SHEREMETROV 2 AIRPORT, MOSCOW— THE NEXT AFTERNOON
Rankin’s head throbbed as he made his way off the Airbus A330. He turned the wrong way and found himself staring into the stern face of a Russian policeman. He went back and found the route to the baggage area, though he already had all of his luggage, a small carry-on.
The signs were in English as well as Russian, but the glare hurt his eyes, and he squinted until he finally managed to find the proper Customs line. He unfolded his blue passport—it was his “real” passport, not the diplomatic one he could use in an emergency—and after presenting the lengthy Customs form answered a dozen questions about his stay for a twentysomething woman with hair nearly as short as his. Cleared through, he walked around the building, waiting for whoever was supposed to meet him—it hadn’t been worked out when he left—to do so.
“Yo,” said someone behind him on his third circuit. “What the hell are you doing?”
Guns was standing at the side, shaking his head. He was
dressed in a black brushed-leather jacket and jeans and wearing an earring; he looked like a British soccer fan sizing up the country for a round of hooliganism.
“What are you doing?” Rankin said. He’d thought the Marine was in the hospital.
“Looking for you.”
“You OK?”
“Good as ever.”
“Where’d you get the earring?”
“Car’s out this way,” said the Marine.
“Where’d you get the earring?” repeated Rankin, following him outside. The light stabbed at his eyes, and he felt a quick wave of nausea, yesterday’s whiskey rumbling in his stomach.
“Like it?”
“No.”
Guns put his fingers up to it. “It’s a transmitter. I’m being tracked as we speak.”
“Get out.” Rankin grabbed the Marine and looked at his ear. The earring was a simple gold-colored post.
“You kiss me, and I’ll slug you,” said Guns.
“That’s no fucking tracking device.”
“Join the twenty-first century,” said Guns. “There’s our car.”
They got into a small Fiat at the far end of the lot. It was a manual; Guns stalled it twice getting out of the spot, grinding the gears when he finally got it into the lane. He managed to work the clutch right at the gate, however, and once they were on the highway he felt comfortable.
“How was Iran?” Guns asked Rankin.
“A fuck-up. Ferg got shitty intelligence and almost got himself wasted in a pirate-DVD operation. They made porn movies.”
“Yeah? Right there?”
“No, they just made copies. We gave a bunch to the submarine crew and the SEALs. They had a great time.”
“Did we get one?”
“You don’t want that shit,” said Rankin. He glanced at his
watch, already set for Russian time. He still had an hour to go before he could take more acetaminophen for his hangover. “Where we going?”
“Another airport called Domodedovo.”
“Why?”
“’Cause we’re flying out to someplace called Orenburg. Or actually near there. I’m starting to lose track.”
“Why?”
“Man, you ask a lot of questions.”
“How was Paris?” said Rankin, following along.
“Busy. We didn’t stay. We drove out to talk to somebody in Reims.”
“You see the cathedral?”
“There’s a cathedral there?”
“Guns, there are cathedrals in every city in Europe. Yeah. It’s pretty famous. Fantastic stained-glass windows.”
“How about that.”
“What’s the new boss like?” Rankin asked, changing the subject.
“New boss is a serious piece of eye candy, but a bit of a bitch,” said Guns. “Ferg don’t like her.”
“Yeah, well, that’s one thing in her favor.”
Guns laughed. “We’re going to track a shipment of waste to Kyrgyzstan.”
“We should’ve done that in the first place.”
“Yup. You want to stop and get something to eat?”
“Not really,” Rankin told him.
“Well, I have to stop anyway.”
“Go for it, Marine.”
“I never know how to take you, Rankin,” said Guns.
“What do you mean?”
“You making fun or me or what?”
Rankin bent over his seat belt and looked at him. “No.”
“You sound like you’re trying to bust my chops.”
“Jesus, Guns, I got a fuckin’ headache, and I feel like I’m being jerked around on yet another wild-goose chase. What the hell you want me to do?”
“Your problem is you need to get laid. I’ll tell you, at the infirmary, I met this nurse. First thing I did …”
“Oh Christ,” said Rankin, leaning his head back against the rest.