“I understand, but this is not my decision,” he answered with a slight smile. He tossed his hands up in the air for effect. “I’m sorry Captain. It shouldn’t take very long, just an hour or two.”
The pilot huffed but knew he could do nothing about it. It was politics and he was sure the Americans were interfering just because they were Russian. It probably had something to do with the accident over Alaska. He turned and stomped his way back down the gangway and into the cabin where he delivered the news to the passengers, a ballet troupe that had been performing in the states. They would be forced to disembark, and wait. The news was greeted with a collective groan. The troupe was off and lounging around the terminal within ten minutes. The pilot was the last to walk back down the ramp where he was again, promptly greeted by another official.
“Captain? I’m agent Holmes from Homeland Security.”
“What do you want now? I have done nothing.”
“Sir, this isn’t about you.” The agent removed a slip of paper from the breast pocket of his suit and handed it to the captain.
“What is this?”
“Sir, I need to have these people questioned by my department. Can you provide them to us?”
“These are Russian citizens.” His voice peaked, drawing the attention of his passengers. “I will not hand over anyone to you.”
“Then we’ll have to take them, Captain. I know you don’t want it to get ugly.” Four other agents flanked out, cutting off the exit to the rest of the terminal. “I just need them for questioning.”
The captain’s face turned beet-red, the color more noticeable due to his thick, white hair. But he knew he could do nothing. He had little experience with international customs other than baggage claims, and he had no contact information for the Russian embassy. They would be the only ones who could stop this madness. He’d been in the United States several time before and never needed it. He thrust the paper back toward agent Holmes and turned to his co-pilot.
“Drako,” he said in Russian, “show these, gentlemen,” he said with disgust, “who they wish to speak to.” A nod was his only reply. “I assure you Agent Holmes, we will make the strongest protest to our embassy.”
“That is your right, Captain. I’m only the messenger. I’m just doing my job.”
Five members of the troupe were escorted from the terminal, two women and three men, and the others could only watch hoping no one would come back for them. The last of the inspectors disembarked within the hour.
“Captain, she’s all yours,” he said. “I apologize for the delay.”
“Where are my passengers?” he yelled.
“Sir, I only inspect aircraft,” he replied as he began his walk down the long row of windows. “Someone will be back to speak to you.”
The Russian captain was furious, and his passengers were scared. He began pacing. All he could do was wait for whomever was to contact him next, another imbecile, he was sure.
“Captain?” Agent Holmes announced as he walked into the terminal. “Good news,” he smiled. “You’re cleared to take off.”
“What about my other passengers?”
“Unfortunately, they will have to remain with us,” Holmes replied as he closed the distance. “But everyone else is free to go.“ Holmes extended his hand, but the Russian let it hang in the air. “I’m sure it’s nothing, Captain. I’m sure it’s nothing.”
The captain turned abruptly and waved his passengers toward the plane. They flooded toward the gangway, filling the opening with bodies. Agent Holmes could understand nothing as the captain shouted instructions in Russian. The terminal was cleared within minutes as Holmes grinned, pulling his phone from his pocket as he turned.
“Director Thorn? They have re-boarded. Everything went as you hoped.” He slid his finger across the screen, ending the call. Now it was back to the agency to debrief. He heard the engines cycle up as the Sukhoi SuperJet was pushed away from its berth.
“Yes. And tomorrow morning we leave for home.” Andrey Volkov fidgeted in his seat. He hadn’t expected this call. He was hoping this trip to America would give him a respite. “I can do nothing from here. My contacts must be approached in the proper manner.” He dipped his head and rubbed his forehead. “I understand. But you must know it is difficult to do this half a world away.” Andrey gripped the arm of the chair to steady himself. He was slowly losing control, and it infuriated him. All his training, all his experience was slipping away, and he could do nothing to stop it. “Da. Do svidaniya.”
The former Russian general let his phone slip from his hand and hit the carpet. He looked ahead, his gaze a blank, empty stare, the room around him nothing more than a desert. His life, a glorious accomplishment had dissolved into an old man trying to hold onto the past, trying to protect the only thing he had left, his family. Andrey took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He straightened and put his hands on his knees. He could feel them shaking. He closed his eyes as a single tear rolled down his cheek. He was at the bottom. There was nothing left. There was only one way to protect his family, his daughter, his granddaughter.
The Russian chief of staff eased himself off the chair and reached down, pressing his palms against the creases of his pants. He could not have his trousers wrinkled. He had standards. He passed through the door into his bedroom, making his way to the small closet. and had his suitcase open on the bed a minute later. He reached in, his hand finding the familiar handle. He slid it out, feeling its heft. It was a friend, perhaps the only true friend he ever had in this world. He studied the shape of the handle and the line of the barrel. He had always liked the Makarov. It just seemed to fit his hand. He’d carried it since the day he received his first commission. He slid his finger onto the trigger, knowing the next few seconds would end his agony, and his family would be safe. He sat down on the edge of the bed, the white blanket smooth across the queen-sized mattress. He struggled to take in another breath as his hand began to shake. The barrel lay against his chin as the tears began to fall. He could feel the tempo of his heartbeat. He could feel it in his temples. His chest was ready to explode.
“General?”
As he heard the knock on the outer door to his room, he slipped the pistol into the open suitcase and closed the lid. He took single deep breath to steady himself, and he was at the door seconds later.
“Just a moment,” he said as he choked back his tears. He slipped the lock on the door and let it open under its own weight as he stepped back. “Yes?”
“Dinner is being served. Would you care to join us?”
“No, thank you, Pavel. I have some work that still needs attention.” He nodded and took a step back toward the door. “Have a car brought around.”
His aide nodded, reached down and closed the door from the outside. Andrey could hear his footsteps as they retreated down the hall. He made his way back to the bedroom, closed his suitcase and placed it back where is belonged. A wipe of his face and a pull on his jacket made it feel like everything was back in place. But it wasn’t a good place to be. As he turned, he felt the vibration of his phone in his breast pocket. He pulled it out to see an unfamiliar number with a text: ‘meet at Freer Gallery, one hour.’ It could be one of two scenarios, and only one of them was good. At least he had a real destination for his driver to go now. His car pulled away ten minutes later, the headlights plunging into the dark Washington night.
He wrapped his wool coat tightly around himself. Still, he could feel the cold metal of the park bench pressing against his legs. His driver protested at being ordered to stay behind, but he could do nothing about it. Retired General Andrey Volkov disappeared into the night as he walked away from the headlights of his town car. Now he sat, and waited. The flurries swirled as a light breeze blew down the mall. He flipped his collar up to keep it off his neck. And waited.