Sheremetevo-2 International Airport, Outside Moscow Night had already descended on the birch and pine forests surrounding Sheremetevo-2. Lit by harsh white lights, the airport’s approach roads sliced through the darkness with rigid precision. Long lines of cars, trucks, and buses were backed up along those roads, waiting to pass through the special militia checkpoints set up outside the single passenger terminal, an ugly block of steel and concrete. Away from the terminal, armored scout cars manned by elite Ministry of the Interior commandos patrolled Sheremetevo’s perimeter fence.
The Kremlin’s orders were explicit. Under no circumstances were the two American fugitives to be allowed to escape from Russia. As part of the manhunt for them, security around the airport had been tightened to levels not seen since the height of the Cold War.
A TransAtlantic Express 747–400 cargo plane sat on the tarmac at the other end of the airport. Packages, boxes, cartons of overnight mail, and other pieces of heavy air freight were being taken off a number of different trucks, strapped onto standard-sized pallets, and then loaded into the 747’s main deck cargo holds.
Squads of gray-coated militiamen prowled through the loading area, keeping a wary eve on the activity going on around them. Their officers had firm instructions to arrest anyone attempting to stow away aboard any of the cargo aircraft that flew out of Sheremetevo-2.
Senior Lieutenant Anatoliy Sergunin stood with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the heavy pallets as large scissor-lift loaders picked them up off the concrete and slid them into the enormous TranEx aircraft. Waiting cargo handlers guided the pallets in through the 747’s hatches, rolled them into position, and then locked them down to the deck. For the first several hours of his shift, Sergunin had found the whole process fascinating. Now he was merely bored and cold and tired.
“Gate Security reports that another vehicle is on its way over, sir,” his sergeant reported, listening to the detachment’s radio.
Surprised, Sergunin checked his watch. This aircraft was scheduled to depart in less than an hour. By now, all of the freight assigned to the 747 should already have arrived. Sorting and securing the various sizes of packages onto pallets was a complicated and time-consuming process, one governed by the absolute need to safely balance the aircraft’s load. He turned around and looked away across the vast stretch of darkened tarmac. Sure enough, he could see a pair of bright headlights coming toward them at high speed.
He glanced at his sergeant. “What kind of cargo is this new vehicle earning?”
“Two coffins, sir.”
“Coffins?” Sergunin repeated in amazement.
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said patiently. “It’s a hearse.”
A few minutes later, Sergunin stood off to the side of the hearse, which had come from a Moscow mortuary, observing the proceedings closely. The driver, wearing a white smock, wrestled each of the heavy metal caskets out of the back of his vehicle and onto a folding gurney. The coffins were sealed by tape as proof that they had ahead) been x-rayed and cleared by Customs.
Sergunin’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. Customs officials could be bribed.
And what better way to smuggle two fugitive spies out of Russia than in a pair of coffins? Especially aboard an aircraft that was bound first for Frankfurt, then Canada, and finally on to the United States? He laid his hand on the butt of the pistol bolstered at his side. Huge rewards were promised to anyone who captured the two wanted Americans, and equally serious punishments were ordained for anyone who let them escape. Under the circumstances, even excessive caution was warranted.
The militia officer waited until the mortuary worker finished his awkward task. Then he approached the tall, silver-haired man. “You are in sole charge of this material?”
The big man, who stood mopping the sweat off his forehead with a red handkerchief, nodded. “That’s right, Lieutenant,” he said pleasantly. “Twenty years in the business, and never a single complaint from any of my passengers.”
“Spare me the jokes and show me the shipping warrants for these … corpses,” Sergunin snapped.
“Always happy to oblige the authorities,” the man said, shrugging. He handed over a clipboard. “As you see, everything is in order.”
Sergunin read through the documents with a skeptical eye. According to the paperwork, the caskets contained the bodies of a husband and wife?both quite old when they were killed in a car accident. Although the dead man and woman were Russian citizens, their children, emigres now living in Toronto, were paying to have the bodies shipped to Canada for burial there.
The militia officer frowned. The story was feeble. He looked up at the silver-haired hearse driver and tossed the clipboard back. “I want those coffins opened for inspection,” he demanded.
“Opened?” the big man asked. He sounded surprised.
“You heard me,” Sergunin told him coldly. He drew his pistol and thumbed off the safety. With his free hand, he signaled his sergeant and a waiting squad to close in around the hearse. “Open them up,” he said. “And do it now.”
“Easy there, Lieutenant,” the man said quickly. “If you want to see inside, that’s fine with me.” He shrugged again. “But I should warn you, neither stiff is exactly a wholesome sight. They’re both a real mess, in fact. A bus hit the car they were driving head-on. There wasn’t much our cosmetics girls in the back room could do to pretty them up.”
Sergunin ignored him. He stepped forward and rapped one of the caskets with the muzzle of his service pistol. “This one first. And be quick!”
With a sigh, the hearse driver obeved. First he cut through the customs tape with a pocketknife. Then, one by one, he flipped open the latches holding the lid shut. Before going any further, he looked over his shoulder at the militia officer. “You really sure you want to see this?”
Sergunin snorted, holding his pistol ready. “Get on with it.”
With one last expressive shrug, the other man lifted the casket lid.
For a moment, Sergunin stared down into the coffin. His face turned deathly pale. He was looking at a corpse so terribly mutilated and burned that it was impossible to tell whether or not it was that of a man or a woman.
Empty eye sockets and teeth grinned back at him out of a skull only partly covered by scraps of blackened flesh. Withered hands, twisted into claws by intense heat, were raised above the shattered body in what appeared to be a last, grotesque appeal for help.
Retching, the militia officer swung away and was violently sick all over his boots and the tarmac. His sergeant and the others backed away in disgust. rITie big man closed the lid of the coffin. “There was a fuel tank fire after the crash,” he murmured apologetically. “Maybe I should have mentioned that first.” He moved to the second coffin and took out his penknife.
“Stop,” Sergunin gasped, still mopping at his mouth with the back of his hand. Desperately, he waved the driver back from the unopened casket.
“Hurry up and get those damned horrors aboard that plane. And then clear off!”
With an effort, the lieutenant straightened up and staggered away, looking for somewhere private to clean the humiliating mess off his boots. Equally re-pulsed, his sergeant and the other gray-coated militia busied themselves with inspecting the other pieces of air freight left in the area. So when the hearse drove away into the darkness ten minutes later, neither Sergunin nor his subordinates noticed that the man who was now behind the wheel was much shorter and had light brown hair.
One hour later, with the 747–400 flying west at more than thirty-five thousand feet above the ink-black Russian countryside, Oleg Kirov tugged off the cargo netting surrounding the two coffins. He wore a TranEx flight crew uniform. With the netting out of the way, he knelt down beside one of the caskets and began quickly unfastening a series of screws set into the bottom. Once the last screw dropped out into his hand, he pried open the edge of a panel running the length of the coffin. It clattered onto the cargo pallet, revealing a hidden compartment roughly six feet long, two feet wide, and barely a foot high.
Slowly and painfully, Fiona Devin wriggled out through the narrow opening and slid to the deck of the aircraft. She wore an oxygen mask coupled to a small metal cylinder.
Gently, Kirov helped her sit up and take off the oxygen mask. “Are you all right?”
She nodded weakly. “I’ll live, Oleg.” She smiled faintly. “But if I wasn’t claustrophobic before, I certainly will be in the future.”
