The Charm School

of the consul general, was running short patterns. The third boy was named Kevin, son of Jane Lowry, a commercial officer. Kevin Lowry was defensive back. Saturday morning normality. Sort of. The Eschman boy called out, “Colonel Hollis! Ready?”
    “Sure.” Hollis ran toward the opposite sideline until Caruso and Lowry moved into defensive positions, then Hollis cut down-field in a deep fly pattern. The two boys were close, and Hollis could hear their cleats slapping on the sodden turf. Without a prearranged play Hollis thought he should hold the same pattern for Eschman. He held out his arms, glanced back over his right shoulder, and saw the ball as a brown blur hanging in the air, wide and long. He put on a burst of speed and felt the ball hit his fingertips, then got control of it and pulled it to his chest. His boots lost traction, and he shoulder-rolled forward, the ball tucked securely between his right hand and the crook of his elbow. He heard Eschman holler, “Complete! Way to go, Colonel!”
    Hollis sat up as Caruso extended his hand toward him. “Nice going, Colonel.” Hollis pulled himself up by Caruso’s hand.
    Lowry walked over and also put out his hand. As Hollis reached toward Lowry, he saw that Lowry was holding an automatic pistol. Hollis took the gun and slipped it back into his ankle holster, pressing hard on the Velcro strap.
    Lowry said, “You move pretty fast, Colonel. Even with an iron ankle weight.”
    Caruso stifled a grin.
    Hollis said, “When I played end at the Academy, I shot three defensive backs.”
    Both boys laughed.
    Hollis looked at the boys. It must be lonely for them, he thought. No high school dances, no Saturday nights, no beaches, skiing, friends, girls. No America. He said, “Get something out of this tour of duty, guys. Get out into Moscow and meet the Russians.”
    They nodded.
    “Don’t let Vanya see you with those cleats,” Hollis warned, referring to the Russian groundkeeper who was obsessed with the lawn and actually called Scotts in Columbus, Ohio, for advice.
    Hollis continued his walk across the quad. He approached the housing units, found Lisa Rhodes’ door, and pressed her buzzer. The brick row houses for singles were narrow, but they were three stories high. The first floor, that in the States might have a garage, was a laundry and storage room. A foyer with a staircase led up to the living room, dining area, and kitchen. The third floor held one or two bedrooms, sometimes a study or home office, depending on the rank of the officer. Lisa was in a one-bedroom unit along the east wall. Hollis heard her footsteps on the stairs, then the door opened. She smiled. “Hello. I thought you were running to me, then I saw the football.”
    “Were you looking for me?”
    “Just checking the weather. What did you drop?”
    “My wallet.”
    “Oh.” She stepped outside and did a complete turn. “Is this casual enough?”
    Hollis glanced her over. She was wearing ankle-high boots, black corduroy slacks, and a dark blue quilt jacket that the Russians called a
vatnik.
From the collar of the jacket rose a black turtleneck like his own. He said, “Very nice.”
    “Are you going to tell me why you requested I dress in casual clothes of dark colors?”
    “I have a fetish. Let’s go.”
    They walked on the path that ran parallel to the residences toward the pedestrian gate in the rear of the compound. She said, “Seriously, Sam… can I call you Sam?”
    “Of course.”
    “Why
dark
?”
    “I’ll tell you later.”
    They passed through the rear gate where the Marine barracks were located, and the single Marine watchstander saluted. Hollis walked up to the Soviet militia booth on the sidewalk and greeted the two young men in Russian. They returned the greeting stiffly. Hollis said, “When you get back to your barracks, you tell the two men who were at the main gate last night that Colonel Hollis apologizes for not acting correctly.”
    Neither man spoke, then one of them said, “We will be sure to tell them, Colonel.”
    “Good day.”
    Hollis and Lisa walked up Devatinski Street. Lisa asked, “What was that about?”
    Hollis replied, “I got a little nasty when they asked me for my passport. I guess I was on edge after the Rossiya.”
    She said, “That was good of you to apologize.”
    “It was militarily correct.” He added, “Also I don’t want the bastards to think they can get to me.”
    They came into Tchaikovsky Street where the old embassy