Chapter 65 – More Russians in Charleston
An hour and forty-five minutes after departing the Saint Petersburg airport, the standard, short-haul 737 touched down at Charles de Gaulle. A few of the jet setters grumbled about having to sit in a regular airplane, even though there were only twenty-five of them in a plane that normally carries one hundred seventy-five. How first class treatment does tend to twist ones taste and expectations.
Seven hours after departing the Saint Petersburg airport the luxury long-haul 737 touched down at the Charleston airport. The entire team, minus one, was waiting: Roger, the Ps, the Gromstovs, the husband and wife choreographers, The Whosey, the woman, and Gale the mouth. They figured if things were going to go sour, they might as well face the music right then and there. Planning to flee wasn’t in their DNA. Of course, the same could be said for kidnapping, and look what had happened. They’d snatched forty-five people, from a different country. Not even Americans, mind you. So there they were, waiting at the gate for their fate, wondering who would show up first: The cops, the FBI, a private security team sent by the Russian Embassy in Washington, DC, or agents from the Dept of Homeland Security. As they sat waiting, Gale said, “You know, it’s probably not going to be people from Homeland Security. It’s going to be a squad from the Department of State. They’re the ones who handle international incidents like this. Anything with political sensitivity to it, that’s Department of State. They have plenty of security people, you know. Who do you think did all that washboarding stuff? The newspapers said it was CIA, because we expect that shit from them. But really, it was State. That’s how they hide stuff in Washington.” Gale went back to reading the People Magazine she picked up from the news kiosk.
Something about Gale’s diatribe didn’t seem right to Roger. Washboarding? Washboarding? Terrorists, alleged terrorists, get washed? The rest of the team went back to wondering what was going to happen to them if a serious load of magic hadn’t been conjured up during the flight over. The Ps tried to remember what washboarding was, and when they figured out Gale meant waterboarding, they took hold of each other’s hands. Thank you, Gale, for the reassurance. Roger kept looking out the double doors to the airport road pickup dropoff zone, watching as the bus he had hired to transport the dancers to their hotel kept driving around the loop, not being allowed to park next to the terminal. He figured if the FBI showed up after being called by the Russian dancers, they just could commandeer the bus and use it to take the team to the hoosegow.
As the plane touched down, the entire team got up and stood looking out the huge plate glass windows at the runway. Every minute they rotated 180 degrees and looked at the terminal doors, expecting to see a SWAT team. Then back towards the plane, which was approaching the area out on the tarmac designated for US Customs. SWAT team or dancers; SWAT team or dancers. What would they see?
The plane stopped on the tarmac away from the terminal, and still no black clad figures in helmets. They watched a crew wheel a metal staircase up to the plane’s door, and another crew drive a baggage unloading machine up to the side of the plane. International arrivals at Charleston are unusual, and Customs requires those planes to disembark passengers out on the tarmac rather than into a standard covered walkway attached to a terminal gate. They watched as the door of the plane opened and the staircase was hooked at the top. Then there was a flight attendant, looking up at the sky, wondering what the weather would be for her layover. Roger looked over his shoulder, and still no SWAT team.
The first person to appear at the top of the staircase was Catherine Deneuve, the world’s most beautiful woman. She always appeared first, no matter the place or the occasion. The second person to appear was Mikhail Baryshnikov, formerly the world’s greatest male ballet dancer, now third rate actor, and as of two hours ago, resident choreographer for the new ballet company that Henric and Helstof would underwrite and manage for the next three years. Third was Irina Pavlova, who had been instrumental in persuading the other dancers to accept Catherine’s and The B’s proposal, and not call the cops, the FBI, the Russian Embassy in Washington, and the Department of State, as soon as their cell phones functioned upon touchdown in Charleston. After that came the other male and female dancers, all forty-five of them, wondering where the hell Charleston, South Carolina was, and if they could get a cab to Manhattan. Last out of the plane was Gwenny June. She looked up at the terminal windows, saw Roger standing there looking at her, and waved.
The flight attendants were doing a final cleanup, and the pilots had emerged from the cockpit, when they heard a noise at the rear of the plane. There they found a food cart wedged between two opposing lavatories, from one of which came the noise. Inside one of the lavatories was Gergiev, where he had been placed, personally, by Barshynikov and two of the larger and more muscular of the dancers, after being warned not to make any claims about being kidnapped. They told him ballet dancers were a worldwide fraternity of comrades, and if he made any trouble, no matter where he went, he never would escape the threat of retribution from some of its more violent, even homicidal, members.
Roger and the others relaxed as they watched the group walk across the tarmac and into the Customs area. Roger went out to the pickup dropoff zone and signaled to the bus driver that his group had arrived. His team walked down a flight of stairs to the baggage area, the Ps holding hands, knowing they wouldn’t spend the next twenty years in the American version of a gulag. The Whosey, now knowing he wouldn’t be going to jail, went back to meditating on how to get rid of Baryshnikov, his rival for the affections of the woman they both had connected with some thirty-five years earlier, when all three of them were wild, famous, and living on the edge. The prospect of jail had not been entirely unappealing to The Whosey, who figured the solitude would provide ample opportunity for writing new songs, if only they would give him a good guitar. After all, hadn’t jail been beneficial to Bertrand Russell, the philosopher, when he had been incarcerated during World War I for being a pacifist? He wrote one of his most famous books during that year.
The door to the Customs inspection area opened, and Catherine emerged, escorted by the Chief Customs Officer, who, having recognized the world’s most beautiful woman immediately, told his staff not to bother checking any of the passports or luggage, just move them through and into the terminal. For this he got his backup wish, a European double style kiss from Catherine. His primary wish, of course, was an American style smackaroo on the lips, but that was not to be.
Catherine grabbed The B by the hand and waltzed over to Roger, who she hugged with the greatest affection. After looking deeply into Catherine’s beautiful eyes, and his wife’s beautiful face, he asked, “Everything’s ok, isn’t it?”
Catherine said, “Everything’s ok, for you, dear. Henric is going to pay a price, but he can afford it. Right, Gwenny?”