"How come you're not hung over?" Eric said, scrubbing his hands over his face. He was pleased that his glasses hid at least some of the dark circles hanging under his eyes. The shots of vodka that had followed the previous night's dinner had affected him more than he realised, although the wine they'd consumed with the meal had probably contributed to his current precarious state.
"Vodka doesn't affect me much except the first time I drank it," Callen answered, avoiding the fact that he was skilled in not actually drinking the alcohol in front of him, and that over the years, he had actually developed a reasonable tolerance. "I was as sick as a dog."
Eric felt a little better until Callen had added that he was thirteen at the time. The two were back in Eric's room and Callen had laid out the cell phones, earwigs and bug sweepers.
"Do I even want to know where you got these?" Eric asked suspiciously. "Or when?"
"It's safer you don't know but they should do the job, right?" It was Callen's turn to question now as Eric scrutinised the electronic equipment that Callen had procured the previous night.
"Well, the cell phones are a bit dated but the earwigs and bug sweepers are top of the range." Eric switched on one of the detectors and carefully moved about his room, searching for confirmation that his room was not bugged.
"Good. Plan for today is to visit the Russian State Military Archive, see what official records they hold on Nikita Reznikov. Nell said that once ordered, any records we want could take a few days to arrive so tomorrow we go to the State Archive of the Russian Federation and repeat the process."
"You know we might find your father's father in the military records." Eric said optimistically.
"I doubt it; KGB wasn't a father-son career path. Anyway, the KGB has destroyed thousands of files over the years. We'll be lucky to find anything," Callen rationalised, well aware from past experience of how hope could so easily be dashed. If he expected the worst, he wouldn't be too disappointed when the worst happened. Callen grabbed a cell phone and earwig and opened the door. "I'll meet you in the lobby in twenty."
Closing the door, he could hear Eric commenting about paper records and he allowed himself a small smile. The next few days were going to be tedious. To maintain cover they really were going to have to scroll through rolls and rolls of microfiche, order paper copies of documents and make copious handwritten notes.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
Three days later and Callen had gathered a wealth of information on Russian labour camps in the 1970s and 80s but not one iota of data on Reznikov. He had quickly realised that having Eric accompany him all day in the archives was not the best use of the younger man's time, even less so when it came to handwritten notes. Even Callen was struggling to concentrate for such a long and intensive period, let alone having to write continuously when his shoulder was still healing. Instead he managed to befriend one of the female archive assistants and sweet talked her into allowing them to bring in a laptop.
As well as Eric being able to use his laptop, Callen also managed to acquire some extra hardware which allowed Eric to hack into the military archives from his hotel room during the latter part of the afternoons. The only solid information they had was Reznikov's arrest and subsequent sentence to a labour camp in 1974. So using 1974 as a starting point, Eric had worked backwards, studiously and methodically following every tenuous electronic lead he could. Callen, meanwhile paid Katya a visit to see if she had come good on her promise of inside FSB information.
Katya and Callen walked slowly through the grounds of Gorky Park. The weather had warmed slightly and the snow was quickly turning to slush on the broad pathways. Katya's contact at the FSB had come through and mixed in with legitimate documents, she had passed him a USB stick containing floor plans, intimate details of the building's security and locations of records pertaining to KGB traitors.
"Have you managed to find anything from the archives – officially?" Katya asked Callen as they dodged to avoid a gang of children engaging in a snowball fight.
"Well I have enough to write that thesis on labour camps but nothing on Reznikov. A colleague's working another angle but what he finds will depend on what has been transferred electronically. Or if he's still alive, maybe he can find recent records – medical..?" Callen's voice trailed off as he once again realised the futility of his mission. Maybe Hetty really had just sent him away to ensure he didn't unsettle the team and cause a nuisance in Ops.
Katya studied Callen closely and witnessed a slight hint of despair in his eyes before he looked away into the distance. "Do you know this Reznikov?" She asked tentatively.
Callen shook his head. "No."
"But this is personal to you on some level," Katya persisted. She knew how private a person Callen was but something about his story did not stack up.
Callen remained silent and the two walked on together for several minutes before Callen spoke again. "Reznikov is my father – I think."
Katya halted and grabbed Callen's left arm, twisting him around and face her.
"Your father?" She asked in amazement.
"You know I never knew my family, but I've learnt so much over the last five years. A man I knew to be Hans Schreiber had a gun held to his head as he lied and told me his name was Nikita Alexander Reznikov and that he was my father. Reznikov was my father - a KGB Major, arrested in 1974 and sent to a labour camp in Siberia presumably for helping refugees escape from the East – which is how Schreiber knew him." Callen took a deep breath before continuing. "I also know I was born in Romania and remember seeing my mom shot in front of me, again about 1974 and that's all I know. I don't know how my sister and I ended up in America, why we were separated, if my father is alive, if he was imprisoned before my mom was shot or if her death led to him being arrested..." Callen tilted his head to one side and gave a slight shrug to lighten the suddenly intense atmosphere that he had just created. "So it seems I'm part Russian, part American and part Roma. My mom and grandfather were CIA, my father KGB, my grandmother a gypsy. Guess that explains a lot when you think about it."
"Wow," Katya breathed. It seemed that for as many answers her old friend had found there were just as many new questions. She rubbed Callen's arm in support. "That's amazing, well in some ways...I understand your quest but I can't let you break in to the offices of the FSB. It would be suicide, Callen."
"Maybe, maybe not. Look I'm here under an alias with the blessing of my boss but this is not a sanctioned mission. I've got a tech nerd with me who's brilliant at what he does but I can't risk leaving him stranded, so I promise I won't break into the FSB. The data you've given me will be useful for the future."
"Hmm, I know you, your promises and what family means to you. If you do come back to illegally search for your father, do not contact me. I have given you all that I can."
"You've done more than enough Katya. Thank you," Callen kissed her on the cheek and left her standing alone staring after him, as he walked briskly away.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
The day three realisation that their unsanctioned mission was in vain, served no purpose as, for fear of risking their undercover aliases, they had to continue to play the part of college professor and student. A further two days were spent in archive libraries, scanning microfilms and ordering files before Callen finally decided to call it quits, much to Eric's relief. That left a few days to officially sightsee in Moscow before returning to the US. During the evenings however, they reviewed the thumb drive Kayta had given to Callen. Eric studied the security detail, making suggestions to Callen as to the weak points, blind camera angles and potential entry and exit routes.
"You do know I'm not going to break in there tonight, don't you?" Callen reassured Eric.
"Hadn't even crossed my mind," Eric replied with a sly grin.
"I can't risk that at the moment," Callen said to remind himself of the risks as much as to reassure Eric.
"You mean because I'm here?"
"Hetty would skin me alive if I did something to get you in trouble,"
"I didn't think you were scared of Hetty and anyway I think we've already done enough to get ourselves arrested," Eric said.
Callen smiled. "Just don't tell anyone about Hetty," he responded. "And you keep saying you're the best at all this," Callen gestured to the laptops and other equipment they had illegally accumulated for hacking top secret Government websites. "So I have every confidence that you've covered your tracks meaning that you won't get me arrested for your crimes!"
"I have indeed," Eric agreed. "But what I am worried about is what to do with all this."
"Leave that to me, I'll get rid of the equipment, cell phones and gun."
"Cool, but still..." Eric looked a little nervous.
"What?" Callen could tell Eric was not happy and was not going to dance around the issue.
"What about the laptop and thumb drive?" He asked.
"Is there anything incriminating on the laptop, anything that we didn't obtain through official channels?"
"No but..."
"I'll hide the thumb drive and carry the laptop all the way back to LA, if that makes you feel better."
"You'll do that?" Eric was relieved Callen had volunteered. His expertise lay in areas that did not involve lying face to face with Government or army officials, particularly ones as ruthless as the Russians, the CIA or even Homeland Security.
"Of course," Callen said seriously. "Everything will be fine, trust me."
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
Good to his word, the disposal of the illegally acquired electronic equipment and gun was uneventful, as was the return drive to Sheremetyevo airport. The two Americans passed through check in and passport control with ease, settling down with newspapers and the internet until their plane departed for LAX. After a three hour delay, the flight was finally called for boarding. Their seats were in the rear half of the plan – cattle class, as Eric had so affectionately called it – and a crowd of travellers surged forward, waiting for the final passport check before jostling for hand luggage space and their allocated seats. Callen was always uneasy with large groups of people in such close proximity to him. There was no escape route and every opportunity for something unsavoury to occur. He should know; ever since he could remember, he had utilised the cover that crowds provided; for disappearing, pick-pocketing, kidnapping, murder, threats. And once again he suddenly felt a sense of unease, as though he were being watched. That was ridiculous in itself he thought, trying to pull himself out of such irrational paranoia. Of course he was being watched, he was amid hundreds of people eager to ensure the queues moved quickly lest they were the cause of further delays. Instinctively Callen ensured his hand luggage was secure, that no one could access his pockets. He casually glanced around but could see no one suspicious.
Callen remained on a heightened state of alert for the duration of the flight. He was careful not to project his concern or paranoia on to Eric, who was repeating the activities of the outbound flight; gaming and sleeping. Callen himself remained awake throughout the flight, regularly moving from his aisle seat to wander around the plane, hanging around with the smokers who could not smoke at the rear and declining all offers of alcoholic beverages. He stuck to strong coffee accompanied by a daily Russian broadsheet, speaking only when spoken to.
Upon arrival at LAX, Callen breathed a silent sigh of relief. With nothing other than hand luggage, Callen and Eric expected to sale through immigration and passport control. The queues were long and once again Callen's sixth sense kicked in. Before they had even left Los Angeles, Callen had prepped Eric that if they were to be separated or if Callen was detained in any way, that Eric was to make his own way back to America. No rescue attempts were to be made. Of course if the reverse were to happen and if Eric was detained, Callen knew he had to move heaven and earth to retrieve the team's Technical Operator.
The queue moved painfully slowly and Callen found his patience wearing thin. Several times he had turned to glare at the parents of two children who seemed to be intent on knocking their mini suitcases into him at every opportunity. The mother had apologised and half heartedly told the boys off, but to no avail.
"What do you think the hold-up is?" Eric asked Callen, rubbing his shins after one of the children decided to ram their case into him instead of Callen.
"I don't know," Callen replied. "But I do know this is why I don't like kids."
"They're just bored," Eric defended them.
"Maybe..." Callen caught a glimpse of movement to the right of the large passport control room and turned to observe half a dozen LA Airport officers congregate around their captain. Papers, presumably with a photo of a wanted person was distributed to the team and within a minute the officers had fanned out and were discretely checking out every person in the queues to passport desks.
"I don't like the look of this," Callen muttered to Eric, who looked round to see what Callen meant.
"Maybe they spotted someone from the no-fly list?" Eric said nervously.
"I think this started back in Russia. I think someone was watching me."
"Do you think your cover's blown?"
"If it is, it will be easier to explain my classified status here than in Moscow. You'd better focus on getting back to Ops in case anything does happen," Callen had lowered his voice and started to distance himself slightly from Eric. Anyone viewing the security cameras would have identified that he and Eric were travelling together. Callen could only hope that his gut feeling was correct and that it was he who was under surveillance, not Eric.
The queue was still shuffling forward and the two men were in touching distance of safety, with Eric next in line. If anything was going to happen to Eric, it would be now.
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