The Export J.K. Kelly (best way to read e books .TXT) 📖

and waved for an older man who had accompanied her to come forward to meet the American.

“This is my father, Alexi Doronin. He does not speak English, but he is pleased to make your acquaintance.” She paused as the two men shook hands. “He understands that you came here to help me, not to hurt me as the Wilkerson men tried to do.”

Matt looked the father in the eyes. He could see the heartache and worry in them. If living in this tough country wasn’t hard enough, dealing with this most certainly had added years to this man’s already worn-looking face. If Matt had a daughter who had been subjected to such behavior, treated like a trophy, and robbed of the career opportunity of a lifetime, he would have shot the bastards dead. With the family settling their own scores as they had, Matt had just one thing left to do.

“Misha,” he said as he handed her a new backpack, this one an expensive green-and-grey Eddie Bauer he had stuffed with 3 million Russian rubles, “I hope you are able to do something good with this money.”

She took it from him and handed it to her father.

“I am truly sorry that this ever happened to you,” he said, “very sorry.” He then extended his hand to the father and did his best to say the words properly. “Ochen zhal.” He backed away from them, turned, and nodded to Hadden that all was A-OK.

Without looking back, he walked toward the Marine, and then they walked together back across the square toward Terry and Matt’s ride to the airport.

“Didn’t you say something in the car about visiting Lenin’s Tomb?” Hadden asked.

“Nope, not this time. He’s not going anywhere,” Matt responded coldly. “Let’s get out of here.”

An hour later, the black SUV drove away from the departure area of Moscow’s Domodedovo Airport. Matt hadn’t told anyone where he was headed or what time his flight was, but he had acted as if he was cutting it close so they would just drop him off and assume he was running for the gate.

Instead, Matt went to the Swiss Airlines ticket counter and bought a one-way ticket, First Class, to Zurich, Switzerland. With a reservation at an airport hotel there, his plan for the next morning was to rent an all-wheel drive BMW or Audi and drive the three hours to Zermatt and his favorite mountain in Europe, the Matterhorn. He pictured himself driving the last hour or so, speeding through the switchbacks, the lefts and rights of the uphill run on the single-lane road that would take him to the little town of Tasch. That would be the farthest anyone with a non-electric vehicle was permitted to go. Visitors needed to ride the local train into Zermatt or take a battery-powered taxi into town.

He would have four hours to kill until he boarded his flight. That would give him plenty of time to decompress as best he could, maybe pick up a set or two of Matryoshka nesting dolls as a thank you to a receptionist or admin back in D.C. he might need a small favor from sometime, and hope there were no issues as he passed through the customs area. Before he’d left the Embassy, he’d used their secure Wi-Fi and filled his phone with Netflix downloads, Kindle books, and a few Audible versions. Now it was time for a beer and a burger and hopefully a peaceful end to a very stressful adventure.

Later, when it was time to move through customs, he maintained his calm demeanor. But when two guards stepped in front of him and a man in a dark blue suit took his diplomatic passport from the clerk, Matt figured he might be headed for another date with an empty vodka bottle.

CHAPTER THIRTY

The man in the worn dark blue suit looked as if he’d had a long, hard life. His graying hair was cut close; his features, height, and weight were average. The only remarkable thing about the man was his love for vodka and cigarettes, both of which Matt could smell on his breath. He led Matt through customs, down a long hallway, and into a small, windowless office. He gestured for him to drop his black backpack on the table and take a seat. Matt looked at the only photo in the room, one of Russian cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin, the first person to ever orbit the earth. The two uniformed officers took their positions outside the room. One pulled the door closed and smiled at Matt.

Now would be a good time for them to think just this once that I really am George Clooney and traveling under an alias, Matt mused.

After introducing himself to Matt as a member of the country’s Federal Security Service, the FSB, the suit said he would need to inspect his belongings before clearing him to leave Russia. A knock on the door resulted in a third uniformed officer delivering Matt’s checked luggage, one suitcase, and placing it beside the backpack on the table.

“Just a few questions, and you’ll be on your way, Mr. Christopher,” the suit stated, “or whoever you are.”

“You do realize I am traveling with a diplomatic passport issued by the United States and am exempt from being stopped, detained, searched, or interfered with in any way?” Matt stared at the man. “But you already know that – which is why I am sitting in this room.”

“We are of the same profession, Mr. Christopher. You and I both know how this works. Your country can file a complaint with our foreign minister and the United Nations if it wishes, but you will be long gone before that ever happens – as long as I do not find any irregularities – and nothing will come of any of this.”

“Yep,” Matt responded. “Get on with it, then. I assume you’ll also ignore that my backpack is marked as a diplomatic pouch and therefore protected from seizure