"Could you come this way please sir," Callen felt his arm being firmly grabbed and sensed he was also being flanked to his left.
Turning round he saw the uniformed officers of Los Angeles International Airport Police. Both officers had their hands rested on their weapons, making it clear that he was to offer no resistance. Callen glanced back towards Eric, who had successfully made his way through passport control and had turned to observe the scene behind him. Callen nodded his head imperceptibly in Eric's direction and turned his attention back to the LA airport police.
"Of course," Callen acquiesced, adding, "please mind my right arm, I recently dislocated my shoulder."
The grip on his arm lessened slightly but remained present. Callen was led to a brightly sterile looking interview room and invited to sit at the left side of the table. His hand luggage remained with him. The two officers sat opposite, placing a file in front of them. The man to Callen's left opened it and spread out a few documents and photographs.
"I am Officer Peters," the man introduced himself and pointed to his female colleague. "This is Officer Trovelley. Please confirm your identity."
"Professor Greg Williams," Callen responded without hesitation. "I'm with the Department of History at UCLA. Wh wh what is this about?" Callen stuttered slightly as he asked the burning question any innocent lecturer would.
"A bit young to be a professor aren't you?" Officer Trovelley asked, her voice emotionless.
Callen thought quickly. Trovelley was about his age, with brown hair scraped back in to a bun that brought out the harshness of her face. Grey hairs were showing slightly at the sides and the colour of her hair at her side parting showed her hair was overdue a colouring. She would not be easy to crack no matter how charismatic Callen decided to be. Trovelley was past her prime, overlooked for promotion, keen to defy the aging process – and apparently rather unsuccessful at it. Knowing Hetty would have him out of there in no more than twenty four hours – and that was only if she was pissed at him – Callen decided Trovelley was deserving of his smart ass and annoying comments.
"I've always looked younger than my age," Callen said with a supercilious smirk. He observed Trovelley's top lip curl slightly and took perverse pleasure in this. Adding fuel to the already smouldering fire, he added. "And I managed to attain my PhD at a young age. You could say that I've been blessed. Now please, why am I here?"
Trovelley and Peters looked at each other.
"You have just arrived from Russia – Moscow." Peters stated. He waited, expecting a reply from Callen, who did not disappoint.
"That is not an answer to my question, officer. You know who I am and where I've been. Why am I here?"
Peters fiddled with the edge of the papers that lay in front of him. He looked a little unsure Callen thought, and wondered how he could use that to his advantage.
"Do you have something there I can assist you with?" Callen asked Peters.
Trovelley looked between Callen and Peters and shook her head. She had misgivings about being paired with Peters. He was green. Literally. He had recently graduated from the Police Academy and rather than gain invaluable experience on the streets of Los Angeles, he had successfully applied for LA's Airport Police.
"What was the purpose of your visit to Moscow, Mr Williams?" Trovelley asked, emphasising the 'Mr' to deliberately rile the smug man that she already wanted to slap across the face.
"Professor Williams," Callen corrected. "Or you could call me Greg, I really don't mind. I'm writing a research paper on Russian corrective labour camps, specifically the declining years from 1970 to 1991. This trip was an initial recon mission, if you like, to obtain some basic information." Callen smiled at his choice of words. "I plan to return in a few months to understand the complexities of the Soviet Union, KGB, and the political climate and explore examples of specific individuals who suffered in the camps."
"You mean the Gulags?" Peters questioned, already confused as to why Callen had not referred to them as such.
"The Gulag was the name of the oppressive administration that governed the camps. It is only us Westerners who appropriated that phrase – made fashionable no doubt by popular culture. You know, movies, TV." Callen added, just in case Peters was unsure of the definition of popular culture.
"Hummp," was the only sound Trovelley could make, disliking their interviewee's condescending attitude.
Peters looked quickly at Trovelley and turned one of the documents round so it was the right way for Callen to read. He had already managed to read ninety percent of it upside down but now he took his time, reading every single word; another annoying delay tactic. A several minutes later Callen leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.
"You think I'm a spy?" His mouth twitched, genuinely unsure whether he should laugh or frown. "This document and the photos I see in that file are figments of someone's overripe imagination."
"You speak Russian like a native and your passport shows regular trips to Russia - Moscow, St Petersburg and Kiev."
"Ah," Callen interrupted Trovelley to correct her. "Kiev is in the Ukraine."
"Where did you learn to speak Russian?" She continued, pointedly ignoring the patronising correction she had just received.
"I studied history and languages at college. I also speak Polish, Romanian and some Chechen. I found I had a natural affinity and together with my love of Russian and Eastern European history, I found my dream career before I was even twenty five."
"Who is this man?" Peters asked, pushing another photo forward.
Callen squinted and picked up the photo. There was a lone man leaning on a barrier with a camera featuring a large telescopic lens. "I don't know. Where was this taken?" Callen's gut feeling was that this was from the departure lounge at Sheremetyevo airport.
"Moscow's Sheremetyevo airport," Peters confirmed Callen's suspicions. "The Russian's arrested him after several tourists complained he seemed to be stalking them. When they examined the camera they found most of the photos were of you. They identified you from your passport and alerted us after checking flight manifests."
Callen's heart was beating fast. He was eternally thankful that Nell's backstopping had held up and that it seemed to have superseded any records that might exist of him previously being in Russia under a different identity.
"Did they identify him?" Callen pointed at the man in the picture, thinking he had to be FSB.
"Not yet, well maybe not at all. We seem to be hitting a brick wall with the Russians. They're not sharing any intel they may have gathered, apart from your details. They did seem to suggest that you may be a person of interest to us..." Trovelley took great delight at holding Callen with her steely gaze.
Callen wisely decided it was not in the character of Williams to beat Trovelley at that particular game. Instead he leaned forward, placing his forearms on the table and lowering his voice conspiratorially. "I think they might be trying to deflect the attention from themselves," he said patronisingly. "Russian counter intelligence officers of the FSB – that's the former KGB – mastered that skill during the cold war."
Without warning Trovelley pushed her chair back, the chair legs screeching sharply across the floor. She stood and started pacing around the room, looping her thumbs in her utility belt. Peters looked up at her in surprise, his mouth open slightly, unsure how he should react.
Trovelley grabbed Callen's carry-on bag and placed it on the table. "Open it." She ordered.
"Sure," Callen stood slowly so as not to appear a threat to the agitated officer and reached in his jeans pocket for the key. He unlocked the case and unzipped it, throwing the lid open.
Trovelley put on a pair of gloves and picked up a pen, rooting through the folded clothes that Callen had placed in the case fifteen hours earlier. She carefully examined the case pockets, removing the documents which Callen had stored. With an efficiency that only came from years of experience, she quickly felt round the edges and lining, looking for hidden pouches and bulges that might contain illegal contraband.
"Your laptop case," she pointed at Callen's other bag that contained Eric's laptop.
Again he silently obeyed and placed the bag on the table. This time Trovelley unzipped and opened the bag herself. Every item was removed and examined. Reams of paper now covered the table.
"We'll take the laptop so our forensic team can analyse the hard drive," Trovelley's smile did not reach her eyes.
Callen returned the smile, "Of course, just make sure you give me a receipt."
"This is all by the book Professor," Peters reassured him. "What are all these papers?"
The majority of documents strewn across the desk were written in cyrllic script. The archivists had allowed them to photocopy a fair number and mixed in with these were Callen and Eric's handwritten notes.
"Research, Officer Peters," Callen replied. "There is more on the laptop. I was restricted in what I could write." Callen looked ruefully at his right arm. "The assistants kindly allowed me to take in my laptop. You can get a translator but these all notes for my thesis. I might even look for a publishing deal with this, my first book."
"I'll take these too," Trovelley gathered up the papers. "Peters, search him."
Peters gestured to Callen to stand. Callen moved away from the table and raised his hands, moving his legs to shoulder width apart. Peters patted him down thoroughly, finding only a cell phone. Holding it out to Trovelly, he confirmed that Callen was clean. Trovelley tapped the screen. Upon finding it was locked she asked Callen for the code.
"What ever happened to my rights?" He complained.
"You are not under arrest, but I'll take this too. The code?"
"2291," Callen shook his head. The cell was not his NCIS issued phone, he would never be so careless as to take that to Russia. All the numbers stored pertained to his cover so Callen was not concerned with his cell being confiscated.
"Look, I'd really like to go home. It's been a long journey...do y'wanna call someone who can vouch for me? Or do I need a lawyer?"
"Professor," Trovelly smiled callously. "Peters and I will remove the evidence but you will remain confined to this room for the moment. We'll be back."
Five minutes later and Callen was finally alone in the whitewashed room. He relaxed his shoulders and ran his hands over his face. He looked at his watch. It was ten past eight in the evening. He had been held in the airport for three hours and he was dog tired. Callen removed his right arm from the sling and raised his elbow, slowly circling his shoulder joint. There had been no mention of Eric so Callen had to assume they had no interest in him and he had successfully left the airport. Callen could only think the fact that no-one had secured his release, meant that Hetty was deliberately leaving him here to teach him some kind of lesson.
He figured the airport police had nothing on him except to project the suspicions of the Russian authorities. And their suspicions were apparently based on photos of him taken by a 'stalker'. That no one was challenging his identity set his mind at rest, but the damning fact was that he would now be required to use the legend of Professor Greg Williams each time he visited Russia through official channels. Callen sighed and leaned back in his chair, looking at his watch again. Five minutes had passed. It was going to be a long night so he closed his eyes and drifted off.
Callen was jolted back to the real world when the door crashed open and Trovelley walked in. Behind her strode Deeks, looking sharp in a tailored suit.
"We called your Faculty but no one was available. They offered to send a Phys Ed coach but I declined the offer." Trovelley said.
"So instead you got me," Deeks smiled broadly at his audience of two. "I told them you'd be pleased to see your lawyer and please," Deeks turned his charm on for Trovelley. "You can call me Andy, no need for 'Mr Branston' or 'Counsellor', I prefer the erm, informal approach."
Deeks winked at Trovelley and strode over to where Callen had remained seated. "I thought the most action I would get with you was with your divorce hearing, but no, here you are, detained by some of our finest officers." He turned back to Trovelley and Peters, who had also entered the room. "This man is the definition of boring. You've spent time with him, can you really believe he has what it takes to be a spy, a terrorist or a double agent?"
Deeks laughed loudly and even managed to elicit a genuine smile from Trovelley. "I believe he knows more about Russia than America. Now come on Prof, I'm breaking you outta here."
Callen stayed in character and suppressed the smile he wanted to give at Deeks' performance. He stood up and turned to the officers. "This man is even more ignorant about Russia that you two. He once asked me where the USSR was in Russia."
"Yeah but I do know that Russians are all Vodka swilling alcoholics named Boris," Deeks again winked at Trovelley as he strode out of the room.
Callen offered his hand to Trovelley. She looked at him with an icy glare that would have reduced a normal man to tears. Callen reacted nervously and dropped his hand, breaking away from her gaze.
"Thank you," he muttered to the officers before following Deeks down the hallway, rapidly catching him up. "Vodka swilling alcoholics, huh? So you don't fancy stopping off for a shot or two before I face the wrath of Hetty?"
"Well who am I to stand between a Russian and his favourite tipple."
"Great, I know a quiet bar on the Venice beach front,"
"Done. Oh and Hetty doesn't want to see you until tomorrow. She just asked me to save your ass and get you home,"
"You sure Sam didn't say that?"
"Yeah, well maybe he did. You sure your real name's not Boris?"
Callen rolled his eyes and finally allowed himself to smile. Tonight he would have a few drinks, listen to Deeks talk nonsense and then hopefully sleep for more than a few hours. Tomorrow, he would face the wrath of Hetty.