The Transaero flight to Moscow was mostly empty. He settled back in his seat, closed his eyes, imagined how he would relax when this mission was done. Hiking the Grand Canyon. Buying a big new motorcycle and ramrodding it across the Montana plains at a buck-ten. Seeing Evan suit up for the Aztecs, a pleasure he’d never had.
Daydreaming had its dangers. In Afghanistan, Wells had seen that men who relied too much on fantasy for comfort rarely lasted long. But after the madness of the last day, he needed a few minutes of relief. Better yet, a good night’s sleep. When he landed in Frankfurt, he would take a cab to the most efficient, boring hotel in the city. He would pull the shades and close his eyes. And he would wake ready for war.
As the Transaero 737 touched down on the Domodedovo tarmac, a concussive fog crept back into his brain. Wells blamed the change in air pressure. Black spots flitted across his eyes as he trudged through the massive steel-and-glass terminal that connected Domodedovo’s domestic and international wings. A suicide bomber in the international arrivals hall had killed thirty-four people here in 2011. Now explosives-sniffing dogs and teams of commandos in spiffy blue-and-black camouflage paced the check-in counters.
At this hour, the airport was heavy on business travelers, well-dressed Europeans who looked relieved to be leaving. A high school ski team waited to check in for an Alitalia flight to Milan, the children of Moscow’s elite, girls wearing diamond bracelets flirting with boys in Prada jackets. Wells watched the world through Saran wrap. His muzzy head accounted for only part of the disconnect. He couldn’t help remembering the way Salome had touched him. Then walked away to leave him to his fate. He didn’t know what she’d been trying to tell him, or why that moment seemed so much more real than this one.
He forced himself to move, find the Lufthansa counters. No surprise, they were quieter and more organized than the rest of the terminal. He printed out his boarding pass and joined the line for border control. Fifteen minutes later, an unsmiling woman waved him forward to her kiosk, where she took his passport with the practiced boredom displayed by immigration agents everywhere.
She flipped through it. “Mr. Wells.”
“That’s me.” He’d had to use his real passport for this trip, since Buvchenko arranged the visa.
“This is not a conversation, yes? If I have a question, I ask.” Stupid Americans always think they need to talk.
“Right. I mean, was that a question? Did I need to answer?” Wells laying it on too thick now. She put a finger to her lips, ran the passport through her scanner.
The moment of truth. If Buvchenko had reached the FSB, she’d ask him to wait a moment, then pull him out of line. A few questions in our office, nothing to worry about—
“You’ve traveled a lot lately, yes?”
“Yes, ma’am. Work.”
“And for this trip you stayed in Russia only two days. Why?”
“I met a business associate in Volgograd. The meeting’s done—”
“Fine. I see.” She typed away on her keyboard. “There’s a problem.”
Here it comes.
“A business associate, you said?”
“Yes.”
“But you came on a tourist visa.”
Wells didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He’d liked business associate, thought it sounded slick. Professional. “I’m sorry about that. My associate arranged the visa. Short notice.”
She pecked away on her computer. “I’m noting this in our files. Do you plan to come back to Russia?”
“Of course, yes—”
“Then make sure you have the proper visa. Next time the penalty is serious.” She shoved his passport back to him.
“I’m so sorry—”
She waved him on. “Next.”
He had half an hour before the flight boarded. He sucked down four Tylenols, a Coke, a liter of water, trying to ratchet his brain back into gear. As the minutes ticked down, he sat two gates from his own and watched for any sign that the FSB was looking for him, uniformed or plainclothes police, hushed conversations between the Lufthansa agents.
Part of him wished he’d made a trickier move, checked in and then left the airport. He could have caught a cab to downtown Moscow, found a train or a bus heading west to Poland. But that would have taken yet another day, time he didn’t have. Unless he found a smuggler to lead him over the border, he would still have to clear an immigration post that would be on the same computer network as the one he’d just passed. By tomorrow the FSB would surely have sounded the alarm.
When the flight opened, he was the first to board. He settled himself in seat 2C, watched placidly as the plane filled around him. A pretty thirtyish woman with bobbed blond hair took the seat beside him, looked him over, buried her face in a German gossip magazine. Fine by Wells. With any luck, he’d be asleep by the time this plane left the runway.
The last passenger boarded. The purser made the usual preflight announcements in German, Russian, and English. And then finally closed the cabin door. Wells had never been so happy to hear the solid thunk of metal fitting metal, the low hum of air seeping from the vents over his seat. The flight attendants took their seats and the Airbus 319 rolled back from the Jetway. Diana Ross sang to Wells: Set me free, why don’t you, baby,/Get out my life, why don’t you—
The plane slowed.
Stopped.
The intercom alert chimed. The purser grabbed a headset. Listened. Made a short announcement in German that sent a brief hum through the passengers around him.
“What’s he saying?” Wells said to his seatmate. Though he already knew. The knot in his stomach was all the translation he needed.
“He says we need to return to the gate for a moment. A sick passenger.”
I’d much rather be treated in Frankfurt, thank you very much.
She gave Wells the thinnest of smiles, and he knew she knew. He wondered if he should ask her to call Shafer when they landed. But the story was too tricky to explain in the few seconds he had, and she didn’t seem the type to do favors for strangers.
The plane inched forward. Stopped. 2C was near enough to the cabin door for Wells to hear the electric motors inching the Jetway forward. The death rattle of his bid for freedom.
The Jetway skimmed into place.
The purser stood, kept his eyes on Wells as he raised the big handle and pushed open the door. Wells found himself unbuckling his belt. No need to be difficult. And where could he go, anyway?
“Viel glück,” the woman murmured. Maybe Wells had misjudged her. Too late now.
A man in a suit stepped inside, two cops in tow.
These are not the droids you’re looking for.
“You are Mr. Wells?”
Wells nodded. The man flicked two fingers. Up. Up. The simple perfect command of a police officer in a police state, a man who knew his orders would be followed without question, much less argument.
“Come with me. Please.”
13