The Charm School

little pissed off.”
    “They get murdered in America all the time,” Alevy observed. “Do you feel partly responsible for Fisher’s death?”
    “I suppose. Wouldn’t you?”
    “Maybe. Look, Sam, I’m not a politician or a diplomat, but you have to see their point of view as this thing heats up. Some dorks are trying to crank up détente again, and that’s the numero uno consideration right now. If I found two KGB men in the basement planting a bomb, the ambassador would tell me to forget it.”
    “What if you found a KGB man in bed with the ambassador’s wife?”
    Alevy smiled. “Same thing. One can’t become personally involved. Détente. Think peace.” He held up two fingers. “Peace.”
    “Okay, forget that Fisher was murdered.
Why
was he murdered?”
    “You know. He saw something. Heard something.”
    “Something big.”
    “Apparently,” Alevy replied.
    “We’re supposed to find out what it is. That’s why they put us here.”
    “Yes. That’s true. Let’s see what comes down from Washington.” Alevy walked to the door. “If you have nothing further of a sensitive nature, let’s go. The snack bar has croissants from Paris this morning. If you stick one in your ear, you can hear the sound of a sidewalk cafe.”
    “I’m going to go for the body.”
    “Wrong. Someone in the consular section is going for the body. That’s
their
job.”
    “I don’t think you heard me.
I
am going.”
    Alevy looked annoyed but said nothing.
    “I’ll need two passes from the Foreign Ministry.”
    “Two?”
    “I’m taking company.”
    “Who?”
    “Lisa Rhodes.”
    “Is that so? How do you know she wants to go?”
    “Everyone here would like to get out of Moscow. Even picking up a corpse is a treat.”
    “You understand that the Foreign Ministry will inform the KGB that they have issued a pass in your name.”
    “I think I understand that,” Hollis replied.
    “The
Komitet
does not like you any more than they like me. They may not be able to resist the temptation to get you to the Mozhaisk morgue on
their
terms.”
    “Let me worry about that.”
    “I’m not worried about you. You’re a pain in the ass. I’m worried about Lisa Rhodes.” Alevy added, “Keep in mind, I can’t cover you out in Mozhaisk.”
    “You can’t cover me fifty yards from the embassy. Two passes in my office before noon.”
    Alevy opened the door to leave, but Hollis closed it. Hollis asked, “Did you find out if a Major Jack Dodson is listed as an MIA in Vietnam?”
    “Checking on it.”
    “And how about our friend in seven forty-five? Schiller. Any such American in country?”
    “I’m checking on it, Sam. I’ll keep you fully informed.”
    “I know you will, Seth. It’s a joy working with the CIA.”
    Alevy patted Hollis’ shoulder. “Try not to get killed on the Minsk–Moscow highway.” Alevy left.
    Hollis looked at his watch: ten A . M . He’d been up all night with this thing. Brennan was in the infirmary, the Besniers were packing to leave Russia, Fisher was in the morgue, Charles Banks and the ambassador were burning the wire to Washington, and Alevy was having croissants in the snack bar. “I’ll try not to get killed on the Minsk–Moscow highway. I want to see how this thing ends.”

 
8
    Sam Hollis pulled on his blue jeans, then his leather boots. He slipped his knife in the left boot and strapped an ankle holster above his right boot. Hollis checked his Soviet Tokarev 7.62mm automatic. It was basically a Colt-Browning design, slightly modified by a Russian armorer named Tokarev who put his name on it and probably forgot to pay Colt or Browning a licensing fee. The Tokarev’s advantages were that Hollis found it to be reliable, he was familiar with the American original, and lastly, if he had to shoot someone, it was better to leave a Soviet-made slug in the body.
    Hollis screwed a short silencer into the muzzle and stuck the automatic into his ankle holster, pulling the jeans down over it. He put on a black turtleneck sweater and over that his leather jacket, which held four extra magazines of eight rounds each.
    Sam Hollis left his apartment and walked across the wide quadrangle. The grass was soggy beneath his boots, but the sky was clearing, and a weak sun was visible between the rolling clouds.
    Three boys in their mid-teens were tossing around a football. Hollis recognized the passer as Larry Eschman, son of Commander Paul Eschman, the Naval attaché. Another boy, Tom Caruso, son