The Charm School

Vandermullen in the Pentagon. He’s my boss.” Hollis took a paper napkin from the galley counter and wrote a telephone number on it. “Just give him your professional opinion of this emergency landing.”
    “Will do.”
    “And not a word to anyone while you’re in East Bloc airspace. Not even your copilot.”
    “Okay. Good luck.”
    They shook hands, and Hollis went down the spiral stairs to the door, where the mobile staircase had already been set up. Hollis descended the stairs. In the bus were Lisa, Salerno, the English couple, and the four Germans from Clipper Class, plus about a dozen people from first class. The door closed behind him, and the bus pulled away. Hollis sat in an empty seat beside Lisa. She asked, “What did that pilot want?”
    “Your phone number.”
    “Why do I ask you questions?”
    “Beats me.”
    Salerno, in the seat behind them, asked Hollis, “Did he tell you what the hell is going on?”
    “No.”
    The bus took them to the terminal, where they were shown into a small waiting room not large enough to accommodate the coach passengers. Hollis had the feeling that he and Lisa had been neatly cut from the main pack, and there would be a further isolation when someone offered them diplomatic courtesies.
    A short, squat man in a ludicrous mustard-colored suit walked into the room, followed by an attractive woman. The man held up his hand and said in accented English, “Please, please.” The room became quiet, and the man said, “I am Mr. Marchenko, the Intourist representative here. I must inform you that there is no electrical problem on the aircraft. Soviet authorities have received a bomb threat—”
    There was a gasp from the group.
    “Please, please. Nothing to fear. However, the entire aircraft must be searched, and all luggage must be searched. This takes a long time. So, Intourist will take you all to Sputnik Hotel to have lunch, and maybe you may stay overnight.”
    The woman with him repeated the announcement in German, then in French. Hollis was impressed with this uncharacteristic Soviet efficiency on such short notice. Obviously, they’d had help from another, more efficient Soviet agency.
    Lisa said, “I don’t like this, Sam.”
    Salerno lit a cigarette. “I hope the damned Sputnik has a bar.”
    Hollis said, “I’ll be right back.”
    “Where you going?” Salerno asked.
    “Men’s room.” Hollis walked out the door of the waiting room and into a corridor, but a Border Guard with a holstered pistol motioned him back. Hollis said in Russian, “I have to use the toilet.”
    The Border Guard seemed surprised at his Russian. “There’s a toilet in the waiting room.”
    “It’s occupied.”
    “Can’t you wait?”
    “No. I have a bad bladder.”
    The Border Guard pointed down the hallway.
    Hollis went into the small men’s room, picked up a metal trash can, and threw it against the tile wall.
    A second later the door swung open, and the Border Guard charged in as Hollis’ foot shot up into the man’s groin. The man made a grunting sound and doubled over. Hollis grabbed him by his high tunic collar and gunbelt and propelled him headfirst into the wall. The man moaned and sank to his knees. Hollis, still holding his collar, dragged him into a stall and sat him on the toilet, then closed the stall door, righted the trash can, and threw the man’s cap into it. Hollis went back into the corridor and moved quickly to the main concourse of the terminal. He found the pay phones in a recess of a wall and put two kopeks in the slot and dialed the Minsk long-distance operator. “Put me through to Moscow, two five two, zero zero, one seven.”
    “Have sixty kopeks ready.”
    Hollis heard a series of clicks as the call was routed through the Moscow operator, then through the KGB listening station on the way to the embassy. The phone rang twice before his direct office line was picked up. He barely heard a faraway voice say, “Captain O’Shea.”
    The operator cut in, “Deposit sixty kopeks now.” Hollis shoved the first twenty-five-kopek piece in the slot, and O’Shea, knowing by the loud humming that someone was paying for a long-distance call, held the line. Hollis pushed the remainder of the kopeks in the slot, cursing the Soviet phone system. The humming stopped, and Hollis heard a clear line. “Hel—”
    A hand reached over Hollis’ shoulder and pushed down the phone cradle. Hollis turned around and found himself looking down at the short,