This began as another one-shot to clear up another Callen backstory, but it's morphed into something more complex, so this is just the beginning. I'm not actually sure where it's going-although I have an idea-so I hope you will bear with me as this continues. As always, these characters are not mine; they belong to Shane Brennan and CBS, and many thanks to them for allowing writers like me to use them for new (in this case, old) stories. Reviews/comments are always welcome and appreciated!
DESPERATE JOURNEY
Arkady entered Koffee Klatch, picked up the espresso he'd ordered online, and walked to the back where Callen waited. Arkady smiled, "This is one of my favorite coffee places in the city."
"I know," Callen said and then took a sip while Arkady sat down. Arkady took a sip, his face reflecting enjoyment for a fine espresso, and then waited for Callen to continue.
"You asked me to come, Callen, and here I am," he said, obviously at ease and waiting for the agent he had known many years to continue. Callen said nothing for a moment and Arkady tilted his head with a quizzical expression. "You want to ask me something, I think."
"I do."
"Okay, then. Ask away. I have no secrets from you, old friend," Arkady said with a wink. Callen shook his head, a smirk on his mouth, and took another sip. Arkady feigned distress, "I am hurt that you would think that I would not be completely honest with you after we have been through so much together, and," and Arkady smiled broadly, "since you and my darling daughter, Anna, are—what do they say in America?—a couple."
Callen rolled his eyes, "I appreciate that you approve of my relationship with Anna—although it would make no difference if you didn't—but this has nothing to do with her. I need some information about a personal matter, and I think you can help."
"I am a wealth of information, Callen, and whatever I know, I will tell you."
"It's about your work with my father."
"Oh," Arkady sighed and fingered his espresso cup. He looked directly at Callen, "You know everything I know already, Callen. Your father knew things about his work that I am sure he told you before -." Arkady dropped his eyes and studied the table. The silence lengthened until Callen broke it.
"He told me some things but not everything."
"Then what can I help you with?"
"What do you remember about the people who arrived in 1975?"
"That was a long time ago, Callen," Arkaday said and paused. Callen waited, so Arkady continued, "We did not keep records."
"I didn't think you did. What do you remember about the people who came that year, the families that came?"
Arkady hesitated and then understood. "You want to know if you and your sister came over that year with a refugee family that I helped relocate here in the United States."
Callen stood up and went to get a refill. Arkady was still waiting when Callen came back and sat down. Callen took a sip before he spoke. "My father told me a lot about my life—our life—before my mother was killed, but he didn't tell me much about his life and work. And he didn't tell me much about the time immediately after my mother's death." He took another sip and then paused. They both reflected on what Nikita might have told his son had he not been sent back to Russia.
Finally, Arkady spoke, and his voice was that of a friend, "Like I said, Callen, it was a long time ago.".
"I know," was all Callen said and watched his old friend. Arkady was clearly doing his best to mentally review those who had escaped and been resettled that year. "More espresso?" Callen asked.
Arkady smiled and held up his cup, "Please." Callen went to get it while Arkady took out a pen and began writing names on a paper napkin. When Callen returned, Arkady had over twenty names written down, and all the names had been lined out except one. It was one Callen already knew.
"Hans Schreiber?"
Arkady nodded.
"He came over with his family, didn't he?"
"With his wife."
"And they had children?"
Arkady took a sip of espresso. "You know, Callen, talking with you brings up a lot of old memories, some of them not very pleasant and some of them better forgotten."
Callen persisted. "Did they have children?"
"Once the refugees arrived, we didn't keep in contact with them—for obvious reasons—but we did do our best to keep track of them just to be sure that our operation hadn't been compromised. As far as we knew, all the refugees lived fairly ordinary lives without any problems." Arkady studied his espresso. "If they ever found themselves in trouble due to their 'immigration status,' there were ways for them to reach us, but we never had any of the refugees contact us through those channels except one." Arkady took a sip.
"Hans Schreiber? Why did he contact you?"
"There was something that happened, I think it was late spring or early summer, of 1975. But it was his wife who contacted us."
"About their children?"
Arkady's cup was empty. "No, they had no children when they came over. They had children later."
"So, why did she contact you?"
Arkady said quietly, "It may be nothing, Callen."
"You're right. It may be nothing," Callen agreed and waited.
Clearing his throat, Arkady continued, "In May or June of 1975, Hans was involved in an automobile accident, a serious automobile accident."
"How serious?"
"He was in the hospital for more than a month."
"In L.A., automobile accidents happen every day."
"His wife said he had been on his way to the airport. To pick up a package." Arkady said this as though the significance had suddenly become clearer to him after more than 40 years.
"A package?"
"A package." There was a significant pause. "The only 'packages' that ever came through the airport, Callen, were refugees."
Callen held his face emotionless while he considered what this might mean. When he spoke, his voice was calm, "And he wasn't picking up anyone you'd sent?"
"No. We never arranged for refugees to meet one another, and we would never have sent a refugee to pick up another refugee at the airport."
"But, maybe," Callen continued quietly, "he was picking up a package my father had sent."
"I do not know," Arkady looked at Callen with the understanding of one who'd also spent his life living behind lies, sacrificing whatever his life might have been for what it had become. "Like I said, Callen, it was a long time ago."
The silence hung between them until Callen brushed it aside. "And you never found out what the 'package' was?"
Arkady sounded slightly defensive when he answered, "It was several days before I even knew that Hans was in the hospital. His wife finally got in touch with me and told me where he was. I went to see him a few days later, but he was still unconscious. It was then that she told me that Hans had been on his way to the airport to pick up a package." He stopped. Everything began to come back with clarity. "I went to the airport, but there was no package, and there was no record of any package having been sent to Hans." He shrugged as he continued, "I never heard from Hans again, so I assumed that the package must have been something personal and let it go. I may have been wrong."
"You may have been, but you could just as easily have been right, Arkady. If you were wrong, there's no way you could have known. Like you said, it was a long time ago."
"It was, old friend. And sometimes it is best to leave the past where it belongs—in the past," Arkady said with the resolve of one who has tried many times to leave the past behind. He stood up. "Anna is making a special dinner for my birthday. You will be there?"
"Of course," Callen said and Arkady smiled.
"Good!" he said as he picked up his espresso cup. "Next time we talk, let us talk about something in the present," Arkady said, an obvious hint that he wanted to know more about his daughter's romantic relationship.
"If Anna wants to tell you something, she will."
Arkady whined, "She will not tell me anything even when I ask." Callen just chuckled quietly and shrugged his shoulders and then Arkady smiled. "She is, without a doubt, my daughter." With that, he said goodbye to Callen and, placing his espresso cup on the counter, left for home.
Callen watched Arkady leave but stayed, thinking about Hans Schreiber. What happened in 1975 may have had nothing to do with him and his sister, but there was only one way to know for sure.
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