Otopeni, Romania (near Bucharest)—same day
By the time he reached Henri Coandă International Airport in Romania, Tolevi was exhausted. The adventure at the Crimea airport was the least of it.
The flight to Armenia had been late, and his connection missed. That left him to fly on TAROM airlines, whose idea of first-class luxury was a worn leather seat in a forty-year-old Ilyushin II-18D. The four-engine Russian airliner was powered by noisy turboprops, and even though he sat toward the front of the aircraft, their drone bulldozed past his Bose noise-canceling headphones until his head felt like splitting apart. Released from the plane, he went straight to the restroom, where he soaked his face in the sink.
He caught a glimpse of himself as he swallowed four Tylenol for his headache. Tolevi looked like a Russian businessman, or maybe a member of the mafya—gray suit jacket over a plaid shirt, new leather briefcase hanging from a strap.
His black hair had a few strands of gray. Had those been there before he left the States?
He slicked them down before heading to the food court.
Tolevi’s CIA contact was milling around near the popsicle-shaped pop art sculpture by the escalator. Tolevi was surprised—ordinarily a low-level officer, usually fresh from the farm, met him. Instead, it was Yuri Johansen himself.
That couldn’t be good.
Tolevi went to the Burger King kiosk and bought a Whopper, along with fries and a shake, then found an empty table. Ordinarily, his contact would wait, confirm his identity, then follow him to the restroom, where they would make the exchange. But Johansen came straight over and asked if he could sit.
Another very bad sign.
Tolevi gestured for him to sit. He played it as if he didn’t know the man, not sure what to expect.
“We heard what happened at the airport,” said the CIA officer. “We’re glad you made it.”
I’ll bet.
“Did you get it?” added Johansen.
Tolevi glanced up at him. “When exactly have I failed?” he said in Russian.
Johansen smiled. His Russian was very good, but he stuck to English.
“We’re very appreciative. There’ll be a bonus.”
“The man I met in Kerch,” said Tolevi. “Very young. The movement—I don’t know how long they can last.”
He’d debated whether to mention it, deciding he better, in case something went wrong.
“The loyalists are clearly losing ground if they’re scraping the bottom of the barrel,” he explained. “And that is bad for my business as well. Bad all around.”
“I see.” Johansen seemed neither concerned nor surprised. But then he never did.
So how had he heard about the problem at the airport? Perhaps the man with the bad haircut worked for him, rather than the Russians.
Tolevi bit into the hamburger. It didn’t quite taste like a burger he’d have back in the States. Then again, he rarely if ever ate at a fast-food restaurant; that was only something he did as part of the recognition routine.
Maybe a way for the CIA to torture him, he thought.
“We have something critical coming up we were wondering if you could handle,” said Johansen. “We need to get somebody out.”
“That’s not my usual line,” said Tolevi.
“You’ve done it before.”
“That was a onetime deal,” said Tolevi, picking up a French fry. “I’ve been thinking about getting out of the business completely.”
“Can you afford that? The rent on your town house is very high. Your car lease, the summer house in Maine? And you owe quite a bit of money to your friends, I understand.”
“Easily paid,” lied Tolevi. He was, in fact, quite a bit in the hole of late; several deals had not worked out, costing him his principal.
“And then there’s college tuition soon.”
The reference to his daughter was subtle, but not subtle enough. It was more like something the Russian FGB would say.
“That’s not a threat,” said Johansen quickly. “I’m just saying compensation will be very good for this. And then maybe that will be the time for a sabbatical. When it’s done.”
“What exactly are we talking about?”
“In a few days.” Johansen rose, then reached across and took the briefcase Tolevi had put on the seat. “Go home and rest. Have a good flight.”