The Charm School

couldn’t speak Russian, and Bert Mills, who didn’t look, act, or speak Russian. But it was the best Alevy could do, considering the problems inherent in mounting an operation in the heart of the Soviet Union. The word of the night was improvise. “Improvise.”
    “And bluff,” Mills added.
    They intersected the blacktopped main road of the camp, and Alevy took a compass from his greatcoat. To the right, he knew, should be the main camp gate, beyond which was Borodino Field. To the left should be the center of the camp. The satellite photographs had shown a large concrete building that Alevy hoped was the headquarters. They turned left and moved quickly along the edge of the tree-lined road.
    Within a few minutes they saw the lights of a long wooden building that hadn’t appeared in the satellite photographs. They approached it cautiously. Alevy saw it had a porch out front, and as he got closer he heard music coming from the building. Alevy pointed to the sign above the door that read VFW POST 000. Mills nodded and motioned to the Coke machine.
    Alevy stepped up to the porch, followed by Mills. Through the window they could see a large recreation room in which were about twenty men and a few women, all in their mid-twenties. Alevy said, “Students.”
    A group of men and women were watching Bela Lugosi’s
Dracula
on a seven-foot video screen. The rest of the students were sitting in a group of chairs, drinking and talking. There were Halloween decorations on the walls and a large coffin in the center of the floor.
    Mills said, “Party. Halloween.”
    Alevy nodded. He hadn’t thought of that, though it looked as if it were about over. He focused on the huge American flag on the opposite wall. “Bizarre.”
    As they turned to leave, the front door opened, and a middle-aged man in a white ski jacket came out onto the porch and stopped short. He stared at Alevy and Mills.
    Alevy and Mills looked back at him. No one spoke for a few seconds, then the man said in English, “You speak English?”
    Alevy nodded.
    The man cleared his throat and said in a drunken slur, “Well, go ahead and shoot.”
    “Shoot?”
    The door opened again, and a young man came out and said quickly in Russian, “I’ll take responsibility for this American, Major.”
    Alevy tried to figure out what was going on and what language to reply in. Both men were clearly very drunk.
    The young man spoke in Russian. “My name is Marty Bambach. This is Tim Landis. I board with him. I’ll take him home.”
    Landis said in English, “I just lost track of time. No big fucking deal.”
    Alevy began to understand. Landis was the American, probably violating a curfew, and Bambach was a Russian American. Alevy said to Marty in Russian, “I can overlook this man’s curfew violation if you take responsibility for him.”
    Marty replied in Russian, “Thank you, Major.” He looked at Alevy in the dim light. “Are you new here?”
    “Yes. Why don’t you go inside? I want to speak to this man a moment.”
    Marty hesitated, then said, “He doesn’t speak Russian.”
    “Go inside.”
    “Yes, sir.” Marty turned to Landis and said in perfect English, which surprised Alevy and Mills, “It’s okay, Tim. He just wants to talk to you. I’ll take you home.” Marty turned and wove his way back into the building.
    Landis staggered to the edge of the porch and leaned on the rail. He unzipped his fly and urinated. “Fuck this place.” He zipped himself up and wobbled back toward the door.
    Alevy took his arm and said in accented English, “Have a seat there.”
    “Let go of my arm.”
    “Listen to me. Is Colonel Sam Hollis here?”
    Landis looked at Alevy but said nothing.
    “Hollis and Lisa Rhodes. Are they
here
?”
    “Hollis… I felt sorry for him… he made it home.” Landis shook his head.
    “Go on.”
    “Plucked out of the drink… but here he is with us poor bastards… twenty years late… but here he is.” Landis suddenly attempted a salute. “Captain Timothy Landis, United States Air Force, at your service, Major. Hey, when is this fucking tour up?”
    “Very soon.”
    “Yeah? Best news.”
    “Where is Hollis?”
    “My wife Jane thinks he’s a hunk.”
    “Wife?”
    Landis went on, “But he’s got his woman with him. Fucking women. They’re going to shoot her. She talks too much.”
    “Who? Who are they going to shoot?”
    “Huh?”
    “Lisa Rhodes? Are they going to shoot Lisa Rhodes?”
    “Probably. She talks too