The following morning, Callen called in to Ops to say he had a few personal issues to sort out before meeting with Eric and driving to LAX. In all honesty he had very little to organise in his personal life. His whole life had revolved around being able to move at a moment's notice and even though he had his own house now, nothing had really changed. Callen had to pay an acquaintance a social call first. This time round, Callen decided the direct approach was best, and he turned his Mercedes into the long winding driveway, aware his movements would be tracked all the way to the large ornate front entrance.
"I'm glad you remember how to use front door like civilised person," Arkady himself had answered the door, moving to one side to allow Callen to enter.
"I'm leaving for Russia this afternoon," Callen responded bluntly.
"Good morning Callen," Arkady watched the American agent walk in and gave him a nod, his blue eyes twinkling in anticipation of the usual verbal sparring battle the occurred between the two of them.
"Arkady," Callen halted in the hallway and turned to face the older man.
"Why you go to Russia?"
Callen raised his arm which was now back cradled in the sling he'd removed earlier to enable him to drive. "Hetty gave me leave to find Nikita Reznikov."
"Your father?" Arkady asked.
"Possibly," Callen was still reluctant to verbalise the likelihood that Reznikov was actually his father. Could he really allow himself to believe that after all these years, he finally had his father's name and knew that he was once loved and part of a family?
"And?" Arkady was happy to wait. Callen was dancing round the issue of asking him for something and there was no joy for him in making the situation too easy.
Callen stood staring at Arkady. This was almost worse than a face-off with Hetty. But at least he knew where he stood with her. With Arkady? Well, Callen was pretty sure he was on whatever side suited him at that point in time. In recent years, he and his team had fared well with information from Arkady, but who knew what the future held.
Arkady shook his head with a smile and opened his arms in a friendly and inviting gesture. "Come," he said, leading Callen into the stunning reception room that seemed a cross between a study and an upmarket bar. Arkady walked behind the marble counter and grabbed two shot glasses and a bottle of Vodka. He poured quickly and placed one glass in front of Callen.
"To old comrades," Arkady lifted the shot glass in a toast, observing Callen reaching for his glass with a sigh and a slight shake of his head. Together they downed the spirit and placed the empty glass on the counter.
"Now Callen, you tell me why you are here,"
Callen leaned against the bar. "I need information on where and how I can obtain records on Reznikov."
A smirk pulled across Arkady's lips. "And how do you think I can help with that?"
"Don't play me Arkady. You've already admitted you helped refugees set up new lives in the 70s. And I've seen your records. You didn't even join the KGB until you graduated from Kiev University in 1975. You spent a year training at the 401st KGB School in Leningrad, then worked in the Second Department for counter-intelligence before transferring to the First Department where you monitored foreigners. Oh and by the way, your early career is an exact match for Putin's."
"Well what you want me to say Callen? Many of us followed the same path in KGB." Arkady shrugged his shoulders. "So I knew Putin. What of it?"
Callen ignored the question and ploughed on. "Why would a member of the KGB help refugees set up a new life in America? Were you committing treason?" Callen started to pace slowly round the room, pausing occasionally to read a title from the floor to ceiling bookcases.
"We all do foolish things when we are young," Arkady tracked Callen's every movement.
"Or maybe they were not so foolish. You were involved in counter-intelligence so maybe you were setting up fake refugees as sleeper agents. And maybe you allowed a few genuine families escape but you wouldn't have risked it for long."
Arkady smiled and poured himself another Vodka. "I think you must be on drugs for your bad shoulder. You have good imagination."
Callen walked back to the bar and placed his hand on top of Arkady's, forcing him to spill his shot. "You knew my father, Arkady."
"Callen I have already told you that no-one has-"
"I know exactly what you said. That no-one has ever introduced themselves to you as my father. That's not the same as saying you've never met Reznikov. How about it Arkady? May be in the early 70s?"
Arkady roughly pulled his hand out from Callen's firm grip. Maintaining eye contact he shook the spilt Vodka from his right hand, wiping it on a bar cloth before placing both hands flat on the bar. He knew his next words had the potential to crush whatever trust Callen may have in him.
"I have never met Nikita Reznikov," Arkady's voice was low and steady.
"You're lying," Callen struggled to maintain composure as he mimicked Arkady's tone. He clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowing as his temper began to flare.
"I don't lie to you Callen," Arkady raised his voice slightly. "Schreiber did not know the name of the officer who saved his life. But when I joined KGB we were told stories of officers arrested for treason. I forget the names but I remembered a Rezansov but I might remember wrong. Maybe it was Reznikov..."
Callen relaxed his shoulders slightly as he could find no obvious trace in Arkday's body language that he was lying. "Where can I find the records? KGB forms, personnel records, which labour camp he was sent to? Anything?"
"I do not know, maybe the FSB in Lubyanka Square but many files are still classified or even destroyed. You need to take care old friend or you will be arrested for spying."
"Your concern is touching," Callen said with a hint of sarcasm. "But I'm more than capable of taking care of myself."
Arkady held his hands up to pacify Callen. "I know, I know. But some prison camps have not changed since the day of Stalin and if you get caught, you will be punished."
.. .. .. .. .. .. ..
Callen pulled up outside a tall apartment block, double checking the address on his cell. Not bad, he thought, wondering how much Technical Operators were paid and whether Eric supplemented his income. At one pm precisely, Eric appeared at the entrance wearing a pair of long pants and carrying a large rucksack. He dropped the rucksack at the side of the car and grabbed at his trousers. Callen opened the car door and stood, smiling broadly at Eric's predicament.
"You can't go to Russia wearing surf shorts," Callen said, hauling Eric's bag in to the trunk alongside his own carry-on luggage. "Even if you are a student."
"I know," Eric grumbled. "But it doesn't have to mean that I like it. How cold did you say it would be?"
"Probably around twenty seven degrees," Callen answered. "Give or take."
"Why couldn't you have relatives somewhere hot like California? I wouldn't even have to leave home then."
"Eric, this will be good for you. Expand your horizons, learn about the world first hand rather than from the internet and our cases."
"Now you sound like Hetty,"
"Really?" Callen asked in surprise. He couldn't really see it himself, but the one relevant comparison he could see was that both he and Hetty were well travelled.
"Well, just a little. Y'know apart from surfing trips to Hawaii, I've never been out of America."
"Hawaii is part of America Eric," Callen said, hoping that once Eric's nerves settled, his inane ramblings would cease.
"Ah yeah," Eric pushed his glasses up his nose and look suitably embarrassed. "I'm sorry Callen, just a little scared. Russia, the Cold War, Gulags – all a little scary."
Callen threw Eric his car keys. "You'd better drive," He pointed to his injury. "Hetty will only find out and there is no way I am not going back in the field in a few weeks time. And Eric," Callen paused. "You'll be fine. I won't let anything happen to you."
Eric nodded and grinned. "Good. Otherwise you might have Nell as well as Hetty to answer to."
Callen laughed, "Consider me warned! C'mon, let's get to LAX. The sooner we're in Moscow, the sooner I can get answers and we can come home."
"Cool," Eric opened the car door. "Can I buy gloves and a scarf? I don't actually own any and I think I might need them. And thermals..."
"Just get in and drive. We can pick them up in Russia,"
Eric sat down and adjusted the driver's seat and mirrors. To say he was nervous was an understatement but he had the utmost faith that Callen wouldn't let him down. In fact he was more scared about how cold the weather would be – he lived in Los Angeles for two very good reasons; sun and surf.