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The Charm School

The Charm School

Titel: The Charm School Kostenlos Bücher Online Lesen
Autoren: Nelson Demille
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thoroughfare of twenty-story glass and concrete flats with shops on the ground floors. It cut through the quaint Arbat district, and Hollis, though he did not share Lisa’s fondness for old Moscow, didn’t think much of new Moscow either. The street was as wide as an expressway and the shops too far apart, which might be just as well.
    Hollis stopped again, this time at the window of a woman’s clothing store named
Moskvichka
, which translated to something like “Miss Moscow,” a name that always amused him for some reason. He looked at the passing crowd reflected in the window but couldn’t spot his tail. He continued north, crossing October Square.
    Hollis walked over a stone footbridge that led to the gate beneath the Troitsky Tower set in the red brick wall of the Kremlin. Two green-uniformed guards looked him over but said nothing. Hollis entered the sixty-acre complex of magnificent cathedrals, monuments, and public buildings, the heart of Soviet power and the soul of old Russia. Sam Hollis, who was not easily impressed, was still impressed by the Kremlin.
    He walked past the Arsenal across Ivanovsky Square, threading his way through hundreds of tourists snapping pictures in the last light of day, the time when the Kremlin photographed best. He spotted two men engaged in conversation near the Troitsky gate. Like him they wore narrow-brim hats and dark overcoats. The two men stood out because they carried no briefcase or bags. Their hands were stuffed in their pockets, much like policemen everywhere, and you never knew what was in those hands. Hollis walked toward Spassky Tower on the northeast wall of the irregularly shaped citadel. The tower gate was not meant for pedestrian traffic and in fact was closed as he approached. But soon a black Volga sedan pulled away from the Presidium building, and Hollis followed it, quickening his pace. The wooden gates were pulled open by two sentries, and Hollis followed the Volga out, noticing the sentries exchanging nervous glances, but no one challenged him.
    As the gates closed behind him, Hollis walked into Red Square opposite St. Basil’s Cathedral. Only Kremlin vehicles were allowed in the square, and pedestrian traffic was heaviest now at rush hour, which was why he liked this place and this hour to lose people. Hollis darted through the throng, diagonally in front of the Lenin mausoleum where a long line of people waited to view the embalmed corpse. He walked quickly past the huge GUM department store at the north end of the square and glanced back but didn’t see the two men in overcoats. Hollis went down a set of steps in the sidewalk, and the stairs split—metro to the right, an underground passage beneath Red Square to the left. He went right, put five kopeks in the turnstile, and jumped on the fast-descending escalator. He stepped off into the huge marble station with crystal chandeliers. A train came within a minute, and he squeezed on with the commuters, taking the train north one stop to Dzerzhinsky Station.
    Hollis came up the stairs into a small park area at the southern end of Dzerzhinsky Square. He approached a group of twenty or so people standing in a tight crowd. A pretty young woman with flaming red hair was addressing the group. She said in barely accented English, “Behind you is the State Polytechnical Museum, whose exhibits trace the development of Russian engineering. This is worth visiting when you have a free day.”
    A middle-aged woman to Hollis’ left said in a New England accent, “Free day?
What
free day?”
    Her male companion said, “
Sh-h-h-h!

    The Intourist guide gave the couple a glance, then looked curiously at Hollis before continuing. “To your left is the Museum of the History and Reconstruction of Moscow. There you can see how Soviet socialist planning has made old Moscow into one of the most beautiful cities in the world.”
    Hollis noticed that the American tourists were stealing glances at him, and he knew at least some of them were imagining he was KGB, which was what they wanted to believe. It was part of the tour package, a deliciously sinister tale to tell to the folks back home.
    “To your right,” the redhead continued in a hoarse but sexy voice, “is the Mayakovsky Museum, the flat where the famous poet spent the last eleven years of his life.”
    Someone in front of Hollis asked his neighbor, “Will there be a test?”
    Hollis thought if there were a test, one question should be, “Is it true

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