The Charm School (56 page)

The light was on, and Hollis knew Burov was taking some pleasure in watching him. Hollis wanted to urinate but didn’t. He sat on his sleeping bag and closed his eyes. He knew that he should be playing the game for Burov, should be shaking with fear at the waste hole, drinking water to wet his dry mouth. He knew that if he didn’t give Burov any pleasure, then Burov, in his pique, would consider Hollis a malfunctioning toy and get rid of him.

Hollis rose slowly, went to the waste hole, and urinated. He drank from the spigot, retched, then drank again. He took a deep breath, went to his sleeping bag, and pulled it over his head. The lights went off.

An image of Lisa walking beside him on that sunny Saturday in Arbat Street filled the darkness behind his eyes. He pictured her face with various expressions, and each expression froze for a moment, as if he were taking photographs with his mind. He found himself slipping into a sort of twilight sleep, the only sort of sleep he’d been capable of for some time. There seemed to be less and less difference between his waking periods and these periods of shadowy consciousness, and he could not distinguish dreams from waking hallucinations. What he longed for was a deep, recuperative sleep, but that no longer seemed possible.

Finally he slipped into real sleep and had a real dream, a dream he never wanted to have again—his F-4, its controls dead in his hands, the cockpit filled with blue smoke and red blood, and the sea rushing up at him, then the sky, sea, sky, as the aircraft rolled wing over wing and his hand clutched at the eject trigger.

Hollis jumped to his feet, his face covered with sweat and his heart trying to get out of his chest. He screamed, “Simms! Simms!” then sank to the floor, covered his face, and remained motionless.

* * *

The door opened, and a guard said tonelessly, “Come with me.”

Hollis stood and followed the man into the corridor. A second guard fell in behind them, and they began walking. The guard to his rear said to Hollis, “Mikhail Kolotilov was a friend of mine, you fucking murderer.”

Hollis made no reply. The guard to his front turned into the narrow staircase along the wall, and they went to the second floor. The Russian knocked on a door and opened it. The man behind him poked Hollis toward the door, and Hollis entered.

Colonel Burov sat at his desk in a spartan concrete office. There was a single window in the wall, and Hollis saw it was evening. The concrete walls were painted the color and texture of crusty yellowed cream, and on the concrete floor was a brick-red rug with a central Asian design. On the wall behind Burov’s desk hung the same two pictures as in the tribunal room, but in addition, there was the necessary picture of Lenin.

“Sit down, Hollis.”

Hollis sat in a wooden chair facing the desk, and the door closed behind him.

Burov held up Hollis’ written confession. “Fascinating. I’m quite impressed with your ability to avoid capture. As you know, we discovered your car at Gagarin station. What you don’t know is that we found out about Yablonya as well. I’m glad to see you were truthful about that.”

Hollis rubbed the stubble on his chin and suppressed a cough.

“Your girlfriend, however, was not. In fact, her confession has fewer interesting details than yours does.”

“She doesn’t know much.”

“No? She knew about Yablonya and didn’t put that in her confession. She, too, has been condemned to death by the tribunal. Unless her confession is satisfactory, she will not have an opportunity to make an appeal for her life.”

Hollis said nothing.

“And she will be shot.” Burov studied Hollis a moment, then picked up a single sheet of paper and glanced at it. “Your appeal for clemency is interesting. You say you are willing to work here if you are not shot.”

“Yes.”

“What do you think we do here?”

“Train KGB agents to pass as Americans.”

Burov studied Hollis a moment, then inquired, “How do you know that?”

“We guessed.”

“You and Alevy?”

“Yes.”

“I see. And have you caught any of our graduates from this place?”

“Yes. The Kellums.”

Burov leaned across his desk. “When did you discover them?”

“Only . . . I guess it was last Thursday or Friday. What day is this?”

Burov didn’t answer, but asked, “And Dodson? Where is Dodson?”

“I don’t know.”

Burov stood and went to the window. He stared out at the dark pine forest, then asked, “If you people know about this place, why aren’t you doing anything about it?”

“My government is pursuing a policy of peace at the moment.”

“So they want to keep it quiet.”

“That’s my understanding.”

“But if Dodson somehow got in touch with your embassy . . . ?”

“They’ll shut him up.”

Burov smiled. “Will they?”

“I believe so. I don’t know everything that goes on there.”

“No. I’d rather have Alevy here. But you’ll do for now.”

Hollis rubbed his eyes. He knew that what he said was being recorded, and perhaps it was being fed into a voice-stress analyzer. Later, he’d be asked the same questions when he was attached to a polygraph and perhaps again under drugs. Any inconsistencies discovered then would be resolved with electric shock interrogation.

Burov continued what was called in the trade the “soft” interrogation, and Hollis answered the questions, tonelessly and with an economy of words. Burov was good, but he was not a professional KGB interrogator of Special Service II. Hollis thought the bogus SS II interrogators at Lubyanka West in Washington were somewhat better. On the other hand, Hollis, as an air attaché with diplomatic immunity, was not supposed to have ever gotten into such a situation, and his training was somewhat limited.

Hollis suspected, however, that Burov was enough of an egoist to think he could handle the situation himself, and that was why Burov, the camp commandant, had gone to Mozhaisk and Lefortovo restaurant on his own counterintelligence missions. Also, Hollis reminded himself, Burov and his whole Little America operation were probably in trouble with the politicians if not the Lubyanka. It was Hollis’ job to assure Burov that everything was all right. He did not want this place to disappear. Yet.

Burov said, “I can’t imagine that your government would let our operation continue. Even in the interests of peace. There are thousands of our agents in America already, and we’re graduating over two hundred a year. What does Washington intend to do about
that
situation?”

And that, Hollis thought, was the crux of the matter. He replied, “It is my understanding that the State Department is looking for a negotiated settlement.”

“Are they? The diplomats are such women. What does the CIA want to do?”

“Blow the whistle. Leak it to the world press.”

“Ah, yes. And the White House?”

“They’re sort of in between.”

“And your people? The Defense Intelligence Agency?”

“They have a moral interest in the fate of the captured fliers.”

“And you? You, Colonel Sam Hollis?”

Hollis allowed himself a small smile. “I just want to kill you.”

Burov smiled in return. “Yes? I thought you wanted to work for me.”

“That depends.”

Burov nodded to himself, then said, “And has anyone proposed direct action against this school?”

“What do you mean?”

“Something like rescuing one or two of these men and presenting them to the world as evidence.”

“Not that I know of. From what I see here, that’s not possible.”

“No, it’s not. And Dodson’s escape was wholly an internal conspiracy here. No outside help. Correct?”

“We had no part in that.”

“And Fisher’s meeting with Dodson was totally chance?”

“Of course. You heard Fisher on the taped phone conversation. He’s not ours.”

“And your snooping around here—that was not an attempt to rescue a prisoner?”

“No. There was only Lisa Rhodes and I. We did that on our own.”

“You have no contact with any prisoners inside the camp?”

“No.”

“With any staff ?”

“No.”

“Do you have Soviet citizens on the outside who are your agents?”

“None that have any connection with this camp.”

“But you do employ Soviet citizens as American agents.”

Hollis thought it was time to get one point on the board. “Not employ. They don’t take a kopek. They do it because they hate the Communist Party and the KGB.”

Burov said nothing for a while, then asked, “You’ll give me their names.”

“I don’t have any actual names. Just code names.”

“We’ll see.”

“Why should I tell you anything if I’m going to be shot?”

“Because being shot is not as bad as what I can do to you.”

“And I could kill myself before you do
anything
to me.”

“I don’t think you have any lethal means at your disposal.”

“I could have pushed that ballpoint pen through my jugular vein. You’re not supposed to give trained intelligence officers things like that.”

“Ah, yes. The pen. So, you think that as an intelligence officer your brains are too valuable to be blown out?”

“Perhaps.”

“Well, then let me ask you something. What do you propose? Intelligence officer to intelligence officer.”

“My appeal makes that clear. I realize I’m officially dead. I’d rather work here, among my peers, than go to Siberia or be shot. I want Lisa Rhodes with me.”

“Yes, you are officially dead. I’ll show you the American newspaper accounts. The Center wants you actually dead after your debriefing. But perhaps I can convince them that you and your girlfriend will be an asset here. Perhaps a life sentence here, helping us destroy America, will be worse than death. I’d enjoy that, Hollis.”

“I know you would.”

Burov smiled, then said, “I don’t think you defense attachés are as tough as your CIA people. However, if I begin to think that your capitulation is a ruse of some sort, I’ll torture your girlfriend to death. Right in front of you.”

Hollis didn’t reply.

Burov walked over to Hollis and looked down at him. “You thought you were quite the man, didn’t you? In the Mozhaisk morgue, then in Lefortovo restaurant, then on the telephone with me. What abuse I took from you.”

“I had diplomatic immunity.”

Burov laughed. “Yes, you did. Big shot. Now I can do whatever I please to you.” Burov grabbed Hollis’ hair and yanked his head back. “Look at me, you smug American bastard. You shits in the embassy look down your noses at us, don’t you? I’ve heard some of the tapes of embassy conversations. You laugh at our drinking, you think we don’t bathe enough, you make fun of our women, you joke about Moscow, the food, the housing, and just about everything else about us.” Burov pulled harder on Hollis’ hair. “Do you think you look or smell so good now, you son of a bitch?” Burov released Hollis’ hair and slammed the heel of his hand against Hollis’ forehead. “Do you think your delicate girlfriend looks or smells so good now? Do you think you look so civilized now? What are you without your tailored clothes and your deodorants? You’re nothing, that’s what you are. A Russian can stand more suffering because we don’t start with so much. And because we have more inner strength. You people fall apart as soon as you miss a shower or a meal.” Burov paced around the room, then came to Hollis and barked, “Stand up!”

Hollis stood.

“Hands on your head!”

Hollis put his hands on his head.

Burov glared at him. “Can you imagine the things I could do to you and Lisa Rhodes? Things that wouldn’t leave a mark on your bodies, but would completely destroy you inside, your humanity, your souls, your minds. Answer me!”

“Yes. I know.”

Burov stood off to Hollis’ side and said, “Your girlfriend is a lover of Russian culture. Perhaps she would like a Russian boyfriend. Maybe several dozen of them.”

Hollis didn’t reply.

“Did you know that she and Alevy were lovers? Answer me.”

“Yes.”

“I told you that your wife has taken up with an English gentleman.”

“I don’t care.”

“She’s in Washington now for your funeral. I think it’s tomorrow.”

Hollis made no response.

“Who is Simms?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think I know.” Burov looked at his watch and said, “Well, Hollis, do you want to see your slut?”

Hollis nodded.

Burov opened the door to his office and said something to the guard, then turned to Hollis. “You may take your hands down. Get out.”

Hollis walked to the door, and Burov said, “You may have sex if you wish.”

“Thank you.”

Burov smiled and closed the door.

The guard marched Hollis down the stairs. The man opened the door of Lisa’s cell and shoved Hollis in. The door closed behind him.

Lisa sat in a sleeping bag, curled up in the corner. She looked at him but said nothing.

Hollis knelt near her and examined her face. Her cheeks were drawn, and her eyes seemed sunken. He noticed her lips were dry and cracked, and there was a bruise on her neck. On her left cheek there was still a smudge of blush, and this somehow caused him more pain than the rest of her appearance. “How are you?”

She didn’t reply.

“Do you need a doctor?”

She shook her head.

Hollis felt weak and sat down beside her, putting his arm around her shoulders. She didn’t move toward him or move away. She sat still, staring straight ahead.

They sat in silence for a long time, then Lisa put her face in her hands and wept.

Hollis drifted off from time to time, but the numbing cold and his empty stomach woke him every fifteen minutes or so.

The lights went on and off, and there were bootsteps in the corridor that stopped outside the cell door, then continued. Now and then someone slid the bolt back, but the door never opened. A few minutes later, the bolt would slide closed again.

Lisa stared at the ceiling and spoke in a barely audible voice. “I was sentenced to death.”

Hollis didn’t reply.

She reached her arm out along the wall, then held her hand out in front of Hollis.

He didn’t know at first what she was holding, then recognized a heap of ash and charred pieces of paper. Photographs. Her photographs of Moscow. He turned her hand so the ash spilled out, and wiped her palm on his knee.