Part 21 (1/2)
Chapter 18.
Russian Emba.s.sy 1530 Hours Friday - Day 5 Amba.s.sador Vazov stood by the desk in the lobby, still unbelieving Kalinin was alive. He was more than curious, though, to hear the entire story.
Zelesky drove the Mercedes close to the entrance, trying to give Kalinin some cover, allowing him to stay in the shadow of trees. A black van was parked across the street, undoubtedly FBI.
Kalinin walked into the lobby, looking tired and obviously injured. Vazov reached for Kalinin's extended hand, but immediately put a finger to his own lips, then pointed to the elevator.
Once the elevator motor started, Vazov said, ”Nicolai, we thought you were dead!”
”I am sorry that I was unable to contact you.”
”You are hurt.”
”Nothing serious, sir.”
”We will go to my residence. I will give you food and drink.”
As they rode the elevator, Kalinin felt it strange to be inside the Russian Emba.s.sy. The closest he'd been was the morning he left the newspaper, the start of his mission, a mission that ended in failure. It was not easy for him to face the amba.s.sador now, a man who had expressed such confidence in him, depended on him to get the weapons to their intended destinations. But Grant Stevens and his team of specialists derailed the entire plan.
Vazov interrupted Kalinin's thoughts as he opened the door to the residence. ”Go in, Nicolai.” Kalinin entered the apartment. The lavishness of the decor surprised him. Red velvet-covered sofas, chairs, expensive mirrors, paintings, crystal chandeliers, heavy red drapes. He remembered his parents telling him about the harsh conditions most Russians had to deal with, then seeing this. . . But perhaps that was part of what made Russians such a strong, proud people. . . the little they did have.
”Nicolai, sit over here,” Vazov said, indicating an ornate wooden chair by the ten-foot rectangular dining room table. ”I am having hot food prepared.”
Kalinin pulled the chair from under the table, then sat down.
Vazov reached for a bottle of Stolis Vodka. He poured the clear liquid into his gla.s.s, then Kalinin's. He raised his gla.s.s. ”A toast, Nicolai, for your return to us.” Kalinin raised his gla.s.s, then drank a small mouthful.
Vazov sat at the head of the table. ”Now, Nicolai, do you want to talk about what happened?”
Kalinin leaned back, and began. When he finished, Vazov asked, ”And those men were the same who took the weapons from the cargo vessel?”
”While I am not positive, it seems to be the most logical.”
”And Comrade Vikulin. Was his body left at the airfield in Shannon?”
”No, sir. His body was put onboard. Oh, Mr. Amba.s.sador, my American pa.s.sport was on the aircraft, and the agents confiscated my Russian one. I. . .”
”Do not worry. I will see that a new diplomatic pa.s.sport is ready.” Vazov took another sip of his drink, wondering if it was the right time. He needed to know more. ”Did the agents identify themselves when you landed?”
”No, sir. I didn't see any badges, and they remained quiet during the whole trip.”
”Hmm. They must have been FBI. Do you know what airport?”
”The airport didn't look familiar, and as soon as I was turned over to them, I was immediately put in a paneled van.”
”Do you remember where you were held?”
”Not specifically. I just remember the sound of traffic on the way. We stopped at, what I a.s.sume, were a lot of traffic lights. When we arrived at the destination, the van was parked in a garage, but it wasn't a typical garage, more like a large, empty, concrete room. We took an elevator to a lower lever, then I was taken to a room and left there for hours.”
”Were you tortured, Nicolai?”
”No. Not at all, sir.”
Vazov sounded relieved, as he asked, ”And what about interrogation?”
”Two agents questioned me, but they seemed to be pretty standard questions. I was fingerprinted, and had my picture taken.” He rubbed a hand over his face, then commented, ”It was all very strange, Mr. Amba.s.sador. It was as if they already knew. . . everything.”
”Do you know where they were taking you when you escaped?”
”No. They used the same type van. We had traveled perhaps twenty minutes when the accident happened. I remember seeing a road sign for Route 27 when I escaped.” Kalinin finally gave a very slight smile. ”Is there a special place where they take 'sleepers' like me?”
Before Vazov could respond, a door from the kitchen opened, and two women, wearing housekeeper-type clothes, walked into the dining room carrying silver trays. Two serving plates each held shashlik, marinated lamb on skewers; pelmeni, dumplings with meat filling wrapped in thin pasta dough, and knish, a baked potato dumpling. For dessert, lymmonyk, a type of lemon pie.
A dinner plate was placed in front of Vazov who sniffed the aromas. ”Ahh, Nicolai. Now you will experience good Russian food. How long has it been since you have eaten our food?”
”When my mother was alive, she would occasionally prepare my father's favorite meals. But I have not eaten any since they died.” Kalinin glanced at the plate of food. His appet.i.te was practically nil. The past couple of days had drained his mind and body. But, he ate slowly and what he could manage, if only to please the amba.s.sador.
As they ate, Vazov continued asking Kalinin questions, and Kalinin answered as honestly as possible. . . for the most part.
”Nicolai, you are remarkable.”
”Sir?” Kalinin asked with eyebrows raised.
”Your escape from the Americans, then managing to come all the way into the city. Tell me how you managed to get here?”
”I rode with truckers. It was easy to stay out of sight riding with them. And with the possibility of the Americans watching the emba.s.sy, I felt the safest place to call from was the parking garage.”
”I see,” Vazov nodded, then pointed to the cuts on Kalinin's face. ”How did you manage to care for your wounds?”
”A trucker made a fuel stop at one of those large facilities. I was able to, uh, 'lift' a package of Band-Aids then cleaned up in the restroom.”
”Well, we will have our doctor check you over. You must relax, Nicolai. You are safe. Your country will protect you.”
”Sir, may I ask you something?” Vazov nodded. ”Have you discovered the ident.i.ty of the American traitor?”
Vazov wiped his mouth with a white linen napkin, then dropped it next to his plate. ”As a matter of fact, we have.”
”Who? Who is he?”
”While we do not yet know his name, Misha followed him to his place of residence last night. Do you know, Nicolai, he actually demanded fifteen thousand American dollars for his information?”
”Am I to a.s.sume you refused?”