The Charm School (82 page)

Authors: NELSON DEMILLE

Tags: #FIC006000

BOOK: The Charm School

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Alevy walked up to them, and when they saw he was an officer, they came to rigid attention. Alevy said to the driver, who was wearing a holster and revolver, “I am Major Voronin, from Moscow, and this is Captain Molev. We are making a security check of this installation.”

“Yes, Major.”

“Is this your fixed post?”

“Yes, Major.”

“What is your name?”

“Strakhov, sir.”

“What are your duties?”

“I and Private Filenko here secure the rear door of the headquarters. I provide transportation to the sergeant of the guard if he requests it.”

Alevy glanced at Filenko, whose AK-47 was still slung over his shoulder. He turned back to Strakhov. “When do you expect the other driver to return?”

“There is no set time, Major. It depends on how long the corporal of the guard spends at each post.”

“Does he check the three men at the helipad during his rounds?”

Strakhov looked at Alevy a moment, and Alevy could see he was thinking about something. Alevy knew his Russian was good as long as he kept it short and if he didn’t have to make extensive use of specific occupational jargon. Obviously he was sounding less like a KGB major from Moscow on a snap inspection.

Alevy noticed too that Filenko no longer had his head and eyes straight ahead, but was looking at Mills. Mills, Alevy suspected, was probably looking less like a KGB captain by the second. Alevy recalled the question that he and Hollis had batted around—the question of Americans passing for Russians and vice versa. Alevy turned to Filenko. “Let me see your weapon.”

Filenko unslung his automatic rifle and as per regulations, stood with it extended at the position of present arms. Alevy grabbed the forestock with his right hand, but Filenko did not release his grip. The two men stared at each other a moment, and Filenko said, “Major, may I have the password for the night?”

Mills didn’t understand what was being said, but he didn’t like what he saw. His hand moved slowly toward his holster.

Suddenly the door through which they’d come burst open, casting a shaft of light over the concrete.

The four men looked toward the door and saw a naked woman standing there, her body red with blood. She staggered out onto the ramp and stumbled toward them, pointing at Alevy and Mills and crying out in Russian, “Murderers! Murderers!”

Before Alevy could react, he felt the AK-47 yanked from his hand and felt the muzzle press into his stomach. Filenko shouted, “Hands on your head.”

Alevy placed his hands over his service cap, and Mills followed as Strakhov drew his revolver.

The woman staggered a few feet closer toward them, then fell to her knees, grasping the folds of Mills’ greatcoat. Alevy noted the location of the three wounds: one in the buttocks, one in the lower back around the right kidney, and a grazing wound along the woman’s right temple. He noticed too that Mills was quite pale and looked as if he might become sick. The woman collapsed at Mills’s feet.

Strakhov asked Mills, “Who are you?”

Mills didn’t understand a word and stared at the man.

“Answer me, or I’ll shoot you on the spot.” He pointed his pistol at Mills’ face.

Alevy said, “He cannot speak. Throat operation.”

Strakhov shouted, “On your knees!”

Alevy knelt, and Mills did the same. Strakhov said to Filenko, “Keep a watch on them. I’ll get Lieutenant Cheltsov.” He ran, pistol in hand, toward the rear door of the building and disappeared inside.

* * *

Hollis moved quickly through the front lobby with Dodson over his shoulders. He approached the door of the commo room and said, “Lisa, coming in.”

The door opened, and Lisa, pistol in hand, stepped aside.

Hollis laid Dodson on the floor.

“Sam . . . is that Jack Dodson?”

“I’m sure it is.”

“He’s been . . . tortured.” She asked, “Is he going to live?”

“I’m certain Burov left enough life in him to make the execution worthwhile. His vital signs are good. He’s probably heavily drugged so he can’t try to kill himself. He’ll come out of it. We’ll take him home.”

She nodded, then fell into his arms. “Sam, let’s get out of here.”

“Soon. How’s Brennan?”

“I just spoke to him.” She smiled. “He says he’s bored.”

“Good. What’s on the radio?”

She glanced at the two radios on the table. “Not much. Normal talk so far. Towers calling one another, motorized patrols talking to one another.”

“Has anyone tried to radio here?”

“I haven’t heard any calls for headquarters.”

Hollis nodded. The standard military procedure was that headquarters called the posts, asking for situation reports. The posts called only if there was a problem. He wondered when the dead commo man was scheduled to call the towers, gate, and other posts again. He asked, “Has anyone tried to place a telephone call?”

“No. The switchboard is quiet.”

“Good.” Hollis thought that this operation had all the “S” elements of a successful covert operation—surprise, speed, security, and secrecy. But if the secrecy was blown, they’d have to contend with six hundred Border Guards. Hollis glanced at the two bodies on the floor.
Very angry Border Guards.
He said to Lisa, “You’re doing fine.”

She forced a smile. “Thanks.” She asked, “Where are Seth and Bert?”

“Getting a vehicle.” He looked out the long slit window that faced the main road out front. “They should be around in a minute or two. I’m going back in the lobby to unbolt the front door and keep watch. You stay here. I can see this door from the front door. Just take a deep breath and think about . . . autumn in New York.”

“With you.”

Hollis squeezed her hand and went out into the lobby and unbolted the front door. Suddenly the sound of running footsteps echoed from the corridor at the rear of the lobby, and Hollis spun around. A man in a KGB topcoat burst into the lobby at full speed, a pistol in his hand. Before he saw Hollis, he shouted, “Lieutenant Cheltsov!” He stopped short at Cheltsov’s desk, then his eyes took in the blood-soaked chair and the smear of blood trails where Cheltsov and the Border Guard had been dragged into the commo room. His eyes followed the blood, then he turned his head and found himself looking at Hollis.

Hollis pointed his TD automatic, knowing the distance was too long to ensure a hit, and the 6.35mm round too small to ensure a kill. Hollis said in Russian, “Drop your gun.”

The man suddenly spun around and ran for the corridor. Hollis fired his silenced automatic twice, both rounds hitting the concrete wall above the man’s head before he disappeared into the corridor.

Hollis followed at a run into the corridor. The man was a good thirty feet ahead of him, heading toward the cells, then suddenly drew up short, skidded over the painted concrete floor, and turned his body toward the intersecting corridor as his legs pumped. Hollis fired twice, and the man fired back once before he disappeared into the next corridor.

Hollis took off at full speed, came to the intersecting corridor and without slowing, cut like a broken-field runner into the narrower corridor, his running shoes holding to the floor. He saw the man duck into the guard room and heard him shout, “Sergeant! Sergeant!”

Hollis hit the half-open door with his shoulder and rolled into a prone firing position as the man spun around and fired at the swinging door.

Hollis emptied his last three rounds into the man’s chest and watched him backpedal as though he’d been pushed. The man pointed his pistol at Hollis’ face, then suddenly seemed to lose his balance and toppled backward.

Hollis sprung up and rushed at the man, then stopped short as he saw what he had tripped over; lying on the floor was the naked body of another man, blood pooled around his head.

Hollis bent down and pulled the pistol out of the hand of the man he’d shot, then looked around the dimly lit guard room. He saw clothes strewn about the floor, a KGB uniform and women’s clothing. He noticed the bottom bunk of one of the beds soaked with blood and knew that Alevy and Mills had already been there.

The man he’d shot moaned, and Hollis knelt beside him. The man wore a topcoat that was still cold to the touch, so he had just come from outside, which meant he had to come through the back door where Alevy and Mills were supposed to be getting a vehicle. Hollis stood with the man’s pistol in his hand.

The man looked up at him and tears formed in his eyes. Hollis recognized the man as one of his guards during his time in the cells; the man who had told him he wouldn’t feel much like fucking. The man said in Russian. “I am sorry. . . . I am sorry. . . .”

“That makes two of us.” Hollis unloaded the magazine from the man’s pistol and transferred it into his own silenced automatic. He pointed the pistol at the man’s head, hesitated, then turned and moved quickly into the corridor.

* * *

Filenko knelt and rolled the naked woman on her back. “This is the sergeant’s woman. Why did you shoot her? You!” He shouted at Alevy, “Answer me!”

Alevy answered, “Filenko, I’ll have you shot—”

“Shut up! You are not a Russian. Who are you?”

“Estonian.”

“Then speak Estonian. I know a few words.”

“All right.” Still looking at Filenko, Alevy said in English, “Bert, count of three . . . One, two—”

The door opened again, but Filenko kept his eyes on Alevy and Mills as he called out, “Ivan, did you—?”

Suddenly Filenko’s body lurched twice, then he dropped his rifle and sank to the ground, his hands clamped to his side.

Hollis ran down the ramp as Alevy and Mills stood. Mills grabbed Filenko’s rifle, and Alevy said to Hollis, “One of them went inside—”

“He’s out.”

“Good. Let’s get these two inside.”

Hollis saw that Filenko was still alive, lying on his back now, his eyes following the three of them as they spoke. Hollis went to the semiconscious woman who was moaning on the cold pavement and knelt beside her. “Jane Landis . . .”

Alevy asked, “You know her?”

“Yes. This is the wife of the man you met—Tim Landis. Did you shoot her?” He stared at Alevy.

Alevy said, “She was in the sack with the sergeant of the guard.”

“No . . .”

“Yes.”

“She was very anti-Soviet.”

“Not when I saw her.”

“She may have been spying on them.”

“Or
for
them,” Alevy observed.

“Maybe she was doing it to help her husband . . . I don’t know.”

“Neither do I, Sam.”

Hollis looked at Jane Landis, who stared back at him. She moved her mouth to speak. “Sam . . . help me.”

Mills cleared his throat and said, “My God, I’m sorry.”

Alevy said, “It doesn’t matter. Move her inside.”

As Hollis took her in his arms, Alevy asked him, “What’s that thing over there, Sam?”

Hollis replied, “That is how Dodson got out. I think that’s how Burov was going to execute Dodson and ten others tomorrow morning.”

Mills exclaimed, “Jesus Christ!”

Alevy nodded. “I want this guy.”

Hollis put Jane Landis over his shoulder and carried her up the ramp. Mills and Alevy followed, dragging Filenko by his arms into the headquarters building.

They turned into the narrow corridor of cells and pulled Filenko into one and bolted it.

Alevy said to Hollis, “You have to lock her up, Sam. I don’t know who she is, and I don’t care.”

“She’s dying, Seth.”

“I don’t
care
.” Alevy opened the cell door. “In there.”

Reluctantly Hollis placed Jane Landis on the cold floor and knelt beside her.

“Don’t leave me, Sam.”

Hollis wanted to ask her for an explanation, but thought that Jane Landis, or whatever her name had once been, was as multilayered as a
matrushka
stacking doll, a shell within a shell, within a shell—each real, each hollow, each neatly embodied within the next.

Alevy put his hand on Hollis’ shoulder, and Hollis stood and looked around the cell. “This was where they had me. Lisa was next door.”

Alevy made no comment.

Hollis left the cell, and Alevy shut and bolted the door. He said to Hollis, “If she lives, she’ll be included in the swap.”

Hollis doubted that on both counts.

Mills said to Hollis, “Thanks for coming to look for us.”

Alevy, who didn’t seem as appreciative, said, “We should try to stick to our prearranged plans when we agree to them.”

Hollis asked, “Did you plan to have those guys get the drop on you?”