Clyde and Fazoul and the Russian had an awkward several minutes sitting around in the back of the plane’s cargo hold, in a narrow space aft of the enormous jungle gym of fuel tanks. From time to time they would make a foray into sign language, which never led anywhere. Fazoul seemed to know one or two words of Russian but was in a reticent mood.
Clyde’s head was spinning, trying to figure the angles.
The government was going to let the Antonov leave the country and wait for it to land in Iceland. But it would just keep going. By the time NATO, or whoever, figured out that it was carrying an extra fuel supply, it would be over Europe. Was NATO going to shoot down a Soviet plane full of botulin toxin over Europe? Clyde didn’t think so.
Fazoul pulled a walkie-talkie out of his pocket, turned it on, and spoke into it a few times, until he got a response from some other Vakhan Turk-speaking scholar in the area. Then he spoke rapidly for half aminute or so.
In the middle of this Vitaly the pilot showed up, fresh from having his passport stamped. He was startled to see Clyde sitting in his airplane with a disfigured Turk and a large cache of cigarettes. Then he warmed to the occasion and gave Clyde a hearty greeting dripping with fake sentiment. Fazoul turned off his walkie-talkie and put it back in his pocket.
“I guess you won’t be able to take off in this weather,” Clyde said hopefully.
“Oh, no. This is nothing. You forget, we are from Russia.”
“But don’t they have rules?”
“If we were at one of your big airports, they wouldn’t let us out, but Mr. Lutsky is our droog, he likes us, he likes Black Sea caviar, he likes Stoli. He will let us do this trip, no problem.”
“But there’s no deicing equipment here.”
“Do you think there’s deicing equipment at Magadan?” The thought of modern equipment at Magadan made him laugh so hard, he almost had to sit down. “No, Sheriff. This is nothing. This plane is a Russian plane. A Siberia plane. Nothing can stop it.”
“What are the Iraqis doing in there?” Clyde said, nodding toward the airport.
Vitaly did not miss a beat. “The Jordanians are turning in their visas. They have special visas for students. Much paperwork.” He rolled his eyes.
“Who’s paying you?” Clyde said.
Vitaly blinked in surprise, then held his mittens out, palms up, and shrugged, as if this were the first time payment had occurred to him. “Clyde, moi drug. If we have legal problems here, we can certainly make some arrangement. You want me to buy your cigarettes? I am delighted to buy them. Cash on the barrelhead.”
“You can have the cigarettes,” Clyde said. “Here is what I want. My friend and I want to exchange our coats and hats with two members of your crew. They will go out of the plane carrying this sleeping bag, empty, wearing the ski masks over their faces, and they will go in that direction.” Clyde pointed toward Nishnabotna. “And they will keep walking until they find a church or a convenience store or something and then they will wait.”
“Khalid—” Fazoul began, but Clyde held out one hand to silence him.
“Wait for what?” Vitaly said.
“For the plane to take off.”
Vitaly was stunned. “Clyde. You want to travel to Azerbaijan with us?”
Clyde was tempted to tell Vitaly that they probably weren’t going to stop at Azerbaijan. But it would do for now. “Yes,” Clyde said, “I have always wanted to see Azerbaijan.”
“But my crew. I need my crew.”
“You need the money that the Jordanians are paying you for this very special trip,” Clyde said. “And if you do not do this thing for me, I will arrest all of you now. I have more sheriffs waiting outside the airport to back me up.”
Vitaly pondered it for a very few moments. “Clyde,” he said brightly, “you will love Azerbaijan. I am sorry to say that it is much more beautiful than Iowa.”
Vitaly summoned the least important two members of his crew and explained matters to them. Their faces betrayed only the merest traces of surprise; clearly, flying Antonovs around the globe was not a job for the faint of heart or rigid of mind. The exchange of clothing went quickly, the Russians remarking about how much better the American stuff was. One of them jokingly offered to give Clyde a fistful of rubles. Vitaly was unnerved by Fazoul, his Turkic DNA and ghastly war injuries so clearly evident, but he averted his gaze from the Vakhan with a conscious effort and smiled charmingly at Clyde.