Chapter 35

 

Elaine and Dmitry arrived at the N’Djamena airport at ten forty. They had seen Raj leave the hotel and had followed his taxi from a safe distance behind.

Dmitry parked the SUV in the tiny airport’s one unpaved parking lot, which had of course turned to mud.

When they saw Raj pay his driver and go inside the terminal, Dmitry started the engine again and pulled up to the far end of the concrete walkway, near the end of the building.

There were a couple of rifle-toting men in camouflage fatigues that glanced at the SUV and its damaged, makeshift windshield, but when they saw Elaine climb out, they seemed to take little interest. Even in N’Djamena, there were so many beat-up, half-falling apart vehicles that the battered, duct-taped SUV was nothing unusual.

Elaine had not yet donned her makeup and disguise, as she had to make it through Passport Control using her Jennifer Johnson passport. It was the only travel document she had. If her face and hair looked much different than it did in the picture, it might cause problems. But she was wearing a wrap around her head and Cattoretti’s tinted glasses just in case Raj happened to glance at her before she made it through. Then she would find a restroom and put on the full disguise before boarding the plane.

As she glanced up at the pastel yellow terminal building, she could hardly believe she had arrived in Chad less than a week ago. It seemed like a year ago.

She pulled her small carry-on suitcase from the back seat and leaned inside, looking at Dmitry. His instructions were to return the SUV to the rental company and to take a plane to France first thing in the morning. Hopefully it would all be over by then.

“This time I should tell you to break a leg,” he said.

Elaine smiled, remembering when he’d told her to “break a foot” when they were trying to catch Giorgio Cattoretti in St. Petersburg, and how she’d corrected him.

“I’ll see you in France,” she said, but hesitated. She leaned a little further inside the car—she had at least one spare minute, and she had to know.

“Dmitry, there’s something I want to ask you, and if you don’t want to answer, it’s okay.”

He looked surprised. “What, Janyet?”

Motioning to his chest, she said, “That tattoo—did you really draw it on yourself?”

He hesitated, and then, with a sigh, said “Nyet.”

“Why did you lie about it?”

“I was afraid I make Stanley Ketchum nervous if I say truth.”

She could not hide her disappointment.

He noticed her expression. He frowned at her, looking offended. “You think I am Russian mafia?”

“Well, what am I supposed to think? You told me you were a dentist—”

“I am dentist. I have diploma from MGU Meditsinsky Fakultet.” He uttered these words with great pride.

“Yes you told me that—I don’t understand.”

Gazing at her with his sad, basset-hound eyes, Dmitry said, “It is long story, Janyet. And very borink.”