Saint Petersburg International Airport
Grant waited patiently at the luggage carousel for his suitcase to arrive. He rolled his head around, hearing his neck crack. It had been a long flight, which included a stop in Munich. After sitting for hours, Grant was happy to be back on his feet.
“Here’s mine,” said Maclean, grabbing his duffle bag.
Elena stood beside her friends, watching the luggage go by. “You know, all the bags look alike to me. If it’s not a shade of blue, it’s a shade of black.”
“That’s why I still travel with my old, beaten-up, army duffle bag,” said Maclean.
Once they had their luggage, Grant pointed toward a Hertz car rental kiosk.
“That won’t be necessary, Mister Grant,” said a woman, stepping out of the crowd. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, with short, black hair and pale, almost white, skin. Her eyes were light blue, and her lips shone with red lipstick. She had a slim, tight build that could only come from hours in the gym.
“And why would that be, Ms…?”
“You can call me Kristina. You won’t need to rent a car, as I have an SUV parked outside for us to use.”
Grant studied Kristina. “If you’re who you say you are, what is the state flower of New Mexico?”
“The Yucca flower.”
The woman looked like the person in the picture Andrews had shown Grant before leaving the States. The pre-arranged question checked out as well. Grant offered his hand. “Good day, Kristina.”
Kristina smiled but kept her hands by her sides, passing the second identification criterion.
“Okay, where’s your SUV?” asked Grant.
“Follow me,” said Kristina. She led them outside the terminal and straight to her waiting silver Mercedes-Benz SUV.
“Nice ride,” said Maclean.
“It’s not mine,” replied Kristina. “I stole it. Only the plates are mine.”
“So, we’re going to be riding around in a hot car?” said Elena.
“Yes,” replied Kristina, pressing the button on her remote to open the vehicle’s doors.
“Why, may I ask?”
“Because I needed a vehicle that could seat four people comfortably, and I was tired of my old car, so I traded it for this SUV.”
“Aren’t you worried about the police?”
Kristina chuckled. “Not at all; they’re afraid of me. Now, please load your bags in the back, and I’ll take you to see Aleksey Slastin.”
“Who’s he?” asked Maclean, buckling himself into his seat.
“He’s a dean of history at the university that employed Mister Hayes’ friend, Gennadi Karpov. I called him this morning and arranged for you to meet him.”
“Thanks,” said Grant.
“I take it he still believes that Jeremy Hayes is dead?” asked Elena.
Kristina nodded. “Oh, most certainly. I never brought up the fact that you have doubts regarding the official police reports. So, couch your questions carefully, lest he become suspicious.”
“Got it,” said Grant.
“Sit back and enjoy the ride,” said Kristina, starting the SUV. “It shouldn’t take us more than an hour to get there with today’s traffic.”
“Time to get some shuteye,” said Maclean, making himself as comfortable as he could.
“Lord, no,” groaned Grant.
“What’s wrong?” asked Kristina, pulling out of her parking spot.
“I hope you have a good radio in this thing, because we’re about to be serenaded by Jim’s snoring.”
Kristina parked her stolen SUV on the side of a road running past the four-story building that was the home of the Institute of History and switched off the engine. “We’re here. Doctor Slastin’s office is on the third floor.”
“How’s his English?” asked Grant.
“It’s not bad, but I’d keep things simple,” said Kristina.
“I can do that,” said Maclean.
“We know,” teased Elena, winking at her colleague.
“Okay, let’s go,” said Grant, opening his door.
The door to Professor Slastin’s office was ajar. Grant knocked on the door before stepping inside. A man in his late sixties, with thick, curly, salt-and-pepper hair, and thick reading glasses, sat behind his desk, typing away on his laptop, oblivious to the people entering his room. Old books and papers covered almost every inch of his table.
Grant brought a hand up to his mouth and cleared his throat.
Slastin stopped typing and looked up. “Da?”
“Professor Slastin, sorry to bother you, but these are the Americans I told you about when I called earlier in the day,” said Kristina in Russian.
“Oh, it’s no bother,” replied Slastin in English. “Please sit down.”
Grant looked around. All the chairs had books or files piled on them. “It’s okay; we’ll stand.”
Kristina made the introductions while Maclean cleared a chair for Elena.
“I hope you had a pleasant flight?” said Slastin.
“It wasn’t too bad,” responded Grant.
“Please accept my deepest sympathy to you and your colleagues. It’s hard to believe what has happened. I’m still in shock that so many young people died in such a tragic accident.”
“Thanks for your kind words, sir,” said Grant.
“I wish I had some good news to pass on to you, but it is all bad I’m afraid. The police have already closed their investigation and blamed the crash on unknown circumstances. That way no one can sue the helicopter company for the loss of their loved one. I suspect some money passed hands between the insurance company and the lead investigator. Regrettably, an all too common practice these days. Also, the bodies were deemed unidentifiable, so the police can’t even give you Professor Hayes’ remains to take home with you.”
“Yes, most unfortunate,” said Maclean.
“Professor, do you know where Karpov, Hayes, and the grad students were working before they had their accident?” asked Grant.
“All I was told was they were going to the Ural Mountains for a week, possibly two. The university didn’t object when the dig was privately sponsored.”
“Do you know who sponsored the dig?”
“Yes. It was one of our chief benefactors, Viktor Nazarov.”
Grant leaned forward in his chair. “Is he any relation to Ivan Nazarov?”
“I couldn’t tell you. Nazarov is not an uncommon name.”
“Sir, do you know where the helicopter crashed?” asked Maclean.
Slastin rummaged through a file on his desk before handing a copy of a police report to Maclean. “It’s all in there.”
“May I see that?” said Kristina.
“Be my guest,” replied Grant, giving her the report.
Kristina perused the file. “According to this report, the helicopter crashed into a mountain near the tiny village of Yaksha.”
“Russian geography isn’t one of my strengths,” said Grant. “Is that village far from here?”
“It’s about two thousand kilometers to the east of us. The biggest city in that region is called Perm.”
“Do you know if we could we rent a helicopter in Perm to take us to Yaksha?” asked Maclean.
“I don’t see why not,” replied Kristina.
“I take it there are daily flights to and from Perm?” said Grant.
“Yes.”
“Okay, let’s get ourselves booked on the next available flight.” Grant offered Slastin his hand. “Thank you, Professor. You’ve been of immense help to my friends and me.”
Slastin shook Grant’s hand. “I hope your journey won’t be a wasted trip. The police out in the country can be a bit prickly when people, especially foreigners, come into their jurisdiction asking questions.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Kristina waved her cell phone in the air. “The next flight is tomorrow morning at nine. Do you want me to book four seats?”
“Yes, please,” replied Grant.
Slastin walked to the door and held it open as Grant’s party left his office. He smiled jovially until they were gone. The acid in Slastin’s stomach churned like a storm. He closed the door, walked back to his desk, and picked up the phone. Slastin’s hand trembled as he entered the numbers to make the call.
“Yes,” said a gruff voice on the other end of the line.
“You asked me to call if anyone ever came around asking about Karpov or Hayes.”
“And?”
“Four people came to my office today, asking what happened.”
“Who were these people?”
“A Russian woman, two Americans, and an Australian man.”
“Did they look like they meant trouble?”
“Yes.”
“Where are they now?”
Slastin walked to a window and looked down on the street. “They’ve left here but are planning to fly to Perm tomorrow, at nine in the morning.”
“Thank you for your call. You will be rewarded.” The line went dead.
Slastin set his phone down. His head spun. Slastin dropped to his knees, reached for his garbage can, and threw up his breakfast. He wasn’t a brave man. His body shook with fear. The only consolation he could find was the money he’d just made would make his retirement next year a comfortable one. Slastin closed his eyes and asked God for forgiveness, knowing that he’d just sent another four people to their deaths.