When Colonel General Polukhin had told Morosov to ‘see Dmitri’ he did not intend for Morosov to do any such thing, and Morosov knew it. Arriving at Reagan National on the first direct flight of the morning, Morosov had taken three different cabs to various parts of Washington DC, before taking a fourth taxi across the Potomac to Alexandria, Virginia. Morosov, who’d spent a modest amount of his career in the DC area, still had trouble getting his head around the idea that Alexandria was a separate city, in a separate state. It looked and felt like little more than one of Washington’s upscale local neighborhoods. In the absence of DC’s traffic jams, it was only a fifteen-minute ride from Capitol Hill. It was like driving to Khamovniki District from the Kremlin, or to Soho from the Houses of Parliament. For Alexandria to be its own city was, quite simply, ridiculous.
Someone had once told Morosov that for most of the American Civil War, Confederate soldiers had occupied Alexandria, unable to push on into the capital, but apparently safe from the depredations of Union forces. It must have taken a spectacular level of incompetence to arrive at such a state of affairs, Morosov thought. Unfortunately for Russia, America’s armed forces had improved quite a lot since then.
It was this chain of thinking that brought a wry smile to Morosov’s lips as he got out of the cab. He was a couple of blocks short of his intended destination, a UPS store on Pendleton. It was a fine, crisp day, and Morosov left his coat open to the weather as he strode along the sidewalk. He was careful, however, to put on a pair of gloves. A gentle breeze caused the coat to billow like a cape as he walked.
Stepping in from the outside, the interior of the UPS store felt warm and stuffy. Overhead fluorescents gave the corporate-beige color scheme a washed-out pallor.
‘Can I help you?’ The woman at the desk was young and black, with loud pink hair extensions.
‘I wish to make complaint,’ Morosov announced. ‘Where is manager?’
‘Lou!’ the woman called.
A stooped old man appeared from the back of the store.
‘What seems to be the problem?’ he asked.
‘I send package to my niece in Buenos Aires from this store. It not arrive.’
‘I am so sorry to hear that,’ the old man said, though he didn’t look sorry at all. He was staring intently at Morosov’s face. ‘What was your niece’s name?’
‘Silvia Delmuro. She live at Agustín Caffarena One, La Boca.’
A slight pause.
‘I see. I seem to remember there was a problem with the labeling. Wait one moment.’
He disappeared to the back of the store, returning with a small parcel.
‘Here it is. I’m afraid we don’t deliver to this address. Someone should have told you at the time. I’m very sorry.’
‘Sorry heal no hurt. Now I have make other arrangement.’ He took the package from the old man with apparent ill grace and stepped out into the fresh air. Turning it over in gloved hands, he checked the package showed no signs of leaking. Satisfied, he walked all the way to City Hall before picking up the first of three cabs back to the airport.
Once back at Reagan, he ducked into a men’s restroom. Still wearing gloves, he opened up the package. Inside was a much smaller box, commercially labeled as a bottle of contact lens solution. Hampered by his gloved hands, Morosov opened up the smaller box and peered inside. Sure enough, the contents appeared to match the labeling: a small bottle of contact lens solution, complete with a trademarked logo and directions for use.
Discarding the packaging, Morosov placed the bottle back in its box, placed the box in his pocket, and headed for security. The screening line was short. When he got to the front, Morosov placed the novichok into a plastic security dish, together with his watch, phone, and wallet, and placed the dish onto the conveyor belt for X-ray scanning. He watched with satisfaction as the nerve agent passed through without incident. He stepped into the people scanner, only to be met by an annoying beeping sound.
‘Random check,’ the TSA officer informed him. He was a tall, black man, his dark-blue shirt immaculately pressed. ‘If you’ll step this way, sir.’
Morosov had no choice but to do as instructed. He extended his arms while the officer scanned him with a wand, and then submitted to the minor indignity of having his hands swabbed for traces of explosive.
‘Just one moment.’ With an apologetic smile, the TSA officer placed the swab into a machine for sampling. After a moment or two it emitted a strange buzzing sound. When the officer turned around, he was no longer smiling.
‘The reading is positive, sir. You’ll need to come with me.’ Already, pursuant to some unseen signal, Morosov could see an armed police officer approaching. He fought to stay calm.
‘There must be mistake,’ he said, and immediately wished he’d kept his mouth shut. His heavy Russian accent was unlikely to endear him to an American security officer.
‘The machine does make mistakes,’ the officer agreed. His nametag identified him as ‘Lewis’. ‘But you’ll still need to come with me. Are these yours, sir?’ He was pointing at Morosov’s coat, and the security dish with the novichok and his various belongings.
‘Yes,’ Morosov admitted. He was careful to keep his eyes on the coat, so that his gaze gave nothing away to the people watching him.
‘Do you want to pick them up and come with me, sir.’
It took Morosov a moment to work out that it wasn’t a question. He put on his coat and emptied out the security dish, casually dropping the novichok into his pocket.
‘This way, please.’
With the police officer at a discreet distance, Morosov was led to a small interview room. A security camera stared down at him from the ceiling.
‘OK, sir,’ Officer Lewis said. ‘You’ve tested positive for nitrates. I’m going to pat you down all over. Can you take your coat off please?’
No sooner had Morosov done so than Lewis handed the coat over to another TSA officer who had just entered the room. The man walked out with it.
‘My coat …’
‘We’re just going to run some tests on it,’ Lewis said. ‘Can you turn around for me and put out your arms?’
Morosov endured the ensuing pat down. Lewis was nothing if not thorough.
‘Now, sir. I’m going to swab your hands one more time and do a re-test. Have you been handling explosives?’
‘No!’ Morosov didn’t have to fake the incredulous laugh that accompanied the statement.
‘Have you used hand lotion today, anything like that?’
‘Yes,’ Morosov lied. Some hand lotions, he knew, contained glycerin, which produced the same chemical signature as actual explosives. ‘Accident this morning. Top come off bottle. Lotion everywhere. Big mess.’
‘I see. OK, wait here. I’ll do a re-test and consult with my supervisor. I shouldn’t be gone too long.’
Lewis left, leaving Morosov with only the security camera for company. Conscious that he was being watched, he played the part of the delayed but innocent passenger to perfection. Not calm, like a criminal accepting the game was up, and not wildly disturbed, like the same criminal desperately looking for a way out. Just agitated. Annoyed. Resentful of the bureaucracy. A businessman whose journey had been unnecessarily interrupted.
And he was, he reminded himself, actually innocent. He hadn’t been touching explosives. There was nothing in his (admittedly false) background that would raise any red flags when TSA ran his name through their computers. In the end, he knew, the Americans would have to let him go.
Unless, of course, someone was stupid enough to break open the seal on a brand-new bottle of contact lens solution. The thought caused his fingers to beat out a brief but anxious tattoo on the interrogation room’s desk.
In the end, they kept him for less than an hour. Officer Lewis returned with his coat and a broad smile. Morosov would very much have liked to smash his teeth in. Officious negr bastard.
‘You’re free to go, sir. Sorry about the inconvenience. I’ve phoned down to the gate, they’ll hold your flight until you get there, OK?’
‘Thank you,’ Morosov said, gruffly. He put on his coat and allowed the officer to guide him back to the public part of the terminal. Walking a couple of steps behind the TSA man, he casually sank his hands into his coat pockets.
The novichok was exactly where he’d left it.