by J. K. Kelly
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 or inspection under Article 27.3 of the Vienna Convention on Diplomatic Relations.” The suit smiled and opened Matt’s suitcase and inspected every article of clothing, the inside and heels of his hiking shoes and running shoes, and then checked them again but found nothing out of the ordinary, and seemed disappointed that he hadn’t.
“You must have bumped your head somewhere. Let me remind you,” the suit declared with a broad smile, “This is not Vienna.” He proceeded to open Matt’s backpack, removed all of the electronic charging devices, international adapters, his laptop, two paperback books, sunglasses in a case, reading glasses in a case, and two retractable walking sticks used for hiking. Again, finding nothing out of the ordinary.
“So no guns or knives, no large amounts of rubles, dollars, or euros, nothing illegal,” the suit said, the tone of his voice revealing an even higher level of frustration with this fruitless inspection. “You may put all of this back together while we talk a bit more, Mr. Christopher.”
Matt wasted no time in repacking everything. He even held up his dirty laundry bag.
“You missed this one,” he said, extending his arm to put it even closer to the Russian’s face.
The man knocked it away. “Don’t push your luck, not another, what do you say, another inch,” he snapped at Matt. “Just like in America and wherever you work in the world, you do understand that you could become the victim of an assault in one of the airport’s very busy toilets and never recover from your injuries, yes?”
“Point taken, my friend,” Matt replied. “Since you say we are in the same business, I was just hoping for some professional courtesy.”
The Russian laughed at Matt’s remark and gestured for Matt to continue repacking.
“You were at your late ambassador’s residence when he and his wife were killed by their son. A drug addict named Ray, yes?”
“I was,” Matt responded somberly. “It was a damn shame. The kid just went nuts, I guess.”
“The Moscow Police were surprised that with all the technology your country has that the CCTV in the room was not working. Very convenient, yes?”
“That was nuts too, I guess,” Matt said, shaking his head in disbelief.
“What is this ‘nuts’?” the Russian asked. Matt raised his hand to his temple and spun his forefinger. After a few seconds, the Russian nodded that he understood. Matt put his hand down and then shook his head that he had referred to any of them that way. Sarah hadn’t lost her mind; she’d just had enough.
“Last question, and then you can go. How do you know Anika Ivanov?”
The question surprised Matt, but he didn’t let on. “I don’t. I was told that she was a friend of the late ambassador, but I have never met her, never spoken with her.” Matt paused. “Why do you ask?”
The Russian stared at Matt for 30 seconds, but Matt didn’t flinch. He watched as his captor’s face slowly reddened.
“You pissed off that I wasn’t able to help you? Or worried about getting your ass chewed for not finding anything?”
The Russian didn’t answer.
Matt had known very well that there was a high probability he’d be stopped as he tried to leave the country so he had shipped anything that could get him in trouble, his cash, the weapons he had entered the country with, and the handful of various passports he used as needed, on the state department jet that had carried the Wilkersons home to the United States. The flight had already stopped at Dover AFB in Delaware and Dale had sent an agent to retrieve Matt’s property before the jet flew on to Texas.
The Russian handed Matt his passport, turned, and left the room without saying another word. The uniformed officer who had brought Matt’s suitcase took it from the table.
“I will return this to the baggage handlers, who will be sure it gets back on your flight to Zurich, Mr. Christopher. The two men outside will escort you directly to your gate.”
Matt thanked the man for his courtesy, spasiba, grabbed his backpack, and followed the other two officers back down the hall. He passed customs, bypassed the metal detectors, and they led him straight to the departure gate. With 10 minutes before boarding, Matt could have let out a sigh of relief but knew better. He wouldn’t do that for a few more hours until he had a beer in his hand and the flight tracker showed that the jet had left Russian airspace. Then, and only then, could he relax.
Once the plane reached cruising altitude and the first of many Heinekens were served to him, he peered out the window and thought of the photo he had seen back in Washington of this beauty named Anika. He had intended to track her down somehow. She was off the scale when it came to looks, but the unexpected and violent incident at the residence had demolished any curiosity he may have had for her on this trip.
Maybe next time, he thought to himself, there’s always a next time.
Hours later, in Zurich, he picked up the bright red BMW he had reserved and drove a few minutes to the nearby Hilton. It was now close to nine o’clock in the evening. He’d had dinner on board the plane, so once he checked in and dumped his bags in his room, he headed back down to the hotel bar for beer and decompression.
He was looking forward to a very good night’s sleep and then an exhilarating drive through the mountains in a vehicle that handled like a race car. Soon he’d be far away from his work and a mile high in the beautiful village of Zermatt.
After sleeping in and enjoying coffee, juice, French crepes, and croissants, he was behind the wheel and headed south. He had planned out three days of hiking, eating, sleeping, swimming, and more hiking. Perhaps he would find a Swiss Anika in Zermatt, the type who loved the mountains as much as he did.
Along the way, he received two texts. One simply read:
HEADED TO ZERMATT? JEALOUS. GLAD YOU GOT OUT OK
It was from Dale. She knew where he was, at least where his passport was, every time he crossed an international border that scanned the biometrics from it. She could also trace his moves more closely through the tracking on his phone. He texted her back.
LOVE IT THERE, LOTS OF GREAT MEMORIES.
As a couple, they had traveled to the Swiss Alps in summer at least twice, discovering it together, but this was the first time he would be there without her.
The second text came from Coleman.
SAW THEY SCREWED WITH YOU TO THE VERY END.
CALL ME WHEN YOU GET BACK TO DC. BE SAFE.
His response to her was simple and indicative of the way of the world. He texted her back the symbol for a loving heart.
On the drive to Tasch, he listened to two episodes of a popular American comedian’s podcast, and he managed to laugh a few times, the first he had been able to do in weeks. Then he r
emembered the comedian, despite his popularity, had demons he couldn’t rid himself of and had tried to kill himself a few years earlier.
Matt’s mind went to young Ray Wilkerson, the look of despair and disappointment in his eyes that morning before it all went bad. He turned off the podcast and settled in to enjoy the scenery, but it wasn’t long before his mind took him on a journey that he relived every year.
He’d grown up traveling the world, and now he had the pleasure of doing it for a living. He didn’t have to work; his family money would see to that. But his sense that he had been born into privilege and felt he owed something back to the world motivated him. The fact that he helped his country, taking out bad guys or arranging for someone else to do it, was very rewarding. Punching a particularly nasty character in the face always made him feel good. It was when he saw an innocent, like Ray, become collateral damage that he dreamed of changing professions.
Whenever those feelings did come over him, though, Dale or his aunt, the two women who knew him most intimately, always seemed to pull him out of the funk with an intriguing and rewarding assignment. As Matt looked at himself in the car’s rearview mirror, he uttered the same sentence he had spoken many times before. Time to go bag some bad guys. After his upcoming recharge, he would want to get back to work. He’d need to; perhaps something more satisfying, like putting someone behind bars. He would need an assignment.
Before long, the tip of the Matterhorn, rising to nearly 15,000 feet at its peak, became a beautiful distraction. After parking the BMW at the train-station garage, he grabbed his bags and rode the transport into the base of the village of Zermatt. Ten minutes later, he checked into a suite in the same hotel he had once shared with Dale. The suites at The Grand Hotel Zermatterhof and their familiar views of the Matterhorn and the clocktower of the Saint Mauritis church were spectacular. He was in heaven and would have time to appreciate it all over the next few days, but now he was famished and went directly to the restaurant.
“Would you like water with your meal?” the server asked. “It will help keep you hydrated.”
Matt smiled. “There’s plenty of water in the beer. Just a burger and fries, side of mayo, and a very tall beer is all I need.” Matt checked his watch. It was now three o’clock local time, six hours earlier in Montreal. Wonder what she’s up to, he thought, smiling at the two girls sitting across from him at the bar. He texted Eve.
HOW WAS PHILLY? EVER BEEN TO ZERMATT?
The food and drink went down well, and the girls came over to speak with him before they returned to their shopping. He obliged them with a selfie and asked where they were staying.
“Upstairs,” the taller of the two Germans replied. He smiled.
“Me, too. Maybe I’ll see you both down here for dinner?” They laughed and smiled. As the women left the restaurant, the shorter girl turned and smiled again. Perhaps he’d have them for dinner, he thought to himself, but then his phone vibrated a response and took his mind back to the girl he was so curious about.
SAW YOUR LIBERTY BELL. LOVE MOUNTAINS.
NOT CH YET.
IS THAT AN INVITATION? He smiled.
Smart girl. Truly an international one, at that, he thought. Not many would respond to a text about Switzerland using the international code for the country.
NOT THIS TIME AROUND. HEADED BACK TO STATES SOON.
CALL YOU THEN. MC.
Eve responded with the same red heart he had recently sent to his aunt. With his belly full and tonight’s entertainment lined up, it was time to walk off the food and the small bit of stress that still lingered. A quick walk up through the village toward the Matterhorn and then a three-mile hike, an easy one that required little effort for him, returned him to town. He spent the next hour flipping the television remote between CNN International and the BBC News before showering and heading out in search of the Germans.
Two days later, after countless beers, nine miles of hiking on harder trails, more beer, and a few hours of in-room entertainment with his new friends, it was time to pack up and head to Zurich for the nine-hour ride back to Washington.
Matt didn’t flaunt the fact that he had money, lots of money. All he had ever professed to his love interests, and his closest friends – of which there were only two – was that he loved nice cars, upscale hotels, and flying with a lot of legroom. He did keep a very fast black Mercedes AMG sedan in the garage under his condo building near the Potomac. But the old, gray 4WD pickup he drove the majority of the time often left most to think he was just an average guy doing an average job for an average wage. He preferred it that way.
He left the hotel very early that morning, and four hours later, he returned the car and checked in for the flight home. He was never sure if he’d watch movies the entire time, read, or sleep the whole way. As well-rested and re-energized as the mountain air and the invigorating exercise had made him, he was now in need of bagging a bad guy. No more time off. He texted Dale before taking off.
NEED TO GO HUNTING
She would know what that meant. In her world, she’d be able to offer him the pick of the litter, his choice of targets. Her list had no end. He couldn’t wait to get home.
Unfortunately for him and the 200 other passengers on the flight, someone ruined their party. At the mid-point of the trip, high over the Atlantic Ocean, a flight attendant suddenly dropped to the floor. Within seconds, the attendant working one end of the food cart dropped as well. Passengers near them fell asleep in their seats while others began screaming.
Travelers with window seats raised their shades and let sunlight in. Perhaps they were praying to be over land, but the cold, choppy sea far below gave them little hope. As an attendant from the First-Class galley ran past his seat toward the commotion, Matt yanked off his Bose headphones, unclipped his seat belt, and stood up in the aisle. He saw row after row of passengers lose consciousness, and the wave was coming forward to him and the rest of the luxury travelers.
He knew what was happening. It had to be in the air. He charged toward the galley and yelled to the flight attendant who was on the phone to the cockpit, “Drop the oxygen now!” he shouted. “There’s nerve gas on the plane!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Down they came. Within a second of the message being delivered to the cockpit, the tethered breathing devices dropped from the ceiling. Pilots were trained to react and respond to a multitude of incidents, and luckily, the flight attendants were as well. Other than a fire, compromised air or a lack of it was the biggest fear aboard a plane. Well, that and crashing. Passengers who were still able to grab them and knew how to use them did so. Matt stepped back to his seat and reached for his. He looked across the cabin and saw another man standing at his seat, oxygen mask in place, gun drawn. Matt didn’t sense a threat so stood his ground.
“Sky marshal,” the man called out through his mask. “You?”
“FBI!” Matt returned.
Both men exchanged a nod and put their game faces on, but Matt knew the other man was as scared as he was. They’d been trained to deal with threats, but an unseen one, the uncertainty of what it was and who had discharged it, sent them into high gear fast. Traveling at nearly 600 mph over the ocean, whatever they could do to help needed to happen now.
Matt turned to the flight attendant who had been using the phone. She had pulled an air pack from a compartment in the galley, slung it over her shoulder, and affixed the mask to her face. The pilot had begun to reduce the plane’s altitude from their current 38,000 feet to 10,000 feet. His protocols were clear in an incident like this. Contact flight control and descend as quickly and safely as possible. Find the shipping lanes and locate the nearest vessels. Everyone had trained for this, except the passengers.
The pilot made a quick announcement, his voice confident but hurried.
“We are in contact with flight control and the TSA command center and are working this situation. Please remain as calm as possible, breathe through your oxygen masks, and stay seated
with your seat belts on.”
For many, that was easier said than done. But, luckily, there were enough portable oxygen tanks aboard to allow Matt, the man with the gun, and at least four others to strap them on and assess the situation. Matt called out to the masked attendant to bring one device to him and the other to the man standing across from him. She complied. She already knew the sky marshal. They always boarded before everyone else, but hearing Matt call out that he was FBI and acted the part made it easy.
“Ask the captain to have any doctors on board raise their hands but stay in their seats for now. We need help assessing the people who are down. I can’t tell from here if they are just unconscious or–”
She winced. “Right.”
Matt gestured for the marshal to meet him in the forward galley. They would be able to speak through their masks, but their hushed tones, meant to hide what they had to say from the passengers, made it difficult. They quickly compared notes.
Neither had seen, heard, or smelled anything out of the ordinary, from the boarding process all the way to the sound of the first scream for help. Nobody had acted in a strange or suspicious manner; the only nervousness either had observed had been from the usual first-time fliers and those scared of flying.
The marshal stepped back and peered down the aisle toward his side of the cabin. He saw a middle-aged man stand up from his seat, open the overhead bin, and try to pull down his suitcase. He shook his head and turned back to Matt. “Some dumbass just reached for his bag. Guess he thinks it’s time to get off. He’s harmless, just scared like the rest of us.”
“Sit down!” Matt shouted at the man, “Sit down now!” and then looked to the marshal for action. “Point your gun at him, now!” he ordered, and so he did.
“This is no place to be screwing around or taking things for granted!” The marshal nodded his head, and with the gun now pointed in his direction, the passenger quickly dropped back into his seat. Matt turned to the flight attendant controlling the phone. “Remind everyone that they must stay seated. Anyone getting up will be arrested and turned over to the authorities when we land!” She followed his instructions, delivering the message in both English and in French, as was customary on Swiss flights, and that got everyone’s attention and compliance.