AKTAU, RUSSIA
The airport was large by Russian standards, and with decent security. To pass to the main area where her charter to Turkey was supposed to be waiting, Corrine had to show ID and pass through an X-ray gate. The woman guard checking her purse and bags was more interested in her aspirin than the satellite phone; as she held up the bottle to examine it Corrine started to explain that it was for headaches.
“I know what it’s for,” said the guard frostily in English, tossing it back in the bag and dismissing her.
The terminal had all the charm of a 1970s American bus station, with two rows of plastic-backed seats dividing a scuffed linoleum floor. The seats were empty; the few passengers waiting for planes at that hour milled near the gates at the opposite end of the hall. Corrigan had told Corrine to go to a window with a long name in Cyrillic letters; the word was “special” and when pronounced in Russian sounded almost like it did in English, but with the dots and backward symbols it looked more like a magic spell than a sign. She found the words on a door, not a window, though in roughly the place he’d said; she walked back and forth twice before
deciding it had to be the place. But no one answered when she knocked.
She checked her watch; the flight north had taken less time than Corrigan had predicted, and she realized she was probably just a little early. Still, she wanted to call him and see, so she ducked into a restroom nearby. But it was a private facility, with an attendant hovering near the sink. She tipped the woman and went back out without using the facilities or the proffered toilet paper.
Before she could get her bearings in the large room, a man in a long leather jacket stepped in front of her. Corrine took a step around him but he put his hand out to stop her.
“Off,” she said sharply in English, brushing his hand away.
“Ms. Alston, I’m your pilot,” said the man.
Corrine could tell there was a problem and didn’t even bother using the authentication sequence Corrigan had supplied. She started to spin away. But as she did, a short, balding man in a brown polyester coat blocked her way.
“Excuse me, Ms. Alston,” he told her in English. “My name is Dolov. I am with the Federal Security Bureau. You will come with me, please.”
“Excuse me, I don’t understand what you’re saying,” said Corrine, though the man’s English had been excellent.
“You will come with me,” he said calmly.
“Are you putting me under arrest?”
“That depends on what comes from our conversation,” said Dolov, in a way that suggested jail might be the most desirable of the possible outcomes.