The hours after Anya Kovich left Serge’s hotel became surreal and the experience exhausted her.
As Jean-Robert instructed her she took a cab to the airport, Milan – Malpensa. On arrival she was told to tell the driver she forgot her passport and direct him to a residential address. Arriving at the front door she rang the bell and was greeted by a deceptively calm looking man who ushered her inside without identifying himself.
“Where is Jean-Robert?”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Kovich, but we don’t have time to waste. Malroff's people followed you from the Principe di Savoia and we need to leave immediately.”
Knowing the depths of Serge's cruelty and ruthlessness filled her with fear. If his men were close behind there wasn't a minute to spare and her universe of options had dwindled down to one.
The man sensed her anxiety and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder as he led her to the back of the house.
Motioning toward the door to a small bedroom the man said, “You will find clothes on the bed. Please change as fast as you can.”
The tiny room immediately made her claustrophobic, but she forced a couple of deep breaths into her lungs as she examined the jeans and baggy, plain white blouse. A baseball cap with a hotel logo, sunglasses and a pair of Nikes completed the disguise. Anya changed clothes as fast as she could and departed the oppressive little room.
The man cast a critical eye over her and said with a wry smile, “Better. I wish we had the time for a real makeover, but this will have to do.”
He grabbed her handbag, dumped its contents into a backpack, and dropped the purse on the floor.
“Do you have a smartphone?”
“Yes.” She took it out of the hip pocket of her jeans.
“Please.”
Reluctantly she gave him the device and looked on in horror as he crushed it under the heel of his boot.
“We can't risk being tracked. Come, Doctor. We must go now.” Once more he put a gentle hand on her shoulder. Anya tensed at this touch, but followed him to the back door and a narrow motor court. They got into a waiting black Jetta and departed quickly. The driver, another pleasant, non-descript young man smiled thinly and spoke without introductions.
“Would you like a bottle of water?”
“Yes, please.” The weakness and hoarseness of her voice surprised her.
“Of course.”
“Thank you.”
“You are safe with us. In a short time you will be out of Italy.” Alain drove deliberately and stayed with traffic, not attracting undue attention to their car.
That sounded good, but Anya was still scared. She knew how ruthless and powerful Serge was and now that he had the scent of her blood he would not give up easily or quickly. A sip of water cooled her throat, but did nothing to calm her foreboding.
“Where are we going?”
“Linate.” That was the second and smaller airport serving Milan.
She drank the rest of the water and let the bottle drop to the floor. "Where do we go from there?”
“I don’t know. My job is to deliver you safely to Linate.”
“Oh.”
Anya was an engineer, not a spy, so she had neither experience with this kind of thing nor any idea what to expect. Her anxiety heightened as the VW approached the perimeter of the airport. The driver kept glancing in the rear view mirrors as he gestured to the nameless man in back who unzipped a canvas bag and extracted a compact machine gun. The weapon looked like a movie camera with a short, nasty barrel protruding from one end.
“Don’t worry, Doctor. This is just a precaution. We can drive very close to the airplane and you will have only a few steps to get on board.”
The idea of flying on a small plane had not occurred to her, but her fears abated when the Jetta passed through a security gate and approached a white and silver jet. The door stood open and the Citation's engines where whining in anticipation of a quick departure. The car slammed to a halt close to the plane's left wing and Anya was grasped by the arm and pulled out. The man kept her protectively between the fuselage and his body as he maneuvered her towards the plane. Seeing the driver standing by the VW holding another machine gun was alarming, but there was no time to be afraid.
The Citation sat low to the ground so Anya fell into it more than she boarded it. A pair of hands pulled her inside, guided her into a soft leather seat, and secured a belt around her. The jet was in motion as soon as the door was closed. A terrified Anya looked to her left and saw Jean-Robert Trieste for the second time in her life. She began to cry.
“You’re safe, Doctor Kovich. You’re safe.” The voice had the same calming, melodic lilt she remembered. She wanted to speak but could not.
“Don't worry, Anya. Everything is fine. We’re leaving Italy.”
Cleared for immediate takeoff the Citation proceeded without hesitation to the active runway. Without stopping the pilot turned the plane and advanced the throttles and, with a light load, they leapt off the ground and rocketed into the darkening sky. Anya managed to sit upright, but closed her eyes and pressed her head against the seat as if to shut out everything terrible that happened. What she couldn’t force out of her mind was the leering face of Serge Malroff. When she finally opened them Jean-Robert was kneeling in the aisle in front of her holding a cup full of ice and two miniature bottles of vodka.
He handed them to Anya who poured the liquor into the cup and swallowed it quickly. He handed her more vodka and a thick sandwich from the plane's small galley.
"You may want to eat something before drinking those." She refilled her cup and put in on a table.
“Thank you. Thank you, Jean-Robert. I will never be able to repay you.”
There was something about women from Ukraine that was stunning and Anya was no exception. Her creamy skin and thick blond hair were perfect. In the dim cabin light her pouting lips and feline eyes were very seductive. Jean-Robert found her altogether beautiful and had to take a deep breath.
“There is no debt to repay. Please, have something to eat.”
Anya relaxed and followed his suggestion. The vodka had restored her courage though she wondered how long it would last.
“You’ve had a hell of a day, haven’t you?”
“I cannot begin to tell you.” Her lips trembled and she cursed her weakness.
“Did you leave a lot behind?”
“Everything.” Tears welled up in Anya's eyes once more, but it didn't take long for the vodka's effect to put Anya to sleep.
Jena-Robert covered her with a blanket and sat studying her pretty face in the soft glow of the cabin lights. In ten years he'd never once questioned his orders from CIA, but now he wasn't so sure.