While waiting for him to complete the declaration form, the inspector motioned for Ian to place the cooler on the counter. The official removed the dry ice and ogled the ice cream, then took out one of the hand-painted plates. He ran his hands around the side of the cooler and paused at the Leatherman. He folded it back so that it became a pair of pliers and proceeded to pull out each blade. “Not bad,” he said to himself in Russian. He tried to fold it back, but the last knife blade wouldn’t move.
Ian took it and pushed, but the blade was locked into place.
“Gimme,” Frosty said. “Takes an engineer.” He closed all the tools. “Safety mechanism. You guys wouldn’t know about those.” He handed it back to the customs officer.
The official made eye contact with Ian, glanced at the Häagen-Dazs and then looked back at Ian. “I’m sorry. You cannot take weapons into the Soviet Union.”
“The tool? I can assure you, it’s no weapon. I’m certain we can arrive at some understanding.” Ian slowly reached for the plate and returned it to the cooler. Without breaking eye contact, he stowed two containers of ice cream, put back the dry ice package and closed the lid. Two cartons of Häagen-Dazs were left behind on the counter.
“I suppose it is but a pocketknife.” The Russian smiled, his eyes now making love to the chocolate-cheesecake ice cream. In a single swoop, he returned the Leatherman and whisked away his booty. “You may go.”
The inspector motioned for a subordinate to replace him and he disappeared into a restricted area with the ice cream. The crew shuffled on. Faith followed them in tight formation.
“Devushka! Girl! Not so fast. Let me have a look,” the subordinate officer said.
Faith stopped, placed her Travelpro on the low counter and unzipped the bulging main compartment. The inspector removed a leather attaché and a neatly folded brown leather jacket. He pulled a ballpoint pen from the bottom and read the advertising embossed on it promoting Froneberger Reisen, a Berlin travel bureau. Faith prayed he wouldn’t unscrew it to find a few inches of time fuse.
He dropped the pen back into the case and set the jacket aside. He patted down the clothing, stopping when he came to her underwear. At that moment, she wished she had packed some chocolate to speed things along. He carefully lifted the clothes from the bag and stacked them on the brown leather jacket. He glared at her. “What is this?”
The entire bottom was filled with rows of small yellow canisters. He pulled out a Play-Doh can that she had coaxed Summer to purchase for her at the Army PX in Berlin. He opened it and pinched off a small portion of the doughy white substance.
CHAPTER FORTY
SHEREMETYEVO AIRPORT, MOSCOW
The customs inspector wore the uniform of the KPP, the KGB border guards: greenish-gray with hunter green piping. He motioned for assistance. His supervisor came over and opened a Play-Doh can. Faith steeled herself for a long delay. Please, not a chemical analysis.
Faith faked broken Russian. “Play-Doh. Gift for children without mama and papa. For orphanage.”
The supervisor sank his fingers into the Play-Doh and felt for contraband stashed inside. He ordered the inspector to do the same. They poked and prodded. By the third can, the supervisor crafted a crude bowl, momentarily losing himself as his fingers worked to even the sides. When he noticed his subordinate watching his handiwork, he smashed it. He shoved the doughy substance back into the can and probed the next one.
Faith shifted her weight and thought she felt the wire of a blasting cap through the insole of her shoe. Thank goodness Play-Doh and C-4 looked exactly alike. She reached over and plucked off a small portion, rolled it into a ball and took a small bite. She swallowed and hoped the nasty stuff wasn’t as toxic as it tasted. She switched to English. “It’s harmless. Won’t hurt the kids one bit if they eat it.” Faith stifled a gag.
The supervisor sniffed the Play-Doh and replaced the lid, running his fingers around the edges to make sure it was closed. “Kids prefer ice cream,” he said with a sigh.
A few hours later in downtown Moscow, Faith used a public phone and received drop instructions from Kosyk’s man. As agreed, she called Zara from another phone to pass along the information so that her KGB backup would be in place.
No answer.
She dialed again.
The phone rang. Faith wasn’t sure she was doing the right thing. Who the hell had planted that bomb? What if Zara was involved and had set her up? Kosyk had the real information about her father. Maybe she should cut out the KGB and deal directly with him. Just then the phone clicked as if the call were being rerouted. Someone picked up.
“Listening.”
Faith recognized Zara’s voice, but didn’t speak.
“Hello? Faith? Faith?”
Faith hung up the phone.
Five minutes later, in the cramped Intourist hotel room, Faith molded the white Play-Doh into a brick and wrapped it in cellophane. Frosty helped her.
“This really is Play-Doh, isn’t it?” Frosty said.
Faith nodded.
“That means inside the cooler?”
She nodded again. They finished the craft project and Faith lowered the last one into the leather attaché case. The Play-Doh bricks could pass for C-4. She didn’t know what she was going to do, but she was confident that as soon as she handed over the C-4, they wouldn’t need her anymore and she doubted they would want to keep her around. She had to leverage the whereabouts of the plastic explosives to keep herself alive.
“I don’t know what that phone call was about, but ever since then you don’t look too hot,” Frosty said. “I hate to say this, but you looked better when you got off that crippled plane.”
“Not here.” Faith held her index finger in front of her mouth.
“I don’t mess with other people’s business, but at least let me walk you to the Metro, Sandy.”
Frosty insisted upon carrying the attaché case with the faux plastique. She hated sexist chivalry, but she had a soft spot for Frosty’s old-fashioned manners. She inventoried the faces on the sidewalk, but no one seemed to be following them. “Frosty, you’re a sweetheart, but this is too dangerous.”
“I’m a friend. At least tell me what’s eating you about that phone call. You don’t have to go into details, or even make sense.”
“I got the drop site, but it’s sloppy. It’s in a KGB-controlled hotel bar and the guy I’m doing business with knows better.”
“A setup.”
“Afraid so. And I think my backup might have been the one who arranged for the bomb.”
“I always was a sucker for a gal in deep kimchee.”
An hour later, Faith walked down the long, raised concrete drive of the Hotel Cosmos-without the satchel packed with the imitation C-4. The hotel was so imposing that Faith suspected those who designed it for the 1980 Olympics secretly had created another memorial to Stalin. Sputtering Intourist buses from the state-run travel monopoly were dwarfed alongside the shiny behemoth. The glass structure reflected the nearby memorial to the first Sputnik satellite, its grooved-metal exhaust fumes shimmering in the setting sun, as if sparks were trailing the plump rocket.
A man wearing Levi’s rushed toward her and walked alongside her. The last thing she needed right now was a black marketeer preying upon her and drawing undue attention to her as if she were another Western tourist looking for a cheap souvenir.
“What country are you from? Do you have anything you want to buy, sell or trade?” The bug-eyed man spoke in English.
“Not now.” She didn’t look at him and walked straight ahead.
“I have whatever you want-matrioshki, lacquer boxes, znachki.”