The Charm School (57 page)

She said, “It doesn’t matter.”

Hollis knew the room was wired to pick up the slightest whisper, and even in the dark, the fiber-optic device could see them. He wanted to comfort her but thought it best to say nothing that Burov could use. In fact, he knew he should not have even told Burov he wanted to see her.

She asked, “Why did you tell them about Yablonya?”

“I’m sorry.”

She stood unsteadily and went to the waste drain in the floor and used it. The guard picked that moment to come in, confirming Hollis’ belief that they could see as well as hear. Lisa stood and pulled her sweat pants up as the guard leered at her. The Russian looked at Hollis, then threw a piece of black bread in the center of the floor. He said to Hollis, “I told you that you wouldn’t feel much like fucking.” He laughed and closed the door.

Lisa washed in cold water, then put her mouth under the spigot and drank. She picked the bread up off the floor and carried it back to her sleeping bag. She slid into the bag and took a bite of bread, chewing it slowly, Hollis noticed, more like a person who is starving than merely hungry.

Hollis estimated they were getting about three hundred grams of bread a day, about four hundred calories. They’d been here about eight days, though it could have been longer. There were enough calories to stay alive, but as the guard suggested, he didn’t feel much like doing anything but breathing. He suspected, too, that the food was drugged, probably with sodium pentothal or a similar truth serum, which, along with the sensory deprivation and numbing cold, would account for their extreme lethargy.

Lisa stared at the black bread awhile, then offered him the piece. He broke off about a third and handed the rest back to her.

After they’d finished the bread, Hollis said, “Feeling better?”

She shrugged. After a few minutes she reached out and took his hand. “You must be cold. Didn’t they give you a bag?”

“I’m all right.”

“Come in here. There’s room.”

He slipped into the sleeping bag beside her.

She said, “I don’t blame you for this. You warned me.”

Hollis made no reply.

They slept fitfully. Lisa cried out in her sleep several times, but he couldn’t understand what she was saying.

Hollis got up to get water. The water pressure was low, and he knew from experience that this meant it was dawn. He heard footsteps, and the door opened. The guard said, “Stand up. Follow me. No talking.”

Hollis helped Lisa to her feet. She said, “I love you, Sam.”

“I love you.”

“No talking!”

Hollis took Lisa’s hand, but the guard pushed them apart. “Walk!”

They walked down the long corridor, and another guard opened the door to the room where Hollis had written the appeal of his death sentence, the room with the bloodstained table and the straw bales against the wall. The execution room. Lisa hesitated, but the guard shoved her inside.

32

On the bloodstained table was hot tea, boiled eggs, bread, and jam. The guard said, “Eat all you want, but if you throw it up, you’ll clean it. No talking.”

Hollis and Lisa sat. Hollis glanced at the bloodstains beneath the food. They were actually rust-colored, not bright red, and he suspected that Lisa didn’t know what they were. He wondered, too, if it was animal blood, put there to frighten prisoners and amuse the guards.

They ate slowly, but they both got stomach cramps just the same. The guard led them out of the room and into what looked like a locker room, probably, Hollis thought, used by the night guard. There were wall lockers, a sink, a toilet, and in the corner an open shower. The guard motioned toward the shower. “Go ahead. Use it.”

They both undressed and showered with hot water and soap. A matron brought in towels, a shaving kit, underwear, and clean warm-up suits. Hollis dried himself, shaved, then dressed, noticing that the clothes had Jockey labels. Lisa dressed quickly, avoiding the guard’s eyes. The matron pointed to a box full of Adidas running shoes, and they each found a pair that fit.

The guard said, “Come with me.” He led them to the east wing of the building and through a door marked
Klinika.
They were met by a female nurse, who took them into separate examining rooms. The guard stayed with Hollis. Presently, a plump middle-aged woman entered the room and introduced herself as the camp doctor.

She gave Hollis a perfunctory examination, being interested mostly in his heart, Hollis thought, recalling the Russian obsession with heart disease. He said curtly in Russian, “I am malnourished and have been sitting in a cold cell for about two weeks. I’ve been punched in the jaw, kicked in the testicles and the solar plexus. Also, I hear fluid in my lungs.”

She moved the stethoscope back to his lungs, told him to breathe deeply, listened, and tapped his chest. “Yes. A little congestion. You’ll be all right.”

“All right for two more weeks of starvation?”

The guard said, “No talking.”

Hollis looked at the man. “I’ll talk to the doctor. Why don’t
you
shut up?”

The guard snapped back, “Only medical talk!”

The doctor gave Hollis a pill and a glass tumbler that looked as if it could use a washing.

Hollis asked, “What is this?”

“Just a vitamin.”

“Then you take it.” He handed it back to her.

She looked at him a moment, then put the pill in her mouth and washed it down with the water. She said in a low voice, “I too am a prisoner here. A political prisoner.”

“I see. I apologize for my rudeness.”

She gave him another vitamin, and he took it. She said, “You’ll be fine. Your heart is good.”

Hollis got down from the examining table and dressed. He asked, “What dies first here, the heart or the soul?”

“The soul dies. The heart breaks.”

Hollis looked closely at the woman. He should have seen immediately that she was not free, but in Russia it was sometimes hard to tell and very relative. Hollis said to her, “Thank you.”

The guard took Hollis to the waiting room, and within five minutes, Lisa joined him. The guard said, “Follow me.” He led them upstairs to Burov’s office. As they entered, Burov said, “Sit down.” They sat in chairs facing Burov.

Burov said, “Now you are Americans again. Right, Hollis?”

“Yes.”

“Do you feel well?”

“Yes.”

“Good. You’ll feel much better when I tell you that both your death sentences have been conditionally commuted to life in prison.”

“What,” Hollis asked, “is the condition?”

“Two conditions. One is that you pass a polygraph test. The other is that you agree to work for us here.”

Neither Hollis nor Lisa replied.

Burov added, “If you say no, you’ll be executed for murder.”

Lisa said, “What you’re asking is that we become traitors. The answer is no.”

Burov didn’t respond to that, but said, “You should know, Ms. Rhodes, that your friend has already indicated he would work for us here in exchange for his life.”

She looked at Hollis.

Hollis said to Burov, “I didn’t say I would subject myself to a polygraph interrogation.”

“No,” Burov replied, “but you will be thoroughly debriefed nonetheless. There are several methods of interrogation. I prefer polygraph and sodium pentothal over electroshock and a truncheon, especially as the results of the former are more reliable than the latter. I’m sure you and Ms. Rhodes would prefer that too.”

Hollis said, “Working here for you is one thing. But I cannot give you intelligence secrets that would compromise or endanger the lives of other agents.”

Burov tapped his fingers on his desk and looked from one to the other. “You’re not in a position to make deals. You’re already dead, and no one knows you are here. And the reason you are here is that you know entirely too much about this place, and we want to know what you know.”

“We’re here for killing two Border Guards,” Hollis reminded him. “That’s what we are under a death sentence for.”

“Well, that too, of course.” Burov regarded Hollis a moment. “You know, as soon as the blood sugar goes up, people revert to their former selves. In your case, Hollis, I don’t like your former self. Please try to control your sarcasm.”

“Yes, sir.”

Burov turned to Lisa. “In your case, a debriefing would most probably yield very little and would in no way endanger anyone. Correct?”

Lisa nodded hesitantly.

“So the question for you is this? Do you want to live and work here, or do you want to be shot? Answer.”

“I . . . I want to be with Colonel Hollis.”

Burov grinned. “Here? Or in heaven?”

“Anywhere.”

Burov looked at Hollis. “Such loyalty. So what is your decision?”

Hollis thought a moment, then replied, “I would like for both of us to be let out of the cells, to live here awhile before we decide if we want to become willing instructors in this place.”

Burov nodded. “All right. I think when you see how comfortable you can be here, you’ll decide you don’t want to die in front of a firing squad. But we haven’t resolved the question of your interrogation.”

Hollis replied, “Let’s resolve that after Ms. Rhodes and I resolve the question of working here or not. We’ll need ten days.”

Burov smiled. “You’re stalling.”

“For what? I’m dead. We are both dead.”

Burov stood and went to the window. He stared out into the trees for a while, then nodded. “One week.” He turned to Hollis and stared at him. “The very first moment I think you are up to something or lying to me”—Burov pointed to Lisa—“she dies. And as I told you, not by firing squad.”

Neither Hollis nor Lisa spoke.

Burov walked toward them. He looked at Hollis. “You are intelligent enough to know that I let you bargain with me because I’d rather have you alive. I want you alive so I can question you, not only now, but anytime something comes up in American intelligence matters that you can enlighten us on. I also want you alive because we went through a great deal of trouble making you dead. You are both valuable commodities here, potential assets for this school. And lastly, but not least, I want you both under my thumb. Forever. You amuse me.”

“But you’re not smiling,” Hollis pointed out.

Burov stared at Hollis for a long time, his face impassive, then he turned and went to his desk. Burov took a heavy revolver from the top drawer and emptied five of the six chambers. He walked over to Hollis and Lisa. “No, not what you call Russian roulette. Stand up.” He handed the revolver to Hollis. “See that the loaded chamber will fire if you pull the trigger.”

Hollis checked the cylinder.

Burov stepped back a pace. “Go ahead.”

Hollis stood with the revolver in his hand.

“I’m giving you the opportunity to be a hero to your country, albeit an unknown one, and to indulge your own fantasy. Go ahead.”

Hollis glanced at Lisa.

Burov continued, “Well? At least make me crawl a bit. Tell me to get on my knees and beg for my life.”

Hollis said nothing.

“No? Are you learning something? How much power comes from the muzzle of a gun? That depends on who is holding the gun. Me or you. And authority never came from the muzzle of a gun.” He looked at Lisa. “Stand.”

She stood.

“Take the revolver.”

She hesitated, then took it from Hollis.

“You see,” Burov said, “you do what I tell you even though
you
have the gun now. Shoot me.”

“No.”

“Ah, what are we learning now? Civilized people think ahead. What happens after you kill me? Are your problems over? No, they have just begun.” Burov smirked. “But a real patriot would have sacrificed his life to take mine.”

Lisa looked at the revolver in her hand. She said, “There is only one reason I won’t shoot you. Perhaps you can comprehend it. I am a believer in God. I will not take a life, not even yours.”

Burov snatched the pistol from her. “Yes? Christians don’t kill people? Perhaps I should go back to my history books. How does that little rhyme go . . . ‘After two thousand years of masses, you’ve progressed to poison gasses?’ What hypocrites you all are.”

“We’re trying. You’re not.”

Burov sat on the edge of his desk and stared down at her. “Let me give you some advice, Ms. Rhodes. If you can convince your friend here to submit to us, you will be safe. Without him, you are nothing. Just a woman. Do you remember at Mozhaisk morgue when you pulled your hand away from me in revulsion? Well, picture, if you will, so many more dirty Russian hands on you—no, don’t swear at me. I know you both have a little backbone left. Just shut your mouths and think about everything we’ve discussed here. Stand.” Burov threw the pistol on the desk and spoke in an almost friendly tone, “Well, then. Are you feeling up to a walk in the fresh air? I’m sure you’re curious.” Burov motioned them toward the door and spoke to the guard. He said to Hollis and Lisa, “I’ll join you in a while.”

The guard led them downstairs and indicated a bench near the front doors where they had first entered the building, then left them alone.

Hollis looked around the lobby. Like the rest of the place, it was sparse, but there was, as always, the picture of Lenin staring down at them. The picture was hung over the front desk, and Hollis noticed that the duty officer there was the same lieutenant who had played games with his pistol when Hollis was writing his appeal. The lieutenant glanced up at him and smiled.

From where Hollis sat he could see the open door to the communications room and saw an operator sitting at the switchboard. The man connected a call manually, and Hollis realized it wasn’t an automatic board. To the operator’s left was the radio console he’d seen when he first entered this building. He recognized a shortwave set but couldn’t see the rest of the console.

The lieutenant said in Russian, “Curiosity is how you got here.” He stood and closed the door of the communications room. He turned to Hollis and Lisa and held out a pack of cigarettes. “Smoke?”

They both shook their heads.

“My name is Cheltsov.”

Hollis replied in Russian, “I really don’t give a shit.”