Duel of Assassins by Dan Pollock Page A

Brunton and others were all having their little laugh at his expense. But
the big Secret Service man was continuing in his pragmatic monotone, and on a
topic that suddenly got Arensky’s full attention—his sister Luiza and her
family were apparently now boarding a flight scheduled to leave another
airport—Sheremetyevo, five-thousand miles to the east.
    “But until we’re damn sure,” Usher said, “we wait.”
    About an hour later, around four a.m., Usher got final CIA
confirmation that the family had indeed left Moscow—on a KLM flight to
Amsterdam—and Arensky felt his heart lift as well. How long and vainly he had
labored to bring this to pass, and now, unlooked for, it had all happened in
the past bizarre few hours. He couldn’t be there to greet them, of course, but
that could wait. They were all, thank God, free! In a euphoric daze, Arensky
was escorted past two ramrod-straight Air Force guards and across the tarmac
toward the big gleaming Boeing 707 with the windswept wings and the American
flag on its tail.
    Arensky found his heart stirred, oddly more than in the
White House, as he approached this sleek symbol of his adopted homeland.
    “This is an incredible thing,” he told Brunton beside him.
“I can’t believe it—Air Force One.”
    “Gorgeous bird, isn’t she?” Brunton agreed as they ascended
the boarding stairs to the forward door. “She’s only a backup now that we’ve
finally got our first presidential 747. But, what the hell, she’s seen it all.
Right now, she’s just SAM 28000, like it says on her tail. A Boeing VC-137C.
She’s Air Force One only when the Boss is aboard.”
    On the threshold, as he passed the presidential seal on the
open door, Taras had an instant of déjá-vu . He had been on this plane
before—at a Spetsnaz training camp in Mukachevo in the Carpathian Military
District! As a young special forces lieutenant he’d been given a
walk-through of an amazingly detailed mock-up of a Boeing 707 hidden away under
forest cover. His guide, a grizzled Spetsnaz captain, had boasted that
the interior duplicated exactly the presidential configuration used by
then-U.S. President Jimmy Carter. When Taras had, with appropriate mock
naivete, inquired what the model was used for, the captain had chuckled: “Why,
for brigade tea parties, of course!”
    Taras had forgotten the incident until this moment; and
somehow it had never surfaced in any of his CIA debriefings. He decided he’d
better remedy that little oversight; the Secret Service man, Usher, would
certainly be interested.
    Inside, except for a minimum six-man flight crew and his two
chaperones—Brunton and Usher—Arensky was surprised to find he basically had the
luxurious jet to himself. The Air Force officer gave him a once-over
tour—ironically similar to the Spetsnaz captain’s, Arensky
thought—starting down a narrow aisle on the port side of the plane past a
paneled compartment with the presidential seal on the door.
    “First Family’s Quarters—President’s office, First Lady’s
sitting room, family lounge or conference room. Go ahead, look inside, if you
want.”
    Next, just aft of the wings, was a staff compartment the
width of the fuselage, then an eight-seat suite for guest VIPs. Farther aft,
behind a bulkhead, was a considerably more plebian five-across press area, rear
galley and lavatories. The overall color scheme made Arensky think of the
American Civil War—blues and grays, muted blue-plaid upholstery, gray overhead
luggage bins and leather inlays, blue-gray carpeting throughout.
    “For now, we’ll stay up front,” Brunton said. “Later on, if
you get tired, you can come on back to one of the lounges and stretch out.”
    The 707’s four Pratt & Whitney turbo fans were in
full-throated chorus as they rejoined Usher, buckled up in the forward crew
section and reading Sports Illustrated . “This is where Secret Service
usually hangs out,” Brunton said, “and since I gather we’re all more