Chapter 4

November, Five years later

Dulles Airport, Washington D.C.,

Customs and Border Patrol Area

Kostya Dychenko’s jaw clenched as he watched one more desk agent closing his service window. Rubbing the back of his neck, he leaned against the wall, shook his head, and looked at the floor. The line for customs clearance was long, and the arrival of yet another jumbo jet from Europe only lengthened the wait and dashed the hopes of travelers planning to get through anytime soon. With as many people as there were waiting, Kostya wanted to complain. Instead he remained calm and avoided bringing attention to himself. It was hard to be patient when he knew what was at stake.

He scanned the room again for familiar faces, at the moment, one of his greatest fears. Beside him, children fussed in their mothers’ laps, and business people thumbed out emails on their cell phones hoping to fill the time as they waited. The CBP officers seemed unhurried by the bigger crowd of people. It was just another day at one of the busiest international airports in the United States. In just moments though, he, a wanted fugitive, was going to beg for asylum.

Slouched by the wall, Kostya held a black backpack on his shoulder. He brushed his fingers against the chip he had sewn in the top media pocket as he slipped a pair of earbuds out and into his ears. He avoided making eye contact with anyone. No one had approached him on the plane or on his layover in Amsterdam, so he was probably safe, but who knew what would make the news cycle here in the United States.

A few days ago, he was happy to do his job as a high-level programmer for Parcera, a computer company in Kiev. There were hundreds of such nameless companies in the Ukraine, farming out capable computer skills to companies in the U.S. who paid a fraction of what they’d have to pay their workers at home. The work was mundane and repetitive, but it paid, and it was what he had been trained to do.

The money supported him, but also helped his mother and father who still lived deep in the Ukrainian farmlands of Cherkasy. They had kept their land despite pressure to sell from the farm corporations around them. Each year, profits were driven lower and lower. Kostya had been afraid they would have to sell out and move his parents to live with him in Kiev.

Then came his manager, Mik’s, offer of extra work.

There are some old computer parts a customer wants fixed. The job used skills Kostya learned as a boy, pulling apart and putting together anything mechanical or electrical. He remembered his mother’s frustration when she found the telephone spread out along the kitchen table. His father laughed and asked him to show him the schematic drawings he made, and helped him to improve them. By the time he was a teenager, neighbors brought him their broken televisions, failing engines, and jammed sewing machines—he had the reputation of being able to fix anything.

Find out the purpose of each unit and fix them to work again. The pieces were rack mounted computer modules in the putty color that truly typified the era in which they were made. He needed to reverse engineer each box, mapping out and repairing the workings of each one, although they looked like they belonged in a museum, not a repair shop. A modern PC could do any function easier and faster than these heavy computer units could. But, it wasn’t his call, and as long as the customer was paying, he would reverse engineer anything.

Let me know if you find anything unusual. When he opened the fourth box, he knew there was more to his work than a collector’s whim or a museum’s project. The memory chip inside the fourth component was protected with a fail-safe, the kind of protection the Soviet government put on the high-level algorithms used to produce and verify launch codes—launch codes for Cold War nuclear missiles.

Take the money and don’t ask questions. No matter how much Kostya wanted to, he couldn’t ignore the implications of the components he was rebuilding. When he started to look around, his employer threatened him. Kostya expected them to come after him. He just never dreamed they’d involve his family—his parents.

How life had changed in the last few days.

“Number 281,” the clerk called out, and at the same time, the number flashed on the red and black displays around the room. He took his number and his backpack and sat down in front of the clerk’s workstation. He pulled papers out of his jacket’s inside pocket, ready for when the clerk asked for them.

“You speak English?” the clerk asked.

“Yes.” Working with the English clients at Parcera meant he was almost fluent now.

“Your papers, please.” He handed them over to the clerk.

“What is your name?”

“Kostya. Kostyantin Mikhail Dychenko.”

“Where are you from?”

“I have been living in Kiev, Ukraine.”

The clerk flipped through his passport and looked confused.

“There is no stamp showing your departure from the Ukraine.” The clerk wrinkled his brow. “When did you leave the Ukraine?”

“I left yesterday morning, but I used my brother’s documents.” Kostya pulled them out of his jacket. “I feared I would be stopped from leaving and killed if I used my own papers.”

The clerk pursed his lips to cover his surprise. He was apparently accustomed to routine questions and common answers, which Kostya couldn’t offer. Studying Kostya closely, he questioned, “Are you aware using someone else’s documents is illegal?”

“Yes, of course, but there were extenuating circumstances,” Kostya calmly explained. “I am escaping a Novorossiyan terrorist group, Fire of Dawn. They are trying to kill me.”

The clerk’s eyebrows rose slightly at the word ‘terrorist’. “Sure you are.” He paused and made some notes on a paper. Then, looking up, the amused clerk asked, “Now, why do you feel your life is in danger?”

Kostya’s would have smiled at the clerk’s condescending attitude and forced expression had it not been so serious. After the last few days, he no longer had the patience. “Because I am the only person alive with the ability to stop the launch of a nuclear missile they have prepared.”

“I see. So, how did you find yourself in possession of this information?” The clerk smirked doubtfully.

Kostya, trying to keep his patience, leaned back in his chair with his arms folded. “That is a long story I would really prefer to tell to the person who needs to hear it, which I am guessing is above your pay grade. Let me just make sure I say this: I, Kostyantin Dychenko, am requesting asylum in the United States due to the dangers I face if I return to my own country, the Ukraine.”

The clerk stared blankly for a moment. “Asylum. Will you excuse me for a moment?” Kostya nodded, and the clerk scurried off to the back area. He spoke quietly to one person, then another, each person he passed tiptoeing or leaning to get a look at the man from Kiev. Eventually the clerk was pulled into one of the offices. Kostya waited patiently for a few minutes, quietly entertained by the stares and whispers from the workers behind the counter. The clerk reappeared and anxiously headed toward his station.

“Mr. Dychenko, will you please follow me?”

“Where are we going?”

“To get someone above my pay grade,” the clerk quipped. They walked to the end of a hallway where a small waiting room was surrounded by cubicles enclosed by the false walls of a makeshift office. There was an oval-shaped table in the center of the space, and some metal-framed chairs stacked in the corner. “We are going to transport you to our downtown facility so you can get the help you need, however, you will have to stay overnight.” Pulling two chairs down, the clerk asked Kostya to sit, and the clerk slid in across from him.

“All right.” He expected to be held by immigration, if he weren’t arrested. Kostya looked over a stack of papers that the clerk was putting in front of him.

“While we wait for transport, I need you to fill out this information as thoroughly as possible, and as soon as the van comes, we’ll get you on your way.”

The packet seemed an inch thick, and questioned him about everything from his birth to his schooling to his military service to his current job. Kostya wrote quickly but as accurately as he could, answering demographic questions, job history, education, and genealogy while the clerk watched the close captioned television mounted above them on the wall.

Near the bottom of the stack was a form titled, “Application for Sponsorship.” Kostya read it then held it up. “Could you explain this form to me?”

The clerk came over and squinted at the paper. “Oh, that’s just asking if there is anyone in the United States who can vouch for your identity, and who could sponsor you if you are allowed into our country under Asylum or Refugee Status.” The clerk focused on Kostya. “It can really help in some cases. Do you know anyone living in the United States who would be willing to sponsor you?”

He closed his eyes, conjuring the memory of a narrow pedestrian bridge in Kiev and a wish sealed with a lock. Golden eyes searching his and her voice echoing, I want to believe…

Shaking off the thought, he tried to focus on the agent. “Sponsor?” Kostya asked. “What does that require?”

“Your sponsor would sign a form saying that they would make sure you had housing and the necessities of life until you could provide them for yourself through work after obtaining a work permit,” the clerk explained. “There are churches and humanitarian groups who do this when necessary, but in this case, it would be helpful to have a private individual sponsor you.”

I helped her when she needed it. He remembered the old compact car, broken down on the road to his family’s home, and how desperate she was for help. My help.

“I don’t know… She may not remember me.” Impossible. No one could forget that weekend. All the other papers completed, he stared at the form. Is it possible she would come?

“Now’s not the time to be shy, Mr. Dychenko. If there is anyone at all, you need their help.”

“I’m not sure where to find her.” Kostya hesitated, then brushed his hand against the key hanging from a thin leather strap around his neck. “Her name is Meri—Meredith St. Claire. She is a medical student from New Orleans. I think her father works for the government.”

“Did you say Meredith St. Claire? From Louisiana?” The clerk’s jaw dropped.

“Yes. Do you think you can find her?” Kostya looked up in anticipation.

“Mmm, yeah,” he said, looking up at the television. “I don’t think finding her will be a problem.”