The Charm School (55 page)

Hollis said nothing, and Burov punched him in the stomach. Burov waited for Hollis to straighten up, then said, “I’ll tell you something else, smart guy—from the moment I laid eyes on you and your snotty girlfriend I wanted you both here. The Center said impossible, but I showed them how we could kidnap two American diplomats. They thought it quite brilliant. Your death in a helicopter crash is now being reported to your embassy. Your incinerated remains—actually a male and female prisoner—are being gathered from the crash site. No one knows you’re here, Hollis. No one is looking for you. You’re all mine now, and you’re dead.”

Hollis tried to clear his head. Between the lines he read that Burov was in trouble and was trying to redeem himself with Lubyanka. So far, Burov was doing fine.

Burov snapped, “Take off your clothes and give them to Viktor.”

Hollis removed his suit, shirt, and underwear, handing each piece to Viktor while the Border Guard kept his AK-47 trained on him.

Burov said, “If I find any of your stupid spy gadgets, I’ll kill you with my own hands. Someone will be along shortly to see if you’ve got anything up your ass. Welcome to the Charm School, Hollis.” Burov, Viktor, and the guard left. The door slammed, and Hollis heard the bolt drive home.

Hollis stood naked in the cell and looked around. Four bare concrete walls enclosed a space about ten feet square. There was no window, and the only light came from a dim recessed bulb in the ceiling, covered by a steel grating. Somewhere up there, though he could not see it, was a fiber-optic device watching him.

There was no furniture at all in the cell, and as far as he could see, no heat source either. In the far left corner of the cell a water spigot protruded from the wall about four feet off the floor. Beneath the spigot was a waste hole. Hollis turned on the spigot and rinsed the blood out of his mouth, then splashed cold water on his face. He felt his jaw swelling, and one of his teeth was loose. His testicles were beginning to swell too, and his midsection was turning purplish. He washed his hands, then drank some water, but his stomach heaved, and he spit it into the waste hole.

The door opened, and two uniformed men came in. One of them held a pistol in one hand, and the other performed a body search, then both men left.

Hollis stood in the center of the cold, concrete room. He had once spent ten very unpleasant days in prison, an intelligence school training facility located in a building similar to this one in northwest Washington, D.C., called Lubyanka West. The first few days there and probably here were the standard “shock days,” a blur of dehumanizing treatment, psychological torture, and physical abuse. This softened you up, stripped away your self-esteem, and set you up for what was to come. Then they left you alone to think about things, but the welcome solitude soon became maddening isolation. Then when you yearned to hear and see another human being, they scheduled “interviews” with you and were conditionally pleasant, and you began to like them for letting you live. You began talking, enjoying the company, and when you were talked out, you were sent to a regular prison camp or shot.

There was some advantage in knowing what was coming, Hollis thought, but no comfort in the knowledge. He was glad Lisa didn’t know anything.

He went to the wall that separated their cells and struck it with his palm, but it was solid, and he heard no answering signal.

Hollis sat in a corner with his back against the warmer interior wall, pulled his legs up to his chest, and wrapped his arms around his knees. He slept fitfully.

* * *

On what he thought was the second day, the door opened. Someone threw a ball of clothes on the floor and shut the door. Hollis found a blue warm-up suit and sweat socks but no footwear. He dressed and treated himself to some water. He felt very weak. The light overhead went off, and the cell was in darkness. He’d noticed that the light came on and off at random intervals, apparently without any pattern or any reason except to play games with his biorhythms. Hollis walked awhile in the dark, then curled up and slept in his new clothes.

On what he reckoned was the third day, the door opened again, and a sleeping bag flew in, followed by a boiled potato that steamed in the cool air. Hollis looked at the potato but did not move toward it while the guard stood at the door.

The guard said in Russian, “How do you feel?”

“Fine.”

The guard snorted and spoke the traditional phrase used to greet new camp prisoners in the Gulag,
“Zhit’ budesh’, no est ne zakhachesh’.” You’ll live, but you won’t feel much like fucking.
The guard laughed and closed the door.

As Hollis moved toward the potato, the light went off, and he had to get down on all fours to find the food. He climbed into the sleeping bag to conserve body heat and ate the warm potato.

Some hours later, the door opened again, and a guard shouted in Russian, “Get up! Come here!”

Hollis got to his feet and followed the guard down the long corridor, then up a narrow flight of concrete stairs. He was led into a small room and immediately saw it was set up for a tribunal. There was a long table at the far end of the room at which sat five KGB officers in uniform facing him. Burov sat in the middle and seemed to be the ranking man. The other four stared at him with stolid Russian faces.

On the wall behind the table hung a picture of Felix Dzerzhinsky, founder of the secret police, and next to that a color photograph of a man whom Hollis recognized as the present chairman of the KGB. Above both pictures was a large painted sword and shield, the emblem of the Committee for State Security. Hollis noted there was no Soviet flag, nor a picture of any political or party leader. The symbolism was obvious; the KGB was a law unto itself.

Hollis saw weak sunlight coming through the window, looking more like dusk than dawn. The KGB Border Guard snapped, “Sit!”

Hollis sat in a wooden chair facing the five men.

Colonel Burov spoke in Russian from his seat. “This special tribunal of the Committee for State Security has been convened for the purpose of trying Colonel Samuel Hollis of the United States Air Force for the murder of Private Nikolai Kulnev and Private Mikhail Kolotilov, members of the Border Guards Directorate of the KGB.” Burov recited dates and circumstances, then asked, “Colonel Hollis, how do you plead to the charge of murder?”

The Border Guard behind Hollis kicked his chair, and Hollis stood. He said, “I plead guilty.”

If Burov or the other four men were surprised, they didn’t show it. Burov asked, “Do you want to say something in extenuation or mitigation?”

“No.”

Burov cleared his throat and said, “Very well. If the accused raises no extenuating circumstances, then there is only one penalty that this tribunal can adjudge for the murder of a KGB man, and that penalty is death by firing squad.” Burov looked at Hollis closely, and Hollis stared straight ahead.

Burov said to Hollis, “You are required to write a full confession of the crime for which you stand convicted. If the confession is satisfactory, you will be allowed to write an appeal of your death sentence to the chairman of the Committee for State Security. If the appeal is turned down, there are no further appeals, and you will be executed. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Take the prisoner to his cell. Bring in the next prisoner.”

The guards moved Hollis toward the door, and as he reached it, it opened, and Lisa stepped into the room, wearing a grey prison dress. She looked, he thought, pale, shaky, and disoriented. Hollis said to her, “Plead guilty. Be brave. I love you.”

She focused on him as if trying to place him, then the guards moved them past each other, and Hollis found himself in the corridor. He was escorted back to his cell on the ground floor. The cell was dark, but then the light snapped on, and he saw a writing tablet on the floor. He knelt and picked it up, noticing also an American ballpoint pen.

Hollis sat on his sleeping bag and rested the tablet on his knees. His instructions as an intelligence officer superseded the Rules of Conduct for a POW. He was to confess to everything and anything and write whatever they asked as long as it didn’t endanger another prisoner or compromise national security or ongoing operations. In short, he was to play their game because they thought so much of it.

His primary obligation was to escape, and to do that he was to preserve his mind and body. He’d been assured that if he stayed within his instructions, that whatever he signed, wrote, or said would not be held against him if he should ever make it back. Hollis thought he preferred the moral certainty and rigid guidelines of name, rank, and service number. But he was no longer a pilot, and in this new business there were no certainties, moral or otherwise. Hollis began writing his confession. He chose to write it in Russian, so if there were any problem of fact, he could plead ignorance of the finer points of the language.

He knew that if they had the time, they’d make him rewrite it again and again. The Russians took the written word very seriously, and as former Orthodox Christians they were obsessed with confessions of guilt; thus the legendary written confessions that poured out of the Lubyanka. But Hollis suspected that Burov was on a tight schedule to get on with the important business, the interrogation to find out what he and Alevy knew and what the embassy knew and what Washington knew. Hollis reflected on the sequence of the criminal justice system here: trial, confession, interrogation. He supposed it didn’t matter. The bullet still came at the end. Hollis continued to write.

Hollis paused to collect his thoughts, then continued his confession. In truth, there wasn’t much to tell. He’d been spying on the Charm School, ran into two Border Guards, and shot them. His chance sighting of Yablonya from the helicopter removed that moral problem and gave him an opportunity to betray people who were already liquidated. He knew, too, that the KGB wanted not only details, but philosophical motivations for what he’d done, an enlightened awareness of his shortcomings as a decadent product of Western capitalism. They also wanted apologies. He’d written several sample confessions in the Washington Lubyanka, but he didn’t want to make it appear that he was a pro at it.

As he started a new page, Hollis thought about Lubyanka West, the Charm School, and the many other manifestations of Washington’s and Moscow’s obsession with and emulation of each other. He always thought that if either side were ultimately defeated in a future war, the victor would feel a sense of loss and purposelessness. He recalled the almost disappointed expression on Burov’s face upon passing the death sentence on him. There was no doubt that each side got something out of the conflict, drew some sort of unnatural psychic energy from it.

Hollis filled the writing tablet with words, then read what he’d written. It was a good confession, a mixture of hard fact and hard-to-prove fiction. The facts were things Burov probably already knew. The fiction was that Greg Fisher’s phone call to the embassy was the first time they’d heard of an American POW in Russia. Burov would believe that because he wanted to believe it.

Two hours after he’d begun writing, Hollis signed the confession and lay down in his sleeping bag. He thought briefly about Lisa, then forced her out of his mind, but he fell into a restless sleep and dreamt about her anyway.

* * *

On the fifth or sixth day of his imprisonment, after the third draft of his confession, the door to his cell opened, and the lieutenant who had been the duty officer when he arrived walked in and said in Russian, “Your confession is accepted. Now you will write an appeal of your death sentence. Come with me.”

Hollis, half starved by now, stood unsteadily and followed the lieutenant out into the corridor. The man pointed, and Hollis walked toward the rear of the building. It was at this point where they usually put the bullet into your neck. But why that odd custom of the hallway execution—begun in the 1930s in Lubyanka—persisted was beyond him. It
would
have been humane if no one knew about it, but as it was fairly well-known in the Soviet Union, Hollis thought he’d just as soon face a firing squad outdoors.

He could hear the lieutenant’s boots on the concrete floor and listened intently for the snap of the holster flap, wondering if he’d misjudged Burov’s need to interrogate him. He remembered his own advice to Lisa at the restaurant in the Arbat, that the KGB were not rational, and he could well believe that Burov had let his emotions get the better of his intellect.

“Stop!”

Hollis stopped and heard a door open to his right. The lieutenant said, “In there.”

Hollis entered a small windowless room that was just another cell like his own except that there was a table and chair in it. On the table was a sheet of paper and a pen.

“Sit down.”

Hollis sat, and the lieutenant moved behind him. Hollis saw that the table was of yellow pine, and the boards of the table were stained with what could only have been blood. Against the wall in front of him were stacked bales of straw to keep a bullet from ricocheting.

“Address your appeal to the Chairman of the Committee for State Security.”

Hollis picked up the pen and asked, “In Russian or English?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Hollis began writing, and the lieutenant remained behind him. In contrast to confessions, the appeal was obviously supposed to be short, as he had only one sheet of paper.

Hollis heard the metal snap of the holster, the pistol sliding over the leather, and the click of the hammer being cocked.

Hollis continued to write. He found that his mouth had gone dry and his palms were moist. He controlled his hand as he finished the last line of the appeal of his death sentence. Hollis signed his appeal, put the pen down, and waited, wondering if he’d actually hear the blast or feel anything.

He heard the hammer click again, the pistol slide into the holster, and the snap close. The lieutenant chuckled softly and said, “Leave it there. Stand.”

Hollis stood, and the lieutenant brought him back to his cell. The Russian said, “Your appeal will be decided within twenty-four hours. It is not humane to have you waiting much longer to learn your fate.” He closed and bolted the door.