“You are right, Kaija,” he whispered. “It is KGB.” He kept his voice low in the unlikely event the Immigration officer was one of those rare Americans who spoke something other than English — or was indeed in league with the men waiting outside to shoot him in the head.
Kaija’s already pale face fell ashen. “What did you say?”
“I said you are right, my child,” Volodin said, working to control his breathing. He felt as if the entire world was leaning sideways, and he found it difficult to remain on his feet. He put a hand on Kaija’s shoulder, more to steady himself than to comfort her. “The KGB. They have come for us. I have no idea how they arrived here so quickly.”
Kaija’s gaze dropped to her feet. The fear in her face had been chased way by a look of shame. Instead of someone in mortal danger, she’d become a child whose father made her uncomfortable.
“How is this not embarrassing to you?” She whispered, suddenly much less terrified of the men outside.
A fluttering twitch blossomed in Volodin’s left eye. What was she saying? KGB thugs or not, he hated to embarrass Kaija.
He could see she was still upset but working to control herself. “I am sorry, Papa,” she said. “But there is no more KGB.”
Volodin groaned. What had he said? “Of course I know there is no KGB.” His face flushed red at the foolish mistake. “I meant to say FSB.” The runaway twitch forced Volodin to clench his eye shut. He removed his glasses, and rubbed it with his palm, willing the possessed thing to be still. “FSB… or more likely Army. Colonel Rostov’s goons from GRU.” He pronounced it GuRoo.
“What should we do?” Kaija said. Her emotions could change so quickly, from anger to embarrassment to an abject willingness to do whatever he said. Her mother had been just as mercurial.
“I suppose this was always a possibility.” Volodin shoved a shock of gray hair out of his face and replaced his glasses. He glanced toward the front window again.
The taller of the two men waiting to capture or kill them held his cigarette pinched between his fingers the way few Americans would. The other, an older, stockier brute had a tattoo that peeked from the cuff of his tight, European leather jacket when he gestured at his partner, pointing with his own cigarette to make some point. Such tattoos and jackets were favored by members of Russian organized crime. Mafia thugs or government operatives — the titles were not mutually exclusive — the men seemed oblivious to the blowing snow, chatting with each other and conspicuously ignoring the arriving passengers.
Volodin looked up at the round clock above the gate agent for the fifth time in as many minutes. Bony knuckles on long and slender fingers turned white as he grabbed the rumpled canvas duffel and moved forward a few steps with the line.
Kaija had retreated to her music, but her eyes still flicked around the room, a frightened fawn, frozen, but looking for a way to run. She gave a small start when he put a hand on her shoulder again, slowing her long enough to let another Native woman and her two children move ahead of them in the line. His mind was suddenly foggy, and he needed a little time to figure out how not to get shot in the head.
Kaija toyed with the dangling earbud. “Please, tell me you have a plan.”
“I know this must seem odd to you,” Volodin said, keeping his voice low. “But understand, króshka, the colonel has eyes everywhere. It is not outside the realm of possibility that he has KGB assets already in Alaska.”
“FSB, Papa,” Kaija said, muscles in her cheeks tensing. A spark of impatience flared in her green eyes, then subsided.
“Yes, yes, yes… FSB,” Volodin muttered. He tried to wave off the mistake but inwardly cursed himself for getting it wrong again. “That is what I mean.”
Kaija took the remaining bud out of her ear and stuffed the white cord in her pocket. “Do you think it is wise to trust this American agent?” Her nose turned up, clearing demonstrating that she did not.
Mind racing, Volodin looked around the hangar for any alternative. The professor knew he’d reached a point of no return. There was no flight back to Providenya. The die was cast, and he had crossed his Rubicon, his only choices now to move forward or perish.
His scientific brain, fevered and worried as it was, began to shuffle and sift through the possibilities, while his eyes dissected the architecture of the hangar. Kaija was maddeningly correct. It would be gambling everything to place his trust in the lone government agent seated at the table. The man was young, with honest eyes — but he also wore a ring, and with a ring there was the likelihood of a family — and with a family came responsibilities, which meant he would need money and might be ripe to accept a bribe to simply look the other way when two KGB… FSB operatives dragged away an old Russian scientist and his terrified daughter and stuffed them into the belly of a waiting airplane bound for Russia.
Volodin fought the urge to hyperventilate. Trusting a stranger at this point was far too dangerous. And still, they could not simply walk out the doors and into the waiting guns of Rostov’s thugs.
Still scanning the room for a way out, he followed the line of the high ceiling to a set of washrooms located along the wall that divided the area where they now waited from the adjacent hanger he’d seen as they’d disembarked the airplane out on the tarmac.
He put a hand on his daughter’s arm. Only one more person stood between them and the Customs official. Volodin gave a slight nod toward the far wall. Kaija followed his gaze. He did the math in his head to convert to Alaska Time — twenty hours ahead of Providenya. “It is almost 4:00 P.M. here,” he said.
Kaija gazed up at him, eyes wide. The little girl waiting to be told what to do had returned.
“It will be a risk,” Volodin continued, “but I believe it to be our only option. After we clear Immigration and Customs—”
A muffled gasp rose from the travelers crowded in with their bags around the ticket counter thirty feet away. Volodin looked up to see a Native woman carrying a baby throw a shocked hand over her mouth. All eyes in the room turned to a television mounted on the wall above the popcorn machine.
The news feed at the bottom of the screen said the shaky images were streaming live from Texas. Hundreds of people ran, trampling others, as those around them fell dead and dying from some unseen force — all amid the pageantry and waving flags at an American high school football game. News commentators stammered, trying to make sense of what they were seeing — but Volodin knew. His heart was a stone in his chest. This was his doing, his fault. He fought the urge to vomit.
Machinelike, he pushed his duffle bag forward with his foot and shoved his passport onto the simple wooden table. He doubted the Customs agent would make a scene in front of the other passengers, even if he were in league with the men outside. But the situation had suddenly changed with the awful scenes unfolding on the television. He and Kaija might make it past Colonel Rostov’s thugs, but if the Americans ever discovered Novo Archangelsk was his creation, they would stop at nothing to find him. He’d been certain he destroyed it all. And yet he was obviously mistaken. A batch had gotten away from him. His mouth hung open as he watched the horrible footage on the screen. Only a very few people even knew of the existence of New Archangel gas. Fewer still had access to his lab — but one of them had smuggled some to America. Volodin closed his eyes as a cold reality washed over him. The real question was not how they had taken the New Archangel, but how much.
Chapter 4