The Charm School

helicopter, and the four Americans carried their own luggage off, the bus driver helping them with their bags of Beriozka items.
    The pilot opened the cabin door and took the luggage, stowing it in the narrow space behind the last two seats. The four Americans tipped the bus driver in rubles and climbed aboard the helicopter.
    Alevy sat directly behind the pilot and noted that the copilot’s seat was empty as was usually the case on these short hops to the airport.
    The other three men settled into the remaining seats. One of them, the frequent Moscow traveler, commented, “At this hour we could make Sheremetyevo by taxi in thirty minutes. The Russkies probably think we’re nuts to spend this kind of money to make it by chopper in ten.”
    Another man replied, “They’re learning how to part us from our greenbacks. Ten more years and you’ll see hard currency strip joints on Gorky Street.”
    Everyone laughed.
    The helicopter lifted vertically over the Trade Center complex, and Alevy looked down at the handsome buildings below: the fifteen-story hotel, the taller office buildings, and the trade exhibition halls. “A true window to the West,” he said. “To the world. Even the Soviet paranoia about everything Western seems to be missing from the place.”
    No one replied.
    Alevy leaned forward and examined the helicopter instrument panel, its gauges and radios alight in a faint red glow. He said to the pilot, “Do you speak English?”
    The pilot glanced back as he swung the helicopter north toward Sheremetyevo. “
Chto?
”
    “
Angliiski?
”
    “
Nyet.
”
    Alevy nodded and sat back in his seat. He said to the other men, “Fuel gauge reads full.”
    The man sitting beside Alevy, Captain Ed O’Shea, nodded. “As I said, Seth, it’s a regulation so that all aircraft, even civilian craft, are always ready for instant mobilization if the balloon goes up.”
    “Good rule,” Alevy remarked.
So far, so good
, he thought.
One pilot, full tanks
. He and two of the other Americans with him, Hollis’ aide, O’Shea, and Alevy’s deputy station chief, Bert Mills, had flown out to Helsinki during the past week, then come back to Moscow individually, with new passports and forged Soviet visas, checking into the Trade Center. They were officially out of the country, and there would be few problems for the embassy if things went bad.
    The man behind Alevy, Bill Brennan, who had come directly from his convalescent leave in London, said, “I want to thank you for giving me a chance to even the score.”
    Alevy replied, “I thought you’d be getting bored in London.” He added, “They did a lousy job on your nose.” Alevy looked out the window and saw Sheremetyevo coming up on the port front. “Well, gentlemen, are we ready?”
    They all answered in the affirmative. Bert Mills, in the rear seat beside Brennan, leaned forward and said to Captain O’Shea, “Now that you’ve seen it, can you fly it from the copilot’s chair?”
    O’Shea replied, “Tricky, but we’ll give it a shot.”
    “Okay,” Alevy said, “here goes.” Alevy took a chloroform pad from his pocket, ripped open the foil envelope, and reached around the pilot’s face, clamping the pad over his mouth as O’Shea jumped forward into the copilot’s seat and grabbed the controls of the wobbling craft.
    The pilot thrashed around, kicking the control pedals and yanking on the collective pitch stick. The helicopter began tilting dangerously as O’Shea fought for control. He shouted, “Get him out of there!”
    Alevy stood and ripped the pilot’s headphones off, then with Brennan’s help pulled the pilot up and over the seat, dropping him on the floor of the cabin. The pilot groaned, then lay still.
    Alevy took a deep breath and leaned forward. “Okay, Captain. The seat is yours.”
    “Right.” O’Shea rose carefully from the copilot’s seat. “Hold on.” He cut the throttle, and the helicopter began to drop. O’Shea vaulted sideways into the pilot’s seat, grabbing at the controls as his feet found the antitorque pedals. The dropping craft yawed and rolled, then steadied as O’Shea got control. He opened the throttle, and the helicopter began to rise. “Okay, okay.”
    Alevy crossed over to the copilot’s seat as Bert Mills and Bill Brennan moved forward into the middle seats. Alevy asked O’Shea, “Well, is it as easy to fly as it looks?”
    O’Shea smiled grimly. “This is a bitch. I haven’t flown rotary-wing in ten