FChapter Seven

"Yevgeniy Dzhamgerchinov, age seventy-two. He retired eight years ago from the Soviet Army with the rank of Ordinary Praporshchik," Marella stumbled over the unfamiliar word and shot a glance at her boss.

"A Master non-commissioned officer," Briggs clarified, leaning back in his chair, apparently calm and detached but his finger tapping against the head of his cane belied that calm. "Similar to a Master Sergeant in the U.S. Army."

Reading from the folder in her hands, Marella walked carefully towards Briggs's desk, stopped when she reached the corner and leaned back against it. "Born 1914 in Vyborg, which is about two hours from Leningrad. Married in 1936. His wife's name was Anfisa. One daughter, Evgeniya, born 1938."

She looked up. "His wife died in 1944, his daughter died in 1979. He never remarried and has no other children."

"What about his son?" Santini protested

Marella shrugged. "There is no record of a Vasily Dzhamgerchinov or any other male child, born to a Yevgeniy and Anfisa Dzhamgerchinov."

"Maybe the records were lost during the war," Santini argued, unwilling to yield, one father defending another.

"Or maybe his son isn't named Dzhamgerchinov," Hawke suggested. Zhenya had been a young man when his wife died. Perhaps he hadn't remarried, but had found companionship and fathered a son. Or maybe any records of a second marriage had been lost during the war.

"Or there is no son, or the man's name isn't Yevgeniy Dzhamgerchinov," Marella countered. "INS records show two individuals with that name or anything approximating that name entering the United States in the last ten years. One was a fourteen year old chess player here for a tournament in 1977; he stayed for two months and returned to the Soviet Union. The other one was an immigrant; he died three years ago in Brooklyn, New York." She gave Santini a look of sympathy. "We have no records of your Yevgeniy Dzhamgerchinov entering the country."

"Great," Santini said, his voice ascribing an opposite meaning to the word. "So either he isn't who he says he is or he is, but you don't think he ever had a son, and he entered the country illegally. All that to set up an appointment with you? For what reason?"

Briggs leaned forward, his expression not unsympathetic. "Your Yevgeniy is lying, one way or another. Let's not attempt to ascribe motivation for his lies until we know what the lies are."

"Occam's Razor," Hawke said.

Santini scowled at Briggs and at Hawke. "So you called us down here," he waved an arm encompassing Briggs's spacious office, "to tell us. Now what?"

Good question, thought Hawke, leaning back against one of the leather couches. An early morning invite from Archangel was generally less a request than a demand, but carried the benefits of excellent coffee, bagels flown in from New York, and fresh seasonal fruit, a far better meal than any of them would eat at Santini Air. He didn't think Briggs had requested their presence at his office to feed them though.

"He requested a meeting," Briggs said. "I admit to sufficient curiosity and concern about his involvement with Santini Air to grant his request. I dispatched a team to find the man and bring him here."

Hawke scowled. "He requested a meeting, Michael, not the goon squad."

Briggs smiled a little. "I did request a subtle approach. Contrary to some opinions," a sidelong glance towards Santini, "I have no desire to intimidate the elderly," his smile broadened as Santini fumed, "even those who were members of the Soviet Army."

"And you want us here for this meeting?" Hawke asked.

"No," Briggs answered quickly. "I simply wanted you to be aware of the situation."

"And you couldn't have told us by phone?" Santini fumed.

Briggs crooked an eyebrow. "If I'd told you by phone and Mr. Dzhamgerchinov was in the vicinity, what would you have done?"

Way to set off Dominic, Hawke groused mentally, as Santini's voice rose and the room rang with words a sailor might hesitate to say. Archangel did have a point and knew Santini well enough to predict that Dominic would feel torn, would want to approach Zhenya himself, would try to resolve the problem. For taking Santini out of the equation, and possibly out of danger, Hawke was grateful and he sent Briggs a smile and a shrug.

"Dominic," Briggs said calmly, after Santini had questioned Briggs's parentage, his ethics or lack of, and a few allegations that bordered on the improbable. "There are ladies present."

That gentle reminder stopped Santini in his tracks, literally. He'd been pacing Briggs's office as he impugned the man. With a red flush suffusing his face, he turned to Marella, who looked amused, and to Caitlin, who looked amazed.

"I'm sorry, ladies. Those words weren't meant for your ears."

"I've heard worse," Marella assured Santini, with a mischievous glance at her boss, who grinned and ducked his head.

"I'm not sure I even knew what half of them were," Caitlin said, her eyes wide and startled. She held up a hand. "But don't anyone feel you need to explain them."

Santini set his jaw and turned back to Briggs. "I want to stay."

"I don't recall inviting you," Briggs rejoined, his voice superficially pleasant in a way that made Hawke's skin crawl.

"I won't have you bullying him," Santini insisted.

"Dominic," Hawke warned, not liking the look in Briggs's eye or the way Marella was standing at alert, watching her boss for further instructions. Hawke stood, ready to intervene, ready to tug Santini out of Knightbridge.

"Go home, Dominic," Briggs said politely, his gaze level. It wasn't a request.

"C'mon," Hawke said to Santini. "We might just confuse the man if we're here when he arrives."

He saw Briggs nod, could feel in Santini's shift of muscles that he was getting through. Caitlin grabbed her jacket and headed for the door.

The intercom buzzer on Briggs's desk sounded and Briggs frowned, reached for the phone and listened with a carefully neutral expression. Replacing the receiver, he eyed Santini and Hawke for a second, tapping one finger rapidly against his desk.

"You sit there," he instructed, looking towards the couches away from his desk, "and you say nothing."

Damn it, Hawke thought. Zhenya must already be here. Would it be worse to walk out of Briggs's office and pass Zhenya as they left or have him see them already in Briggs's office. And why didn't Michael just have Zhenya moved until they left the vicinity?

Santini, given a reprieve, was already heading for the couches. Hawke shot Briggs a look of pure exasperation; there was no force on earth that could silence Dominic Santini when he wanted to speak.

"This should be interesting," Caitlin said in a low voice as she walked past Hawke, giving him a gentle tug on the arm in the direction Santini had already gone.

Briggs leaned forward and picked up the receiver again. "Show him in," he said, voice neutral. Marella dimmed the lights in the seating area, leaving Hawke and his companions in shadows, and then walked until she stood just to the side behind her boss.

Show of force, Hawke thought as he sat; intimidation tactics. He bet himself that Briggs wouldn't rise to greet his visitor.

The door opened and Zhenya entered. Hawke noticed the difference immediately; the shy diffidence was missing. This version of Yevgeniy Dzhamgerchinov appeared more confident, held his head straighter and walked with the stride of a soldier.

Zhenya's eyes were fixed on Briggs and he stopped a few feet from Briggs's desk.

"Yevgeniy Nikolayevich Dzhamgerchinov," he announced in a voice both formal and challenging. Standing just as rigidly as he had when offering Hawke his "Russian Handshake," Zhenya inclined his head and torso stiffly in Briggs's direction.

To Hawke's surprise, Briggs stood, adapting the same rigid formality as his guest.

"I am Archangel," he said, inclining his head towards the Russian. "Ochin preeyatna."

"Ochin preeyatna," replied Zhenya, with a look of satisfaction.

"Pozhaluista," Briggs said, gesturing with his hand towards the chairs in front of his desk.

"Spasiba," Zhenya replied, taking a seat.

"Pozhaluista," Briggs said again, resuming his own seat. "We'll do this in English."

Hawke watched, interested despite his reservations. It wasn't often he had the opportunity to watch Archangel in the man's true environment. All too often, Hawke himself was in the middle of things and not in a position to be objective.

Hawke noticed that Briggs kept his hands visible on the arms of his chair. Zhenya did the same. Nothing hidden, no weapons, each announced.

"You might pass as Russian," Zhenya said with a smile and a shrug.

Briggs smiled back, a formal, humorless smile acknowledging what sounded like a grudging compliment, but didn't answer. His smile was answer enough and Zhenya nodded.

"You have been difficult to contact."

Briggs raised an eyebrow, but did not otherwise reply.

"I have information that may be of some interest to you, Mikhail Mikhailevich," Zhenya said, politely as if it mattered not to him whether Briggs wanted the information or not.

Hawke's heart started beating a little faster but Briggs didn't seem at all surprised by Zhenya's form of address, nor that the Russian knew his real name.

"Your father," Zhenya said, with a steady gaze on Briggs to gauge interest, "quiescat in pace, was an acquaintance."

Hawke's gaze moved rapidly between Briggs, Marella and Zhenya. Either Briggs had the best poker face he'd ever seem – entirely possible – or Zhenya was not telling Briggs anything he hadn't heard before. Marella appeared equally unmoved.

"My father has been dead for thirty years," Briggs said. "Your information is quite belated and of questionable value."

"You were a schoolboy then, were you not? You are now in a position to act."

"You cannot be under the impression that you are the first to approach me," Briggs said calmly, with an expression that verged on boredom.

"You are aware that he is not buried in that casket in Virginia?"

"Car bombs leave little to bury, whether they are composed of TNT or plastique," Briggs replied, his smile strained.

Hawke revised his original assessment; apparently there was a force on earth that could keep Dominic close-mouthed: consuming curiosity combined with unexpected access into Briggs's family history and an indication that that Briggs had emulated his father in more than just name.

Zhenya nodded. "Is that how they told you he died?" he inquired politely, with just a small hint of pity.

Briggs shook his head and sighed. "Yevgeniy Nikolayevich, you come to me with thirty-year old news and then you insult me. Do you think I do not have access to my father's records, all of them?"

Zhenya nodded again, let an eyebrow rise as if challenging Briggs's information.

"I know he was dead when he was put into the car," Briggs said, the only emotion audible in his voice was a slight contempt for a messenger thirty years late.

Hawke sensed Dominic shifting next to him on the couch, emotions stirred by the story emerging. Hawke suppressed the urge to hush Dominic, unwilling to make any sound that might break the tableau on the other side of the room even if

"And do you know who killed him?" Zhenya asked, somewhat more confidently.

Briggs smiled coldly and Hawke felt the chill across the room. "And you, Yevgeniy Nikolayevich, how is it that you know who killed my father? An Ordinary Praporshchik?"

Hawke heard the mocking doubt in Briggs's voice. Whatever Archangel knew, or suspected, about Zhenya's true position, he hadn't shared it earlier.

"So very often, an ordinary praporshchik goes unnoticed until he is needed." Zhenya tilted his head. "Would you like to me to provide you with the name of your father's murderer, Mikhail Mikhailevich?"

"What makes you think I don't already know their names?"

The twitch in Zhenya's face was small and happened so quickly that Hawke almost missed it, but he was confident Briggs had seen it, had known to look for it. Plural, he thought: Briggs knows it was more than one person and Zhenya didn't know he knew that.

"Because they are still alive," Zhenya said, shoulders hunched, yielding that point to Briggs.

"Perhaps I don't follow the Code of Hammurabi. You have come a long way, Ded, to tell me what I already know."

Liar, thought Hawke; liar to both. With the exception of himself, he knew no one quicker to extract reparations than Briggs. And if Archangel really knew who'd killed his father, Hawke doubted he would have let the matter lie; he would have gone after them personally.

Zhenya shifted in his chair, adopting a more comfortable position. "Then shall we talk, Mikhail Mikhailevich, as a father without a son to a son without a father?"

Briggs leaned back in his chair, a graceful wave of his hand motioning Zhenya to continue. "Pozhaluista."

Marella shifted her position behind Briggs. Zhenya nodded to her, without introducing himself. Hawke decided that he'd grouped her with Archangel, not as a separate young lady he might charm with a bow.

"You have no children?" Zhenya asked finally after a minute of silence. He waited a moment, but the question was obviously rhetorical. "Children are a comfort to a man in his old age."

"I imagine that depends upon the children in question," Briggs said dryly.

Zhenya inclined his head, as if to say, 'All too true.'

"I had a son, at a time when I'd thought all that behind me," Zhenya said slowly. "He was unexpected but very welcome."

Hawke was surprised by Briggs's continued equanimity. With the Airwolf team and with his own staff, Briggs was demanding, impatient, bottom line oriented. Situational patience, thought Hawke. With us, he doesn't have to wait and he knows he doesn't have to wait.

Zhenya took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. "And like your father, he died under somewhat mysterious circumstances."

"I am sorry for your loss."

"And I, for yours," Zhenya replied. "I had thought to offer information about your father's death in exchange for information about my son's."

Briggs pushed his glasses back into position. "I am not an unsympathetic man, Yevgeniy Nikolayevich," he said, cautiously. "I may yet be able to provide you that information."

Zhenya nodded slightly, his gaze slightly distant. "You knew my son?"

"Not personally," Briggs said.

Hawke's eyes narrowed as he parsed the various meanings of Archangel's response, put a hand on Santini's arm to hold back an outburst. If Briggs knew that he didn't know Zhenya's son personally, then he knew who Zhenya's son was, which he hadn't shared with the Airwolf team. Unless he was hedging. Damn, Briggs was hedging, unwilling to admit he didn't even know of Zhenya's son, that his people had been unable to verify the existence of a Vasily Dzhamgerchinov.

"I imagine not," Zhenya mused. "You have not been a field agent for some time."

Damn, damn, damn, thought Hawke, as he realized that the 'something bad' Zhenya's son had been mixed up in was all too familiar. He looked at Briggs to see if he'd caught it. Briggs's gaze was cool; which could be either annoyance at the reminder that he was deskbound – a perpetual irritant despite his level of authority – or assessment of the additional fact given them.

"It is better, perhaps, that we never met." Briggs suggested, his voice gentling. "How did they tell you he died?"

Zhenya's face darkened. "They were generous with aphorisms, sparing with detail. He was shot. It was verified that he was dead. That was all that was said."

"They did not recover his body," Briggs said, not a question.

"Nyet." Zhenya folded his arms.

Briggs leaned back, turned his head in Marella's direction and she immediately walked to the door of the office, exited for a moment and returned, escorting a young woman who carried a large silver coffee service to Briggs's desk. The young woman placed the silver tray and service on the desk and stepped back, exiting as quickly and quietly as she entered.

"You did not bring home a samovar as a memento of your time in my country?" Zhenya asked, his smile a tease, or perhaps gratitude for a change in focus.

Briggs returned the smile easily. "I assure you, the only mementos that I brought out of your country were an entirely different metal altogether." He looked at Marella. "Would you pour?"

And now for the charm and good will part of our agenda, though Hawke, already tiring of the verbal fencing. He had to hand it to Briggs; the timing was exquisite. The coffee had appeared at the moment it seemed the two men had apparently reached an impasse. Briggs had refused to take the bait about his father and was unwilling to admit he knew nothing of Zhenya's son; Zhenya had so far withheld any useful information about his son. The tactic of giving away nothing had led them precisely nowhere. If this were a football game, the serving of coffee would be half-time, a time to regroup and adjust strategy.

As Marella poured the steaming coffee into small china cups, Zhenya leaned forward to admire the coffee service, lifting up the sugar bowl as if examining it for hallmarks.

"This is a very old set," he said, admiringly. "Very beautiful."

"Thank you," Briggs said. "It's a family item, my father's side." He reached for the cup Marella handed him, and sat back in his chair, hands wrapped around the fragile cup as if he were cold.

Zhenya sipped at his coffee tentatively and then added more sugar.

"You do not resemble your father."

"No," Briggs agreed, with equanimity.

"Your father had dark hair," Zhenya added. "Blue eyes, as you do, but dark hair."

"Yes, I know," Briggs said, dryly. "You have an excellent and very specific memory. How it is again that you were acquainted with my father?"

Zhenya blinked away what Hawke would have sworn was a calculating expression.

"I was stationed in German Democratic Republic for several tours following the war. Your father was also assigned there, I believe." His voice rose on the last word, as if a question, but not really a question. "Not officially, of course."

"Of course not," Briggs replied. "My father was an economic advisor with the Marshall Plan, helping to rebuild Europe and bring unprecedented growth and prosperity to all."

"Ah, yes. The systematic imposition of American values and managerial techniques upon a devastated continent."

Both men smiled and shrugged at the ridiculousness of maintaining cover stories and party lines more than thirty years after the fact.

"Were you there when he was arrested?" Briggs asked casually, as if the question were mere social banter.

Zhenya's immediate and momentary downward glance was probably an affirmative, Hawke thought, though he couldn't read a reaction in Briggs's face.

"Yes, I was stationed there during that time," Zhenya answered. "It was near the end of my tour; I returned home in June 1956."

Hawke was ready to shake the two of them. This verbal pas de deux with each item of information slowly and painfully extracted was as excruciating as it was compelling.

"You must have been relieved to return home," Briggs said, amiably. "There weren't many able to endure Podpolkovnik Tchesnov's methods of conducting business."

From the shrewd flash in Briggs's eye, he'd baited the hook. Zhenya's expression was absolutely still, prey suddenly aware of the predator.

"So I have heard," Zhenya answered carefully. "Fortunately, I was assigned to a Transport Unit and had no interaction with the Podpolkovnik."

Briggs watched him without expression or reply.

"I imagine that you already know Tchesnov is dead," Zhenya ventured

Briggs gave a shark-like smile. "He died of syphilis, which is somehow fitting." His smile faded. "Tchesnov may have given the orders, but he didn't execute them, so to speak. He had assistance."

Zhenya shuddered and Hawke remembered that they were dealing with an elderly man, war veteran or not. He should have been someone's grandfather rather than on pilgrimage to a foreign intelligence agency to learn how and why his son had died.

"And yet, you have not, as you said, followed the Code of Hammurabi. What is it that you are waiting for, Mikhail Mikhailevich?"

Briggs rubbed his upper lip, smiled at something he kept to himself, and looked at Zhenya over the top of his glasses.

"Sometimes," he said slowly, "very infrequently, mind you, equilibrium is restored without any conscious effort exerted whatsoever."

Hawke thoroughly hated Archangel's enigmatic moments; Briggs's delight in the English language was only surpassed by his glee in using it to obfuscate.

Zhenya looked skeptical. "I cannot imagine in your business that such sentiment is the norm."

Briggs nodded agreement. "It is often easier to act than to wait for a situation to unfold." He leaned forward and placed his coffee cup on his desk. "Tell me about your son."

Zhenya drew back, surprised. "Young, foolish, patriotic, strong-willed. Were you any different when you started your career?"

"Some would say only my age has changed."

Hawke almost smiled; he admired Marella's ability to maintain a wholly neutral expression in the face of such temptation.

"It must be very difficult for a father to see his son choose this life," Briggs said with a sympathetic sigh.

Don't overcast with this fish, Hawke thought.

Zhenya was wary; he gazed steadily at Briggs under lowered brows. "We never spoke of his work," he said, guardedly.

"Of course, he could not talk of his assignments with you," Briggs said, "Not even if he wanted to do so, for which you should be grateful. You think your imagination must be worse than reality, but it isn't."

"Why are you telling me this?" Zhenya growled, his expression an odd combination of puzzlement and hurt.

"You wanted to know about your son's death," Briggs answered, not unkindly. "I am telling you about his life. The two are inseparable."

"I know how Kolya lived and how he died. I want to know why he died," Zhenya said, frustration twisting his features into something bordering on anger.

"Izvineetye, Yevgeniy Nikolayevich. That was insensitive of me."

Kolya, thought Hawke; was that some kind of nickname for Vasily? Maybe Zhenya's son was never named Vasily at all. It had taken Briggs more time that Hawke had expected but the man had finally ferreted out a name.

"We were talking of your son," Briggs prompted. "Young, foolish, patriotic, strong-willed?"

"You said that you would tell me why he died?" Zhenya asked, suspicion clouding his face.

"I can help you learn that, yes," Briggs said.

Zhenya's expression changed, suspicion giving way to enlightenment. "You do not know why he died, do you?"

"He got in the way of an exchange, found out something that we could not have him know, would not come quietly. Much like my father, I imagine." Briggs leaned his head back against his chair, quietly evaluating the other man.

Hawke, unsettled, could not decide if Briggs was telling the actual truth or offering a probable cause of death. And if he, who knew Briggs, could not tell the difference, he imagined Zhenya was confronted with an even greater irresolution.

The old man took a deep breath, clenched his fists and regained his composure. "An exchange then, as I first proposed. The name of my son's killer for the name of your father's."

"Nyet." Briggs's smile was full of regret.

Zhenya's eyes narrowed and his face flushed. "You choose to let your father's killers walk free, so be it. I cannot allow my son to die un-avenged."

Briggs shook his head. "Tchesnov's tactics were known. The car bomb was truly unnecessary, you know. It fooled no one."

Hawke blinked, not entirely sure if he understood Archangel's meaning, hoping that he had not interpreted it correctly. He heard Caitlin catch her breath.

Zhenya's face was bright red. The older man's body shook; the tremble could have been rage or something else entirely as he climbed to his feet.

"Give me a name," he ground out between clenched teeth. "Or I will take my revenge regardless."

Briggs stood slowly and shook his head. "I've given you all the information you'll get, Yevgeniy Nikolayevich. Go home."

Briggs might have ignored the implied threat but Hawke saw Marella reach behind her; he knew she would have a weapon concealed either on her person or near the window, behind Briggs, within reach.

Santini tugged at Hawke's arm, giving him a questioning look. Hawke shook his head, shot a look at Briggs and then back to Santini, hopefully communicating that they were still following Briggs's lead. Santini's immediate scowl told him that the message had been received loud and clear.

He wondered if Zhenya was really unaware that they were sitting not thirty feet from him. They were shadowed, and Zhenya was seventy-two; perhaps his peripheral vision was impaired. Or maybe he was just following Archangel's lead, as Briggs had been studiously ignoring them.

It hardly mattered though as both men's eyes were fixed on each other in a contest of wills. Unequal, Hawke thought. Zhenya may have had honest grief and two eyes against Briggs's one, but Briggs had an unbending will and the home advantage, plus almost thirty years on the older man.

Zhenya swayed, one arm reaching back for the chair, grabbing it and sitting without grace as he collapsed into the armchair.

Briggs retook his own seat. "It may be difficult for you to return home, you know. This building is watched."

Zhenya nodded. His eyes were distant and his face was filled an empty look of sorrow. "You arranged for me to be brought here by force," he reminded Briggs, his voice numb.

"Yes, that will work in your favor." Briggs leaned down, tapped the intercom button on his desk phone. "I won't bother asking how you got into the country. I will, however, arrange for your return."

"What if he doesn't want to go back?" Santini cried, his voice held still too long.

Hawke sighed and shook his head; shot Briggs a shrug. What could he do? The look Briggs returned held equal measures irritation and exhaustion. Perhaps Archangel was not as unmoved as he appeared.

A smile reappeared on Zhenya's face, one as tired as the look Briggs had just given Hawke.

"That is my home, Dominic Antonovich. It is where my wife and my children are buried," he said, voice tinged with bitterness.

Antigone, Hawke thought. The man just wanted to bury his son properly. Lacking a body, he'd needed a reason for the son's death. Archangel wouldn't allow Zhenya to take his revenge, but perhaps knowing the reason for his son's death would be enough.

Zhenya stood, somewhat unsteadily, to take Santini's outstretched hand as the door opened and two men entered, both attired in off-white suits.

Archangel's goons, Hawke thought, watching the two new entrants look first to Briggs for confirmation and then to the two white-haired men exchanging goodbyes.

"I am grateful for the experience of flying in your helicopter," Zhenya said, voice warming as he wrapped both hands around Santini's one. "Udachi i khoroshego nastroeniya!" He smiled. "Good luck and keep well."

Hawke thought Briggs might have a stroke right there and then at his desk. The man's one eye was large and accusing as Hawke took pity and shook his head abruptly. "The Jet Ranger," he mouthed, watching in amusement at the relief that washed over Briggs.

Zhenya shook Santini's hand, and then turned to Hawke.

"I do hope that your search for your brother ends more successfully than mine for my son, Mr. Hawke."

Hawke gave Santini a look expressing his annoyance before returning his gaze to Zhenya. "Yeah. Me, too."

"Miss Caitlin," Zhenya said, repeating his bow. Caitlin's smile was sad, no sign of the giggling twelve-year old that the bow had previously elicited.

Zhenya nodded to the two silent guards and turned back to Briggs.

"Mikhail Mikhailevich," he said."Do novyh vstrech."

"Not in this lifetime," Briggs replied curtly.

Zhenya shrugged and turned to leave.

"Dos va-danya," Santini called after him, shoulders drooping, face dejected.

"Do svidanja," Zhenya replied, and then walked through the door without looking back.