The Charm School

“I don’t want you to breathe a word of this to anyone.”
    “I know that.”
    “Good. There is someone however… do you know Seth Alevy? Political affairs officer.”
    “Yes.”
    “Mr. Alevy is attending a party in town—”
    “I know that.”
    “How do you know that?”
    “He invited me.”
    “I see. So you know how to reach him?”
    “Yes, through his people here.”
    “That’s right. Please do that.”
    She hesitated, then said, “I’ve already asked his people to get him here.”
    Hollis gave her a close look.
    She returned his stare. “I guess I know he’s involved with things like this.”
    Hollis went to the door, then turned back to her. “Are
you
involved with things like this?”
    “Oh, no. I’m just a PIO. Seth and I are social friends.”
    They looked at each other a moment. Hollis guessed she was in her late twenties. She was lightly freckled, with reddish auburn hair. She was not the type of woman you forgot meeting, and in fact, he had not forgotten the times they’d met in the embassy. He also knew that she and Alevy had been recent lovers. But by instinct and training he never offered information, only solicited it. “Hold the fort. See you later.” He left.
    Lisa moved to the door and watched him walk quickly through the lobby to the front doors. “Strong, silent type. Silent Sam.”
    Sam Hollis pushed through the glass doors into the damp, misty night. He zipped his leather jacket and headed toward a blue Ford Fairlane that sat in the forecourt with its engine running. Hollis jumped in the passenger side. “Hello, Bill.”
    The driver, a security staff man named Bill Brennan, drove quickly through the court, around the traffic circle that held the illuminated flagpole, and moved toward the gates. “Where we going, Colonel?”
    “Rossiya.” Hollis looked at Brennan. He was a man in his mid-fifties, heavyset and balding, and his nose had once been broken. Hollis always had the impression that Brennan wanted to break someone else’s nose. Hollis said, “You carrying?”
    “Yup. You?”
    “No. Didn’t have time to get it.”
    “Loan you mine if you promise to kill a commie.”
    “That’s all right.”
    The gates swung open, and the car moved past the Marine guard post, then past the Soviet militia booth on the sidewalk. Brennan kept the speed down so as not to attract the attention of the KGB embassy watchers in the surrounding buildings, but Hollis said, “Step on it. They know where I’m going.”
    “Okay.” Brennan accelerated up the dark, quiet side street and cut right onto the wide, well-lit Tchaikovsky Street. Traffic was sparse and Brennan made good time. He asked, “Do I stop for police?”
    “No, you run them.” Hollis added, “Don’t take the direct route up Kalinin.”
    “Gotcha.” The Ford picked up speed in the outside lane, passing buses and trams, and sailed past the Kalinin Prospect intersection. Brennan stuffed his mouth with bubble gum, chewed, and blew bubbles until they popped. “Want some?”
    “No, thanks. Do you know the Rossiya?”
    “Know the traffic patterns, parking, and all. Not the inside.”
    “Fine.” Brennan knew the streets of Moscow better than a Moscow cabbie, but Hollis thought that Brennan cared not a whit about Moscow. He was into streets, and he claimed he’d never seen Red Square, because he couldn’t drive through it.
    Brennan asked between chews, “Is this going to be messy?”
    “Maybe. American national up the creek at the Rossiya.”
    “How’d the
Komitet
know you were going there?”
    “Well, the kid—the U.S. national—called the embassy and said he was in trouble.”
    “Oh.”
    Hollis thought about Fisher’s call. He assumed the traffic police had indeed stopped Fisher for nothing more than an itinerary violation. But Fisher had gotten paranoid because of the Borodino thing. If he’d kept his cool, he would have been able to come to the embassy and tell his story. Instead, Gregory Fisher’s two-kopek phone call might have already cost him his freedom—or his life.
    Yet, Hollis thought, it was a brave thing to do. Stupid, but brave. Hollis would tell him that without making him feel bad. How to get Fisher out of the country was tomorrow’s problem.
    Brennan asked, “What kind of trouble is he in?”
    “Itinerary violation.”
    “Am I asking too many questions?”
    “Not yet.”
    “Okay, why am I tear-assing across Moscow with a military attaché in my car to rescue a kid who went