The Charm School

ask him to come here.”
    “That won’t be necessary if you acknowledge my point.”
    “I do.”
    Hollis took the parkas from the wall hook. “Lead on, Commander.”
    Hollis, Lisa, and Poole walked out into the cold night, Poole holding a flashlight to their front.
    Hollis said, “Isn’t there a curfew here?”
    “No. There used to be a lot of rules. There are very few rules now.” Poole added, “The Russians are a bit slow in the head, but they finally realized that totalitarianism doesn’t suit their purposes here and takes a lot of their time. They can run the rest of this benighted country with terror and fear, but this is the most free square mile in the Soviet Union.”
    “I see. That was Burov’s idea?”
    “Pretty much. He lived in the Scandinavian countries for a few years and learned that a well-fed and free population could be as cooperative and productive as a terrorized population. That’s a big leap for a Russian.” Poole laughed without humor.
    They came up to the main road near the VFW hall and turned right, east toward the headquarters, walking on the shoulder of the unlit road. Poole said, “We follow world events closely, and we’re probably better informed about Soviet-American relations than the average stateside American. Certainly we know more than any Russian below the Kremlin level.”
    As they walked, headlights approached from up the road, and the vehicle slowed as it drew closer to them, then stopped, its headlights glaring in their faces.
    Hollis, Lisa, and Poole moved toward the driver’s side of the vehicle, out of the glare of the lights, and Hollis saw that the vehicle was a Pontiac Trans Am. Sitting behind the wheel was Colonel Burov. Burov said, “Good evening, Ms. Rhodes, Commander Poole, Colonel Hollis.”
    Only Poole returned the greeting.
    Hollis saw that the Trans Am’s windshield was intact, and there didn’t seem to be any body damage to the vehicle.
    Burov said, “Yes, Mr. Fisher’s car. I suppose he didn’t get into an accident after all. Not in this car anyway.” Burov patted the steering wheel. “Nice machine.”
    Lisa came up beside Hollis and looked at Burov. “You bastard.”
    Burov ignored her and spoke to Hollis. “The seats are real leather, and there is even an air conditioner in the car. Do you all drive cars like this?”
    Hollis looked at the low, sleek car, its engine humming on the lonely road in the Russian
bor
with a uniformed officer of the KGB behind the wheel.
    Burov saw he wasn’t going to get a reply and continued, “I’m going for a drive. I’d ask you to come along to give me some pointers, but I’m leaving the camp. I want to get it out on the Minsk highway and see if it can really do a hundred and forty miles per hour.” Burov added, “Unfortunately I can only take it out at night when there are no foreigners about. Someone might see it and put two and two together, as you say.”
    Lisa said, “I hope you kill yourself in it.”
    Burov looked at her. “No, you don’t. I am the best thing that has happened to this camp. After me—who knows?” He looked back at Hollis. “I assume you are on your way to pay a courtesy call on General Austin. Or are you going to pick mushrooms?”
    Hollis said, “General Austin. How about a lift?”
    Burov laughed. “I’m afraid if I let you in this car, the temptation to try something stupid would be too great for you. You and Ms. Rhodes are slippery characters, as I discovered.” Burov raised his right hand and showed an automatic pistol. “So you will have to walk. It’s good for your heart. Good evening.” Burov let up on the clutch and hit the accelerator. The Pontiac chirped, lurched, then stalled. Burov restarted it and managed to leave a little rubber. Hollis watched the taillights disappear toward the main gate. Beneath the lighted license plate was a bumper sticker that read:
POWs and MIAs—not forgotten
.
    Lisa said, “I still hope he kills himself.” She turned to Hollis. “That’s ghoulish. Driving the car of the man he killed. He’s sick.”
    Poole asked, “That was the car of the American boy killed in an accident? Fisher?”
    “Yes.”
    “We read about it in the American newspapers. And Landis told us that you know about Jack Dodson through Fisher. They met? And Fisher contacted the embassy?”
    Hollis said, “I can’t discuss this now.”
    Poole nodded, then asked, “Where
are
we exactly?”
    Hollis looked at him. “Where do you think you