Chapter 12

• I think so, yes.
• Then they could demand extradition from the Turks at any moment.
• They won't find us if we sit tight. The problem is that I can't stay here for long, and Sasha's nerves are on edge.
• Maybe rent a yacht and let them sail in neutral waters?
• And then what? Sail forever like the "Flying Dutchman"? In a big city, at least you can get lost, but you can't hide on a yacht. Sooner or later, you'll have to go ashore somewhere and present documents.
• So what should we do?
• I have a plan, - I said, - but I won't tell you yet; who knows who might be eavesdropping on you.

My plan was simple. If, in order to request asylum in the USA, it is necessary to be on American territory, then we need to buy a ticket to any country that allows entry without a visa, with a layover in an American airport, and request asylum during the layover. I went online. It turned out that Barbados and the Dominican Republic do not require visas for Russians. "Hooray," I said, "tomorrow we fly to Miami." But it was not to be. A call to Delta Airlines brought disappointment. Even for a layover in the USA, a transit visa is required. Without it, they won't let you on the plane.

But we had already seen the light at the end of the tunnel. I went back online and began studying the schedule of morning flights to Western Europe. I knew for certain that in Europe, transit within the airport is allowed without a visa. After some time, I said:

• Guys, where do you want to go? To France, Germany, or England?
• I don't care, - Sasha said, - just as long as we get out of here as quickly as possible.
• I don't care either, - Tolik said.
• I want to go to France, - Marina said.
• I think it's better to go to England after all. There, at least, I'll be able to explain who you are.

The next morning, a strange company appeared before the Turkish Airlines check-in counter: a bearded American who spoke Russian, without luggage but with a passport riddled with dozens of stamps from all sorts of countries; a beautiful Russian woman with a nervous child and five suitcases; and an athletic-looking man with citizenship of an insignificant state—wearing dark glasses despite the overcast weather and scanning the airport crowd with a professional gaze. "I wonder what he thought," flashed through my mind when I caught the gaze of a Turkish policeman lingering on our group. "He must have decided that Sasha is my bodyguard."

We checked in for a flight departing for London, with a layover at Heathrow airport for Moscow. Registration went smoothly, but at passport control, the border guard took an interest in Sasha's passport. We were standing in different lines, and the three of us had to wait on the inner side while he turned Sasha's document over, examined it from all sides, and put it under ultraviolet light, which lasted about three minutes. Finally, he slapped a stamp into it and waved his hand: "Go through!" We made it, I thought.

There were five minutes left until departure. We were racing through the half-empty airport at full steam.