I triggered my cell phone to ring, pretended to answer, and staged a conversation that included, “I’ll be right back. No, I’m leaving right now. Forget the flight, I can go tomorrow.” I looked at the bartender, a man with a gravity-defying handlebar mustache, and asked how to get out of the airport from there. He took me past the passport control cubes to an airline desk where I explained there was a crisis in town and I wouldn’t be able to use my ticket. Surprisingly, the airline refunded my money. I made a show of hurrying from the terminal.
Once outside, I watched the sedan I’d seen deliver the shiny suited special passenger, leave the airfield through a manned vehicle gate. The car joined traffic and headed toward town. It struck me that getting VIPs onto planes like that was one way of avoiding the terminal and its passport control technology. I headed back inside and up to a second floor mezzanine where I’d spotted an office of the airline the A320 belonged to.
The airline official I’d seen on the flight side was unlocking the door as I approached. “The ticket office is downstairs.” He told me in richly accented Russian.
“Actually sir, I would like to inquire about arranging VIP boarding on one of your flights.” I spoke in English. “Is this the right place to ask?”
“It is, indeed,” the official beamed. “Please take a seat. Would you care for some tea?”
A dark skinned pre-teen entered the office from a side door, swinging a silver tray on chains. The tray was covered with tiny glass teacups, sugar cubes, little spoons, and sweets. She spoke to the airline official in a soft Arabic language and left. The official and I spoke English. “Now, what is the destination, how many people are traveling and what special, eh hem, services, will your passengers require?”
“Just one passenger requiring discrete boarding, and myself. Cairo or Istanbul as soon as tomorrow would be ideal.” I took an awkward sip of something that tasted like spicy apples from a tiny bulbous cup.
“Alright. As I’m sure you appreciate, we cannot expose the airline to any, shall we say, criminality… not that there is any, of course. Then there is the matter of payment.”
It occurred to me that I might soon be looking at figures that rivaled the Russian consulate’s twenty grand. At least this guy meant business, and I had, after exhausting all reasonable, and unreasonable, escape routes from the CIS, promised myself I’d get us out or die trying. “There’s no risk for the airline.” I said. “This passenger is free to travel, is not a criminal and is admissible to Egypt, but might have a problem leaving Ukraine owing to, shall we say, people, who want to stop her.”
“These people, they are perhaps the Ukrainian government? Perhaps the police?”
“No, this person’s passport was tagged by someone paying police in Nizhny Novgorod to ensure she would be stopped by passport control and returned to Russia.”
“Please forgive my curiosity but, tagged for what?”
What the hell, end of the road. I laid it on the line. “Terrorism. Suspected terrorism.”
“What nationality is this person?”
“Russian.”
“Who placed these charges?”
“The person’s mother, in Russia.”
“You know about this for a fact? Was this person arrested downstairs?”
“No, she isn’t at the airport. She hasn’t used the passport yet, and I know about the notifications for a fact.”
“This person won’t be allowed into any country with that tagging.” The official loosened his tie. “I can’t help with that. The airline would be responsible and would hand her over to authorities.”
“Well, I also know for a fact that the notification is only active, or visible, at this time anyway, in Russia and maybe Ukraine, so she should have no trouble outside the CIS getting into Egypt or Turkey.”
“Ah, I see, the problem is just passport control here, yes?”
“Correct. She needs to get on a plane out of here, that’s all.” I emptied my little glass teacup and put it on the silver tray with a metallic clunk. “As I recall, the airline is responsible to the country they enter, not the one they depart from insofar as passenger movement is concerned.”
The side door opened and the pre-teen started for the silver tray. The official muttered something I couldn’t understand and shooed her away. She lowered her head, retreating, and closed the door.
“You know a lot. You are a professional?” He put down his cup with a clank. “American?”
“What difference does my nationality or profession make? I’m asking if you can get a Russian, who is clear to enter someplace like Egypt on one of your aircraft without involving Odessa passport control down there.” I pointed at the floor.
“I do need to know how you would be paying for this service. Please take no offense.”
“So you can do it?” I asked.
“If all you say is true, I can get your passenger on a plane. However, I cannot get her into Egypt or anywhere else if the passport is compromised.” He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a pad. “If the passenger is inadmissible to the destination country, the airline will be liable for returning her to Ukraine or Russia. If I put this passenger on one of our planes and she is denied entry, I will be obligated to cover all the expenses from my own wallet.” He started to write figures on the pad. “Being a professional, you do realize that would be very expensive.” He looked at me, raising a thick black eyebrow.
The airline official called the following morning. “You are in luck today, my friend. There is a charter flight to Istanbul. The first class cabin is for you and your companion if you may be to the airport in two hours from now. Also, I shall require twelve-thousand dollars. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly!” I pumped my fist in the air. “We will be there. Your office in say, one hour?”
“Absolutely not! You must not come near the terminal building. I know a driver at your hotel. I will make arrangements and you and your companion will meet with him in ninety minutes. Is that clear?”
“Ah sure… Ninety minutes, hotel driver… Okay.” I had a million questions, but he’d hung up while I dithered. I wasn’t used to not being in charge.
I dashed through our room, scanning for anything left behind. With most of our worldly possessions having been abandoned in Kiev, it didn’t take long. Anna was already down in the lobby with her nylon bag. She had also taken a loosely packed duffel bag of clothes we’d accumulated out of necessity while in Odessa. I picked up the Roots pack and Pelican case and pulled the door shut behind me.
We pulled up in front of the terminal in a hotel car. The official recognized the car and walked toward us.
“We’ve done this before,” the driver chuckled, “Nothing to worry about.”
I moved to the back seat with Anna and the official got in up front. He and the driver greeted each other like old friends. Pulling up to the vehicle access gate, I saw an Airbus A340 with the airline’s colors on the other side. “You are lucky, today you fly on the big plane.”