Kicking the Can by Scott C. Glennie Page A

laptop and a five-inch legal-size accordion folder in the closet, next to his suitcase. Six dossiers, a file for each member of Drummond’s team, were secured in the folder. He didn’t have the energy to break the wax seal, although his curiosity had been steadily rising. There would betime to read on the long flight. What Drummond needed was shut-eye. For thirty days he would be unable to make contact with the outside world. Thirteen days, his longest vacation. A month was a lifetime…a lifetime of agony not knowing Sarah’s fate. The plane jerked forward, making its way to the runway at SeaTac Airport. Drummond felt the flow of warm air in the cabin. In fifteen hours he would be united with his team at an unknown destination. Drummond adjusted his seat for takeoff. He sensed dullness, precipitated by an anti-anxiety pill he took thirty minutes earlier, actuating. Buckling his seat belt required concentration. He closed his eyes. He felt his body being sucked into the seat, the plane accelerating to take-off speed before it leapt off the runway. He hoped they would find smooth air. He did not relish the idea of fifteen hours of motion sickness perched over a stainless toilet—his last thoughts before dropping off to sleep.
    He awoke to the whine of jet engines and the sound of air passing over the fuselage at six hundred miles an hour. Drummond went to the head and splashed water onto his face. He stopped at the galley for a snack. Armed with a cup of hot tea, toasted bagel and cream cheese, and a banana, Drummond sat in the table-seat and laid the accordion folder on the table. He slid out the files. The names printed on the tabs were Natalya Baturina, Pan Jiang, Sheryl Vogel, Peter Lowsley, Rakesh Gupta, and Jack Dain.

DRUMMOND’S TEAM
MEMBERS (MONTHS
AND YEARS EARLIER)

27
    N atalya Baturina slipped her key into the door of their luxury apartment in the Kropotkinskaya District of Moscow, made possible by the compensation she earned as a senior executive at IBM Russia. The Soviet Union was history, and Russian women were asserting themselves, breaking the glass ceiling to many high-powered positions in a new global economy. Less ambitious, Boris Baturina, Natalya’s husband of twenty-one years, seemed content to allow her to toil, climbing the corporate ladder. He had managed to muddle in a state banking job for most of their marriage, never differentiating himself professionally, or otherwise. He was supportive of Natalya’s burgeoning career and their wealth and readily adapted to her frequent and lengthy business meeting absences by filling the hours with wine and television. It was eight fifteen on Tuesday. Natalya had clocked twenty-seven hours, and the week was still young. She was tired, hungry, and craving a hot bath. She opened the door and frowned. The television was blaring. An empty wine bottle sat on the kitchen island. She laid her briefcase and keys on a built-in desk. A long counter separated the kitchen from the great room. Shecould hear her husband clear his throat and spit before flushing the toilet.
    She placed the last piece of cold grilled chicken on Romaine lettuce. Boris slipped behind her, rubbing the front of his trousers against her skirt, pawing at her breasts.
    “I just got in the door and haven’t had supper yet,” she snapped.
    When she turned around to face him, he stuck his tongue into her mouth. The acrid taste of wine was revolting. She pushed back. Boris was thirty pounds overweight with sagging muscle tone and had a dark shadow on his pudgy face.
    “It will only take a few minutes to do you, Nat.”
    She knew her husband would persist until satisfied. Sadly, there was no romance in their relationship.
    Tonight, it would be worth it to get him out of the way early
, Natalya thought.
    “Give me five minutes. I’ll meet you in the bedroom.”
    Boris slapped her on the ass playfully and disappeared behind the bedroom door. Natalya ate three bites of her salad, chewing quickly,