Vazov interrupted Kalinin’s thoughts as he opened the door to the residence. “Go in, Nicolai.” Kalinin entered the apartment. The lavishness of the decor surprised him. Red velvet-covered sofas, chairs, expensive mirrors, paintings, crystal chandeliers, heavy red drapes. He remembered his parents telling him about the harsh conditions most Russians had to deal with, then seeing this… But perhaps that was part of what made Russians such a strong, proud people… the little they did have.
“Nicolai, sit over here,” Vazov said, indicating an ornate wooden chair by the ten-foot rectangular dining room table. “I am having hot food prepared.”
Kalinin pulled the chair from under the table, then sat down.
Vazov reached for a bottle of Stolis Vodka. He poured the clear liquid into his glass, then Kalinin’s. He raised his glass. “A toast, Nicolai, for your return to us.” Kalinin raised his glass, then drank a small mouthful.
Vazov sat at the head of the table. “Now, Nicolai, do you want to talk about what happened?”
Kalinin leaned back, and began. When he finished, Vazov asked, “And those men were the same who took the weapons from the cargo vessel?”
“While I am not positive, it seems to be the most logical.”
“And Comrade Vikulin. Was his body left at the airfield in Shannon?”
“No, sir. His body was put onboard. Oh, Mr. Ambassador, my American passport was on the aircraft, and the agents confiscated my Russian one. I… ”
“Do not worry. I will see that a new diplomatic passport is ready.” Vazov took another sip of his drink, wondering if it was the right time. He needed to know more. “Did the agents identify themselves when you landed?”
“No, sir. I didn’t see any badges, and they remained quiet during the whole trip.”
“Hmm. They must have been FBI. Do you know what airport?”
“The airport didn’t look familiar, and as soon as I was turned over to them, I was immediately put in a paneled van.”
“Do you remember where you were held?”
“Not specifically. I just remember the sound of traffic on the way. We stopped at, what I assume, were a lot of traffic lights. When we arrived at the destination, the van was parked in a garage, but it wasn’t a typical garage, more like a large, empty, concrete room. We took an elevator to a lower lever, then I was taken to a room and left there for hours.”
“Were you tortured, Nicolai?”
“No. Not at all, sir.”
Vazov sounded relieved, as he asked, “And what about interrogation?”
“Two agents questioned me, but they seemed to be pretty standard questions. I was fingerprinted, and had my picture taken.” He rubbed a hand over his face, then commented, “It was all very strange, Mr. Ambassador. It was as if they already knew… everything.”
“Do you know where they were taking you when you escaped?”
“No. They used the same type van. We had traveled perhaps twenty minutes when the accident happened. I remember seeing a road sign for Route 27 when I escaped.” Kalinin finally gave a very slight smile. “Is there a special place where they take ‘sleepers’ like me?”
Before Vazov could respond, a door from the kitchen opened, and two women, wearing housekeeper-type clothes, walked into the dining room carrying silver trays. Two serving plates each held shashlik, marinated lamb on skewers; pelmeni, dumplings with meat filling wrapped in thin pasta dough, and knish, a baked potato dumpling. For dessert, lymmonyk, a type of lemon pie.
A dinner plate was placed in front of Vazov who sniffed the aromas. “Ahh, Nicolai. Now you will experience good Russian food. How long has it been since you have eaten our food?”
“When my mother was alive, she would occasionally prepare my father’s favorite meals. But I have not eaten any since they died.” Kalinin glanced at the plate of food. His appetite was practically nil. The past couple of days had drained his mind and body. But, he ate slowly and what he could manage, if only to please the ambassador.
As they ate, Vazov continued asking Kalinin questions, and Kalinin answered as honestly as possible… for the most part.
“Nicolai, you are remarkable.”
“Sir?” Kalinin asked with eyebrows raised.
“Your escape from the Americans, then managing to come all the way into the city. Tell me how you managed to get here?”
“I rode with truckers. It was easy to stay out of sight riding with them. And with the possibility of the Americans watching the embassy, I felt the safest place to call from was the parking garage.”
“I see,” Vazov nodded, then pointed to the cuts on Kalinin’s face. “How did you manage to care for your wounds?”
“A trucker made a fuel stop at one of those large facilities. I was able to, uh, ‘lift’ a package of Band-Aids then cleaned up in the restroom.”
“Well, we will have our doctor check you over. You must relax, Nicolai. You are safe. Your country will protect you.”
“Sir, may I ask you something?” Vazov nodded. “Have you discovered the identity of the American traitor?”
Vazov wiped his mouth with a white linen napkin, then dropped it next to his plate. “As a matter of fact, we have.”
“Who? Who is he?”
“While we do not yet know his name, Misha followed him to his place of residence last night. Do you know, Nicolai, he actually demanded fifteen thousand American dollars for his information?”
“Am I to assume you refused?”
“Yes. Instead of money in the envelope, I left a note, telling him — as the Americans would say — to go to hell! We did not get our weapons, our brave comrades died. No! He would not get the money. And since we know where he lives, I am considering contacting him, making him aware we have damning information, with the threat of turning it over to the CIA or FBI, or maybe both.”
The two men continued talking throughout the meal, each surprising the other with news and information. Vazov leaned toward the table. “Nicolai, you are not looking well.”
“Just very tired. Is there a place in one of the offices where I could get some sleep?”
“Nonsense! There are four extra bedrooms here. Come. I will show you.” Vazov laid a hand on Kalinin’s back, noticing the soiled, blood-splattered clothes. “I will see that Comrade Yudin gets you new clothes tomorrow. Then perhaps we can discuss your ordeal further.”
Grant pulled his blue sweatshirt over his head, picked up his gym bag, then walked into the lobby of the Y. “Night, Charlie,” he waved to the manager.
“See ya, Mr. Stevens. I’ll lock up right behind you.”
Grant jogged down the steps then walked across the parking lot, digging his keys from his sweatpants. It wasn’t unusual for him to “help” close the facility. Friday and Saturday nights meant time for partying for thousands of D.C. workers, relieved the week was over. Tonight he had the entire pool to himself.
Lap after lap, his strong arms and legs had propelled him forward in the fifty meter pool. Clear, cool water streamed over his shoulders. His mind was free of worries. He wasn’t going for any record, and kept his breathing controlled, steady, as he swam thirty continuous laps. It wasn’t even close to his days in BUD/S, but he was a helluva lot younger then.
He tossed his gym bag on the passenger seat, then slid behind the wheel, glancing at his watch under the overhead light. He promised to call Adler when he got back, planning to discuss an upcoming meeting with President Carr. They wanted to be prepared for a serious G2.