The Charm School

stucco building near the railroad tracks. A wooden sign over the door said MORG . Hollis looked at his watch. It was just after eight P . M . They got out of the car and walked to the door. He said to her, “Are you up to this, or do you want to sit in the car?”
    “I’m up to this. I’ve done consular work. I wasn’t up to the other thing.”
    “You were fine.”
    “Thank you. And you have brass balls.”
    “I show off around women. That’s why I brought you along.” He pushed a button marked NIGHT BELL , and they waited. Hollis put his hand on her shoulder and noted she wasn’t shaking. This was a very cool woman, he thought.
    The heavy wooden door to the morgue opened, revealing a man wearing the uniform of a KGB colonel. The man said in English, “Come in.”

 
10
    The KGB colonel cocked his finger under Hollis’ nose, turned, and walked away.
    Hollis and Lisa followed him through a dark, musty room furnished as a sitting room, and Hollis recalled that a municipal morgue often doubled as a funeral parlor. They entered a cold room of white ceramic tile, and Hollis was hit by that smell of chemicals whose purpose one would instantly recognize. The Russian pulled a hanging string, and a bright fluorescent light flickered on, illuminating a white enameled freezer chest of a type found in America in the 1950s. Without formalities the colonel opened the freezer lid, exposing the body of a naked man lying in the white frost.
    The corpse’s arms and legs were askew, and his head lolled to one side. Gregory Fisher’s eyelids had not been closed, and the staring eyes revealed frozen tears. Cracked teeth showed through parted blue lips.
    Hollis noticed that Fisher’s chest and face were deeply lacerated and that the blood had not been properly cleaned off. The young man’s cuts and bruises were deep purple against his white flesh. Hollis studied Fisher’s face and was able to discern the features of a once good-looking man in his early twenties. Hollis felt sorry for Gregory Fisher, whose voice had become familiar to him with each replay of the tape. Hollis wondered if they’d had to torture him to make him tell them about Dodson.
    The KGB colonel handed Hollis a passport, which Hollis opened to the photo page. He glanced at the color photograph of a tanned, smiling face, then handed the passport to Lisa. She looked at the photo, then at the corpse, and nodded. She slipped the passport into her bag.
    The colonel slammed the freezer shut and motioned them into a small cubicle in which sat a battered birch desk and three mismatched chairs. He indicated two of the chairs, then took the better chair behind the desk and turned on a shaded reading lamp. He said in English, “You are Colonel Hollis of course, and this must be Lisa Rhodes.”
    “That’s correct,” Hollis answered. “And you are a colonel of the KGB. I didn’t hear your name.”
    “Burov.” He added, “You understand that with the death of a foreigner, Soviet law states that the KGB must process the paperwork and so forth. You should attach no further meaning to my presence.”
    “If you say so.”
    Burov leaned forward and stared at Hollis. “I say so.” Burov asked, “And am I to attach any meaning to
your
presence, Colonel Hollis?”
    “No, you are not.” But of course, Hollis knew, they were both lying. As soon as the Soviet Foreign Ministry saw that it was Hollis and not a consular officer who applied for the pass, they notified the KGB, and the KGB, wanting to see what Colonel Hollis was about, told the Foreign Ministry to issue it. The simple matter of transferring the remains had escalated into something like a counterintelligence operation. Hollis wondered what would provoke the KGB to kill him and Lisa out here. Probably the Borodino side trip, if they knew about that. That’s what got Fisher into the ice chest in the next room.
    Burov said, “You are several hours later than I expected. You kept me waiting.”
    “I had no idea you
were
waiting, Colonel.”
    “Oh, please, you knew very well… anyway, what caused your delay?”
    Hollis looked closely at Burov in the dim light. He placed Burov in his mid-forties. He was a tall, well-built man with those pursed boyish lips that were prevalent in the north around Leningrad and Finland. His skin was fair, his eyes were blue, and his hair was a flaxen yellow, reinforcing Hollis’ impression that Burov was more Nordic than Slavic. He may have had Finnish blood, or he may