The Charm School (34 page)

“Okay, okay. What else happened at Borodino?”

“I’ll give you a complete report before I leave.” He added, “But as they say in diplomatic circles, we want quid pro quo.”

“Do you now?” Alevy replied. “Well, as they also say, I won’t agree to any sine qua non. You’ll tell me without preconditions and without any guarantee that you’ll get something in return. If you don’t tell me, I will guarantee that the roof will fall in on both of you.”

Hollis replied softly, “Don’t threaten a killer, Seth.”

Alevy and Hollis stared at each other, then Alevy smiled. “Sorry. Just passing on orders.”

Lisa moved toward Alevy and said curtly, “When you tell us how Gregory Fisher’s murder is going to be resolved and what you’re doing about Major Dodson, we’ll tell you what we saw at Borodino. This is not going to be another case of an American citizen’s death being written off in the interest of some diplomatic maneuverings.”

Alevy retorted, “Don’t play investigative journalist, Lisa. You’re a writer for the USIS, and you do what you’re told.” Alevy added, “You just signed a statement to that effect. Remember?”

“Yes, all right. But certainly you understand that I’m personally upset over that boy’s death . . . I never should have gone to Mozhaisk . . . to see the body.”

Alevy replied, “I couldn’t agree more.” He looked her in the eye and said, “I might also remind you that
you
are one of the embassy’s foremost cheerleaders for cozy Soviet-American relations. I don’t subscribe to that, but I’ll write off Fisher’s death if my government determines that is the way to save their precious upcoming summit. So if that is your goal too, forget justice. There are more important issues. Okay?”

Lisa did not reply.

Hollis interjected, “Maybe I’m willing to write off Fisher, Seth. But I have a personal interest in Air Force Major Jack Dodson and any other Americans who are being held here against their will. I’m just putting you and your company on notice about that.
That
we don’t write off. We’ll discuss it before I leave.”

“Noted and agreed.” He looked at Lisa and said in a conciliatory tone, “Look, I can tell you’re upset. This is all very new to you. But justice is done differently here, and it’s not a matter of public record. The only justice here is revenge. Tit for tat.”

Lisa gave Seth Alevy a long, sad look, and Hollis had the impression they’d been through this before.

Alevy broke eye contact with her and said as if to himself, “I’m not totally ruthless. I may seem so at times . . . I know violence begets violence. . . . I was raised as a nonviolent person. . . . I still don’t like the wet stuff . . . but I know I commit psychological violence on my enemies every day.” He sipped on his drink thoughtfully, then said, “A little over two years ago, before either of you were here, I was jumped on the street, beaten, and robbed by a bunch of hooligans, as the Russians call them.”

Hollis had heard about that, but no one seemed to know the details.

Alevy glanced at Lisa. “I was on my way to meet Ina Shimanov, the wife of Reuven Shimanov, the Soviet nuclear biologist who defected to the West during a symposium in New York. Ina had been fired from her job and was destitute, hungry, and despondent. Our embassy was trying to get her out to join her husband. I spoke to Reuven on the telephone one night. He was calling from New York. He’d just gotten through to his wife in Moscow and spoke to her a few minutes before they were cut off. Ina, he said, was crying, begging him for help.” Alevy shifted into Russian. “‘Husband, dear,’ she cried. ‘I am starving. They are going to banish me from Moscow. Please, dear Reuven, for the love of God, help me. ’” Alevy looked at Hollis and Lisa before continuing, “So I went out by myself to comfort her and bring her money. I took the metro. It wasn’t official, just Jew to Jew. Understand? Well, the boys of the Seventh Directorate, in conjunction with the electronic eavesdroppers, got onto me in a flash. Followed me, jumped me when I got off the metro at Universitet Station, beat me, and left me naked in the snow with internal injuries.”

Lisa put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear God.”

Alevy set down his drink. “My fault. I was responding to my sense of decency—justice. Anyway, a group of passing students spotted me and took me to a hospital. My people wanted to reassign me to someplace nice. But I wanted to stay here. To even the score.”

Hollis said, “I heard your friends in D.C. did that.”

Alevy replied, “I had nothing to do with that.”

“With what?” Lisa asked.

“Nothing.” Alevy moved toward the padded, airtight door. “Look, I can tell you this is a dirty, dehumanizing business, but it takes something like the events of the last few days for it to become real. Right? In military intelligence you deal with stats, numbers, capabilities, and talk about thermonuclear destruction. Means nothing. But then you get slammed against a car by a smelly goon, like I got my testicles kicked into my abdomen, and hey! The Soviet-American power struggle takes on new and deeper meaning.” Alevy opened the door. “I have good motivations to take care of this. Charlie Banks can blow smoke and utter platitudes all fucking day, and I’ll smile and nod all fucking day. But I have my job, and he has his. As for you two, the diplomats would say this matter is ultra vires—beyond your power or authority.”

“I’ll make that decision,” Hollis said as he went through the door with Lisa. “Not you or the diplomats.”

“I know you will, Sam.” Alevy added in a lighter tone, “Oh, the party is Saturday at six-thirty, in the reception hall. The ambassador will put in an appearance. The persona non grata parties are more fun than the regular end-of-assignment parties. Be prepared for some kidding. Make up funny speeches about why you’re being kicked out and all that.” Alevy extended his hand, and they all shook.

Lisa said, “Don’t let this place, this job, dehumanize
you
.”

Alevy thought a moment before responding, “As long as I’m still capable of going out into the cold night to help a woman who is being persecuted, then I know I’m okay.”

“I hope so.”

“Me too.” Alevy closed the door.

As Hollis and Lisa walked toward the elevator, she asked, “What happened in D.C.?”

Hollis considered a moment before replying, “Seth’s friends arranged to have a Soviet diplomat’s teenage daughter mugged in Washington. They left her on the campus of American University with a broken jaw.”

Lisa stopped walking. “But . . . Seth didn’t know . . .”

“I think not.” But Hollis was sure he did.

She began walking again.

Hollis added, “In Seth’s company there are people who deal with the Soviets on an unofficial and personal level. They call themselves the Tit for Tat Gang. A broken arm in Moscow or Budapest is a guarantee of a broken something in Washington or London.”

Lisa shook her head.

“This philosophy of assured retaliation has actually reduced the number of broken limbs. In fact, things have been cool for a few years. The fact that Burov opted for the wet stuff is suggestive . . . indicative of the degree of the KGB’s concern. A signal to Seth and me that things can quickly get out of hand.”

“They’re not very subtle, are they?”

“No. They reacted too strongly and got everyone interested.”

They took the elevator up to the seventh floor and walked to Lisa’s office door. She asked, “Can we do something useful before Monday?”

Hollis replied, “We shouldn’t talk too much outside the safe areas.”

She nodded. “Is it true that we bug ourselves? To see who’s violating talk security?”

“Maybe. I get tired of whispering in the ears of people I don’t know that well.”

“You’re not unhappy about leaving, are you?”

“I don’t like the circumstances. How about you?”

“I’m sad. But I’m glad it was both of us. We
can
get together on the outside, Sam.” She smiled. “General.”

He returned the smile. “They’ll play ball. If we do.” He looked at his watch. “I’m going to clean out my desk.”

“Me too.”

They stood there a moment, then Lisa said, “For the record, I think I’m falling in love with you.”

“A little louder for the microphone, please.”

She smiled. “Can I see you tonight?”

He opened the door of her office. “Dinner?”

“Your place. I’ll cook.”

“I only have beer and mustard. But I’ll go to the commissary if you give me a shopping list.”

“No, I’ll go to Gastronom One.” She said, “I’ll cook a Russian meal. You get the vodka.”

“You shouldn’t leave the compound alone,” Hollis reminded her.

“Gastronom One doesn’t deliver.”

“Be careful.”

“I’m only going to the grocery store.”

“Be careful.”

“Yes, sir.” She turned and walked into her office.

20

At six
P
.
M
. the telephone rang in Hollis’ office. “Hollis.”

“Alevy. Are you free for cocktails?”

“No. I have a dinner engagement in half an hour.”

“You’ll have to postpone it for an hour.”

“Then why did you ask? How is it that you’re running my social and business calendar?”

“Only your business calendar. We have business.”

Hollis surveyed the packing boxes around him. “I’m out of business.”

“Oh, don’t believe everything you hear. You’re relieved of only your official air attaché duties. Did you really think you were relieved of your spy duties?”

“No.”

“My place in ten minutes. Do you know where I live?”

“I’ll bet I could find it.” Hollis hung up and called Lisa’s apartment, but there was no answer. He buzzed his aide, Captain O’Shea. “Ed, are you working tonight?”

“Yes, sir, until about eight.”

“Okay, if Ms. Rhodes . . . do you know her?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If she calls or stops by—she’s shopping in the city—tell her I’ll be . . . in my apartment, about seven-thirty.”

“Yes, sir. Can you be reached between now and then?”

“Perhaps.”

“Will you be in the city?”

“No, Captain, I’ll be here in the fort. Why?”

“Just looking out for your ass, Colonel.”

“At whose suggestion?”

O’Shea let a few seconds pass before replying, “No one’s. I’m your aide.”

Hollis hung up, and a few moments later O’Shea walked in with his slate board and wrote in chalk:
Gen. Brewer from D.C. has asked me to report on your activities.

Hollis wrote on his own slate:
KMP
. Keep me posted.

O’Shea nodded and said as though just walking in, “Excuse me, Colonel, I thought you’d want to know I’ve gotten calls from just about everyone in the resident press corps here, including the Brits, Aussies, Canadians, and some West Europeans too. They would like to know why you have been declared persona non grata. I referred them all to the press office, of course. But they all want to speak to you off the record.”

“Did any of them mention Fisher?”

“Yes, sir. They’re trying to find a connection between Fisher’s death, your trip to Mozhaisk, and you getting booted.”

“Very suspicious people.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hollis put on his overcoat. “If a Colonel Burov calls for me, transfer the call to me in Mr. Alevy’s apartment.”

“Yes, sir.” O’Shea erased both slates.

“Hold down the fort, Ed.” Hollis left and took the elevator down to the lobby, walked outside to the rear terrace, and cut across the quad, avoiding the paths. It was cold, and a light snow was falling from a luminous sky. Some of the housing units surrounding the quad were lit, and he could see families in their living rooms, the blue glow of televisions that were hooked to VCRs, people in their third-floor bedrooms looking out at the first snow. Lisa’s unit was dark.

It was all so red-brick American, he thought, like suburban town-house condos, or family housing at an airbase or college. Peacefully boring and ordinary. Thinking back on his marriage and his life, he realized he had taken extraordinary personal risks, more than any normal man would have taken. Katherine must have drawn some valid conclusions from that.

He came to Alevy’s door and rang the bell.

Alevy showed him in, and Hollis hung his topcoat on a coat tree in the foyer, then followed Alevy up the stairs. “Snowing,” Alevy observed.

They came up into the living room. Hollis had never been in Alevy’s place, and he was surprised at its size, not to mention its appointments. The apartment was done in the most opulent Russian antiques he’d ever seen outside of a museum. In addition to the furnishings, there were oil paintings on the walls, two Samarkand rugs on the floor, porcelain and lacquer pieces on every polished wood surface. A huge silver samovar sat gleaming in front of the window. Hollis commented, “Not bad for a mid-level political affairs officer.”

Alevy hit a wall switch and background music filled the room, providing sound cover. The music was an orchestra of massed balalaikas playing folk tunes. Alevy responded, “My company pays for this. Nothing comes out of the diplomatic budget here.”

“Good. I wouldn’t want to think the rest of us are counting paper clips so you can go into competition with the Winter Palace.”

“Have a seat.” Alevy went to a carved mahogany sideboard. “Scotch, right?”

“Right.” Hollis sat in a plush, green velvet armchair. “The Pentagon doesn’t understand civilian perquisites like your company does.”

Alevy handed him a drink. “So join my company. We’d be happy to have you.”

“No, thanks. I want to get back to flying. That’s what I want out of this mess.”

“Well,” Alevy said, “my company has jet aircraft too. But I think that would be a waste of your real talent.”

“What is my real talent?”

“Espionage,” Alevy answered. “You’re better at it than you probably think.” He raised his glass. “To your safe return home.” They drank.

Hollis set his glass down atop a silver coaster on the end table. He said, “I think flying is my area of expertise.”

Alevy settled into a facing chair of black lacquer. “Flying may be your
love
, but the shrapnel in your ass makes me question your expertise.”