The Charm School (53 page)

Marchenko, as though guessing at his thoughts, turned in his seat and said, “Relax and enjoy the flight. We’ll be at Sheremetyevo within three hours. You’ll catch the Lufthansa flight in good time.”

Lisa replied, “You’re full of baloney, Marchenko.”

“Baloney?”

Hollis noticed that the helicopter was at about two thousand feet, traveling on a due east heading, the pilot land-navigating by the Minsk–Moscow highway. Snow began to appear on the ground, and a stiffening north wind caused the pilot to tack to port to compensate for the drift. The Mi-28 was capable of close to three hundred knots, and Hollis thought they’d get where they were going very fast.

Hollis put his arm around Lisa and massaged her shoulder. “How you doing, kid?”

“Awful.” She looked down at the icon lying in her lap. “This is what real faith is all about, isn’t it? The belief that someone up there is looking after you.”

“Yes.” The key, Hollis thought, was to take out Vadim immediately, then find Vadim’s pistol before Marchenko drew his. Shoot Marchenko and the two pilots, then fly the Mi-28 to the embassy quad. This was all presupposing, of course, that Marchenko was not simply a helpful Intourist man who was under strict orders from the Soviet Foreign Ministry to get the American diplomats on that Lufthansa flight to Frankfurt. But Hollis had to act on what he believed, not what Marchenko wanted him to believe. He thought about how to take out Vadim quickly.

Lisa said to Hollis, “This icon has probably been kissed ten thousand times over the last three centuries. I’ve never kissed it . . .”

“Go ahead. Can’t hurt.”

She brought the icon up to her face and pressed her lips to it.

Vadim sensed the movement and turned quickly in his seat. He looked at the heavy wooden icon, seeing and thinking what Hollis was simultaneously thinking. As Lisa lowered the icon, Vadim reached back with his right hand and grabbed it. Hollis brought his left knee up under Vadim’s forearm and sliced the edge of his right hand down on Vadim’s wrist. Above the sound of Vadim’s scream, Hollis heard the wrist snap. Hollis snatched the icon from Lisa’s lap and raised it, aiming the corner edge at the top center of Vadim’s head where it would penetrate the coronal suture of the skull.

Marchenko had reacted faster than Hollis anticipated, sliding off his seat onto the floor, and he was now kneeling on one knee, pointing a heavy revolver at Hollis’ chest. “Stop! Stop!”

Hollis hesitated a moment, and Vadim slid down in his seat, then reappeared with his own pistol in his left hand. Hollis noticed that the color had drained out of Vadim’s face and his right arm hung limply. The copilot had come back into the cabin holding a small-caliber automatic, suitable for inflight gunplay. He aimed the pistol at Lisa.

Marchenko said to Hollis, “Put that down, slowly.”

Hollis lowered the icon, and Marchenko grabbed it away from him, then said to Vadim in Russian, “Put your gun away.”

Vadim shook his head. “I’m going to kill him.”

“Then I’ll kill you. Put that away,” Marchenko snapped with authority.

Vadim put his pistol in the pocket of his trench coat. The Russians, Hollis recalled belatedly, like many Europeans, were not fond of holsters and preferred their pockets for their pistols, which was how Marchenko had gotten his out so quickly.

Marchenko stood and his head just touched the top of the cabin. He said to Hollis, “It has always been my experience that people will believe any little lie that will comfort them and allow them to behave well while on the way to their execution. But I see you don’t believe you’re going to Sheremetyevo to board a Lufthansa flight, and you’re quite correct.”

Hollis replied, “I also know I’m not going to my execution, or you’d have taken care of it in Minsk.”

“Well, they want to talk to you first. And yes, I have orders not to kill you in transit under any circumstances. But I can and will kill Miss Rhodes the very next time you try something foolish.” He reached into his pocket and took out a pair of handcuffs. “We don’t have much need for these here, as Soviet citizens do what we tell them. However, I took these along as I know Americans have no respect for the law. Put them on.”

Hollis looked at Lisa, who was pale but composed. She said, “I’m all right.”

Hollis snapped the cuffs on his wrists and sat back in his seat. Marchenko nodded to the copilot, who took his seat. Marchenko, too, sat down and said to Vadim in Russian, “Is it broken?”

“Yes.”

“You can inquire what can be done about it when we land.”

Hollis suspected Marchenko wasn’t talking about a cast for Vadim’s wrist, but a break for Hollis’ wrist.

Marchenko examined the icon, which was now on his lap. “This has been desecrated. Did
we
do this?”

Lisa replied, “Who else?”

Marchenko made a clucking sound with his tongue. “I don’t like all this destruction of cultural treasures. I have my differences with the Russians, but we are all Slavs nonetheless. This is terrible.”

Hollis felt that Marchenko meant it, but if Marchenko were ordered to burn every church in Byelorussia he’d do it, with no more moral protest than the clucking of his tongue. Hollis said, “Why don’t you shut up?”

Marchenko turned his head and looked at Hollis with a hurt expression. “There’s no need to be rude.”

“On the fucking contrary, fat boy. You’re more despicable than the swine in Moscow because you’re a traitor to your own country and a Muscovite lackey.”

Marchenko seemed to be trying to control himself. He took a deep breath, then forced a smile. “You see? I tell you a little about myself, and you exploit it. A typical treacherous Westerner. And you think you can abuse me because you know you are to be taken alive. Well, let me tell you something—you’re going to stand trial for the murder of two Border Guards and perhaps a third if the one you left in the toilet dies. We don’t let that sort of thing go unpunished as you well know. You will probably be convicted and sentenced to death. They will tell you to write an appeal to the president of the Supreme Soviet, as that is a right under the Soviet constitution. As you are writing your appeal, someone will shoot you in the back of the head. That’s how it’s done. Very humane if you don’t know what’s coming. But I wanted you to know, Colonel Hollis, so that if they tell you you’re going to draft an appeal of your death sentence, now you know you are probably going to your death. I thought I’d extend that kindness to you. Even if you are a murderer.”

“Shut up, Marchenko.”

Marchenko looked angry for the first time. He turned to Lisa. “You seem all right, which is why I don’t want to shoot you. But your friend here . . . well, I don’t meet many Westerners. Perhaps I shouldn’t judge by one spy. Yes?”

Lisa said, “Will you give me my icon back? I promise not to bash it over your head.”

Marchenko laughed. “I must have your oath to God.”

“I swear to God I won’t bash it over your head.”

“Good.” Marchenko leaned back and handed it to her. “You see? This religious relic started all of this unpleasantness. But I respect the believers. I have a female cousin my own age who believes in God. She became a Baptist for some reason. Another Western corruption, this Baptist religion. At least she could have become Orthodox if she wanted to be a martyr. Does this religion bring you comfort even now?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Perhaps someday when I’m old, right before the end, I will talk to a priest about getting into heaven. God will understand. No?”

Lisa replied, “I think even God can get pissed off by some people.”

“‘Pissed off ?’”

Hollis said, “Marchenko, please, I implore you, shut the fuck up.”

“Yes? I think perhaps I talk too much. Not good in my job. Perhaps I
should
work for Intourist. I could talk all day to Westerners.” He turned to Vadim and asked in Russian, “Do I talk too much?”

“No, sir.”

“See? Well, maybe I’ll be quiet for a while.” Marchenko settled back in his seat.

Hollis looked at Lisa. “Relax.”

She forced a smile and took his cuffed hands in hers. “Don’t feel bad.”

“Okay.”

They didn’t speak much for the next two hours, and true to his word, Marchenko didn’t say much either. Vadim was in worsening pain, and Hollis could see his wrist was twice its normal size. Vadim muttered an obscenity from time to time. The copilot belatedly remembered a first aid kit, and Vadim found codeine tablets in it. He took several of them.

Hollis was certain that the pilot and copilot remembered perfectly well they had the first aid kit all along. Hollis had observed that casual cruelty in Russians before, a real indifference to the suffering of strangers. Once you drank with them or ate with them or had your little
dusha dush,
they’d give you the shirt off their backs, no matter how brief the relationship. But if you weren’t kith, kin, lover, or soul mate, you shouldn’t expect anyone to volunteer painkillers for a smashed wrist, and Hollis had even heard of that sort of indifference in hospitals. And to add insult to cruelty, the copilot offered the painkillers not to make Vadim feel better, but to let Vadim know they were available for the last two hours. Also, Hollis thought, the flight crew being Red Air Force, and the charter passengers being KGB, the cruelty was not altogether casual. Even more bizarre, Hollis thought, was the fact that Vadim was not angry with the pilots for their lack of sympathy, but was still glaring at Hollis as the source of his pain.
Primitive,
Hollis thought. But Russians reacted to the moment, not to abstractions. That was something to keep in mind in the days ahead.

Hollis said to Lisa in a light tone, “Well, do you want to say the words, ‘I quit’?”

She looked at him and said softly so no one else could hear, “I’ve been thinking. You and Seth promised I would be kept informed in exchange for my help.”

“I’m keeping you informed. We’ve been kidnapped.”

“Not funny, Sam. I think you both
knew
this might happen.”

Hollis stayed silent a moment, then replied, “We suspected.”

“More than suspected, I think. Do you know that Seth didn’t want me to get on that flight?”

“No, I didn’t know that.” But that was very interesting, Hollis thought. He said, “No one ever promised to keep you informed, Lisa. Not in this business.
I’m
not fully informed, obviously.”

She nodded. “He . . . he was trying to tell me something, but I guess I wasn’t listening.”

“Nor were you telling me what he said.”

“Sorry.” She added, “He said you were a target and I should stay away from you.”

“But you came along anyway.”

“I love you, stupid.”

Marchenko piped in, “I hear whispers. No whispers. No secrets.”

Lisa ignored Marchenko and said to Hollis, “If I didn’t love you, I’d really be pissed at you.”

“I’ll make it up to you. Dinner?”

“At Claridge’s.”

“You got it.”

Marchenko said, “Dinner? Yes, we missed our lunch. I’m hungry.”

Hollis said to him, “You can live a month on your fat.”

Marchenko turned and looked at Hollis. “You will be eating rats to stay alive in the Gulag.”

“Go to hell.”

“That’s where we are going, my friend.”

Nearly three hours after they’d begun their flight, the helicopter began to descend. Hollis spotted the old Minsk road running along the Moskva River and noticed a dozen clusters of
izbas,
any one of which could have been Yablonya. Then, unexpectedly, he did spot Yablonya. He knew it was Yablonya because it was a stretch of black charred log cabins along a dirt road. Grey ash lay where kitchen gardens and haystacks once were. A bulldozer had dug a long slit in the black earth, and half the burned village had already been pushed into it. Hollis looked away from the window. To the list of scores to be settled—Fisher, Bill Brennan, and the three hundred American fliers—was now added the village of Yablonya.

About three minutes later, Hollis looked back out the window. They were at about five hundred feet now, and he saw the beginning of Borodino Field, the earthworks, monuments, then the museum. The pine forest came up, and the helicopter dropped more quickly. He saw the wire fence and the cleared area around it, then the helipad that Alevy had pointed out in the satellite photograph.

Lisa leaned over beside him and looked out the window. “Are we landing?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“At the Charm School.”