Still remaining in the confines of the spacious restroom, Ivan purchased a ticket for Paris that was leaving in less than an hour. From Paris, it would be easy to slip back into Russia without much scrutiny. He then gathered his belongings and headed to the ticket counter where he picked up his boarding pass and headed toward the security checkpoint.
He passed through the identification checkpoint before merging into another slow-moving line that required the removal of his shoes, coat, belt and any other object deemed to have the ability to conceal a weapon. Ivan enjoyed listening to the stories of old by Kuklovod veterans who reminisced about the days when you could carry a knife or a gun on board without even getting checked. Getting examined closely was a hassle he could do without, though watching those American towers melt to the ground on September 11th made the hassle worth it to him. Yet that was child’s play compared to the fury the Kuklovod was set to unleash on American soil.
While standing in line, Ivan’s phone rang. It was his supervisor. Ivan spoke in Russian to mask the conversation.
“I’ll be there in twenty-four hours,” Ivan said.
“Did you eliminate the threat?” the man asked.
“Not completely, but I will.”
The next minute consisted of a dressing down. Ivan listened patiently as his supervisor hurled every imaginable insult at him. He didn’t even say good-bye before abruptly hanging up.
Ivan’s supervisor shouted so loudly that those around Ivan began to stare at him, wondering what the nature of the conversation could be about. The fellow travelers appeared uneasy and Ivan sensed it immediately. Some travelers whispered to one another, staring at Ivan. It was evident that the phone call caused a scene, both in the nature of the call and in the language foreign to everyone around him.
Ivan hung up, looking sheepish for the benefit of those around him. He hoisted his backpack and other belongings up onto the X-ray belt. Inwardly, Ivan fumed, angry that he let Flynn get the best of him. It was one score he hoped to settle if he ever saw Flynn again.
“Sir, will you please come with me?” the TSA agent asked Ivan.
Lost in a stupor, Ivan jolted back to reality.
“Me? Did I do something wrong?” Ivan asked.
“Just step this way, sir.”
The TSA agent ushered Ivan to a private room located off the back of the security checkpoint area. He then closed the door.
“I need you to remove all your outer garments so we can do a proper search.”
“What do you mean?” Ivan asked incredulously.
“I mean, take off all your clothes except for your underwear. We found something of a suspicious nature and need to investigate.”
Ivan reluctantly complied, grumbling about the American government under his breath in Russian.
“Is that what you really think about America?” the TSA agent asked.
Ivan looked up stunned. He rarely ran into any Americans who knew Russian, much less some low-level hourly employee like this one.
The agent radioed for extra help in the room.
“What are you doing?” Ivan demanded.
“Sir, you need to calm down and chill out. I have a partner coming in here to join me and make sure you don’t get out of control.”
“I’m not out of control,” Ivan said, raising his voice.
“I think you just need to have a seat, sir.”
Ivan plopped into a chair, humiliated. First, his supervisor. Now, some low life TSA agent. Nothing was going right for him at the moment. Just calm down. It will be all right.
Another TSA agent entered the room, one who appeared to be more important than the man who ushered Ivan into the room. Ivan noted how he spoke with more confidence and with more authority. He then turned to Ivan.
“We found this on you, sir,” the TSA supervisor said, producing an odd pocket knife. “Are you aware that federal regulations prohibit passengers from carrying a blade of this length?”
Ivan had never seen the pocketknife in his life, and wondered if he’d been set up by a passenger or was getting duped by the TSA. Either way, it was apparent that he needed to remain calm if he was going to escape the situation.
“It has the initials J.F. inscribed on the blade,” the supervisor said again.
“Oh, yes,” Ivan said, after a few silent moments. “It’s a knife from my mother’s father — an heirloom passed down. I’m an anthropologist and those things are important to me. It was terribly clumsy of me not to pack it in my luggage.”
The two TSA personnel stared at each other for a moment before the supervisor finally spoke.
“Look, we normally just confiscate contraband like this, but since it’s an heirloom, I’ll let you fill out one of these envelopes here and mail it back to your home address. You OK with that?”
Ivan nodded.
He took the package, a pen, and the knife from the supervisor and began scribbling down James Flynn’s address with his own name at the top. He stuffed the knife inside and sealed it before handing it back to the supervisor.
“Thank you very much, sir,” Ivan said. “I appreciate your kindness and understanding. I won’t let that happen again.”
“Have a nice flight,” the supervisor said and motioned toward the door with his hand.
Ivan quickly redressed and collected his things before leaving the room. Unbelievable. I’m gonna kill that James Flynn the next chance I get.
Luck seemed to be on Ivan’s side, even when it didn’t first appear so.
He smiled as he headed down the concourse. Let’s go start a war.
CHAPTER 46
Flynn enjoyed flying in the CIA’s jets, if only for their extensive luxuries. Plush leather seats, a fully stocked bar, flat screen televisions. “If only there was a football game on,” Flynn mused. But then, he couldn’t be distracted by such diversions. With a war looming between two of the world’s most powerful nations, nothing was more important than his mission.
But this wasn’t just another CIA jet. This was the Lockheed Martin QSST (Quiet Supersonic Transport) prototype capable of speeds beyond 1,200 miles per hour. According to Osborne, this one was on loan to the CIA for testing purposes, registered to a French billionaire who also happened to be an agency asset. And today it was the only aircraft that could get Flynn near the Kuklovod headquarters, nestled in the Ural mountains, by early Sunday morning.
The plane’s phone rang, prompting Flynn to answer it. It was Osborne.
“Are you clear about the mission?”
“I think so,” Flynn answered. “But just to be clear, I’m in this on my own — right? Like, there’s no cavalry coming if I get caught and you’ll disavow any knowledge of me?”
“You got it. This one is completely off the books. The only people who know what you’re doing are the pilots, Lauren and me.”
“Lauren?”
“Sure, the sassy handler you met at the hangar? I’m sure you remember her.”
“Oh, yes, how could I forget? She’s the one who told me that I’m going to be jumping out of this plane.”
“Well, yes, I was hoping you were over that, but apparently you’re not.”
“Geez, Osborne. You know how I feel about jumping out of a perfectly good aircraft.”
“Oh, I know. But would you have agreed to go if I told you ahead of time?”
“OK, I get your point — but that doesn’t mean I’m forgiving you anytime soon.”