Read The Charm School for Free Online Page B

and fur hats, approached. They carried white billy clubs. One came to his window, and Fisher lowered it.
    “Amerikanets?”
    “Right.
Da.
”
    “Viza. Pasport.”
    Gregory Fisher controlled his shaking hands as he produced his visa and passport.
    The policeman studied the documents, looking alternately between Fisher and the papers again and again until Fisher thought the man was a half-wit. The other man was walking around the car, touching it. He seemed intrigued by the rear spoiler.
    No one said anything for a long time. Suddenly a man in civilian clothing appeared. He stared at Fisher through the windshield, then came to the driver’s side. He spoke in heavily accented but correct English. “The car documents, please. Your international driver’s license, your insurance papers, your motoring itinerary.”
    “Right.
Da.
” Fisher handed the man a large envelope.
    The civilian studied the paperwork for some time, then snapped his fingers, and one of the policemen quickly handed him Fisher’s passport and visa. The civilian said to Fisher, “Turn off your ignition, give me your keys, and step out of the car.”
    Fisher did as he was told. As he stood in front of the man he noticed that he was tall and very slender for a Russian. In fact, he was fair and Nordic-looking.
    The man studied Fisher’s face, then his passport and visa pictures just as the uniformed man had done. Finally he said, “You come from Smolensk?”
    “Connecticut.”
    “You just arrived in Moscow from Smolensk?”
    “Oh, yes.”
    “You were driving in the country at night.”
    “No.”
    “But you said you just arrived in Moscow. It has been dark for two hours.”
    “I didn’t say I just—”
    “You were seen coming past the Arch.”
    “Oh… is that the city limit?”
    “What is your business in this quarter of the city?”
    “Tourism.”
    “Yes? Have you gone to your hotel yet?”
    “No. I thought I’d just drive around—”
    “Please don’t lie. That makes it worse. You were driving in the country at night.”
    “Yes.” Fisher looked closely at the man. He was about forty, wore a leather coat and a black fur hat, probably sable. He seemed neither friendly nor hostile, just inquisitive. Fisher knew the type. “Well, I got a late start from Smolensk.”
    “Did you?” The man looked at Fisher’s travel itinerary. “Yet it says here you left the Intourist office at thirteen-fifty—one-fifty P . M .”
    “I got lost.”
    “Where?”
    “At Bor—at Mozhaisk.”
    The man stared at Fisher, and Fisher stared back.
Fuck you, Boris.
    “I don’t understand.”
    “Lost. You know.”
    “What did you see in Mozhaisk?”
    “The cathedral.”
    “Where did you get lost?” The man added in a sarcastic tone, “Inside the cathedral?”
    Fisher’s fear gave way to annoyance. “Lost means you don’t
know
where.”
    The man suddenly smiled. “Yes. Lost means that.” The man seemed to be thinking. “So. That is what you say?”
    Fisher stayed silent. He might not have the right to remain so, he thought, but he had enough brains not to incriminate himself any further.
    The man regarded Greg Fisher for an uncomfortably long time, then motioned Fisher to follow him. They went to the rear of the car, and the man unlocked Fisher’s trunk and opened it. The trunk light revealed Fisher’s cache of spare parts, lubricants, and cleaning supplies. The man picked up a can of Rain Dance car wax, examined it, then put it back.
    Fisher noticed that the citizens of Moscow slowed imperceptibly but did not stop and did not stare—the only time in the last thousand miles that the Pontiac did not stop traffic. Greg Fisher suddenly comprehended the full meaning of the words “police state.”
    He noticed that the two uniformed men were bent over into the rear seat of his car, examining his luggage and burlap bags of fruit and vegetables.
    “What does this mean?”
    Fisher turned back to the civilian. “What?” Fisher saw he was pointing