Burov said to them, “Gentlemen, this is Sam Hollis and Lisa Rhodes. They may be joining the faculty. Introduce yourselves.”
The six young men greeted them pleasantly, pumping their hands and saying things such as, “Nice meeting you,” “Glad you could come,” and “Welcome aboard.”
Their names, Hollis learned, were Jim Hull, Stan Kuchick, John Fleming, Kevin Sullivan, Fred Baur, and Vince Panzarello. Hollis thought their Anglo and ethnic names somewhat fit their appearance.
Fred Baur asked, “Didn’t I read about you two in the newspapers?”
Burov replied, “Yes. They died in a helicopter crash.” The young men seemed to light up with recognition. They all chatted awhile, and Hollis was impressed with not only their English, but with their informal manner in front of and with Colonel Burov. This, he knew, must have been a difficult cultural breakthrough for them and for Burov.
Lisa listened to the conversation awhile, then looked at the man named Jim Hull. He was in his early twenties, blond, and rather good-looking, dressed in only shorts and sneakers. Lisa surveyed his body up and down, then caught his eye and gave him a look of unmistakable meaning. Hull seemed alternately ill at ease and interested. Finally he broke into a silly grin, dropped his eyes, and lowered his head. Burov and Hollis both noticed, and Hollis realized that Jim Hull suddenly didn’t look American anymore. American men of that age could be shy and awkward with women, Hollis knew, but Hull’s manner of expressing his shyness and discomfort revealed the Russian boy behind the mask.
Lisa commented to Burov, “That man doesn’t get out much, does he?”
Burov seemed annoyed and said curtly, “I’m afraid my students aren’t used to aggressive American women.” He added, “Let’s go.”
They walked through the gymnasium. Lisa spoke to Hollis as though Burov weren’t there. “You know, Sam, when a young man’s hormones are bubbling and his heart is racing and the color comes to his face, he is not in complete control of himself.”
“I think I remember that.”
Burov interjected, “Well, aside from that, what did you think of them? Truthfully, now.”
“I think,” Hollis answered, “your six basketball players smelled of kolbassa and cabbage.”
“You mean literally or figuratively?”
“Both.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then don’t bother to ask me.”
Burov turned down a short corridor and opened a glass door that led to a large swimming pool. Burov motioned toward the pool in which two men and two women were swimming laps. He said, “This is a focal point of social activity at night and, I’m afraid, for some rather uninhibited parties on Friday night. That’s skinny-dipping night. The wilder bunch congregates here then. I’m not sure if that’s Russian decadence or American decadence.” Burov thought a moment, then observed, “I’ll tell you something I’ve discovered. In America, as in Russia, there is a puritanical streak in the people, a high public morality, but privately there is a good deal of looseness. I think, as great empires we associate spiritual and moral decay with political decline and fall. We think of Rome. What do you think?”
Hollis thought that Burov had been forced into some independent thinking in his capacity here. He was not overly bright, but he was cunning, a survivor, and therefore open to outside reality.
Lisa said, “There are better examples of the similarities between Russians and Americans.”
“Yes, but none so interesting as their attitudes toward sex. Follow me, please.”
They toured the remainder of the underground sports complex, and Hollis realized this place was at least a partial reason for Burov’s not wanting to break camp and move the whole operation elsewhere. When the Charm School was in its cruder, more Russian form, it could easily be relocated. But with the introduction of good housing and this spa, Burov was bogged down in what he would call American decadence, if he thought about it.
They left the underground complex by way of the elevator, which brought them back up into the concrete bunker. Burov led them outside the bunker and pointed to the south. “That barbed wire is the compound of the KGB Border Guard Directorate. They man the watchtowers and patrol the perimeter. There are a few of them inside the camp, mostly at headquarters. You have no reason to ever go near that compound nor to speak to any of them.” Burov added, “They don’t like you anyway, as you murdered two of their comrades. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly,” Hollis replied. Beyond the barbed wire and watchtowers of this camp and all the other camps in this country, he reflected, was the larger Gulag called the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. And every meter of those all-encompassing prison walls was watched by the elite paramilitary arm of the KGB, called the Border Guards Directorate. Over a half million strong, they were often better trained and equipped than the Red Army, and their existence gave the KGB the means to bully not only the populace, but the military and the very party they were sworn to defend. As they walked along a path, Hollis asked, “And you are not in the Border Guard Directorate?”
“You asked me about that once on the telephone, didn’t you? Well, I can answer you now. I’m in the Executive Action Department. You know us, of course.”
“Of course. Political murderers, saboteurs, kidnappers, and blackmailers.”
“We don’t define ourselves quite that way. But that’s about what we do. I started my career in that department, working for some years in Scandinavia. But I’ve been at this camp ten years, as I said, five as deputy commandant and five as commandant. Like everyone here, I’m assigned for life. The Center does not encourage transfers out of this place. Many of the Russians who work here, including the entire medical staff, are political prisoners who have been assigned here from the Gulag.” He added, “So, I heard on the Fisher tape that the American instructors call this place Mrs. Ivanova’s Charm School. Is sarcasm a trait peculiar to American pilots, or does it permeate your whole society?”
“It’s endemic in American society,” Hollis replied. “There are night classes on sarcasm.”
“Now you’re being sarcastic.”
The three of them continued their walk through the woods, and to an outside observer, it would have looked like a companionable scene. Hollis questioned Burov on some things, and Burov answered easily, remarking several times that there were few secrets inside the perimeter of the camp. Burov pointed out, “The real deficiency of this school is that all the male instructors are former pilots. Their premilitary backgrounds are somewhat varied, which is good, but their job experiences and adult lives are naturally too similar and limited for us to get a good cross section of American society.” Burov added, “To have two people like you with some variables in your backgrounds would make excellent additions to the faculty.”
“Please,” Hollis said, “spare me the college jargon.”
“But we use it here.”
“What do you call the guys with the submachine guns? Campus security personnel?”
“No, they are definitely KGB Border Guards, well-trained, with orders to shoot to kill.”
“So perhaps,” Hollis said, “I was only acting in self-defense when I killed two of them. Were you acting in self-defense when you murdered Gregory Fisher?”
Burov thought a moment, then replied, “In a manner of speaking I was.”
Lisa said tersely, “I don’t think so, Colonel Burov. I thought about that. I mean, how you would have had to do that. You would have had to smash that boy’s head through the windshield, smash his chest against the steering wheel—”