He glared at her.
“I couldn’t help it. Let’s just say, unexpected female problems.”
“Step inside the galley and wait for me. You’re blocking the passengers.” He waved for a flight attendant in the coach cabin to come to the front. He held his hand up to halt the German businessman. “One moment, sir. I do apologize for the delay.” He went into the galley and jerked the blue curtain closed with such force that Faith feared he might pull it off the metal hooks. “You will never do that to me again. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” She looked down in deference. A coffee stirrer was stuck to the floor under a stowed galley cart. Definitely not Lufthansa.
“You’re not on the crew manifest, Reeves.”
“I was just assigned. I gave you the addendum.”
“I’ve never known of a last-minute assignment on a Moscow haul. The Russians require too much paper-”
“I was supposed to start Moscow service next month.” She opened her purse and removed her thick business-size passport with a light brown folded paper inside. She held Hakan’s forgeries out to him and almost didn’t recognize her own hand with its fake press-on nails hastily polished in crimson surprise.
“Why would they add someone at the last minute?”
“I don’t know. I just work here and do what I’m told. Maybe because of a heavy load or something?”
“We’re only expecting forty-seven and six.”
“Maybe the return’s heavy out of Moscow.”
Someone tapped on the galley service door from the outside. The purser looked through the porthole, then glanced down to make sure the emergency slide was not already armed. He opened the door. Three LSG Sky Chefs caterers stood on the elevated platform on the back of their truck.
Two men immediately jumped aboard and pushed their way in. The purser and Faith stepped back. They started to remove the metal bins with the hot in-flight meals, but the purser stepped in front of them and blocked their way. “What in the world are you doing? We just got those meal inserts.”
The swarthy supervisor crowded into the galley. “I apologize, sir. But these are the wrong meals. My staff brought you only low-sodium meals, and you know how bland those are. Pan Am passengers deserve the best and we can’t have our reputation for excellent cuisine damaged, either. We’ll have you a new set of meals here in no time.”
“You can’t swap them out right now?” the purser said.
“No, sir. But, rest assured, they’re being freshly prepared and we’ll have them here in no time.” He nodded to his crew to remove the metal bins.
The purser threw up his arms. “You are not taking these. Just give me some extra salt packets.”
The supervisor leaned over to the purser. “Sir, I didn’t want to have to tell you this. The truth is these meals are designated MM.”
“I’m losing my patience here. I want an on-time pushback. Is everyone here conspiring to hold up this plane?” He threw his arms into the air. “Get me the salt and get out of here.”
“Sir, I don’t think you understand. MM is short for Mickey Mouse.”
“I don’t care if it’s Donald Duck à l’orange in there. I want an on-time departure.”
The supervisor whispered, “This is a delicate matter. It’s a Mickey Mouse problem. As in mouse. As in rats got into the food. As in rat spit. Rat pellets. Get it?”
The purser crinkled his face. “That’s just gross. Get those out of here. How long will it be?”
“Just a few minutes, sir.”
The caterers left, promising to return in ten minutes. The purser turned back to Faith. “This is not a good day. Give me your passport. It’s in order, but you didn’t report for the preflight and you caused a bit of a stir with the firstclass passengers blundering down the jetway. I’m not able to allow you-”
A shout in Russian interrupted him.
“Ma’am, you can’t take this aboard the aircraft.” A flight attendant raised her voice.
The purser pushed back the galley curtain. A robust Russian woman hoisted a boxed Sanyo television onto a first-class seat. She dragged an overstuffed red, white and blue striped burlap bag behind her. It was larger than the television box. Her travel companion wedged two other bags into the cabin exit. The purser rushed through first class to the forward exit.
“We have to check these or you’ll have to disembark from the aircraft.” The purser held up both hands with outstretched palms as if he were pushing her back off the plane with each word.
The woman barked something in Russian, first wagging her finger at the purser, then pointing at the TV. He repeated his instructions in French, speaking more loudly in case it helped the woman better understand. She screeched at them. The German businessmen shook their heads and whispered to each other. Passengers filled the jetway, craning their necks to watch.
Faith tapped the purser on the shoulder. “Let me see what I can do.” He switched places with her. Faith transformed from flustered innocence into the tough-love charm of a jaded Aeroflot stewardess. She spoke in flawless Russian. “Look, lady, this isn’t the train to Nizhniy-Novgorod. You can’t bring aboard everything you can manage to pack onto your tree-stump legs. This is an American airline, and you’re violating American law.”
As she spoke with the woman, Faith glanced at the crowd in the jetway. And she recognized someone. The man with the newspaper in the concourse. He was the blond on the plane from Berlin. And now he was tailing her to Moscow. She pretended not to notice him and continued, “You have a choice, babushka: You can keep throwing a fit and we’ll toss you off the aircraft right now and turn you over to German authorities-and I’m sure they’ll notify Moscow-or you can cooperate with this nice woman and let her check your plunder. If you’re lucky, we won’t take anything for our troubles. Understand?”
“Da.” The woman lowered her head in submission.
Faith turned to the purser and said, “I explained how the FAA regs don’t allow such large carry-ons. She completely understands and agreed to cooperate fully. She’ll hand her things over for a gate check.” Faith then switched back into Russian. “Don’t think you just scammed your way into a couple hundred pounds of free excess baggage without us knowing what you’re up to. I’m letting you get away with it this one time, but if you cause me any problems on this flight, I’m personally informing Soviet customs you’re trafficking in Western goods. You might be able to bribe your way through alone, but they can’t turn a blind eye if an American airline reports you. Next time, take the train.”
“What’d you say?”
“I told her I know she has a choice when she flies and I hope next time she again chooses Pan American.”
“You’re on. Take the jump seat up front with me. Now, where are those damn caterers?”
Twenty minutes after the scheduled departure time, Nariskii arrived wearing an LSG Sky Chefs uniform. She was nearly out of breath, but she’d made it. Gudiashvili apologized to the purser for the longer-than-expected delay as he returned the same meal inserts his crew had earlier removed. Nariskii slid in a specially prepared bin, sealed in case anyone tried to open it within the next three hours.
At five-thirty Moscow time, the meal insert would open itself.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
KGB SAFE HOUSE, BERLIN-WEST, DAHLEM DISTRICT