Kalinin arrived early, driving his dark blue, 1973 Z28 Camaro along the last mile of Point Lookout Road. He chose this out of the way destination for the upcoming meeting.
He shut off the headlights, then dropped the speed down to twenty mph. The car rolled past a small building on the left. He tried to spot any sign of movement around the darkened entrance to the visitors’ restrooms, but there was nothing to see.
Barely pressing the gas, he continued along the road leading into a cul-de-sac that looped back around. A three-story house, with the tower of a lighthouse protruding through a red-shingled roof was just beyond a tall chain link fence. The lighthouse was no longer in operation, its lantern dark for years. A single pole light, near a locked gate, was just bright enough to light up the entrance walkway.
He came around the loop, spotted a parking area on the left side, backed up, then shut off the engine. Reaching under his seat, he felt for the cold steel of his Makarov, then laid it on the dash.
Leaning back, he reviewed every minute detail, pulling names, incidents and dates from his mind. He knew there’d be questions, each one testing him.
Letting out a long breath, he glanced up the road. Still no sign of a vehicle approaching. He leaned across the center console and popped open the glove box, took out an envelope, then turned on the overhead light. Inside the envelope were the car’s registration and ownership papers. A brief smile crossed his face, as he put them back in the envelope then closed the glove box. His license was tucked inside his wallet. Earlier that day he’d put both passports in an envelope then taped it under the glove box, not wanting to take a chance if he was stopped by local cops.
There wasn’t any doubt that he and the vehicle would be searched. He’d be surprised if it didn’t happen. Taking his Makarov from the dash, he thought it best to make himself seem less threatening, so he put the weapon under the seat.
Satisfied everything was in order, he glanced at his watch. Exactly 0100 hours. He got out, closed the door, then walked to the front of the car, just as he saw headlights.
Taking a couple paces away from the Camaro, he faced the oncoming vehicle, its headlights settling on him. Keeping his arms by his side, with his gloved hands in full view, he took a deep breath.
He was about to have his first, and long-awaited meeting with his “handler.”
Darkened windows prevented him from seeing how many people were inside the Mercedes, even as the vehicle stopped in front of him, then backed into a space two away from the Camaro.
Just before the driver backed up, Kalinin got a quick look at the license plate: Nation’s Capital, DPL 48. A small sticker indicated the date and year the vehicle was registered as a diplomatic vehicle. Verification complete.
Headlights remained on, as the two front doors opened, and an overhead light came on. He shielded his eyes, finally able to see inside. Three men: driver, one passenger up front, one in the rear. Driver and front passenger got out and closed the doors.
Kalinin stood his ground and waited. The driver, Misha Zelesky, approached the front of the Mercedes. He was close to six feet tall, barrel chested, thinning dark hair. His black coat was intentionally left unbuttoned, exposing a weapon in a shoulder holster. Taking up a position by the front bumper, he folded his thick hands in front of him, keeping his eyes on Kalinin, without so much as a nod.
Kalinin returned Zelesky’s stare, until the second man came around the vehicle. From a description Kalinin had, the man had to be Petya Vikulin. He was not quite 5’10” with black hair, and broad shoulders.
Zelesky walked in front of Kalinin, motioning for him to raise his arms, then he expertly patted him down, only finding his wallet. He asked in Russian, “Weapon? Identification?”
Kalinin tilted his head toward the Camaro, responding in Russian. “Weapon is under the seat. Identification papers are in the glovebox.”
“What about a passport?” Zelesky asked. He’d been ordered to be thorough, to search for any type of ID.
“Taped under the glove box.”
Zelesky searched inside the car, pulling the Makarov from under the seat, then he removed both envelopes. He handed everything to the man sitting in the rear.
A few moments passed. Finally, the man in the car got out. Ambassador Anton Vazov gave the envelopes to Zelesky, directing him to return them to the car. Then carrying the Makarov with him, he walked slowly toward Kalinin, and handed him his weapon.
Kalinin put the Makarov in his waistband. At 6’2” he seemed to tower over the shorter Vazov who was motioning with an index finger for him to lean closer. Kalinin complied, allowing Vazov to study his features more closely in the headlights. It wasn’t so much the brown hair the ambassador seemed interested in, but more a half-inch scar on the chin and hazel-colored eyes.
Vazov finally extended a hand. “Nicolai, at last we meet.”
Kalinin returned the handshake. “Yes, sir, at last.”
“I must say, Nicolai, your American name, ‘James Broyce’ suits you very well. Shall I call you ‘James?’”
“I like the sound of ‘Nicolai’ for now, Mr. Ambassador. I have not heard it spoken for a long time.”
Vazov smiled briefly then questioned, “And would you prefer speaking in our ‘Mother’ tongue, or have you forgotten much of the language after spending so many years in America? How old were you when you came here? Three? Four? That would be about thirty-two years you have been away from Russia.”
Responding to a test question, Kalinin answered in Russian, “I was three, sir. And it has nearly been thirty-six years, but I can assure you, Mr. Ambassador, I have not forgotten our language, nor have I forgotten what my parents told me about Russia. I will speak in whatever language that you feel most comfortable with.”
Vazov laughed a short, deep laugh. “Then we will speak in Russian.” He pointed to the scar. “How did that happen?”
“During a ballgame when I slid into third base. Do you follow baseball?”
“No, I am not interested. Now, come. Walk with me.” He turned to the two security men. “Wait here. Keep watch.”
Zelesky and Vikulin backed away, both of them drawing their weapons. Zelesky shut off the headlights, leaving on the parking lights. He stayed near the two vehicles. The Mercedes’ keys were on the dash, just in case they had to move fast.
Vikulin went across the road, then walked slowly toward the restroom building. He positioned himself at the corner on the south side giving him an unobstructed view of the road.
Ambassador Vazov motioned toward the rocks, as he rubbed his arthritic right hip. “I must sit for a moment, Nicolai.”
“Of course, sir.” Kalinin brushed sand from the rock wall, nearly one foot in height, then he motioned for Vazov to sit. “You have not been in America very long, Mr. Ambassador. I am sure former Ambassador Balicov’s death came as a shock.”
“Yes, it was a shock for everyone. It has taken me a long time to review papers, surveillance tapes and videos, dossiers.” He folded his hands on his lap. “While I did not know your parents, Nicolai, I read their dossier. It said they died instantly in the auto accident. You were away at the time?”
Kalinin lowered his head. “Yes, sir. The ship I was stationed on in Norfolk was going through sea trials.”
“From what I’ve read, and now meeting you, they did a remarkable job in raising you. They were dedicated to you and Russia.”
“I know, sir.” Kalinin took a deep breath, briefly picturing his mother and father.