The Charm School (19 page)

Lisa glanced back. “I think I see lights in the woods.” She looked at him. “Are we going to make it?”

“No problem.” Hollis guessed that the Russians didn’t know for sure if they were dealing with spies or bears. But if they found the two bodies, the whole countryside would be crawling with militia, Red Army, and KGB.

The ground began to slope down at a steeper angle, and the Zhiguli started to slide, though Hollis was applying the brake. Suddenly the car broke out of the trees and began plunging headlong into a ravine. “Hold on!” The Zhiguli hit the trough of the ravine and splashed into a shallow stream, nearly overturning. Hollis cut the wheels hard right and accelerated through the streambed. He gave it more gas, pushing the battered car on downstream. The banks flattened, and the stream became wider and deeper. The Zhiguli’s engine began coughing. “Getting wet.” Hollis angled the car toward a low spot in the bank and pushed the gas pedal to the floor. The car went up the bank, faltered, then the engine roared, and the Zhiguli came out of the streambed. A blue half moon shone through the broken cloud cover, and they both looked through the windshield at Borodino Field spread out in front of them. Hollis said, “Good trail car.”

Lisa lit a cigarette with shaking hands and drew in deeply. She exhaled a long stream of smoke. “Want one?”

“No, you enjoy yourself.”

She said, “This is not what I thought you meant by a drive in the country.”

“Well,” Hollis replied, “this is the country, and we’re driving in it.” Hollis pulled the car into a copse of birches. He retrieved the two AK-47’s and threw them out the window into the high grass, then flung his pistol, ankle holster, and spare ammunition clips after them. “Burn the map.”

Lisa hung the map out the window and touched it with her lighter. The map flashed and disappeared in a small puff of smoke. She said, “We’re out of the woods, but we’re not out of the woods.”

“Getting there.” Hollis put the car in gear and moved out over the rolling fields of high yellow grass. From the crest of a hill they saw the road they’d taken into the forest. Hollis steered a course parallel to the road, cutting cross-country. They heard a helicopter overhead, and Hollis drove into the moonshadow on the dark side of a granite obelisk. The helicopter passed over, casting a moonshadow of its own. Hollis waited until the helicopter descended into the forest in the vicinity of the Charm School, then moved the car again.

Lisa spoke as though she had just concluded a silent conversation with herself. “It wasn’t in cold blood.”

Hollis glanced at her.

She said, “I feel sick.”

“It’s a sickening thing. Shooting people. I used to bomb people. Never saw them. Take a deep breath.”

She put her head out the window, inhaled a long breath, and slumped back in her seat.

Hollis drove the car hard over the grassy fields. He knew that time and place were critical. If they could get where they were supposed to be, at the morgue in Mozhaisk, they could bluff it. But if they were caught in the open country, the evidence would be strongly against them.

They came upon a small dirt road that marked the boundary of the historic battlefield. On the other side of the road was furrowed farmland. Hollis didn’t think the Zhiguli had any more tolerance for abuse, so he cut onto the dirt tractor road and turned north toward the Moskva River. He accelerated up the straight road and hit ninety kph when the car started to shimmy. He eased off, and the Zhiguli settled down. The tractor road ended at the Moscow river road, and Hollis turned right, approaching Mozhaisk from the west, rather than from the Moscow road where they might be waiting for him. He turned on the headlights and threw his wool cap out the window. Lisa threw her scarf out and brushed herself off, then brushed pine needles off Hollis’ clothing as he drove. Hollis made a fast run into Mozhaisk without encountering another vehicle.

The town seemed eerily deserted for an early Saturday evening. Hollis handed Lisa a piece of paper. “Directions to the morgue.”

She read them, and at length they arrived in front of a squat white stucco building near the railroad tracks. A wooden sign over the door said
MORG
. Hollis looked at his watch. It was just after eight
P
.
M
. They got out of the car and walked to the door. He said to her, “Are you up to this, or do you want to sit in the car?”

“I’m up to this. I’ve done consular work. I wasn’t up to the other thing.”

“You were fine.”

“Thank you. And you have brass balls.”

“I show off around women. That’s why I brought you along.” He pushed a button marked
NIGHT BELL
, and they waited. Hollis put his hand on her shoulder and noted she wasn’t shaking. This was a very cool woman, he thought.

The heavy wooden door to the morgue opened, revealing a man wearing the uniform of a KGB colonel. The man said in English, “Come in.”

10

The KGB colonel cocked his finger under Hollis’ nose, turned, and walked away.

Hollis and Lisa followed him through a dark, musty room furnished as a sitting room, and Hollis recalled that a municipal morgue often doubled as a funeral parlor. They entered a cold room of white ceramic tile, and Hollis was hit by that smell of chemicals whose purpose one would instantly recognize. The Russian pulled a hanging string, and a bright fluorescent light flickered on, illuminating a white enameled freezer chest of a type found in America in the 1950s. Without formalities the colonel opened the freezer lid, exposing the body of a naked man lying in the white frost.

The corpse’s arms and legs were askew, and his head lolled to one side. Gregory Fisher’s eyelids had not been closed, and the staring eyes revealed frozen tears. Cracked teeth showed through parted blue lips.

Hollis noticed that Fisher’s chest and face were deeply lacerated and that the blood had not been properly cleaned off. The young man’s cuts and bruises were deep purple against his white flesh. Hollis studied Fisher’s face and was able to discern the features of a once good-looking man in his early twenties. Hollis felt sorry for Gregory Fisher, whose voice had become familiar to him with each replay of the tape. Hollis wondered if they’d had to torture him to make him tell them about Dodson.

The KGB colonel handed Hollis a passport, which Hollis opened to the photo page. He glanced at the color photograph of a tanned, smiling face, then handed the passport to Lisa. She looked at the photo, then at the corpse, and nodded. She slipped the passport into her bag.

The colonel slammed the freezer shut and motioned them into a small cubicle in which sat a battered birch desk and three mismatched chairs. He indicated two of the chairs, then took the better chair behind the desk and turned on a shaded reading lamp. He said in English, “You are Colonel Hollis of course, and this must be Lisa Rhodes.”

“That’s correct,” Hollis answered. “And you are a colonel of the KGB. I didn’t hear your name.”

“Burov.” He added, “You understand that with the death of a foreigner, Soviet law states that the KGB must process the paperwork and so forth. You should attach no further meaning to my presence.”

“If you say so.”

Burov leaned forward and stared at Hollis. “I say so.” Burov asked, “And am I to attach any meaning to
your
presence, Colonel Hollis?”

“No, you are not.” But of course, Hollis knew, they were both lying. As soon as the Soviet Foreign Ministry saw that it was Hollis and not a consular officer who applied for the pass, they notified the KGB, and the KGB, wanting to see what Colonel Hollis was about, told the Foreign Ministry to issue it. The simple matter of transferring the remains had escalated into something like a counterintelligence operation. Hollis wondered what would provoke the KGB to kill him and Lisa out here. Probably the Borodino side trip, if they knew about that. That’s what got Fisher into the ice chest in the next room.

Burov said, “You are several hours later than I expected. You kept me waiting.”

“I had no idea you
were
waiting, Colonel.”

“Oh, please, you knew very well . . . anyway, what caused your delay?”

Hollis looked closely at Burov in the dim light. He placed Burov in his mid-forties. He was a tall, well-built man with those pursed boyish lips that were prevalent in the north around Leningrad and Finland. His skin was fair, his eyes were blue, and his hair was a flaxen yellow, reinforcing Hollis’ impression that Burov was more Nordic than Slavic. He may have had Finnish blood, or he may have been one of the many legacies left by the German army. His age was right for that. In fact, Hollis thought, if Mosfilm were looking for a typical Nazi heavy for one of their innumerable war movies, Burov would do nicely.

“Colonel Hollis—what caused your delay?”

Hollis replied, “Your Foreign Ministry held up the passes.” Hollis leaned toward Burov and added sharply, “Why does everything in this country take twice as long as it does in the civilized world?”

Burov’s face reddened. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

“Your English is excellent. It means what you know it means.”

Lisa was somewhat surprised at Hollis’ strong language, but she suspected that Hollis was putting Burov on the defensive regarding the question of their lateness.

Burov sat back in his chair and lit an oval-shaped Troika cigarette. The heat from the first two puffs caused the flimsy paper and loose tobacco to sag. Burov automatically straightened the cigarette with his fingers. He said in a calmer tone, “That was not very diplomatic of you, Colonel. I thought diplomats would sooner bite their tongues off than say anything so offensive against their host country.”

Hollis glanced at his watch in a gesture of impatience, then replied, “Diplomat-to-diplomat, that may be true. But you know who I am, and I know who you are. And if you ever cock your finger under my nose again, you’d better be prepared to lose it. Now, do you have something for us to sign?”

“I’m sure.”

Burov opened a green file folder on the desk and withdrew a stack of papers.

Lisa said to Burov, “I think the body could have been treated with more care.”

Burov looked at her with the expression of a man who is not used to dealing with women on a professional basis. “Is that so? Why do
veruyushchii
”—he used the Russian word for believers in God—“care about mortal remains? The soul is in paradise now. Correct?”

“Why do you assume I’m a believer?”

“You might well ask why I assumed you knew Russian, Ms. Rhodes. Should I assume you’re here to write a very nice press release on the joys of motor travel in the Soviet Union? Or will it be about the speed and efficiency of having one’s body shipped back to the States in the event of a mishap?” Burov smiled for the first time, and Lisa actually felt a chill run through her.

Lisa drew a deep but discreet breath and said forcefully, “I must request that the body be more carefully cleaned and that it be properly shrouded.”

“Did the young man’s naked body offend you?”

“The way he was
thrown
into the freezer like a carcass offended me, Colonel.”

“Really? Well, the state of Mr. Fisher’s remains is no concern of mine. Take that up with the mortician.” Burov shuffled through some papers with a look of disdain, as if to show that this aspect of their business was beneath him.

Lisa seemed not to heed Burov’s advice and asked, “How do you propose we transport the body to the airport?”

Burov replied curtly, “The mortician will provide an aluminum air coffin with dry ice. As in any
civilized
country. You must sign a charge for that. As you would in America.” He added, “I see you are driving a Zhiguli. How do you intend to fit a coffin in that?”

Lisa answered, “We have no intention of transporting the coffin ourselves. You will provide us with an appropriate vehicle and driver. As any other country would.”

Burov smiled again as if to suggest he found Lisa amusing. He eyed Lisa’s
vatnik,
then commented, “You both seemed to have dressed as though you intended to be gravediggers as well as pallbearers. Well, we’ll work something out. May I examine your travel passes and credentials?”

Hollis and Lisa handed him their passes and diplomatic passports. Burov seemed interested in Hollis’ visa stamps and made no secret of writing down the entry and departure dates to the dozen or so countries represented on the visa pages.

Hollis considered Colonel Burov. The man spoke unusually good English and was quick-witted in it as well as insulting and sarcastic. Russians dealing with foreigners, especially Westerners, were usually polite, though if they weren’t, they were simply abrasive and blunt—not so sharp as Burov was. Hollis guessed that Burov had a lot of dealings with English-speaking people and perhaps he was a graduate of the Institute of Canadian and American Studies in Moscow, a place that turned out as many KGB men as it did scholars and diplomats. Hollis had seen some of those smooth Russians on American TV, explaining in American idiom their country’s position on anything from human rights to why they obliterated a passenger plane full of people. Hollis would have liked to get a line on Burov, but he doubted that Alevy or anyone had anything on the man. Burov was not his name anyway, though the KGB uniform and the rank were real. Using an alias was one thing; stepping down in life was quite another. Hollis said, “Are you quite through with our passports?”

Burov made a few more notations, then handed back the passports but kept the travel passes. Burov handed Hollis a sheet of paper and said, “Firstly, the dead man’s automobile has been impounded, and it will be easier if you sign that document waiving any claim on it.”

Hollis replied, “I want to see the car.”

“Why?”

“To see if it has any salvage value.”

“I assure you it doesn’t. In any case, the car has been shipped to Moscow. I will have your embassy informed of the location, if you wish. Will you sign that?”

Hollis glanced at the waiver, written in Russian and English. There were a lot of numbers showing that the car would cost more to ship out of the Soviet Union than it was presently worth. The real bottom line was that there was no way the Trans Am was getting back to the States to be examined by the FBI forensic unit. Hollis handed back the waiver, unsigned. “After I inspect the car I’ll decide what disposition should be made.”