His uncle spoke quietly. “If you solve the Bermuda problem for the Russians and we can find a way to convince them that no international recriminations will follow, we may be able to convince them to let her go.” He held up a cautioning hand. “I’m not saying it’s even a probability. Just a possibility. Say what you will about them, the Russians do have a streak of fairness. Their loyalty is to people, not nations. It may make a difference.”
“Have they put it in those terms? Bail them out and they’ll give me my wife back?” Anger started in the pit of his stomach and flashed through his entire being, so strong and hard that it threatened to consume him.
Hemingway shook her head. “No. But your uncle is right. All politics is personal. And if they’re holding the wife of someone that’s bailed them out of trouble instead of holding just another American aviator… No promise, you understand.”
“Why are they holding her, anyway?” Tombstone asked. “We’re not at war with them. This isn’t Vietnam. There’s no reason for them to keep her.”
“We don’t know,” Hemingway admitted. “It may be that they’re hoping to use her as a bargaining chip some time in the future. Maybe turning her loose would reveal something about their intelligence sources. Or maybe some junior officer just screwed up holding her in the first place and there’s no way to back out of it now without international consequences.”
“That’s not right!” Tombstone said, his voice breaking. “It’s not right.”
“Of course not,” Hemingway said briskly. “Neither is our failure to get her out. But it is what it is. Do you want to bitch about it, or do you want to fly this mission and see if it makes a difference?” She paused and shot him a considering look. “And if you think you can just go public and cause enough outrage to force them to release her, think again. I can tell you this for certain: The only thing you would accomplish would be to ensure that they start covering their tracks as fast as they can. Starting with getting rid of her. Are you really prepared to take that risk?”
“I’ll leave today,” Tombstone said, avoiding her question. “Tell the Armenians to expect me.”
NINE
As the airliner touched down on the Armenian tarmac, Tombstone breathed a sigh of relief. No pilot likes to fly as a passenger, and Tombstone was no exception. He glanced over at Lieutenant Jeremy Greene and saw relief in his eyes as well.
“Nice landing, Tombstone said coolly, letting the understatement express his relief to be on the ground again.
“Yeah. Not bad.” Greene was just as determined to be cool.
A mixture of languages flooded the compartment, primarily Russian but with other dialects as well. The passengers behaved as airline passengers do everywhere, getting up quickly, trying to organize their belongings and jockeying for position in the aisles. Like their American counterparts, the Russian flight attendants pleaded with the passengers to remain seated until the airline had come to a complete stop, and, like their counterparts they were mostly ignored.
Finally, the aircraft taxied to a halt outside the small, low terminal building. A metal rollaway ladder was pushed up and the plane began to empty. Tombstone and his copilot had carry-on bags containing a few essentials in case their luggage was lost. Neither of them had much faith in the Armenian baggage handling system, and doubted that the Russians would be any more efficient.
Inside, long lines had already formed at the Customs stations. Tombstone and Greene gathered up their luggage and looked at the lines with dismay.
“I thought we didn’t have to do this?” Greene asked.
Tombstone shook his head. “We’re not supposed to, but maybe something got screwed up. It wouldn’t be the first time and it won’t be the last time. Let’s get in line and try to look inconspicuous. Remember, we’re attending a religious conference.”
The fact that an international Russian Orthodox church conference was scheduled in the city at the same time was fortuitous. His uncle in particular had appeared to enjoy the idea of his two pilots traveling as visiting priests. Tombstone’s somewhat vehement objection to the appropriateness of pretending to be priests, and in particular to wearing the white collar, was overruled. To his surprise, Greene appeared not to mind at all. He ran a finger around the clerical collar, scratched, then said, “Chicks love these things.” Tombstone and Greene got into line, trying to appear inconspicuous, and waited to see if the system would work as it was supposed to. They had advanced just ten feet toward the inspection station when a man in clerical garb approached them. “Father Stone?”
Tombstone nodded. “Yes. And you are…?”
“Gregorio Russo,” the priest said, holding out his hand. “Welcome to Armenia.” He glanced at the line and said, “Come, there’s no need for this. After all, if one can’t trust a priest, who can one trust?”
Tombstone and Greene followed the priest away from the line to an unmarked door at one end of the room. Father Russo led the way, talking idly about the weather, the city, and the scheduled events at the conference. Tombstone tried to keep up his side of the conversation and finally said, “Jet lag, you know. I’m sure you understand.”
Father Russo was instantly solicitous. “Of course. Please forgive me. Your hotel is not far — we’ll get you settled in and you’ll have time to rest up and prepare for vespers. There is a reception planned for this evening. A driver and escort will be by to pick you up at six this evening.”
The Armenian priest’s demeanor was so convincing at that moment that Tombstone wondered if there’d been a serious FUBAR in the plans. But as he looked closely at Russo’s dark, inscrutable eyes and stern face, the priest winked slightly. Tombstone relaxed.
At the hotel, the two pilots were shown to adjoining suites, each modest by American luxury hotel standards, but more than adequate for their purposes. After all, they didn’t intend to spend much time there.
“Six o’clock,” Russo reminded them.
“Right. Vespers,” Tombstone answered.
Once alone, they opened the door that connected the two rooms. Both had been extensively briefed on the probability of surveillance and certainly weren’t going to take the risk of discussing the mission. Yet, what did priests talk about amongst themselves? Tombstone wondered. Somehow he doubted that Jeremy Greene’s analysis of the potential for meeting Armenian women would be suitable.
“Suppose they have room service?” Greene asked, and Tombstone breathed a sigh of relief. His copilot’s other abiding passion, in addition to chasing women, was eating.
“Let’s find out,” Tombstone suggested.
In short order, they learned that not only did the hotel have room service, but that they had a concierge who spoke English exceptionally well. They placed an order for breakfast for Tombstone and lunch for Greene, as their biological clocks were in different time zones.
The food came quickly, and Tombstone found it more than acceptable. Greene stripped off his collar and dug in with his usual gusto. Even as he was polishing off the last of his steak, he was eyeing Tombstone’s hash browns.
After refueling, Tombstone settled in for a nap, vetoing Greene’s suggestion that they go for a walk and insisting that the other pilot/priest remain in his room until their escort came at six.
At precisely six o’clock, Father Russo rapped on Tombstone’s door. He stepped in and grinned at the two pilots, who had reassembled the bits and pieces of their clerical garb. He straightened Tombstone’s collar, checked the tuck on Greene’s shirt, then announced, “If you’re ready, we’ll go to vespers now.”