The Charm School

and walked toward them, his hands in his pockets, his right hand through a slit in his jacket and around the handle of his knife.
    Boris and Igor looked Hollis over. Boris said in English, “Hand over your wallet and watch, or we’ll beat you to a pulp.”
    Hollis replied, “Is the
Komitet
so badly paid?”
    Boris snapped, “You bastard, who do you think you are? Give me your wallet.”
    Hollis said,
“Yeb vas.” Fuck you.
Hollis turned and walked toward the embassy. He heard the footsteps of the two men behind him. They came up very close, and Igor said, “What’s your hurry? We want to talk to you.”
    Hollis kept walking. It occurred to him that the KGB had no difficulty impersonating muggers. Hollis was abreast of the embassy wall now, and the gate was fifty yards further. Suddenly he felt a powerful blow in the small of his back, and he lurched forward, sprawling across the sidewalk, breaking his fall with his hands. He rolled to the side and barely avoided a kick, then splashed into the wet gutter. Igor and Boris smiled down at him. Igor imparted to Hollis a pithy aphorism in crude Russian. “You keep drinking like that, and one of these days some queers will fuck you while you’re drunk and you’ll have a hangover in your asshole instead of your head.”
    Both men laughed.
    Hollis wanted to bring out the knife, but he knew that’s what they wanted too. Hollis remained where he was. Boris glanced toward the embassy gate, then stared at Hollis. “The next time, I’m going to crack your skull open.” He spit at Hollis, then slapped Igor on the back and said, “We taught this shit his lesson. Let’s go.” They turned and walked back toward the Chaika.
    Hollis stood and brushed the water and filth from his jacket and trousers, noticing that the palms of his hands were bleeding. He felt a raw abrasion on his cheekbone and a dull pain in his back. The two men got into the car, and Hollis could hear them laughing with the driver. The car made a U-turn and sped off.
    Hollis continued toward the embassy. As he approached the gate, a young militiaman, who had obviously seen the whole incident, stepped out of the booth and extended his hand palm up.
“Pasport.”
    Hollis snapped back, “You know who I am!”
    “Pasport!”
    “Get out of my way, you
dristui.
”
    The militiaman stiffened at the expletive.
“Stoi!”
    The other militiaman came out of the booth. “What is this?”
    A Marine guard appeared at the gate and called out, “What’s going on there?” Hollis saw he was armed and so could not cross the threshold of the property. Hollis called to him, “Open the gate.”
    The Marine opened the gate, and Hollis brushed past the militiamen, walking the ten yards between the militia booth and the entrance to the embassy compound. He took the salute of the guard, who recognized him, and the sergeant on duty asked, “Are you all right, Colonel?”
    “Fine.”
    Hollis strode across the courtyard, and in the distance he could hear the bells of Ivan’s tower chiming midnight and the raised voices of the two Marines and the two Soviet militiamen shouting at one another. He entered the chancery and went directly to the duty office.
    Lisa Rhodes stood as he walked in. “Oh, Colonel Hollis. We were getting worried. We—”
    “Any word on Bill Brennan?”
    “He’s here. In the infirmary. I don’t have the details. What happened to your face?”
    “Tripped. Is Seth Alevy here yet?”
    “Yes. He’s in the sixth-floor safe room, waiting for you.”
    Hollis went to the door.
    “May I come?”
    He looked at her.
    “Seth Alevy said I could, if it was all right with you.”
    “Is that so? Come along then.”
    They walked to the elevator in silence and rode up together. She said, “Your hands are bleeding.”
    “I know that.”
    She shrugged, then asked, “Is Bill Brennan a friend of yours?”
    “No. Why?”
    “It was the first thing you asked.”
    “He was my responsibility.”
    “I like that.”
    He glanced at her.
    The elevator stopped at the sixth floor, and they stepped across the corridor to an interior room. Hollis pressed a buzzer.
    The door opened, and Seth Alevy said, “Come in, please.” He motioned them to a round oak table at which were a dozen leather and chrome chairs.
    Lisa Rhodes looked around the dimly lit room. The chancery, she knew, had several safe rooms, but this was the first time she had been in the sixth-floor one. It was an interior room like all the safe