The Charm School (46 page)
Authors: Nelson Demille
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Suspense, #Espionage, #Mystery fiction, #Fiction:Suspense, #Detective and mystery stories, #Soviet Union - Fiction, #Soviet Union
Long-bearded priests in gilded vestments swung censers and passed a jeweled Bible from one to the other. The litany began, repetitious and melancholy, lasting perhaps a quarter hour.
Immediately after the litany ended, from somewhere behind the iconostasis, a hidden choir began an unharmonized and unaccompanied chant that struck Hollis as more primitive than ecclesiastic but nonetheless powerful. Hollis looked around at the faces of the people, and it struck him that he had never seen such Russian faces in the two years he’d lived in Moscow. These were serene faces, faces with clear eyes and unknit brows, as if, he thought, the others really
were
soul dead and these were the last living beings in Moscow. He whispered to Lisa, “I am . . . awed . . . thank you.”
“I’ll save your spy’s soul yet.”
Hollis listened to the ancient Russian coming from the altar, and though he had difficulty following it, the rhythm and cadence had a beauty and power of its own, and he felt himself, for the first time in many years, overwhelmed by a religious service. His own Protestantism was a religion of simplicity and individual conscience. This orthodox service was Byzantine Imperial pomp and Eastern mysticism, as far removed from his early memories of white clapboard churches as the Soviet “marriage palaces” were removed from the Church of the Assumption. Yet here, in these magnificent ruins, these medieval-looking priests spoke the same message that the grey-suited ministers had spoken from the wooden pulpits of his youth: God loves you.
Hollis noticed that the worshipers crossed themselves and bowed low from the waist whenever the mood seemed to strike them, with no discernible signal from the altar. From time to time, people would manage to prostrate themselves on the crowded floor and kiss the stone. He saw, too, that the murky icons around the walls were now illuminated by the thin candles that were being stuck into the gilded casings that framed the icons. People were congregating around what he presumed to be the icons of their patron saints, kissing them, then moving back to let someone else through.
For all the ritual on the altar, Hollis thought, the worship in the nave was something of a free-for-all, quite different from the mainstream Protestant churches he’d once attended, where the opposite was sometimes true.
Suddenly the chanting stopped, and the censers ceased swinging. A priest in resplendent robes moved to the edge of the raised altar and spread his arms.
Hollis looked closely at the full-bearded man and saw by his eyes that he was young, no more than thirty perhaps.
The priest began talking without a microphone, and Hollis listened in the now-quiet church where nothing could be heard but the young priest’s voice and the crackling of the tallow candles. The priest delivered a brief sermon, speaking of conscience and good deeds. Hollis found it rather unoriginal and uninspiring, though he realized that the congregation did not hear this sort of thing often.
Lisa, as if knowing what was on his mind, whispered, “The KGB are recording every word. There are hidden messages in the sermon, words and concepts that the clergy and congregation understand, but which the KGB cannot begin to comprehend. It’s a start anyway, a spark.”
Hollis nodded. It was odd that she used that word: spark—
iskra
in Russian. It was the word Lenin often used and what he named his first underground newspaper—
Iskra
. The concept then, as now, was that Russia was a tinderbox, awaiting a spark to set the nation ablaze.
Hollis heard the young priest say, “It is not always convenient to let others know you believe in Christ. But if you live your life according to His teachings, no power on this earth, no matter what they deny you in this life, can deny you the Kingdom of God.”
The priest turned abruptly back to the altar, presumably, Hollis thought, leaving the more educated worshipers to draw their own moral or finish the sermon in their minds.
At a particular point in the mass, toward the end, a large number of people either prostrated themselves completely, or if they couldn’t find the room, knelt and bowed their faces to the floor. Lisa dropped to her knees, but Hollis remained standing. He was able to look across the church now, and he saw standing to his left front, about twenty feet away, a stooped old man with disheveled hair, grey stubble on his face, dressed in a shabby dark coat that almost reached his ankles. At first sight there was nothing remarkable about the old man, and Hollis thought that what had initially caught his eye was the young woman standing beside him. She was about seventeen or eighteen, Hollis reckoned, and she too was dressed in a shabby coat, a shapeless red synthetic. But her manner and her bearing, if not her uncommon beauty, marked her as someone special. More than that, Hollis, who was trained to see such things, picked out the coat as a disguise. She was quite obviously someone who should not be seen in the Church of the Assumption. This discovery led Hollis to look more closely at the old man, who in an unusual gesture for a Russian, especially in church, was holding the girl’s hand affectionately.
As Hollis stared at the man, people began to stand, and Hollis’ view was becoming blocked, but in a second before he lost sight of the strange couple, he realized that the stooped old grandfather was actually somewhat younger than he appeared. In fact, it was General Valentin Surikov. Suddenly things were becoming more clear.
27
Sam Hollis and Lisa Rhodes moved with the crush of worshipers through the open doors of the church. The people carried their blessed food in bags, and many of them clutched a handful of the thin brown candles. Hollis looked out over the converging paths. These people, he realized, did not seem to know one another, did not speak, nor did they try to make acquaintances. They had come by metro and bus from all over Moscow to an inconveniently placed church, and now they scattered like lambs who smelled wolves. “Do the K-goons usually hang around?”
“Who? Oh, those men. Sometimes. But I don’t see them now.”
Hollis didn’t see them either. But he worried more about the KGB when he didn’t see them. He moved off the path and watched the people coming down the steps.
“Are you looking for someone?”
“Just people-watching.” Hollis realized that not only were the worshipers scattering, but the priests had not come out to speak with their flock. As he watched for Surikov, he said to Lisa, “No tea and fellowship afterwards?”
Lisa seemed to understand. “The Orthodox Christian comes to God’s house to worship Him. The priests don’t come to your house to ask how you’re getting along.”
“The Kremlin must find that useful.”
“True. In fact, the Russian church has always preached subservience to the state. When the czars were on the throne, it worked for the church and the czars. But when Lenin became the new czar, it backfired.”
“You mean there’s something I can’t blame on the Reds?”
“The communists didn’t help the situation.”
Hollis watched the last of the worshipers leave the church but did not spot Surikov or the girl with him.
He and Lisa walked away from the church and sat on a stone bench occupied by a stout babushka who seemed to be sleeping in a sitting position. Lisa asked, “Did you like the service?”
“Very much. We take so much for granted in the West.”
“I know. Thanks for coming, even if you came because you had to go to the cemetery anyway.”
“I came to be with you.”
She nodded and looked up in the sky. “This is not like autumn at home, and it’s not like winter either. It’s something else. It’s like a time of foreboding, grey and quiet, mist and fog obscuring the world. I can’t see a sun or a horizon or even the end of a block. I want to go home now.”
Hollis took her hand. “We’ll be in the air this time tomorrow, heading west.”
She moved closer to him. “Do you have to go to the cemetery?”
“Yes.”
“It’s not dangerous, is it?”
“No. I just have to meet an old Russian friend to say good-bye.”
“A spy? A dissident?”
“Sort of.”
The old lady stood and moved aimlessly down the path.
Lisa said, “At Gogol’s grave. Was that his idea?”
“Yes.” Hollis looked at his watch. The service had lasted about two hours, and it was nearly noon. Now he knew why Surikov had picked this hour and place. “I won’t be more than thirty minutes. Where can I meet you?”
“At the bell tower there. See it? Don’t get lost.”
Hollis stood. “How do I get into the cemetery?”
“Just keep on this path. You’ll see another gate church set in the wall like the one we entered through. Go through the gate, and you’ll find yourself in the cemetery.”
“Thanks. Are you going to walk around?”
“Yes. I like to walk here.”
“Don’t walk in the cemetery.”
“Okay.”
“Try to walk where there are people.”
“If they come for you, it doesn’t matter how many people are around. You know that.”
“Yes, I know that.” He added, “I don’t think they know we’re here. But be careful.”
“
You
be careful. They might have followed this friend of yours.” She gave him one of the thin brown candles. “Here. To light the way.”
He kissed her on the cheek. “See you later.” Hollis turned and walked down the path, carrying the candle. Within a few minutes he passed another large church of brick and white stone that looked forlorn among the bramble and bush, unused as either a church or a museum. The path curved around it, and he saw the towering south wall of the convent grounds, then spotted the gate church built into the center of it.
Hollis looked around. A few people straggled past him, apparently headed for the cemetery. He slid his hands in his overcoat pockets and leaned back against a thick rowan tree. His right hand let go of the candle and found the silenced 9mm Polish Radom automatic, another Colt-Browning knockoff. His left hand slid through his coat to the handle of the knife in his belt sheath. Hollis watched awhile, then fell in behind three young couples and followed them down to the gate church. He passed through the portals into a tunnellike passage and found himself in the quiet cemetery.
The convent grounds, like the Kremlin, had been built on a rare high spot on the banks of the Moskva, and Hollis could see down the slope out to the south and west over the brick cemetery wall. The Olympic complex and Lenin Stadium were five hundred meters to the south, nestled in the loop of the Moskva on reclaimed bog land. Beyond the stadium was the river, and rising from its south bank were the Lenin Hills and the towers of Moscow University. He could pick out the observation platform where he, Lisa, and Sasha had shared a brief and pleasant moment.
Hollis followed a brick path into the sloping cemetery. It was heavily treed, and most of the graves were overgrown. The tombstones were higher than a man, in the old Russian style, creating a maze of limestone and granite. The cemetery was as wide as the convent grounds but not as deep, and Hollis estimated it covered about six acres. It would take some time to find Gogol’s grave here.
There weren’t many people in the cemetery, which was good for privacy, but there were enough so that he and Surikov wouldn’t stand out. Surikov had picked a good Sunday spot.
The visitors were mostly students apparently looking for the graves of the famous. They stood in knots in front of tombstones, pointing and discussing the man or woman interred there. Hollis saw the graves of Chekhov, Stanislavsky, and the painter Isaac Levitan. Six young men and women, Bohemian types in peasant-chic
vatniks,
baggy corduroys, and high boots, sat on the path and talked in front of the grave of the filmmaker Sergey Eisenstein. Hollis walked around them.
An old lady in a dirty red coat stood facing the gravestone of Nikita Khruschev. The woman crossed herself, bowed to the stone, and walked off. Hollis wondered if she was a relative.
He turned up an intersecting path and found himself in a patch of ground mist. A tall, attractive woman, smartly dressed in a long, black leather coat, came out of the mist toward him. As she drew close, Hollis asked her in Russian, “Gogol’s grave?”
She looked him over, then said in an unusually cultured accent, “You might try over there. Near that very tall pine tree. I think I passed it.”
“Thank you.” Hollis moved past her.
She said to him or to herself, “But you never know. Even the dead disappear here.”
Hollis kept on walking. A week ago, he thought, he’d have stopped and spoken to the woman. But his quota for Russian adventures was filling up fast, and he hadn’t even spoken to Surikov yet.
Hollis saw him standing on the path under the spreading boughs of a tall pine tree, smoking a cigarette, contemplating a decaying slab of lichen-covered limestone. Hollis stood beside him and looked at the tall stone.
Surikov said, “Do they read this fellow in the West?”
“Not so much. Colleges, I guess.”
“Can I get things to read in Russian there?”
“Yes.”
“Dead souls,” Surikov said. “Dead souls.” He stared at the grave a while longer, then looked Hollis up and down through his cloud of cigarette smoke, and a thin smile came to his lips. “Do we dress so badly as that?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“It looks worse on you.”
“Thank you.” Hollis added, “Why are
you
dressed badly today?”
Surikov ran his hand over his stubble. “It’s Sunday.” He turned and walked away. Hollis waited a full minute, then followed.
Surikov stood near the base of the corner battletower where it joined the brick wall of the cemetery. There were ancient tombstones along the wall with old Cyrillic that Hollis couldn’t read.
Surikov pulled a
Pravda
-wrapped parcel from the pocket of his baggy coat and said, “Do you want to buy fresh carp?”
Hollis could actually smell the fish. “Perhaps.”
Surikov tapped the package as if extolling the virtues of the fish. He said, “So, my friend,
Pravda
tells me you are leaving Russia. I was quite shocked to hear that. I didn’t know if you would come today. I was worried.”
Hollis could well imagine what was worrying Surikov. Hollis replied, “My diplomatic immunity is in some doubt right now. So you don’t have to ask me if I’m sure I wasn’t followed, because today I’m as worried as you are.”
“Yes? I could lose my life. You would only go to prison.”
“I would envy you a bullet in the head if I was sent east for five or ten years.”
Surikov shrugged. “So, how will this affect our deal?”
“We have no deal.”
“We will. When are you leaving?”
Hollis replied in a sarcastic tone, “It was in your
Pravda,
wasn’t it?”
“They didn’t say
when
you were leaving.”
“Really? Well, I’m leaving Wednesday.”
Surikov’s face seemed to show some surprise. He asked, “Who will replace you as air attaché?”
“I’m not certain.”
“Will I deal with the new air attaché or someone else?”
“We’ll discuss that before we part.”
A young couple appeared on the path and moved over to the worn tombstones. At the base of the wall the man knelt and traced his fingers over the lettering. The woman held a notebook. The man said, “This was a nun. Gulia. I don’t hear that name much anymore.” The woman made some notes in her book.
Surikov waved the carp under Hollis’ nose. “I caught them this morning in the Setun. My wife cleaned them so a lazy bachelor would pay good money for them.”
The young couple moved down the row of stones.
Surikov said, “I think you’re telling me little lies. I know you are leaving tomorrow, and I know the name of your replacement is Colonel Fields.”
Hollis nodded. It may have been the embassy listeners, who heard him telling the Kellums, or it may have been the Kellums, who told the KGB directly. Whatever the route, it was a little scary to hear that from General Surikov. Hollis said, “The KGB told you that.”
“Yes. They told me the name of the new air attaché. They told me you were leaving Monday, not Wednesday.”
“Why did they tell you any of that?”
“They like to impress people with their knowledge. I’m not a military intelligence officer, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Hollis never thought Surikov was. He didn’t have the moves or the jargon of a GRU man.
Surikov added, “Actually, the KGB wanted to know if I or my staff or any of our overseas air attachés knew a Colonel Fields. The KGB is apparently having trouble building a dossier on him, so they came to me.” Surikov smiled. “Perhaps you can help me impress them.”
“What exactly is your position with the Red Air Force, General?”
“I am what you would call a G-I. Chief of Air Force personnel.”
“For what command?”
“The whole Red Air Force, Colonel. I keep the files and paperwork of a half million men. Not so glamorous a job, but interesting things come across my desk. Don’t you agree?”
“How did the KGB know the name of Colonel Fields?”
Surikov looked Hollis in the eye and replied, “I think they’ve penetrated your embassy.” He studied Hollis’ face for a reaction.
Hollis asked, “How was this KGB inquiry directed to you? Memo? Phone call?”
“In person. I was summoned to Lefortovo. The KGB can even summon generals. They take delight in asking us to stop in to see them at Lubyanka or Lefortovo. One never knows if one will leave there alive. This happened a few days ago.”
“Were you frightened, General?”
“Very much.”
“To whom did you speak at Lefortovo?”
“A colonel named Pavlichenko.”
“Tall, blond, pouty lips, blue eyes?”
Surikov’s eyebrows rose. “Yes. You know the man?”
“By a different name.” Hollis realized that Surikov was in an answering mood for a change. It was often so when the final deal was at hand. Hollis didn’t know if Valentin Surikov, a Christian, was any more trustworthy than General Surikov of the Red Air Force, but he was willing to gamble that he was.
Surikov said, “After Lefortovo, I am more resolved than ever to leave here.”
“I know how you feel.”
“Can you get me out?”
Hollis had no authorization to say yes, but the time had come to bring this whole thing to a head. “I can if you have the fare.”
“Half now, half in the West.”
“I understand.”
“Is it dangerous? The getting out, I mean.”
“Of course.”
“It’s not for me that I’m worried.”
Hollis already knew that. “Is she your granddaughter?”
Surikov’s head snapped around, and he opened his mouth, but no words came out.
Hollis continued matter-of-factly, “It’s dangerous, but it doesn’t require much from you except nerve. Does she have nerve?”
Surikov drew on his cigarette. “She has faith.” He glanced at Hollis but did not hold eye contact. “You saw us?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know why I want to leave.”
“I suppose.”
Surikov stared stupidly at the wrapped carp in his hands and spoke, but not to Hollis. “I curse the day I found God. My life has been a misery ever since.”
Hollis didn’t know quite how to respond to that statement, but he understood it.
Surikov said, “Yes, my granddaughter. Natasha. My only daughter’s only daughter. The light of my life, Hollis.”
“She’s a beautiful girl. Does she speak English?”
“Yes.”
“She’ll do well. She’ll marry a rich American or Englishman and live happily ever after. Do you believe that?”