CHAPTER 58

Fairfax County, Virginia

September

OLIVER GREY HATED DULLES airport. Its architecture was, to him, a glaring symbol of Cold War dominance, an obnoxious vision of America’s arrogance during a period when so many in the world were rebuilding and suffering. He had a more practical reason to hate it as well: one never knew whether the Transportation Security Administration line would take five minutes or two hours. He found some ironic amusement in the fact that he used the Pre-Check lane, though; with the number of regular travelers in the D. C. area, it was barely faster than the normal security line.

The CIA analyst ordered a large Dunkin’ coffee and picked up the latest Brad Thor novel while he waited impatiently for it to cool. Spymaster, he said silently to himself, already imagining himself in the lead role.

Surely, he’d be able to secure a good roast in St. Petersburg, but he assumed that there would be very few afternoons spent at his beloved sidewalk café s in the immediate future due to the weather. It maddened Grey that he would have to transfer in Newark, in a middle seat no less, in order to make his connection to Europe, but it was a minor inconvenience on his way to his new life, a life of meaning. After this mission was complete, he would be the brains behind the rise of a new Russia. Andrenov appreciated his talents in a way the CIA never could.

The short flight was relatively painless but for the giant man and his filthy dog seated next to him. The figure was bearded and muscular, every inch of his arms covered in a web of tattoos. He had the military look so common these days, his “service” animal undoubtedly part of some silly veteran counseling program. Grey spent the flight leaning toward the old woman in the window seat who reminded him of his maternal grandmother with her knitting and constant jabbering.

Grey relaxed when he saw the Atlantic from the window seat of the United Airlines 757; there was no sadness even as he left the country of his birth for the last time. Thankfully, the middle seat next to him was empty, which allowed him to stretch out just a bit. He ordered a vodka soda from a middle-aged flight attendant who had the cheerful demeanor of someone working in a prison cafeteria. It wasn’t very Russian of him to add the soda, or the ice for that matter, but at least he was making an effort. After two more drinks and a terrible movie, the cabin lights were extinguished. He put on his eyeshades and drifted off.

He slept surprisingly well for being in coach. The relief of finally slipping the bonds of his cover life had helped him relax. An announcement from the cockpit roused him, and he motioned to the annoyed-looking woman in the aisle seat that he needed to use the restroom. Forty minutes later, he was shuffling impatiently through the crowded aisle of passengers anxious to deplane after the overnight flight. The pale Portuguese customs officer eyed him with boredom and stamped his worn United States passport, a document he was using for the last time. The morning air was cold when he walked out onto the sidewalk in front of Humberto Delgado Airport but the sun was shining and the sky was pure blue. Grey had never felt so alive.

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