Azerbaijan, before stopping at Tbilisi and spending the night. Now they had 600 miles to Ashgabat, Turkmenistan, then another 600 miles to Tashkent, Uzebekistan, and another overnight. Tomorrow would be Dushanbe, Tajikistan, and Almaty, Kazakhstan, before an overnight at the U.S. base at Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan. The following day would be all flying, 1,500 miles at a chugging 300 knots back to Incirlik, Turkey, with all the diplomatic bags from the week and whatever passengers wanted to tour Central Asia in return for bypassing Customs and Immigration on the airlines. None had, so far. That left one day each week for unexpected delays, or training if there were no delays. Boyd would be in Tbilisi one day a week.
Who was that woman? He saw her face in the side window as he looked out at the Caucasus Mountains looming to the north, snowcapped already in October. Was she the Mingrelian? Hard to believe such a vivacious young woman, so full of life, would be mixed up in nuclear weapons and the threat of imminent war. Was she married? She hadn’t worn a ring. Those laughing brown-green eyes twinkled in the window as he flew down a green valley along the railroad and pipeline to Azerbaijan and the Caspian Sea. She knew who he was; she knew everything. He knew nothing. She had flirted, just with her eyes. Or was she just being friendly, to close the deal?
“Coffee?” Bud asked, unsnapping his seat belt and getting up. They were at 25,000 feet and on autopilot. Baku was just sliding past, and the Caspian Sea spread out before them.
“Yeah, black. Thanks,” Boyd said, still lost in thought. Just then the radio crackled in his headset, and he responded to a direction to change altitude from the Air Traffic Control Center in Baku. Air-traffic controllers watch all traffic, untangle routes, and guide aircraft around weather and altitudes that have reported turbulence.
The Caspian Sea had a green tint to it, dotted with oil platforms and sectored by pipelines, snaking out of the water and onto the land converging on the pumping station at Sanachal, south of Baku. Off to his right, to the south, he could see the coast of Iran.
Boyd had put the flash drive into a box and the box into a bigger box and affixed a diplomatic seal. It was one of a stack in the back. From Incirlik, the other Little Rock C-130 would take the diplomatic mail to Germany, and a C-17 would get it back to Washington in a couple of days.
*****
“I need to get another rug,” Boyd told Bud as they got to their hotel the next week, a little late because of weather.
“I’d keep buying rugs until I at least got her phone number,” Bud said with a laugh. “You want to take someone with you? You’re supposed to have a wingman.”
He was reminding Boyd that aircrews aren’t supposed to go off alone in a foreign land.
“I think I can handle this one.”
“OK,” Bud shrugged.
Boyd was pretty sure Bud was read into this thing, such as it was. It certainly didn’t seem to be anything like his previous jobs.
It was nearly dark on a Monday evening when he turned to Erekle II Street. Most of the other shops were closed. Her shop was open. The bell alerted the old man, who returned to the back as soon as he saw Boyd.
“Hello,” she said, stepping from behind the curtain.
Boyd’s heart flipped in his chest; she was more beautiful than he remembered. This time, she wore a sweater with a more tailored skirt.
“I want to buy a rug,” he said, summoning a smile.
“Yes, over here,” she said leading him to that same section away from the street.
“I’ve heard of Persian carpets. What’s that?”
“Carpets are large, rugs are smaller. Persians make very good rugs and carpets, that’s one on the floor there,” she said, pointing to a large floral print in the center of the room. She squatted to pick up the corner and turn it over.
“The knots are much smaller than these tribal rugs,” she motioned around the shop, indicating that most of her stock
Who was that woman? He saw her face in the side window as he looked out at the Caucasus Mountains looming to the north, snowcapped already in October. Was she the Mingrelian? Hard to believe such a vivacious young woman, so full of life, would be mixed up in nuclear weapons and the threat of imminent war. Was she married? She hadn’t worn a ring. Those laughing brown-green eyes twinkled in the window as he flew down a green valley along the railroad and pipeline to Azerbaijan and the Caspian Sea. She knew who he was; she knew everything. He knew nothing. She had flirted, just with her eyes. Or was she just being friendly, to close the deal?
“Coffee?” Bud asked, unsnapping his seat belt and getting up. They were at 25,000 feet and on autopilot. Baku was just sliding past, and the Caspian Sea spread out before them.
“Yeah, black. Thanks,” Boyd said, still lost in thought. Just then the radio crackled in his headset, and he responded to a direction to change altitude from the Air Traffic Control Center in Baku. Air-traffic controllers watch all traffic, untangle routes, and guide aircraft around weather and altitudes that have reported turbulence.
The Caspian Sea had a green tint to it, dotted with oil platforms and sectored by pipelines, snaking out of the water and onto the land converging on the pumping station at Sanachal, south of Baku. Off to his right, to the south, he could see the coast of Iran.
Boyd had put the flash drive into a box and the box into a bigger box and affixed a diplomatic seal. It was one of a stack in the back. From Incirlik, the other Little Rock C-130 would take the diplomatic mail to Germany, and a C-17 would get it back to Washington in a couple of days.
*****
“I need to get another rug,” Boyd told Bud as they got to their hotel the next week, a little late because of weather.
“I’d keep buying rugs until I at least got her phone number,” Bud said with a laugh. “You want to take someone with you? You’re supposed to have a wingman.”
He was reminding Boyd that aircrews aren’t supposed to go off alone in a foreign land.
“I think I can handle this one.”
“OK,” Bud shrugged.
Boyd was pretty sure Bud was read into this thing, such as it was. It certainly didn’t seem to be anything like his previous jobs.
It was nearly dark on a Monday evening when he turned to Erekle II Street. Most of the other shops were closed. Her shop was open. The bell alerted the old man, who returned to the back as soon as he saw Boyd.
“Hello,” she said, stepping from behind the curtain.
Boyd’s heart flipped in his chest; she was more beautiful than he remembered. This time, she wore a sweater with a more tailored skirt.
“I want to buy a rug,” he said, summoning a smile.
“Yes, over here,” she said leading him to that same section away from the street.
“I’ve heard of Persian carpets. What’s that?”
“Carpets are large, rugs are smaller. Persians make very good rugs and carpets, that’s one on the floor there,” she said, pointing to a large floral print in the center of the room. She squatted to pick up the corner and turn it over.
“The knots are much smaller than these tribal rugs,” she motioned around the shop, indicating that most of her stock
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