The Charm School

them that Intourist has rolled out the red carpet, pardon the pun. I doubt if there’s anything funny about this, but the ambassador will straighten these people out if there is. So rest easy. Maybe I’ll catch up with you in Frankfurt.”
    Hollis said to Salerno in Russian, “It was the cigarette, Michael. You kept straightening it with your fingers.”
    Salerno smiled and winked, then replied in Russian, “Don’t tell anyone, and I’ll owe you a favor. You’ll need one shortly.” Salerno slapped Hollis on the shoulder, turned, and walked away.
    Marchenko motioned toward the front doors of the terminal. Hollis walked through the small lobby, flanked by the two KGB Border Guards. They went out the glass doors, and Marchenko opened the rear door of a waiting Volga sedan.
    Hollis saw Lisa in the rear seat. “Lisa, get out of the car.”
    Before she could respond, the driver pulled the car forward a few feet, and Marchenko slammed the door shut. Marchenko said to Hollis, “Colonel, you’re making this more difficult than it has to be.”
    Hollis found himself being crowded by the two KGB Border Guards. The three men he’d seen in trench coats were standing a few feet away in front of the terminal doors. He thought he’d feel better if he made them work a bit, but the end result would be a clubbing or chloroforming, followed by handcuffs and a bad headache. He walked to the car, and Marchenko again opened the door with a silly courtliness. Hollis got in, and Lisa threw her arms around him. “Sam! I was worried—what’s going on—?”
    “It’s all right.”
    Marchenko got into the front, and the driver pulled away from the terminal.
    Lisa took Hollis’ hand in both of hers. “They told me you were waiting for me, then—”
    “I know.”
    “Are we going back to Sheremetyevo?”
    “Good question.” Hollis pushed on the door handle, but it moved only a fraction of an inch. A bell sounded, and a light on the dashboard came on.
    Marchenko said, “Colonel Hollis, you must be leaning on the door handle.”
    Hollis didn’t respond. He glanced out the rear window and saw another Volga in which were the three men in brown leather coats.
    Lisa whispered into his ear, “Are we being kidnapped?”
    “In this country it’s hard to tell. Sometimes you just have to ask.” Hollis leaned toward Marchenko.
“Komitet?”
    Marchenko moved around in his seat and looked back. “No, no. Please.
Intourist.
” Marchenko smiled. “Like you are an air attaché.” He laughed. “So, winter is here now. How was Moscow?”
    “Colder,” Hollis replied.
    “It is always colder in Moscow. Do you know why?”
    “No. Why?”
    “Eight million cold hearts in Moscow. That is why. Me, I’m Byelorussian. The Great Russians are half Tartar, all of them. We’re more Western here. Did you like Moscow?”
    “Loved it.”
    “Yes? You’re joking. I hate Moscow. But sometimes I go there for business. Minsk is a beautiful city. The Germans destroyed ninety percent of it and killed a third of the population, including most of my family. What bastards. But we rebuilt it all. With not much help from Moscow. You see? The arrogant Germans and the cruel Muscovites. And who got caught in the middle? Us.”
    “I know the feeling.”
    The Volga turned onto a narrow concrete road that paralleled the airport fence.
    Marchenko shifted his bulk back toward the front and continued his talk. “But when Moscow gets a cold, we sneeze. Is that the expression?”
    “The other way around,” Hollis said.
    “Yes? When Moscow sneezes, we get a cold?” He shrugged and turned his head back to Lisa and Hollis. “We are going to the helipad of course. There was no time to disengage your luggage from the others’, so it will go on to Frankfurt airport tomorrow. You can have it sent to your Frankfurt hotel. But for tonight, you have your flight bags in the trunk. If there is anything I can do through Intourist, please let me know.”
    Lisa replied, “You’ve done enough.”
    Marchenko chuckled.
    The Volga turned into a wide concrete apron on which was painted a yellow X. “Ah,” Marchenko said. “Here we are. But no helicopter. We rushed for nothing.”
    “Perhaps,” Hollis said, “someone has misappropriated it.”
    “Yes, we have that problem here. You know about that? Too much misappropriation. But I think this is the other problem we have. Lateness.”
    The Volga sat at the edge of the concrete apron, its engine running. The backup