Justin moved on to the other stand, dedicated mostly to entertainment, not that there was not plenty of entertainment from editorials and opinions in the pages of the news media. His eyes caught a glimpse of International Geographic—close to the bottom of the stand — and he picked up a copy and bought it, mostly because of amusement rather than curiosity. It was a little-known magazine that focused on travel, geography, outdoor activities, a sort of international version of National Geographic. It also served as Justin’s cover as a travel journalist, often publishing photographs supposedly taken by him, and, on occasion, an article supposedly written by him. In this way, if someone checked his cover, it would seem legitimate.
He returned to his bench, flipped through the pages, and glanced at the table of contents. He found what he was looking for. Two small photographs of deserts in northern Sudan were buried somewhere close to end of the magazine. Justin smiled. He had not taken those shots and the credited name at the bottom of the caption was not his. Still, he had been close to the area and could talk about that landscape.
A shrill sound dragged him out of the magazine’s pages. A little boy — perhaps not older than three — was toddling next to his mother, struggling to hold on to her hand. Justin followed his unsteady steps until they disappeared in the flow of hasty passengers. Justin wondered whether he would ever have a little boy. What would he look like? Will he have my eyes? My hair? My personality? Or will he look more like Anna?
Justin had a Mediterranean complexion — dark olive skin, raven wavy hair, which he had cut short a couple of weeks ago, big black eyes, and a large thick nose — inherited from his Italian mother. It allowed him to blend in naturally in most of the terrorist hotspots he infiltrated during his missions. His personality with an unpredictable flaring temper came from his Scottish father. His fiancée, Anna, had fairer skin and blue eyes. She used to work for CIS Legal Services in Ottawa, but after they fell in love during the Arctic Wargame operation, she left CIS to avoid any conflicts of interest. Now an in-house counsel for a large multinational corporation, Anna was more easygoing and calmer, matching Justin’s wits and bringing some much-needed balance to his life.
He turned a few more pages, then stood up, glanced to the right and scanned the faces in the ever-changing crowd. He paced along the hall and back. He stuffed the magazine in his suitcase, rolled it behind him, and returned to Starbucks. The digital clock on the wall told him Carrie was going to show up at any minute. He ordered another espresso for him and a grande caffè mocha without whipped cream and a blueberry muffin for her.
Just as he was picking them up, he heard Carrie’s voice behind him, “Hey, wanted man.”
“Hi, Carrie.” He turned around and fell into her arms.
“You look good,” he said when they broke their embrace.
“No, I don’t. Just came back from a ten-hour flight, after another flight for three hours from Moscow to Frankfurt and another one from Grozny to Moscow. Not to mention the layovers. My hair’s a mess and I feel so dirty.”
Carrie had a small figure, a bit shorter than Justin, and he stood at five feet ten inches. He looked at her auburn hair flowing down her shoulders, then at her gray-blue eyes. “I think your hair is great.”
Carrie shrugged. “Thanks.”
“How was your trip?” Justin asked.
“Uneventful, but for a sick turbulence halfway through, over the ocean. A couple of passengers threw up. It was gross.”
She took her caffè mocha and smiled. Justin nodded.
“Hmmm, I really needed this, thank you,” she said after taking a sip of the hot liquid. Then she took a bite of the muffin. “How was your flight?”
“OK, I guess. We had some turbulence too, but not much.”
“Were you able to get some sleep?”
“Maybe an hour or so.”
He rolled his suitcase. Carrie picked up hers, and they left the coffee shop.
“I’ve arranged for a rental,” Justin said. “Our colleagues wanted to send someone to pick us up, but I declined their offer so we can talk before this meeting.”
“I’ve got to run to the washroom.”
Five minutes later, Carrie looked refreshed. She had tied her hair in a semi-ponytail. Her face was glowing. She had applied some makeup, and there were no signs of sleep or fatigue in her eyes.
They took the AeroTrain to the main terminal, then walked to the Hertz rental office. Justin refused the clerk’s first offer — a Lincoln Town Car on which he could have gotten a great deal — opting instead for his own pick, a blue Chevy Aveo. Justin sat behind the steering wheel, Carrie in the front passenger seat. They drove out of the lot, then Justin parked before they merged with the traffic on Dulles Access Road. Carrie smiled as Justin dug into his briefcase.
“Time for a sweep?” she asked.
“You got it.”
Justin produced a ‘sweeper,’ a palm-sized device that looked like a smartphone but which detected if any recording devices had been installed in the vehicle. It was a rental, so the chances of the Chevy being bugged were minimal, but they could never be careless. The sweep of the Chevy’s interior revealed no surveillance devices. Justin stepped outside and meticulously searched the car’s exterior for unusual signals. He got a reading about a GPS tracker installed to record the vehicle’s route and location. With a few clicks on his sweeper, Justin deactivated the tracker. No one at Hertz would learn about their destination.
“We’re all good?” Carrie asked when Justin returned.
“Yes, now we are. I disabled a standard civilian GPS tracker.”
Carrie nodded. Justin started the car, and they drove down the Dulles Access Road, then turned onto Virginia State Route 267. Justin paid the toll and soon enough they were zooming across the four-lane highway going east toward CIA headquarters in Langley.
“Any good news from Grozny?” Justin asked, setting the cruise control at sixty-five miles per hour.
Carrie shook her head. “No, nothing. No one knows where my dad’s remains were transferred.”
Carrie had spent many years trying to discover the truth about her father’s death and find his grave. A few months ago, she had received new information from Romanov, a rich and powerful Russian oil baron about the location of a grave containing the remains of her father. It was supposed to be in northern Grozny, Chechnya. Carrie had passed two weeks on the ground, searching and gathering information. The last time Justin had heard from her — three days ago — she was no closer to finding the grave that when she had started.
“I’ve hired two investigators on the ground to keep searching,” Carrie said. “The place is a mess because of the war with Russia. The Russians bombed the hell out of Chechnya in general and Grozny in particular.”
“But the bombing spared the gravesite?”
Carrie nodded, her eyes flickering. “Right. My dad was supposedly buried by Russian soldiers hastily, during the night. It was not in a regular cemetery, but in a field, next to a hospital. Now the hospital lies in ruins, and the field has been dug out. They’re building a couple of apartment complexes. Three witnesses have confirmed that some remains were moved about two years ago, before they started work. But no one knows where. The paperwork trail is a nightmare.”