Morgan Stone - The Russian Factor

“Please forgive my curiosity but, tagged for what?”

What the hell, end of the road. I laid it on the line. “Terrorism. Suspected terrorism.”

“What nationality is this person?”

“Russian.”

“Who placed these charges?”

“The person’s mother, in Russia.”

“You know about this for a fact? Was this person arrested downstairs?”

“No, she isn’t at the airport. She hasn’t used the passport yet, and I know about the notifications for a fact.”

“This person won’t be allowed into any country with that tagging.” The official loosened his tie. “I can’t help with that. The airline would be responsible and would hand her over to authorities.”

“Well, I also know for a fact that the notification is only active, or visible, at this time anyway, in Russia and maybe Ukraine, so she should have no trouble outside the CIS getting into Egypt or Turkey.”

“Ah, I see, the problem is just passport control here, yes?”

“Correct. She needs to get on a plane out of here, that’s all.” I emptied my little glass teacup and put it on the silver tray with a metallic clunk. “As I recall, the airline is responsible to the country they enter, not the one they depart from insofar as passenger movement is concerned.”

The side door opened and the pre-teen started for the silver tray. The official muttered something I couldn’t understand and shooed her away. She lowered her head, retreating, and closed the door.

“You know a lot. You are a professional?” He put down his cup with a clank. “American?”

“What difference does my nationality or profession make? I’m asking if you can get a Russian, who is clear to enter someplace like Egypt on one of your aircraft without involving Odessa passport control down there.” I pointed at the floor.

“I do need to know how you would be paying for this service. Please take no offense.”

“So you can do it?” I asked.

“If all you say is true, I can get your passenger on a plane. However, I cannot get her into Egypt or anywhere else if the passport is compromised .” He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a pad. “If the passenger is inadmissible to the destination country, the airline will be liable for returning her to Ukraine or Russia. If I put this passenger on one of our planes and she is denied entry, I will be obligated to cover all the expenses from my own wallet.” He started to write figures on the pad. “Being a professional , you do realize that would be very expensive.” He looked at me, raising a thick black eyebrow.

The airline official called the following morning. “You are in luck today, my friend. There is a charter flight to Istanbul. The first class cabin is for you and your companion if you may be to the airport in two hours from now. Also, I shall require twelve-thousand dollars. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly!” I pumped my fist in the air. “We will be there. Your office in say, one hour?”

“Absolutely not! You must not come near the terminal building. I know a driver at your hotel. I will make arrangements and you and your companion will meet with him in ninety minutes. Is that clear?”

“Ah sure… Ninety minutes, hotel driver… Okay.” I had a million questions, but he’d hung up while I dithered. I wasn’t used to not being in charge.

I dashed through our room, scanning for anything left behind. With most of our worldly possessions having been abandoned in Kiev, it didn’t take long. Anna was already down in the lobby with her nylon bag. She had also taken a loosely packed duffel bag of clothes we’d accumulated out of necessity while in Odessa. I picked up the Roots pack and Pelican case and pulled the door shut behind me.

We pulled up in front of the terminal in a hotel car. The official recognized the car and walked toward us.

“We’ve done this before,” the driver chuckled, “Nothing to worry about.”

I moved to the back seat with Anna and the official got in up front. He and the driver greeted each other like old friends. Pulling up to the vehicle access gate, I saw an Airbus A340 with the airline’s colors on the other side. “You are lucky, today you fly on the big plane.”

Nobody said anything while security went through the car and our scant luggage. The official told us he’d check in our only piece of baggage — the Odessa acquired duffel bag. Everything else, which wasn’t much, we carried with us. It was a stroke of good luck that I didn’t have to explain the lead lined Pelican case to the officers in the terminal with the turkey-roaster x-ray scanners. A Soviet era jeep, sporting yellow flashing lights on a plywood sign that said “FOLLOW ME,” waited on the flight operations side of the fence for us. Security waved us through, and the FOLLOW ME jeep led us along a circuitous path over the cracked and weathered tarmac to the Airbus A340.

The hotel driver got out of the car, leaving the official, Anna and me, in the limo. I watched him strike up a conversation with the jeep driver in front of the car. This was to be an official meeting, CIS style. The airline official looked at our passports, examining them closely. “How is it you are already checked out of Ukraine?” He examined the exit stamp in my passport from the day before. Then he answered his own question, “But of course, you are a professional .”

I let that go, saying nothing as he scrutinized Anna’s passport, holding pages up to the sunlight to look for watermarks and embedded anti-counterfeit measures. Anna sat ramrod straight. Satisfied the passport was real, the official politely excused the wait, pulled out his phone and, reading from Anna’s passport, spoke to someone in an Arabic language. He nodded a few times, ended the call and announced, “The passport will get you into Turkey.”

We both breathed a sigh of relief.

“Now about payment.” He pocketed the phone and pulled a beautifully handwritten invoice from his breast pocket. “You may pay cash if you wish or by credit card.”

“Credit card? Really?” I asked.

“Why not? The airline accepts credit cards. We are not doing anything illegal. Perhaps your employer would be paying. Would it not be easier to use a credit card or wire transfer than to carry thousands of dollars in cash?” The official sounded a little hurt.

“It’s cash, six-hundred American twenties.” I sighed.

“As you can see on your invoice, four thousand dollars is to be held in trust pending your client’s successful entry into Turkey. If you wish, and since this passport appears valid, I can authorize a payment from your credit card that would only be processed in the unfortunate circumstance Turkey denies entry.”

I accepted his generous offer, hanging on to the remaining four thousand. It was the last of my savings and the inheritance from my father. At the bottom of the mobile stairs, I shook hands with the hotel driver, giving him the rest of my Ukrainian cash and asking him to share it with the kitchen staff. He agreed and gave Anna an awkward hug. The airline official escorted us to our seats in first class, had a few words with the pilots and left the plane. The stairs were moved back to an entrance closer to the wing and the tractor-pulled trolley cars showed up with the rest of the passengers.

First class was all ours. Provided one kept her face back from the windows, they provided a particularly discrete way of watching the passenger assembly area at the bottom of the stairs. “Anna, I’d like you to keep an eye on those people boarding the plane. We need to know if there’s anyone you recognize.”

“Okay, why?”

“Because I’ve come to realize you just can’t be too careful.”