The Charm School (48 page)

28

Sam Hollis and Lisa Rhodes stood beneath the portico of the chancery building and said their final farewells to the people who had come out to see them off. Lisa kissed her coworkers, while Hollis shook hands with his former staff and exchanged salutes.

The ambassador had sent his car, a stretch Lincoln with the Great Seal on the sides, and the driver opened the rear door.

Kay Hoffman gave Hollis a big kiss and said, “I want an invite to the wedding.”

Hollis didn’t know about the wedding but answered, “Okay.”

Charles Banks said to Lisa, “I once told you that your picture-taking would get you booted.”

She smiled. “I’m glad it wasn’t that, Charlie. I’m glad it was for something important.”

“Send me a copy of your book.”

“I will.”

Hollis and Lisa got into the Lincoln. The driver, Fred Santos, closed the door and got behind the wheel.

Everyone waved as the Lincoln pulled away. At the Marine guard booth, ten Marines had assembled with rifles and presented arms. Hollis returned the salutes. The two Soviet militiamen stared at the Lincoln and its occupants as the car pulled into the street. The embassy watchers peered from the windows of the surrounding buildings and from their black Chaikas. A man who Hollis recognized as Boris stood beside his Chaika and waved. Hollis waved back.
“Da svedahyna.”
He added, “You son of a bitch.”

Fred Santos laughed.

Lisa turned and looked back through the rear window at the chancery building and the walls of the American embassy as the iron gates with the eagles closed shut.

Hollis opened a two-day-old
New York Times
and read. “‘Clear and sunny today’—that was Saturday—‘seventy degrees.’ Nice. Mets took the second game of the Series.”

Lisa faced the front. “I’m going to cry.”

“Are you a Detroit fan?”

The Lincoln wound through the narrow streets of Krasnopresnya. Hollis put down the paper and glanced back through the rear window. Following closely was a Ford with Seth Alevy in the front seat, accompanied by three security men. Behind the Ford was the embassy van, loaded with their luggage and personal items. To their front was another Ford with three more security men and Bert Mills, a CIA officer and Alevy’s deputy station chief. Hollis observed, “No air cover, no tanks.”

Lisa said, “This is a little silly.”

“Seth is very protective of you.”

She retreated into a moody silence.

Fred Santos said, “Well, this has got to be a relief. Right?”

“Right,” Hollis answered.

“Funny thing though, everybody I drive to the airport looks sad. People say things like, ‘I wish I could have done more here.’ Or they think about embassy friends they left here. Some people feel sorry for Russian friends who they’ll never see again. I guess you get used to a place. This is one tough assignment. But maybe it’s the one place where you feel needed and appreciated. You know?”

“I know,” Hollis replied. “How long do you have to go?”

“A year and two weeks. Then it’s back to D.C. A year and two weeks. Not too long.”

“Goes fast,” Hollis said.

“Maybe.”

Hollis had come to Moscow at the time the State Department decided that perhaps the Foreign Nationals had to be replaced with American service personnel. The ambassador’s former chauffeur, Vasily, a nice old gentleman who everyone knew was a KGB colonel, was getting about two hundred dollars a month, and State thought it was a good deal. Alevy had pointed out the inherent security risk in having a KGB colonel as one’s chauffeur, and also that if money were the issue, Vasily would pay the Americans twice that to keep his job. The State Department, after having Soviet citizens snooping around the embassy for over fifty years, began to see the point. It was no wonder, Hollis thought, that the intelligence people thought the diplomats were bozos.

The American service personnel, like Santos, cost about three thousand a month with benefits, and they needed places to live. But Hollis thought it was worth it as long as they weren’t graduates of the Charm School, such as the Kellums. Hollis said, “Hey, Fred, who played centerfield for the ’81 Mets?”

“I don’t follow baseball, Colonel. You wanna talk NFL, I’ll talk your ear off.”

“Maybe later.”

The Lincoln swung into Leningrad Prospect, a broad, six-lane road with a treed center divide. They headed north, out of Moscow. Hollis regarded the massive grey apartment blocks, the bare trees, and the dark sky. He suspected that this was how he would remember Moscow.

Leningrad Prospect became Leningrad Highway, and the four-vehicle convoy picked up speed.

Lisa said, “I’m feeling better. This is for the best. It’s good for us.” She reached forward and slid the glass partition closed. “You know, Sam, we fell in love here, under stressful circumstances, which can cause emotions that are ambiguous and unreliable.”

Hollis opened the small bar refrigerator. “There’s a box of Belgian chocolates and a split of French champagne.”

“Are you listening to me?”

“No.”

“Well, listen!”

“I’m listening.”

“Okay. In Moscow, our love was safe from outside reality. That’s ironic because Moscow is unreal. But now, being expelled so soon after we’ve found each other, our feelings didn’t have time to take root, and I’m afraid—”

“Did you rehearse this?”

“Yes.”

“Could you put it in the form of a short memo?”

“Stop being an idiot.”

“Do you want a chocolate or not?”

“No!” She slammed the refrigerator door shut. “Let me ask you something. Did Katherine leave
you,
or did she leave Moscow?”

Hollis worked on the champagne cork.

“Answer me.”

“She left Colonel Hollis, spy, in Moscow.” The cork popped, hit the ceiling, and Fred Santos rose off his seat. Hollis called through the glass partition, “Sorry, Fred!”

“Jesus, Colonel . . .” Santos put his hand over his heart in a theatrical gesture.

Hollis observed to Lisa, “This country makes people jumpy. Have you noticed that?” He poured the champagne into two fluted glasses and handed one to her. He said, “Not the end, but the beginning.”

“Oh . . . oh, I love you!” She embraced him, spilling champagne on his trench coat. Hollis kissed her. The security driver behind them beeped his horn playfully. Hollis glanced over Lisa’s shoulder and saw Alevy staring at them from the front seat of the car.

* * *

They entered the main terminal area of Sheremetyevo Airport on their way to the diplomatic wing. Alevy’s deputy, Bert Mills, said, “Please wait here a minute.”

Hollis and Lisa stood in the concourse of the large new terminal. Hollis thought that the architect’s previous experience must have been designing tractor sheds. The low ceilings were a copper-toned metal, making the whole place dark and grim, harsh, and unwelcoming.

As in all Soviet transportation terminals, there was a profound lack of services or amenities. Hollis spotted a single food kiosk under attack by at least a hundred people.

Soviet citizens coming from or heading to domestic flights pushed large crates around the grey slate floor. Hollis never understood where they stowed all that stuff. He said to Lisa, “Pan Am measures my flight bag to the last centimeter. On Aeroflot, people bring livestock. Like on that train we took. Remember?”

“I’m not likely to forget.”

“Right.” Hollis went to a currency window and dumped his rubles on the counter but held on to some loose kopeks. “American dollars, please.”

The cashier, using an abacus, converted the amount, then gave Hollis some forms to sign. He signed, and she pushed some dollars toward him, saying, “No coins.”

“Chocolate?”

“Shokolad?”

“Forget it.
Da svedahnya,
sweetheart.” He joined Lisa and said, “That was the last Russian I’m ever using.”

From where they stood in the concourse, Hollis could see the international arrivals area where there were crowds at passport control and larger crowds at customs. Most of the arriving people looked to be from the Third World, and there were a good number of youth groups; pilgrims on Soviet-sponsored tours, coming to Moscow to talk peace, progress, disarmament, and equality. It never ceased to amaze him how a discredited philosophy and a repressive nation still attracted idealists.

Hollis scanned the rest of the terminal. Grey-clad militia men were all over the place, and Hollis spotted a few KGB Border Guards in their green uniforms. He picked out his embassy security people strategically placed around him and Lisa. He saw one man in a brown leather car coat and tie who might have been KGB, but he couldn’t spot any others. Hollis normally wouldn’t expect any trouble in a crowded public place, but to the KGB, the entire country was their private hunting preserve. He realized that Alevy had disappeared, then he noticed that Lisa was looking a bit tense. He said to her, “Did you ever fly Aeroplop?”

She laughed. “Aero
plop?
Yes, once to Leningrad on business.”

“I used to take it once a month to Leningrad. The pilots are all military. There’s not much difference between civil and military aviation in this country. Did you notice how they circled the airport at high altitudes, then dove in?”

“Yes. Scared me.”

“Me too. And I used to fly fighter-bombers. In the States, the drinking rule for pilots is twenty-four hours between bottle and throttle. Here, Aeroplop pilots aren’t allowed to drink within twenty-four feet of the aircraft.”

She laughed again. “You’re terrible. What are you going to complain about in the States?”

“The quality of winter strawberries.” Hollis glanced at his watch.

Lisa noticed and asked, “Do you think there’s something wrong?”

“No. I think we’re getting jumpy. Oh, I was going to tell you about my last Aeroplop flight. It was a Yakovlev 42, a tri-jet with huge wheels so it can land on grass and dirt. It’s actually a military transport, but when they get old, they slap an Aeroflot logo on them and put in seats. The cabin had been painted by brush, and you could see the brush marks. Anyway, the stewardesses were Miss Piggy look-alikes, and the lav had backed up—”

“That was
my
flight. And the cabin smelled of sewage. And my barf bag had been previously used. I’m not kidding. I collect barf bags from different airlines, and I took this one out of the seat pocket, and—”