The Charm School

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