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Authors: Robert Baer
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Dushanbe.
“But I thought you said there were no flights,” I say, trying to elicit what she has in mind.
“Natasha knows what to do.”
Now I get it. It crosses my mind to ask whether Natasha is her real name or her KGB alias. But even now, after the breakup of the Soviet Union, you don’t talk about the KGB on the phone.
The next day I present myself at the Aeroflot freight counter at Domodedovo. “Natasha?” I ask the squat lady on the other side of the counter. She looks at me uncomprehendingly. “Na-ta-sha,” I say slowly. The woman continues to look at me stupidly, then turns around without saying a word and disappears into the back.
Just as I start to think this is a wasted taxi ride, another lady, with thick rouge and brass hair, appears at the counter in front of me.
“I’m Natasha,” she says. “So?”
I explain that I would like to go to Dushanbe, but there are no planes. She looks at me as if she doesn’t understand a word I’m saying. I decide this must be the wrong Natasha. There could be dozens of Natashas at Domodedovo. I wish I knew Leah’s mother’s name because I definitely would drop it now.
For some reason there’s finally a look of recognition on Natasha’s face. She comes out from behind the counter and leads me to a bench under a set of stairs. “Go sit. I come get you,” she says.
It’s as cold inside the terminal as it is outside. I put on my polar expedition gloves, an extra pair of socks, and a wool watchman’s cap. I’m still cold, so I cover myself with my duffel bag. A blown-out speaker above my head announces arrivals and departures, but there’s nothing about a flight to Dushanbe. For all I know, I’m meant to spend a week waiting here. I lie down and try to catch some sleep.
When I open my eyes, Natasha is standing above me. “Come,” she says. I follow her outside. The tarmac is slick with an inch of new snow. We walk past a blackened plane, the landing gear on one side collapsed, the wing dipped in the snow. I’ve noticed it before on other trips. It’s been there a year, ever since it burnedup in an electrical fire. I follow a few steps behind Natasha as she threads her way through half a dozen airplanes. At last we come to one with its engines running, the cabin lights on. I can see passengers in the windows. Natasha points at the stairway leading to the back door. “Go,” she says. “Go to Dushanbe.” It sounds more like a curse than a farewell. I do as I’m told, though, and Natasha turns around and walks back the way we came.
As soon as I step into the plane, I’m surprised to see it filled with blond and blue-eyed Russians, a third of them children. Many are in short-sleeved Hawaiian shirts and straw hats. I can’t see a single black-haired Tajik.
The stewardess has decided I’m the one who’s held up her plane, and she’s not happy about it. I try to look as stupid and innocent as I can, and follow her to the back of the plane, where she points me to a jumpseat.
I don’t know why, but I get this nasty, unfounded suspicion that Natasha, the KGB, maybe even Leah, have deliberately put me on the wrong flight, to the Black Sea or whatever beach resort these people are going to, someplace from which it will be almost impossible to return to Dushanbe. Explaining this to headquarters is going to be tough.
Then, ten minutes after the plane takes off, the pilot comes over the PA system and announces there will be an unscheduled stop before we get to—
Bombay, India!
When he says the stop is Dushanbe, a wave of consternation passes through the cabin, something between disbelief and terror. Everyone talks excitedly. One man shouts something toward the cockpit that I don’t understand. It takes the stewardess ten minutes of running up and down the aisles to calm everyone down.
I finally understand what’s happened. The KGB has commandeered the plane, a vacation charter. And now the passengers, rather than spending tomorrow on an Indian
“But I thought you said there were no flights,” I say, trying to elicit what she has in mind.
“Natasha knows what to do.”
Now I get it. It crosses my mind to ask whether Natasha is her real name or her KGB alias. But even now, after the breakup of the Soviet Union, you don’t talk about the KGB on the phone.
The next day I present myself at the Aeroflot freight counter at Domodedovo. “Natasha?” I ask the squat lady on the other side of the counter. She looks at me uncomprehendingly. “Na-ta-sha,” I say slowly. The woman continues to look at me stupidly, then turns around without saying a word and disappears into the back.
Just as I start to think this is a wasted taxi ride, another lady, with thick rouge and brass hair, appears at the counter in front of me.
“I’m Natasha,” she says. “So?”
I explain that I would like to go to Dushanbe, but there are no planes. She looks at me as if she doesn’t understand a word I’m saying. I decide this must be the wrong Natasha. There could be dozens of Natashas at Domodedovo. I wish I knew Leah’s mother’s name because I definitely would drop it now.
For some reason there’s finally a look of recognition on Natasha’s face. She comes out from behind the counter and leads me to a bench under a set of stairs. “Go sit. I come get you,” she says.
It’s as cold inside the terminal as it is outside. I put on my polar expedition gloves, an extra pair of socks, and a wool watchman’s cap. I’m still cold, so I cover myself with my duffel bag. A blown-out speaker above my head announces arrivals and departures, but there’s nothing about a flight to Dushanbe. For all I know, I’m meant to spend a week waiting here. I lie down and try to catch some sleep.
When I open my eyes, Natasha is standing above me. “Come,” she says. I follow her outside. The tarmac is slick with an inch of new snow. We walk past a blackened plane, the landing gear on one side collapsed, the wing dipped in the snow. I’ve noticed it before on other trips. It’s been there a year, ever since it burnedup in an electrical fire. I follow a few steps behind Natasha as she threads her way through half a dozen airplanes. At last we come to one with its engines running, the cabin lights on. I can see passengers in the windows. Natasha points at the stairway leading to the back door. “Go,” she says. “Go to Dushanbe.” It sounds more like a curse than a farewell. I do as I’m told, though, and Natasha turns around and walks back the way we came.
As soon as I step into the plane, I’m surprised to see it filled with blond and blue-eyed Russians, a third of them children. Many are in short-sleeved Hawaiian shirts and straw hats. I can’t see a single black-haired Tajik.
The stewardess has decided I’m the one who’s held up her plane, and she’s not happy about it. I try to look as stupid and innocent as I can, and follow her to the back of the plane, where she points me to a jumpseat.
I don’t know why, but I get this nasty, unfounded suspicion that Natasha, the KGB, maybe even Leah, have deliberately put me on the wrong flight, to the Black Sea or whatever beach resort these people are going to, someplace from which it will be almost impossible to return to Dushanbe. Explaining this to headquarters is going to be tough.
Then, ten minutes after the plane takes off, the pilot comes over the PA system and announces there will be an unscheduled stop before we get to—
Bombay, India!
When he says the stop is Dushanbe, a wave of consternation passes through the cabin, something between disbelief and terror. Everyone talks excitedly. One man shouts something toward the cockpit that I don’t understand. It takes the stewardess ten minutes of running up and down the aisles to calm everyone down.
I finally understand what’s happened. The KGB has commandeered the plane, a vacation charter. And now the passengers, rather than spending tomorrow on an Indian
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