"And the tunnel he described?" Batenin prompted.
"Wire or fiberoptic cables," the technician assured him. "The Americans use both for voice transmission."
"This accident. Might it be duplicated?"
"If it worked once, it should work again. But I would not advise a repetition of the experience. It obviously had a traumatic effect on the agent. He was not breathing when he emerged from the receiver."
"Perhaps he will become used to the experience," Batenin said thoughtfully. "Thank you for your analysis."
Yuli Batenin had already made his decision when he visited Brashnikov in the infirmary.
The Russian was already sitting up, eating ice cream.
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He had developed a suspect addiction to American foods.
"I am returning to Moscow, captain," Yuli told him stiffly after explaining the technician's theory to the interested thief.
"I will be here when you get back," Rair said, spooning out the nuts in the bowl of pistachio ice cream. He liked pistachio, but hated the nuts.
"I may not be coming back," Yuli told him. "I am going to ask for a new assignment. While I am in Moscow, see that you behave yourself until my replacement arrives. Then you will proceed with the operation."
Surprised, Rair Brashnikov had put down the bowl of ice cream.
"I am sorry to see you go," Brashnikov said, his black eyes shining like a fawn's. "You have been a good man to work with. And you saved me from bad fall, for which I am grateful."
Touched in spite of himself, Yuli Batenin nodded. "Da, I will miss you too, Brashnikov."
And when Rair reached out his arms to give him a farewell bear hug, Yuli returned the gesture, even though he had never liked the tiny thief.
Yuli had to struggle to extricate himself from the sentimental gesture.
With a stiff "Farewell, Tovarich Captain," Major Yuli Batenin exited the room, quickly picked up the diplomatic case, and entered the waiting limousine.
And now, as the limousine pulled up at his terminal at Dulles International Airport, Batenin was pleased and relieved that he would no longer have responsibility for such a high-risk operation as this.
With the big case still handcuffed to his wrist, Yuli Batenin strolled to the airport lounge. He ordered a C-breeze, and stared at his watch, while awaiting his departure time. He did not want to be seen in the waiting room, the case so obvious on his wrist. There
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were many thieves in America who would be attracted to the case for that very reason. Yuli hated thieves of all kinds.
When the boarding call finally came, Batenin drained the last of his drink and walked casually to the X-ray station. There was an armed guard in uniform standing by the metal-detector frame. Another man was operating the X-ray machine. Yuli barely noticed him. It would be the guard he would have to deal with. This shouldn't take more than a few moments.
Ignoring the metal detector, Batenin walked up to the guard and fixed him with a bold stare.
"I am Batenin, charge d'affaires with the Soviet embassy," he said firmly, reaching for his wallet. He froze.
"I . . ." Yuli swallowed. "One moment, please," he said sheepishly, patting his inside coat pocket. It was empty. He tried the outer pockets. They too were empty. In vain, the perspiration streaming from his brow, he tried his pants pockets, although he knew that he never carried his wallet containing diplomatic identification there. America was full of pickpockets.
"I am afraid . . . that is, I seem to have left billfold in car," Yuli said in a sick voice as the loudspeaker announced the final boarding call for Aeroflot Right 182.
"Do you have your ticket, sir?" the guard asked politely.
"Yes, yes. It is here," Yuli said in relief, plucking it from his shirt pocket. "But diplomatic identification is missing."
"There are a lot of thieves at this airport."
"Thieves?" Yuli said blankly. Then his facial expression changed to one of anger. He was thinking of a farewell bear hug from a man whom he despised. "Brashnikov," he hissed.
"Beg pardon?" the guard said.
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"It is nothing," Batenin said quickly. "Please. I beg you. I must make flight."
"Certainly. But without ID, I'll have to ask you to go through the metal detector. And your valise will have to be X-rayed."
Yuli Batenin looked over to the X-ray machine. The operator was looking at him with an innocent expression. He had the deadest eyes Yuli had ever seen. Like nail holes.
"I'm afraid I must insist. For I have diplomatic immunity."
"I don't doubt that," the guard said firmly. "But without documentation, you'll have to go through the same security procedures as everyone else. It's for your own safety, sir."
"But I cannot," Yuli sputtered. "For key to handcuffs in missing wallet. You cannot expect me to go through X-ray device with case. I would not fit."
Yuli gave the guard a helpless smile. In truth, the key was nestled in his left shoe.-
The guard looked to the dead-eyed X-ray operator.
"How do we handle this?" he asked.
"No problem," the other man said helpfully. "We can X-ray the case without it going all the way through the belt."
"But ... but .. ." Batenin sputtered.
"If it's a problem, you can miss your flight," the guard said. "We can't make you go through security, but you can't board your plane unless you do. Your choice, sir."
The thought of having to return to the embassy and to that thief Brashnikov, whose scrawny neck he would like to strangle, flicked through Major Batenin's panicky mind. He decided to take the chance. Anything was better than another day on this operation.
"Very well," Batenin said stiffly. "I give consent."
"Fine. Now, since you can't go through the metal
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detector, I'll have to pat you down. Just take a moment."
Clutching the case with both hands, Yuli Batenin allowed himself to endure the indignity of being frisked. When that ordeal was over, he was escorted to the X-ray device.
"Just put it down on the belt," the operator told him cheerfully. He shut down the conveyor belt.
He was a very happy menial, Yuli noticed. Usually airport security people were as grave of face as a statue of Stalin, but this one seemed quite eager to be of help. Perhaps this would not be so bad. For he doubted that the X-ray would show anything that an untrained person would consider suspicious.
Yuli complied. The operator jabbed a button several times to make the conveyor belt inch forward. The case disappeared into the innards of the X-ray machine, Yuli's right hand following it in right up to the elbow.
"Will this hurt?" Yuli asked awkwardly. He had to lean on the machine to keep his balance. This was very difficult.
"Just hold that pose," the operator told him. Then he pressed a button. He pressed it again.
"What is wrong?" Yuli demanded nervously.
"Minor glitch. Be just another second. Don't worry."
"I do not want my hand to be X-rayed to what you Americans call a crisp."
"Not a chance," the operator assured him. He tapped the machine again. It seemed to tap back. And then the operator smiled.
"Okay," he said brightly, "you can pull it out now."
Batenin pulled the familiar case out again. He looked at his hand fearfully, but appeared not to be discolored from overexposure.
Nodding to the guard, the X-ray operator said, "He checks out. Let him through."
Major Batenin inclined his head to the two Ameri-
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cans as diplomatically as he could and hurried to the gate, muttering curses on the head of Rair Brashnikov under his breath.
The aircraft doors were locked after Yuli boarded. The moment he sat down, he felt the cold perspiration soaking his suit. But he breathed a slow sigh of relief.
But just to be certain, he kicked off one shoe and extracted the key as the wide-bodied Ilyushin-96 backed away from the gate. He put the key in the lock and twisted. The key would not turn. He forced it. It broke in the lock.