character.” Zack Hightower smiled. “If he’s the traitor, I’ll crack him like an egg.”
“I have no doubt about it, Romantic.”
“Any chance you could just call me Zack?”
“Negative,” she said, and she fired up the engine, giving Hightower the not-so-subtle hint that their clandestine meeting had come to an end.
CHAPTER 18
Washington Dulles International Airport lies just west of D.C. and flies to all corners of the world. On the northern side of the property, a row of hangars and office buildings off Airport Drive sat quiet now at midday as planes lifted into the sky behind them. Zoya Zakharova leaned against a tree on the landscaped edge of the nearby parking lot, watching a 747 take off behind her target, the last small corporate aviation office in the row.
When the Lufthansa flight banked to the northeast, she returned her gaze to the door of the office. The place looked closed, but she had expected this because she knew the proprietor worked alone, and since it was lunchtime she’d steeled herself to be patient.
To her surprise her wait only lasted ten minutes before a Toyota Camry pulled into the lot and parked by the single metal door next to the hangar bay. Zoya lifted the cheap binoculars she’d bought a half hour earlier and centered them on the man who climbed out.
The man went to the door and unlocked it, entered, then shut it behind him. Zoya considered waiting a few minutes to get a better lay of the land, but she understood that her plan had a higher chance for success if no one else was aware of her presence here, and since she didn’t see anyone around, that meant she had to take advantage of the situation that presented itself now.
She walked across the parking lot and tried to open the door but found it locked.
The same man she’d seen climbing out of the Camry opened it a moment after she knocked, surprise evident on his face at seeing such an attractive woman. In a barely discernible Slavic accent he said, “Well, hello there. How can I help you?”
“I’d like to speak with you about a charter.”
He nodded with a smile. “Come in then, please.”
She followed him inside, up a staircase that overlooked the hangar floor. There, in the center of the space, she saw a Cessna Citation Sovereign, a midrange twin-engine jet. Next to it sat an old and simple Cessna 152 trainer.
They continued on to the office.
The room was small and cramped, full of books, papers, small aircraft parts, and other odds and ends. On the wall were dozens of photos, each one of a different man or woman standing in front of the 152. As he cleared paperwork off a plastic chair so she could sit down, he saw her looking at the pictures. “When I’m not flying charters, I am a flight instructor. Each time one of my students completes their first solo, I take a picture.”
“I see,” she said.
“But you are not here for that, you said. You wish to charter the Sovereign?”
“I do.”
“Where are my manners? I’m Arthur Kravchek.” He stuck out a hand and she shook it.
“Kravchek? That’s Polish, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.”
“My name is Irina.”
A bemused look crossed his face quickly, but then disappeared as they both sat down.
“And where are you from, Irina?”
“I am from the Russian Federation.”
Something flashed in the man’s eyes now, Zoya saw clearly. It wasn’t fear; it was more like confusion.
“May I inquire as to where you heard about my company?”
She leaned back in her chair a little. “I’ll cut right to the chase. I was sent by Yasenevo.”
The pilot stared back at her.
Yasenevo was a district in southwestern Moscow, and it was also the location of the headquarters of SVR, Russian foreign intelligence.
It was clear the man knew this, because he blanched slightly.
As she’d expected, he said, “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Kolya Aslanov sent me. I know this is outside the norm, but we are in a critical and immediate need of your . . . service.”
Now he squinted at her. “Kolya? You are on such friendly terms with Nikolai Aslanov, SVR’s deputy operations chief, that you call him by his diminutive?” He looked her over. “The Americans know who Aslanov is. How do I know you are not FBI? That this isn’t some sort of setup?”
Zoya smiled coolly. “You just confirmed that you work with Russian intelligence, Arkady. If this were a setup, my team would have your face in the carpet