The Charm School (27 page)

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Authors: NELSON DEMILLE

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BOOK: The Charm School
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Hollis came up the stairs into a small park area at the southern end of Dzerzhinsky Square. He approached a group of twenty or so people standing in a tight crowd. A pretty young woman with flaming red hair was addressing the group. She said in barely accented English, “Behind you is the State Polytechnical Museum, whose exhibits trace the development of Russian engineering. This is worth visiting when you have a free day.”
A middle-aged woman to Hollis’ left said in a New England accent, “Free day?
What
free day?”
Her male companion said, “
Sh-h-h-h!
”
The Intourist guide gave the couple a glance, then looked curiously at Hollis before continuing. “To your left is the Museum of the History and Reconstruction of Moscow. There you can see how Soviet socialist planning has made old Moscow into one of the most beautiful cities in the world.”
Hollis noticed that the American tourists were stealing glances at him, and he knew at least some of them were imagining he was KGB, which was what they wanted to believe. It was part of the tour package, a deliciously sinister tale to tell to the folks back home.
“To your right,” the redhead continued in a hoarse but sexy voice, “is the Mayakovsky Museum, the flat where the famous poet spent the last eleven years of his life.”
Someone in front of Hollis asked his neighbor, “Will there be a test?”
Hollis thought if there were a test, one question should be, “Is it true that Vladimir Mayakovsky’s suicide was a result of his disillusionment with Soviet life?”
“In the center of the square you see the handsome bronze statue of Felix Dzerzhinsky, eminent party leader, Soviet statesman, and close comrade of Lenin.”
Hollis thought she should add, “Mass murderer and founder of the dreaded State Security apparatus.” How could anyone pass a test without these facts?
The guide motioned over her shoulder across the square. “That handsome building with the tall, arched windows is Detsky Mir—Children’s World—Moscow’s largest toy store. Russians love to spoil their children,” she added, more from rote, Hollis thought, than from any personal experience.
A murmur came from the crowd, and a woman called out, “Oh, can we go there?”
“On your free time.”
Someone laughed.
“But come,” the guide said curtly. “We will go to the bus now, yes?”
“What is that large building there?” a man asked.
“That,” the guide said smoothly without even looking up, “is the office of the electric power agency.”
And it was, Hollis thought, if one’s idea of electric power was fifty volts to the scrotum. He watched the procession wend its way back to the red and white Intourist bus. Passing Muscovites scrutinized the foreigners’ clothes, and Hollis wished American tourists would learn to dress better. A few people in the group turned and took pictures of the electric power agency, knowing from some more reliable source that it was the headquarters of the KGB, the infamous Lubyanka prison.
The streetlights snapped on, though there was some daylight left. Hollis took the Lenin pin from his pocket and stuck it in his lapel, then sat on a bench that faced up Marx Prospect. From his briefcase he took a green apple, a hunk of goat’s cheese, and a small paring knife. He laid a cloth napkin on his lap and went to work on the apple and cheese with his knife. On a bench to his right an older man was eating black bread. The park benches were Moscow’s fast-food chain. Hollis threw an apple paring toward a group of sparrows, who scattered, then came back and pecked at it.
Hollis saw him coming down Marx Prospect, past the remnants of the sixteenth-century walls, his tailored overcoat belted at the waist, marking him as a military man in mufti. His stride, too, was military, and he wore a smart cap of fur. He carried his familiar pigskin attaché case, too thin for apples or cheese.
General Valetin Surikov, of the Red Air Force, walked directly in front of Hollis, scattering the sparrows. Surikov saw the lapel pin signifying it was safe and sat at the opposite end of the bench from Hollis. The general lit a cigarette, put on a pair of gold-rimmed glasses, and took a copy of
Pravda
from his attaché case. Without looking up he said in English, “The cheese should be wrapped in cellophane not newspaper. We have cellophane. A peasant would use newspaper.”
Hollis crumpled the piece of newspaper and put it in his briefcase.
“Why did you pick this place?” Surikov asked.
“Why not?”
“This is no game, my friend. We don’t do this so you can have something amusing to talk about with your friends.”
“No, we don’t, General.”
“If they catch you, they kick you out with your diplomatic immunity. If they catch me, they take me there”—he cocked his head toward the Lubyanka—“and shoot me.”
Sam Hollis did not particularly like General Valentin Surikov, but he wasn’t sure why. Hollis said, “Do you know what they did to Colonel Penkovsky when they caught him?”
“I don’t know who Colonel Penkovsky is.”
“Was.” Hollis was newly amazed each time he discovered how little these people knew about the society in which they lived. Even generals. “Penkovsky did what you are doing. Quite famous in the West. The fellows over there tortured him for six months, then threw him alive into a furnace. Firing squads are for lesser offenses.” Hollis cut out a section of apple, then made several crosscuts looking for worms. Finding none whole or halved, he put the small pieces of apple into his mouth and chewed.
General Surikov chain-lit another cigarette. “You’re absolutely certain you weren’t followed here?”
Hollis shrugged. “I do my best. How about you?”
“I certainly can’t take overt evasive actions like you can. I have to walk normally.”
“What’s your business in this quarter, Comrade General?”
“I have reservations at the Berlin Hotel restaurant in one hour. I’m meeting my granddaughter for dinner.”
“Good. I like that.”
Surikov asked, “How do you know they threw him in a furnace?”
“What? Oh, Penkovsky. I don’t know. I was told by my boss. But my boss lies just like yours does. Sounds good. Supposed to make me hate the KGB more.”
“And do you?”
“Not personally,” Hollis replied. “They haven’t fucked up my whole life like they have yours and everyone else’s from Vladivostok to East Berlin. Do
you
hate them?”
Surikov didn’t reply, which Hollis found intriguing. He couldn’t get a handle on Surikov’s motivation.
Surikov said, “Your note said it was urgent.”
Hollis nodded. They had worked out a simple expedient for arranging unscheduled rendezvous. Hollis would simply messenger a note to his counterpart, Colonel Andreyev, in the Soviet Defense Ministry and request an inconsequential bit of information regarding the ongoing arms limitation talks. Andreyev would naturally buck the request up the line, and it would eventually come across General Surikov’s desk. Surikov would place Hollis’ note over a small, detailed map of central Moscow. A pinprick in the note would pinpoint the meeting place. The time was always five-thirty of that day. If there was a pencil smudge in any corner of the note, the meeting was for the following day. The word “response” anywhere in the note meant urgent.
Hollis said, “Yes, urgent, but nothing for you to worry about.” Hollis thought he’d probably upset Surikov’s day.
Surikov turned a page of the oversize newspaper and held it up to catch the light. “What is it then?”
“Who won the battle of Borodino?”
Surikov glanced at Hollis. “What?”
Hollis said, “Tolstoy gives an accurate description of a French Pyrrhic victory, yet there are some Russians who think that it was a Russian victory. How do you reconcile these facts? Who won the battle?”
Surikov replied, “What are you talking about?”
“Reality. Truth, I need the truth. The real truth, not the Soviet truth. I need some information on a former Red Air Force training facility.”
“Yes?”
“North of Borodino.”
Surikov did not reply.
“A former ground school. The
Komitet
uses it now for other purposes. You know the one I mean, don’t you?”
Again Surikov made no reply.
Hollis said, “If you know nothing about it, I’ll leave now.”
Surikov cleared his throat. “I know something about it.”
“But it must not be too important, General, or you’d have told me long ago.”
Surikov let a full minute pass before he replied, “It is so important, Colonel, so potentially dangerous for the future of Soviet-American relations and world peace, that it is better left alone.”
Hollis did not look toward Surikov, but he could tell by his tone of voice that Surikov, usually cool as ice, was agitated. Hollis said, “Well, that’s very good of you to stand guard over the peace. However, something leaked, and before it gets misunderstood or before it gets into the wrong hands, I want to control it. But first I have to understand it.”
Surikov refolded his newspaper, and Hollis allowed himself a glance at the man and saw on his face a troubled expression. Hollis said, “Tell me what you know and how you know it.”
“First tell me what
you
know.”
“I know to ask the questions about the place. That’s
all
you have to know.”
Surikov replied, “I have to think this over.”
“You’ve been doing that since the first day you contacted me a year ago.”
“Yes? You know my mind and my soul? You’re not even Russian.”
“Neither are you, General. You’re a Muscovite, a Soviet man, and we’re both modern military men. We understand each other.”
“All right,” Surikov said decisively. “I
have
thought this through. I want to get out.”
“Then consider yourself out.” Hollis finally found a worm and threw the apple core to the sparrows. “Good luck and thanks.”
“I want to get out of
here
.
Russia.
”
Hollis knew what Surikov had meant. Sometimes, as with troublesome spouses, you had to begin negotiations by packing their bags for them.
“I want to spend my last days in the West,” Surikov said.
“Me too.”
Surikov didn’t respond.
“Do you think they’re on to you?” Hollis asked.
“No, but they will be if I give you what you want. I want to go to London.”
“Really? My wife’s in London. She didn’t like it here either.”
“How long will it take you to get me to the West?”
“It’s about a four-hour flight, General.” Hollis got a perverse pleasure in reminding Soviet officials of the kind of state they had created. He added, “You apply for a travel visa, and I’ll see to the Aeroflot reservation. One-way, correct?”
“You mean to tell me you can’t get people out of here?”
“It’s not real easy. You guys got a hell of a good police force.”
“Don’t think that if you keep me here, I will continue to feed you secrets, my friend. If you can’t get me out, I am retiring from your service.”
“I told you that was okay.”
“I am going to the British.”
Hollis wiped his hands on his napkin. Losing an agent who panicked and quit was one thing; losing him to another service was quite another. The new theory was to let a source leave anytime he wanted and not try to squeeze him as they’d done in the past. Squeezed agents inevitably got caught, and then the KGB found out everything he’d given away and took steps to fix things up. But if Surikov went to the Brits and got blown later, Hollis might never know that Surikov was singing in the Lubyanka.
“Or the French,” the general said. “I speak passable French. I could live in Paris.”
“If you go to the French, you might as well go right to the KGB and save time. They’re penetrated, General. Most of them hold secondary commissions in the KGB.”
“Don’t try to frighten me. The Germans are my third choice. So now the choice is yours.”
“Well, I’ll take it up with my people. It’s not that we don’t want to, it’s just that it’s dangerous. For you.” Actually, Hollis thought, it was more that they didn’t want to. Some politicians loved a high-ranking defector, but for intelligence people, a defecting spy told the KGB the same thing as a captured spy, namely that everything that had come across his desk was now in enemy hands. Surikov had either to go on spying for him or just retire and shut up. But since he seemed inclined to do neither, Hollis thought a car accident was what Surikov needed. Hollis, however, didn’t like that sort of thing and hoped he could think of something more creative. “We’ll think it over. You too. The West is not all it’s cracked up to be.”
“Don’t joke with me, Colonel.” Surikov chain-lit his third or fourth cigarette.
Hollis took a
Pravda
from his briefcase. He read modern Russian fairly well—bureaucratic Russian, journalese, communist Russian. But he had difficulty with Chekhov, Gogol, Tolstoy, and the like, and he thought he’d enjoy working on that someday if he lived long enough to sit in a rocking chair with Tolstoy.

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