“We’re almost there, my boy. Back to your home. Must be good to be back in the States.”
Ammon turned his head and looked out the tiny window at the dry prairie that was passing below him, but didn’t respond. Morozov leaned forward to check the duffel bag which was stuffed under his seat. He pulled the bag out and rooted briefly through its contents, then, satisfied that all was in order, carefully shoved the bag back.
The aircraft continued descending and, twenty minutes later, was taxiing off the runway toward its arrival gate. The passengers began their usual stir. It had been a long flight, almost eleven hours, and everyone seemed very grateful to be on the ground. Ammon and Morozov had been seated toward the rear of the aircraft and it took some time before they could exit the plane. As he walked up the ramp and began to mix with the crowd, Ammon stifled a quick urge to run.
He and Morozov departed the gate and walked to the line that had formed to clear customs. Neither of them had anything to declare. Their carry-on luggage was inspected and their passports closely scrutinized — more so than in the past Morozov observed — then they were waved on through.
After passing through customs and collecting their bags, they walked the considerable distance to the long-term parking area, where Morozov found the car. It was a mid-size, black sedan. The doors were unlocked.
“Throw the bags on the back seat,” Morozov instructed.
“Don’t you want them in the trunk?”
“No, the back seat,” Morozov replied.
Ammon did as he was instructed while Morozov searched under the dash for the key, which he found stuffed up under the glove box, right where he told them to leave it. Five minutes later, they left the noise of the airport behind them as they headed out on their way.
Chuck Robertson, watch supervisor, DFW Airport Security, walked into the dim room without turning on the light. The two security cameras were mounted on the far wall, their lenses pointing through a one-way glass and out onto the immigration and customs floor. Both of the low-speed, high-resolution cameras were recording the passengers as they made their way through the whole process. Usually, Airport Security was required to use only one camera at a time. But Robertson’s instructions had been very specific, and for the past several days he had kept both of the cameras running. He couldn’t afford to have something go wrong.
Robertson walked over to the special video cameras and checked the tape indicator readouts. The right camera was almost out of videotape. Reaching behind him, he pulled a fresh cassette from out of a small box and ripped it open, letting the torn cellophane drop to the floor, then turned the camera off, extracted the recorded cartridge, and replaced it with the new one. Leaning over, he checked the indicator on the other camera. It had another hour left on it. He checked his watch and decided he would return after lunch.
As he walked out the door, he placed the recorded cassette tape in a purple and white Federal Express envelope. It would be sent to D.C. on the evening flight and delivered before ten the next morning.
That night, Richard Ammon and Ivan Morozov sat in a small booth at the back of the Wooden Spoon restaurant, a greasy tin and glass cafe.
The orange vinyl bench in which Ammon sat made his back sweat. His skin stuck against the torn plastic seat. Although they were in the nonsmoking section, Morozov constantly kept a cigarette going. The waitress would give him an occasional look of displeasure as she refilled his thick mug of coffee, but she never considered asking him to quit smoking. Richard Ammon had no doubt that, had they been in Los Angeles, the waitress would have taken Morozov’s cigarette and stuffed it in his coffee.
But they weren’t in L.A. The ocean and hills that surrounded the Los Angeles basin were over one thousand miles to the west. Where they sat, they were surrounded only by wheat fields and dust and an occasional line of trees that had been planted to break the wind. They were nearly in the center of the country. Small town, U.S.A.
For the past seventy-two hours, Ammon and Morozov had been world travelers. Using four different passports, they had made their way across Europe, first from Helsinki to Copenhagen, then across the ferry into Germany, and finally by train into Brussels. The nonstop from Brussels to Dallas had left them both cranky and tired, jet lag fouling up their natural circadian rhythm. After leaving the confines of the metro airport, Morozov had headed north along Interstate 35 toward Wichita, Kansas. Or, to be more specific, McConnell AFB, which lay just outside the Wichita city limits.
All through the day they drove, always traveling just the speed limit, until they came to the small town of Guthrie. There Morozov had turned off the highway and pulled into the tacky pancake house. The two men walked inside and, though it was night, ordered the breakfast special. It didn’t take the waitress long to bring them a heaping stack of hot pancakes with a half dozen links of tiny, greasy sausage on the side. A smaller plate with diced ham and fried potatoes was set down next to the plate of pancakes. Both men dug into the food like they hadn’t eaten in a week, neither of them talking until they had cleaned their plates.
Then Morozov ordered a refill on his coffee while Ammon sipped at the lemon slice that floated in his ice water. While he waited for Morozov to finish his coffee, Ammon looked around the restaurant with a renewed appreciation for the States. There were so many things here he had learned to enjoy. So many little things that made life here pleasant and easy. He also loved the feel of the air. Not just the smell, but the feel. It was dry and brisk and smelled of fresh wheat. It raced along the prairie and touted its freedom. It stood as a symbol and seemed to remind him of what this country was about.
Ammon leaned back on his bench and stretched his arms while he yawned. He stared across the table at Morozov, then glanced at his watch. Morozov noticed him check the time, but gave no indication that he was ready to leave. Instead, he asked for another refill on his coffee and struck a match to light a fresh cigarette. While the waitress filled Morozov’s cup, she asked if they wanted their check. Morozov waved his hand to send her away, all the time keeping one eye on the door.
It was then that Ammon noticed the man staring at him from the counter. The stranger had turned on his rotating stool to rest his right elbow on the counter while he inspected Richard Ammon. He made no effort to hide his interest, never turning away, eyes defiant and unblinking. Ammon tried to ignore him, avoiding his stare. The stranger was obviously not a local boy. He was dressed in tight blue jeans, thick steel-toe work boots, and a tattered black t-shirt. His head was shaved clean, except for a narrow band of six-inch hair that protruded from the back of his head and dangled down the nap of his neck. Three gold earrings protruded from his left ear. A diamond stud highlighted his pierced nose. He had enormous shoulders and arms, the obvious result of long hours pumping weights. On his right bicep was a long, black tattoo of a slanted dagger which pierced his own skin, red blood dripping from the tattered wound. He had narrow eyes, a square face, and eyebrows so heavy they connected over his flat nose. He looked to be about Richard’s age, maybe a little bit older.
Moving slowly, he placed his coffee cup on the edge of the formica counter, stood up, and approached Ammon and Morozov. Richard nervously looked around the crowded room. The stranger pushed his way into the booth, ignoring Ammon’s look of displeasure as Morozov slid across the plastic bench to make room for him to sit down.