Word of Ivan and Elena Kharkov’s departure from Villa Soleil arrived at the operations room in London at 7:13 A.M. local time. Gabriel was informed of the development five minutes later. One hour after receiving the message, he informed the front desk that he was checking out of his room and that his stay, while far too brief, had been lovely. His rented Renault was waiting for him by the time he stepped outside. He climbed behind the wheel and headed for the airport.
53 NICE, FRANCE
Ivan was preoccupied during the drive, and for that Elena was grateful. He passed the journey alternately talking on his mobile or staring silently out his window, his thick fingers drumming on the center console. Because they were moving against the morning beach traffic, they proceeded without delay: around the Golfe de Saint-Tropez to Saint-Maxime, inland on the D25 to the autoroute, then eastward on the autoroute toward Nice. As they sped through the northern fringes of Cannes, Elena found herself thinking about Ivan and Yekatarina making love in their suite at the Carlton. Ivan must have been thinking the same thing, because he took hold of her hand and said he was sorry for everything that had happened. Elena heard herself say she was sorry, too. Then she looked out her window at the hills rising toward the Alps and began counting the minutes until she would be free of him.
The exit for the Côte d’Azur International Airport appeared fifteen minutes later. By then, Ivan had received another phone call and was engaged in a heated conversation with an associate in London. He was still on the phone, five minutes later, as they walked into the air-conditioned office of Riviera Flight Services, the airport’s fixed base operator. Standing behind the pristine white counter was a man in his mid-thirties with receding blond hair. He wore navy blue trousers and a white short-sleeved shirt with epaulets. Ivan kept him waiting another two minutes while he concluded the call to London. “ Kharkov,” he said finally. “Leaving for Moscow at eleven.”
The young man hoisted a bureaucrat’s troubled smile. “That’s not going to be possible, Monsieur Kharkov. I’m afraid there’s a rather serious problem with your aircraft.”
Elena dug a fingernail into her palm and looked down at her shoes.
"What sort of problem?” asked Ivan.
"A paperwork problem,” answered the young man. “Your crew has been unable to produce two very important documents: an RVSM authorization letter and a Stage Three certificate. The DGAC will not allow your plane to depart without them.”
The DGAC was the Direction Générale de l’Aviation Civile, the French equivalent of the Federal Aviation Administration.
“This is outrageous!” snapped Ivan. “I’ve taken off from this airport dozens of times in that same aircraft and I’ve never been required to produce those documents before.”
“I understand your frustration, Monsieur Kharkov, but I’m afraid rules are rules. Unless your crew can produce an RVSM authorization and Stage Three certificate, your aircraft isn’t going anywhere.”
“Is there some sort of fine I can pay?”
“Perhaps eventually, but not now.”
“I want to speak to your superior.”
“I’m the most senior man on duty.”
“Get someone from the DGAC on the phone.”
“The DGAC has made its position clear on this matter. They will have nothing further to say until they see those documents.”
“We have an emergency in Moscow. My wife’s mother is very ill. She has to get there right away.”
“Then I would suggest that your crew do their utmost to find those documents. In the meantime, your wife might consider flying commercial. ”
“Commercial?” Ivan brought his palm down on the counter. “My wife can’t fly commercial. We have security issues to consider. It’s simply not possible.”
“Then I doubt very much that she’ll be going to Moscow today, Monsieur.”
Elena moved cautiously to the counter. “My mother is expecting me, Ivan. I can’t disappoint her. I’ll just fly commercial.”
The clerk gestured toward his computer. “I can check departure times and seat availability, if you would like.”
Ivan frowned, then nodded his head. The clerk sat down at the computer and punched a few keys. A moment later, he pulled his lips downward into a frown and shook his head slowly.
“I’m afraid there are no seats available on any direct flights between Nice and Moscow today. As you probably know, Monsieur Kharkov, we have many Russian visitors this time of year.” He tapped a few more keys. “But there is one other option.”
“What’s that?”
“There’s a Swiss International Air Lines flight departing in an hour for Geneva. Assuming it arrives on time, Madame Kharkov can then catch the two P.M. Swissair flight from Geneva to Moscow. It’s scheduled to arrive at Sheremetyevo at eight o’clock this evening.”
Ivan looked at Elena. “It’s a very long travel day. Why don’t you wait until I get the paperwork straightened out?”
“I’ve already told my mother I was coming tonight. I don’t want to disappoint her, darling. You heard her voice.”
Ivan looked at the clerk. “I need three first-class seats: one for my wife and two for her bodyguards.”
A few more taps at the keyboard. Another slow shake of the head.
“There’s only one first-class seat available on each flight and nothing in economy. But I can assure you Madame Kharkov will be perfectly safe. If you would prefer, I can arrange a VIP escort with airport security.”
“Which terminal does Swissair depart from?”
“Terminal One.” The clerk picked up the telephone. “I’ll let them know you’re on the way.”
The young man behind the counter did not work for Riviera Flight Services but was in fact a junior case officer employed by the French internal security service. As for the telephone call he placed after Ivan and Elena’s departure, it was not to the offices of Swissair but to his superior, who was sitting in the back of an ersatz service van just outside. Upon receiving the call, the officer in the van alerted regional headquarters in Nice, which, in turn, flashed word to the operations room in London. The news arrived on Gabriel’s PDA while he was pretending to look at Rolex watches in an airport duty-free shop. He left the shop empty-handed and wandered slowly toward his gate.
Elena tried to leave him at the curb, but Ivan, in a sudden rush of gallantry, would hear none of it. He stood with her on the endless line at the ticket counter and argued with the poor agent over the details of her itinerary. He bought a small gift for her mother, and made Elena swear to call him the minute she landed in Moscow. And finally, as Elena was preparing to pass through security, he apologized once again for the damage he had done to their marriage. She kissed him one final time and, upon reaching the other side, turned to wave good-bye. Ivan was already walking away, bodyguards at his side, telephone pressed to his ear.
For the next half hour, she reveled in the mundane. She located her gate. She drank a café crème at a crowded bar. She bought a stack of newspapers and magazines. But mainly she just walked. For the first time in many years, Elena was alone. Not truly alone, she thought, for surely someone was watching her, but free of the cloying presence of Ivan’s bodyguards, at least for a few hours. Soon she would be free of them forever. She just had to run one small errand in Moscow first. She couldn’t help but smile at the irony of it. She had to go to Russia to set herself free. She did this not only for herself, she thought, but for her country. She was Russia ’s conscience. Russia ’s savior.