Chapter 4
Magda’s flight landed at Pearson International Airport in Mississauga, Ontario.
When she walked off the plane and down the Jetway into the terminal, she had the purse the Russian couple had given her at the Istanbul Airport.
Inside were a wallet and a genuine-looking American passport in the name of Natalya Kuznetsov.
She didn’t know if the passport had been stolen from somebody with that name—Kuznetsov was a common name in Russia—or if they had started by putting her picture on a blank document and used Kuznetsov because it was so common.
People who did these things didn’t explain their methods.
The photograph in the front was of Magda, and there were visa stamps in the pages, including a fresh one for Turkey.
The passport said she was a naturalized U.S.
citizen and her birthplace was Novgorod, Russia.
She walked to the baggage area and stood there waiting while the luggage from her flight began to slide down onto the carousel to be claimed by passengers.
She expected someone to walk up to her and take charge, but instead the phone that was in the purse began to vibrate. She took it out and said, “Natalya.”
The voice was male. It said in Russian, “There’s a green bag on the carousel. Pick it up and take it with you to Canadian customs.”
“I see it,” she said. She stepped forward to time the approach of the green suitcase and snatch it off the moving carousel. When she had it, she said, “Got it,” but realized the man had ended the call.
She went through this airport’s version of the universal procedures.
When she put the passport on the reader and stood in front of the screen, she was relieved to see that it had accepted her face as Natalya’s, but didn’t know how the Bratva had accomplished this.
Maybe the Canadian database didn’t include Americans, and so it didn’t already have her face as Magda, and that was why she’d been put on a flight to Canada.
So many difficult and time-consuming tasks had been performed to get her out of prison and deported, then diverted from the route to Russia and onto an arc that would take her back to North America.
Her phone vibrated again and told her that the Mobile Passport Control app had been downloaded from the Apple app store.
Her name and passport number had been entered.
Now she should look at the display, select Pearson International Airport, take a photo of herself, and answer the questions the app asked.
She did what she was told, was sent a QR code, and was directed to processing lane 3 for her interview with a Customs and Border Patrol agent.
She knew roughly what the agent’s questions would be and began inventing answers.
She had been a buyer in a boutique in Boston, but had quit the job to take a trip to Turkey to visit some Kuznetsov relatives.
She planned to go back to Boston within a week and begin another job in fashion.
When the agent opened her green suitcase she showed no interest, and he shut the lid again, sent her on, and turned to size up the next person waiting in lane number 3.
As she walked into the large, open space of the terminal, she looked at her new phone again.
She had decided that the people who had arranged her freedom and travel were almost sure to be the Boston group of the Bratva.
They had been the ones to help the Los Angeles branch run by Oleg Porchen first find the woman three years ago.
They had lent men to follow the woman to Maine and then down the Hundred Mile Wilderness section of the Appalachian Trail.
Magda stepped out of the terminal, moved away from the door to the sidewalk, and waited.
Her phone vibrated again and a text appeared. It was a picture of a car—small and dark blue and very shiny. She looked to her left and in another minute, she could see the blue car coming along the drive toward her, so she stepped to the curb.
The car pulled up in front of her, and she got a good look at the driver while she put her green suitcase into the back seat.
He was about thirty years old, fit looking, with a face that reminded her of a boxer—thick neck, nearly shaved head.
He had eyes that seemed never to meet hers, but would stare as soon as she appeared not to be looking.
She got into the seat beside him and fastened her seat belt while he pulled the car ahead and merged into traffic.
She said in Russian, “Hello. Who are you?”
“I’m Vladimir. I’m driving you to your hotel.
You will check in with the name Natalya Kuznetsov and stay for two nights.
That will give you time to rest and recover and buy the things you’ll need.
When you check out, you’ll take this car with you.
It’s registered and insured in the name of Natalya Kuznetsov.
In the glove compartment you’ll find the papers, a driver’s license, three credit cards, and some cash. ”
“Is there a gun?”
“There’s an address in Buffalo and a phone number. After you get across the bridge into Buffalo, you’ll call the number and drive to the address. There’s no reason for you to take the risk of crossing the border with a gun.”
She was silent for a few minutes while she took the credit cards, driver’s license, and cash he’d mentioned out of the glove compartment and put them in the appropriate places in her purse. Then she said, “Are you from here?”
“No, Boston. We’re the ones who had been after her before. She was supposed to be dead, but we’ve noticed there were never any obituaries or announcements of her death. I don’t know why the Pachans went to so much trouble to get you to find her.”
“Because I found her the first time. The people who were with me are all dead, including my Pachan and the men he brought with us and the men he borrowed from Boston. When they didn’t come back, did you think they went off to college?”
His face formed a skeptical smirk, but he was silent and still didn’t look into her eyes. After a while he said, “The hotel isn’t far now. It’s right up there. You can see the sign.”
“It looks like a nice hotel.”
“I’ll pull the car up at the entrance and wait so you can go and check in. And I know you’ve been locked in a women’s prison for over a year. If you’ve been missing something, I can stay tonight and fly to Boston tomorrow, or even the next day.”
She turned to face him. “You think I’m pretty?”
“Yes. Anyone would.” A little smile appeared on his face, but he looked ahead as he turned the car into the driveway, drove toward the entrance, and stopped.
“Thank you,” she said, “but you can just leave the car with the parking attendant and go. I can do much better than you.”