelt and pulled Lisa down beside him. He focused the binoculars down the long straight road and said, “I think we’re alone.”
Lisa replied, “In the States men say, ‘Do you want to go someplace where we can be alone?’ Here they say, ‘I think we’re alone’ or ‘I think we have company.’”
Hollis scanned the skies, then the surrounding fields. He stood and Lisa stood also. Hollis handed her the binoculars. “Take a look over there.”
She focused on the eastern horizon. “Moscow . . . I can see the spires of the Kremlin.”
Hollis stared out over the harvested farmland. “It was just about here.”
“What was?”
“This is about how far the German army got. It was this time of year. The German recon patrols reported what you just said. They could see the spires of the Kremlin through their field glasses.”
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