The defector

At 7 p.m., Carter’s telephone rang. He brought the receiver swiftly to his ear, listened in silence for a few seconds, then hung up.

“He’s pulling up to the gate. It looks like we’re on, gentlemen.”

THERE WAS a time in Washington when everyone in government and journalism could recite the name of the Soviet ambassador to the United States. But these days few people outside Foggy Bottom and the State Department press corps had ever heard of Konstantin Tretyakov. Though fluent in English, the Russian Federation’s ambassador rarely appeared on television and never threw parties anyone would bother to attend. He was a forgotten man in a city where Moscow’s envoy had once been treated almost like a head of state. Tretyakov was the worst thing a person could be in Washington. He was irrelevant.

The ambassador’s official CV described him as an “America expert” and career diplomat who had served in many important Western posts. It left out the fact his career had nearly been derailed in Oslo when he was caught with his hand in the embassy’s petty-cash drawer. Nor did it mention that he occasionally drank too much. Or that he had one brother who worked as a spy for the SVR and another who was part of the Russian president’s i

He was standing beneath the crest of the 89th Airlift Wing when Tretyakov’s motorcade drew to a halt outside the passenger terminal. Despite the fact the ambassador was now inside one of the most secure facilities in the national capital region, he was protected by three layers of security: his own Russian bodyguards, a detail of Diplomatic Security agents, and several officers from Andrews base security. Fielding had no trouble picking out the ambassador when he emerged from the back of his limousine-the dossier had contained a copy of Tretyakov’s official portrait along with several surveillance photos-but Fielding covered his preparation by approaching the ambassador’s factotum instead. The aide corrected Fielding by pointing to Tretyakov, who now had a superior smile on his face as if amused by American incompetence. Fielding pumped the ambassador’s hand and introduced himself as Tom Harris. Apparently, Mr. Harris had no title or reason for being at Andrews other than to shake the ambassador’s hand.

“As you can probably guess, Mr. Ambassador, the Kharkov children are a little nervous. Mrs. Kharkov would like you to see them alone, without aides or security.”

“Why would the children be nervous, Mr. Harris? They’re going back to Russia where they belong.”

“Are you saying you refuse to meet A

The ambassador raised his chin a bit. “No, Mr. Harris, that is not the case.”

“Wise decision. I would hate to think what would happen if Ivan Kharkov ever found out you personally blew the deal to get his children back over some silly question of protocol.”

“Watch your tone, Mr. Harris.”

Fielding had no intention of watching his tone. In fact, he was just getting started.

“I take it you’ve seen photographs of the Kharkov children?”

The ambassador nodded.

“You’re confident you can identify them by sight?”

“Very.”

“That’s good. Because under no circumstances are you to approach or touch the children. You may ask them two questions, no more. Are these conditions acceptable to you, Mr. Ambassador?”

“What choice do I have?”

“None whatsoever.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Please extend your arms straight out from your sides and spread your feet.”

“Why on earth would I do that?”

“Because I have to search you before letting you anywhere near those children.”

“This is outrageous.”

“I would hate for Ivan Kharkov to find out you-”

The ambassador extended his arms and spread his feet. Fielding took his time with the search and made sure it was as invasive and mortifying as possible. When the search was over, he squirted liquid desanitizer on his hands.

“Two questions, no touching. Are we clear, Mr. Ambassador?”

“We’re clear, Mr. Harris.”

“Follow me, please.”

IT WAS a small room, hung with photographs of the installation’s storied past: presidents departing on historic journeys, POWs returning from years of captivity, flag-draped coffins coming home for burial in American soil. Had photographers been present that afternoon, they would have captured an image of great sadness: a mother holding her children, possibly for the last time. But there were no photographers, of course, because the mother and children were not there-at least, not officially. As for the two flights that would soon tear this family apart, they did not exist, either, and no records of them would ever find their way into the control tower’s logbook.

They were huddled together along a couch of black vinyl. Elena, dressed in blue jeans and a shearling coat, was seated in the center, an arm around each child. Their faces were buried in her collar, and they remained that way long after the Russian ambassador entered the room. Elena refused to look at him. Her lips were pressed to A

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Kharkov,” the ambassador said in Russian.

Elena made no response. The ambassador looked at Fielding. In English, he said, “I need to see their faces. Otherwise, I ca

“You have two questions, Mr. Ambassador. Ask them to lift their faces. But make certain you ask them nicely. Otherwise, I might get upset.”

The ambassador looked at the distraught family seated before him. In Russian, he asked, “Please, children, lift your faces so I can see them.”

The children remained motionless.

“Try speaking to them in English,” said Fielding.

Tretyakov did as Fielding suggested. This time, the children raised their faces and stared at the ambassador with undisguised hostility. Tretyakov appeared satisfied the children were indeed A

“Your father is looking forward to seeing you. Are you excited about going home?”

“No,” said A

“No,” repeated Nikolai. “We want to stay here with our mother.”

“Perhaps your mother should come home, too.”

Elena looked at Tretyakov for the first time. Then her gaze moved to Fielding. “Please take him away, Mr. Harris. His presence is begi

Fielding escorted the ambassador next door to the Base Ops building. They were standing together on the observation deck when Elena and the children emerged from the passenger terminal, accompanied by several security officers. The group moved slowly across the tarmac and climbed the passenger-boarding stairs to the doorway of a C-32. Elena Kharkov emerged ten minutes later without the children, visibly shaken. Clinging to the arm of an Air Force officer, she walked over to a Gulfstream and disappeared into the cabin.

“You must be very proud, Mr. Ambassador,” Fielding said.

“You had no right to take them from their father in the first place.”

The cabin door of the C-32 was now closed. The boarding stairs moved away, followed by the fuel and catering trucks. Five minutes after that, the plane was rising over the Maryland suburbs of Washington. Fielding watched it disappear into the clouds, then looked contemptuously at the ambassador.