The Charm School

will be no money in this for you, gentlemen, no medals, no glory, no official recognition, no photo opportunities at the White House. There will just be a hell of a bad time down there and maybe an unmarked grave in this Russian forest. So I thank you again for volunteering.”
    None of them responded.
    Alevy looked at his watch. It was 2:03 A . M . The camp would be sleeping, unaware that release from their long captivity was close at hand.
    O’Shea pulled back on the cyclic stick, and the helicopter flared out, hung a moment, then settled softly onto the grass helipad of the Charm School. O’Shea said aloud but to himself, “Nice landing, Ed.”

40
    The helicopter sat in the center of the field, its engines still turning. Brennan and Mills dropped down below the window.
    Seth Alevy looked at his watch. It was just 2:05 A . M . He said to O’Shea, “Captain, you will lift off not later than three forty-five, with or without passengers, and that includes any or all of the three of us. Understand?”
    “Understood.”
    “Shut it down.”
    O’Shea shut off the engines, and the blades wound down.
    The beam of light coming from the vicinity of the radio cabin about a hundred meters off played over the helicopter, picking out the cockpit, the cabin windows, the Aeroflot emblem, and finally the registration number, P-413, on the tail boom.
    Alevy climbed back into the cabin and slid open the portside door. Brennan said, “Good luck.”
    Mills added, “You look Russian.”
    Alevy jumped down, put on his officer’s cap, and strode purposefully toward the searchlight and the log cabin. He said to himself, “I hope so.”
    The man behind the light shut it off, came down from the flatbed, and walked toward Alevy. As he drew within ten meters, Alevy saw he was a young KGB Border Guard carrying an AK-47 at port arms. The KGB man stopped and issued a challenge. “Halt! Identify yourself.”
    Alevy stopped and replied in brusk Russian, “I am Major Voronin.” Alevy strode up to the man, who had come to a position of attention, the AK-47 still at the ready across his chest, his finger on the trigger. Alevy stopped a few feet from him. “I’m here to see your colonel,” Alevy said, not knowing if Burov used that nom de guerre here or used Pavlichenko, which General Surikov had indicated was Burov’s real name. Alevy snapped, “Are you deaf, man? I’m here to see your colonel!”
    “Yes, sir!”
    “Has he sent a vehicle for me?”
    “No, sir. And I have no instructions regarding your arrival, Major.”
    “How unfortunate for you,” Alevy said, using a sarcasm favored by KGB officers. “What is your name, Private?”
    “Frolev.”
    “Well, Frolev, call and get me a vehicle.”
    “Yes, sir.” Frolev did an about-face and marched back to the radio cabin.
    Alevy followed.
    Frolev walked past the spotlight’s flatbed, which Alevy noted had no vehicle attached to it. This
izba
was a simple structure of hewn logs and the ubiquitous sheet metal roof. There were some windows cut into the cabin, and from the roof protruded a stovepipe and two aerials. Two wires, electric and telephone, ran from the cabin to a nearby pine tree.
    Frolev opened the door of the one-room
izba
and moved aside as Alevy entered. A bare lightbulb hung from the center rafter. Inside were two other men—one more than Alevy had figured on.
    One man lay sleeping on a cot along the far wall, a hard-cover copy of Rybakov’s
The Children of the Arbat
on his rising and falling chest. The other man, a sergeant, sat at a field desk studying a game of chess that had neared its end. As Frolev pulled the door shut, he yelled, “Attention!”
    The sergeant jumped to his feet, and the sleeping man stumbled out of the cot and stood to attention.
    Alevy looked around the room. In the far corner was a ceramic tile stove atop which sat a steaming teakettle. Along the right wall was a long table on which were a VHF radio, a shortwave radio, and two telephones.
    Alevy moved to the chessboard and examined the pieces. He said to Frolev, “Are you white? How did you get yourself into such a mess?”
    The man laughed politely.
    The middle-aged sergeant, standing at the desk, cleared his throat, “Excuse me, Major.”
    Alevy looked at the man. “Yes, Sergeant?”
    “Unfortunately I know nothing of your arrival.”
    Frolev said quickly, “Sergeant, this is Major Voronin to see Colonel Burov. He requires a vehicle.”
    The sergeant nodded and said to Alevy,