Live from Moscow by Eric Almeida

Author:Eric Almeida [Almeida, Eric]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Published: 2010-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

Floodlights illuminated the airfield and surrounding snow-banks. Four uniformed Russian guards manned the gate, wearing flak jackets and armed with submachine guns. One collected Conley's passport and scrutinized him through the back-seat window. Another kneeled and inspected the Volga's undercarriage with a bomb-detecting device. Check complete, the sentries slid open concrete crash barriers and waved the car through.

Chechen terrorism necessitated extra precautions, even in pre-dawn Moscow.

The Volga crunched along a plowed roadway toward a two-story building. An enormous Ilyushin-76 transport jet stood on the tarmac nearby, engines idling.

Closer to the building Conley saw two figures waiting, wearing fur hats and bundled against cold. One was Oleg; the other was Franklin Stanson, squinting through his aviator glasses through the floodlight. When Conley emerged from the car Stanson displayed an easy, lopsided grin---somehow out of context on a Russian military base.

"Heard about last night," he drawled. "Wanted to make sure you left Moscow in one piece." He escorted Conley and Oleg onto the tarmac. They reached another checkpoint, manned by a pair of soldiers shouldering automatic weapons. "This is as far as I go," he half-shouted over din of jet engines. "Good luck."

Conley thanked him again for logistical arrangements.

"Keep me informed from Dushanbe," he added, still half-shouting.

A Russian officer conducted Conley and Oleg through the rear hatch, which was open and formed a loading ramp. Soldiers carried in boxes of supplies, which they stacked along both sides of the fuselage. Just aft of the cockpit there were two benches, one on each side. Four Russian soldiers sat on one, in winter combat gear. Conley caught their attention; they stared at him, glum and impassive. The officer indicated seats opposite, where harnesses hung down; he and Oleg strapped themselves in. Nearby he noticed parachutes fastened by netting to the fuselage's ceiling, and remembered Gallagher's suggestion over the speakerphone with Frick.

Oleg followed his gaze, informed of this exhortation from Boston. "They're there if we need them," he said over the noise, with a faint grin. Conley shrugged off the jab. He was still curious about Stanson's unannounced appearance. "Did you know Franklin Stanson was coming?"

"No. But I wasn't surprised."

"Really? Why not?"

"I've done interpretation work for him. My impression is he likes to stay on top of everything."

"Still…a pre-dawn sendoff? I'm just a reporter."

Oleg thought a moment. "Don't forget about Bradford."

"You think all this attention is because of Bradford?"

"Why ask me? You're the American."

"Still…you know Stanson better than I do."

"Not much. Don't forget he only brought me on his first trip to Dushanbe. After that he went there on his own…"

"Without an interpreter? Why was that?"

Oleg opened his mouth to respond just as hydraulic lifts activated for the rear hatch. Din increased; speaking became impractical. He leaned back, silent and inscrutable. Engines revved higher and the plane taxied toward runway. Based on Bradford's experience Conley was prepared for a rough flight. However takeoff was smooth and the jet roared upward along a clean arc to cruising altitude. By degrees the din subsided, replaced by a hum and constant, low-level vibration that resonated through all hard surfaces.

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