The Charm School

from the American embassy stores. But Surikov’s motives were not lofty either. He had had no ideological conversion as far as Hollis knew. And according to Surikov’s own account, he had not suffered any personal harm from the system, no one in his family had spent time in a camp or internal exile. In fact, General Surikov did not have to join the crowds at Detsky Mir to buy his grandchildren toys. He had only the inconvenience of moving through the common people on his way to the Berlin Hotel, where he was headed for a decent meal. Surikov belonged to the communist aristocracy, the
nomenklatura
, who had shop-at-home service and special stores, who lived a life of gross hypocrisy and privilege unknown in even the most class-stratified societies of the West.
    Then one day, Hollis thought, for reasons known only to himself, Valentin Surikov decided he didn’t like it here anymore. He wanted to live in London, though he’d never been outside the Soviet Union as far as Hollis knew. And it wasn’t a scam as Hollis had determined early on. The Surikov stuff was top grade—Red Air Force postings, unit designations, command assignments, and so forth. Stuff no spy satellite could tell you. Apparently Surikov was a—or
the
—personnel officer for the entire Red Air Force, though he never gave out that piece of information.
    Now General Surikov had indicated he had the airfare to London and wanted Hollis to arrange the transportation. Half on booking, half on arrival. Hollis nodded to himself as he stuffed his
Pravda
in his coat pocket. There
was
a way out, but it couldn’t be used too often. Hollis didn’t know if he wanted Surikov to live in London. Surikov deserved to live in Moscow. Served him right.
    Hollis wanted to go back to the embassy now, but the gentlemen of the KGB’s Seventh Directorate—the embassy watchers—having lost him in Red Square, would at least note his time of return to the embassy compound. Somehow Hollis felt that the longer he was gone—like some errant spouse (like
his
errant spouse)—the more annoyed the watchers would become. So he decided to kill an hour in the State Polytechnical Museum. Maybe it
was
worth a visit. He was a sucker for redheads anyway. Hollis stood, removed his Lenin pin, and threw it to the ground. He picked up his briefcase and turned toward the museum.
    He thought of his wife Katherine in London. Running Surikov was one reason he couldn’t take leave to go settle things with her there. Now Surikov might get to London before him. The ironies on this job were endless. “Endless,” he said aloud.
    Lisa Rhodes popped into his mind though he’d tried to push her out of it all day. He realized he felt responsible for her safety, which might be one of the reasons he hadn’t called her. He wanted the involvement, but since he always felt like a moving target, he didn’t know if he wanted her near him. These dilemmas hadn’t bothered Alevy, apparently, as Hollis had discovered in the Arbat antique store.
    In this business, Hollis had observed, men’s relationships with women often fell into two categories: professional/sexual or sexual/professional. Alevy, he knew, preferred the former. Hollis was comfortable with neither.
    Hollis decided that maybe he ought to ask Lisa Rhodes what she thought.

 
15
    Sam Hollis entered the bowling alley in the basement of the eight-story embassy chancery building. There were three games in progress. The place was stuffy, and Hollis bought a Heineken at the bar, then took a seat at an empty lane. He noticed four female FSPs—Foreign Service Personnel—on the adjoining alley laughing and drinking. He recognized three as secretaries and one as a nurse. They all wore jeans and T-shirts. The nurse, a petite blonde, looked at him. Her T-shirt read:
Gee, Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.
    Hollis smiled. The woman winked at him and turned back to her game. Hollis sipped on his beer. He watched them bowl. There was something oddly frenetic in the way they bowled, drank, and laughed, he thought, as though their mainsprings were wound too tight. He half expected them to fall to the floor in five minutes.
    On the lane to his right were a married couple, Bill and Joan Horgan. He was in the FAS—Foreign Agricultural Service; she taught at the Anglo-American School. With them were their two teenaged daughters. Bill and Joan gave him a cheery wave. The girls looked bored senseless. One of them, Hollis recalled, was prone to