The Bonn residency couldn’t be allowed to learn that FedEx was on this flight. The greedy fool Kivisto was probably already adding up his new bank balance. Resnick fingered the fountain pen in his shirt pocket, pleased that his escort duty was turning into an interesting trip.
Sunlight streamed through the many flight deck windows and Faith wished she’d brought along sunglasses. The sun gleamed off the shiny MIG hanging in the air just ahead of them. She held up her hand to block the glare and squinted. The Faggot rocked its wings from side to side.
“No way, buddy,” Frosty said.
“What does he want?” she said.
“To play follow-the-leader.”
“Distance to West German airspace?” Ian said, watching the intercept.
“Seventy miles.”
“He’ll stand down soon. I’m not about to follow him out of the corridor. Faith, just try to relax and enjoy the flight.”
“Right.” Faith stared at the console’s dials. They didn’t seem to be moving much. Everything about the plane seemed normal and safe, save for the fighter off its nose-the fighter whose instructions they were ignoring. The sky had cleared and she no longer had hope of hiding in the clouds. She had to block out the MIG and focus on her objective. “You know Svetlana?”
“A most delightful soul. Don’t you remember? You introduced us two, three years ago. She keeps promising to take me on a tour of the Crimea, but the paperwork to travel privately is horrendous. I’m assigned to the Moscow run right now, but my crew visa is good for Moscow only. How strict are they?”
“The Sovs? Very. They even restrict movement of official visitors from other commie countries. I mean, you can sneak around if you blend in. I might have done it once or twice, but I usually cover myself with the right papers, dress the part and my Russian’s passable.”
“Are you implying I might not blend in?” Ian said.
“Buddy, she’s saying we might as well start forwarding your mail to Siberia.” Frosty returned to the engineer’s station and slipped off his shoes.
Faith pointed to her cooler. “This is a birthday surprise I have to get to her by tonight. A small gift and some Häagen-Dazs to mark the occasion.” Faith heard the tension in her own voice and struggled to sound more lively. “You know how Russians love ice cream. I’m betting she’s never even imagined chocolate cheesecake and chocolate raspberry tort flavors. All I’ve ever had there is…” Her voice trailed off. The MIG was again rocking its wings from side to side. “Vanilla.”
“I had no idea it was her birthday. I’m taking her out to dinner tonight and I suppose now we’ll make it a celebration. That might make the evening even better for me, if you know what I mean.” Ian smiled to himself.
“So will you take her my gifts?”
“Have you found anything interesting for me lately?”
“She’s holding some amazing Armenian glass icons for me. I’ve never seen such intricate work. They’re waiting until I can move them out.”
“These birds have all kinds of hiding places the authorities never think to look in.”
“The hitch is Soviet customs.” Faith was always fishing for new contacts and Ian had them. The man knew every corrupt or corruptible airport employee between Karachi and Sofia, but he rationed his contacts, doling them out one at a time. “Frosty, you want to hand me that cooler? I know how Ian always wants to do a visual on whatever he’s taking in for me.”
“Not that I don’t trust you. I do have a responsibility for my passengers’ safety and we all know I’m not taking something into Russia if I don’t know what it is. I don’t know how to put this delicately, but I find it difficult to believe that you’re sending a mere present.”
“Come on. My mother smuggles things in. I’m the one who takes them out. That way we both stay out of each other’s way. It works for us.” She opened the lid and tilted it so he could look inside. She glanced ahead. The MIG was still there, waving away.
“Frosty, would you be so kind and inventory the container?”
“Sure thing, boss.”
Frosty removed the lid and pulled out packets of dry ice, then the ice cream, two cartons of each flavor. “Whoa, there’s enough here for a little party right now.”
“Trust me, I didn’t overbuy. There’s always some shrinkage on the border.”
Frosty picked up a large brown dinner plate with crude blue, yellow and red flowers painted on it. He displayed it to Ian.
“Ghastly.”
“What can I say? Sveta wanted genuine Mexican hand-painted dinnerware. Guess you can’t get lovely plates like that in Moscow.”
“I should hope not.” Ian turned back to the instruments.
The MIG suddenly broke away to the left in a steep ninety-plus-degree turn. Ian responded by rocking the 727 from side to side, just as the MIG had done earlier. “He’s signaling me that we may proceed. I’m telling him I’ll comply this time.”
Frosty tilted his head as if listening to something in his headset; then he laughed. “The MIG just broke into the emergency frequency and wished us a safe flight. Didn’t know the Reds had a sense of humor.”
“Thank God he’s gone,” Faith said.
“I thought you played chicken with the commies all the time. You going yellow on us?” Frosty slipped his hand into the cooler beside the plates for a perfunctory check. “Just a Leatherman. Those things are great-beat the socks off a Swiss Army knife.” Frosty repacked the cooler and closed it. “Looks like you can trust the little lady.”
Faith was silent while Ian thanked the Berlin air controller and changed radio frequencies in the hand-off to the West Germans. He confirmed their position and the new flight level, then pulled back on the yoke and began the climb. Faith cleared her throat. “So you’ll have this to Sveta by tonight? I owe her big time and absolutely have to make sure she gets this on her birthday.” Without the delivery, Faith doubted she would ever leave the Soviet Union alive.
“As I told you when you rang me up, both Frosty and I are scheduled for the Frankfurt-Moscow run this afternoon. We’re only doing the Internal German Service twice a week. You got lucky today.” Ian flipped an overhead switch.
“Actually, I’m stepping out on you, buddy. I need the cash. I’m doing the IGS milk runs without you in a couple of days.” He turned to Faith. “The IGS is a bit short-handed this month and they’re letting a few of us sub for old time’s sake.”
“You don’t take this same plane to Moscow today, do you?”
“No, no. We have an equipment change in Frankfurt. IGS has its own fleet.”
“I take it the German flight attendants stay with the plane and don’t go on to Moscow?”
“We pick up a fresh crew in Frankfurt. Anything else you want to know, my dear?”
“Not at the moment.”
Ian turned back toward Faith and smiled. “It was cash.”
“Excuse me?”
“Cash. The shipment for your mother was cash. I haven’t a clue what she’s doing with it, but two days ago I ferried in-”
The cockpit door pushed open and First Officer Art Kivisto squeezed onto the cramped flight deck. His gaze paused for a second too long on the Moscow-bound cooler; then he intentionally averted his eyes away from Faith. He couldn’t be, she chided herself. Spooks don’t hang out on flight decks. Faith usually trusted her instincts, but maybe she really had spent too much time playing with the communists and was getting paranoid.
Kivisto slid into the co-pilot’s seat, strapped himself in and checked his radio. “Sorry, guys. Didn’t want you to think I’d bailed on you. Anything interesting happen?”