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Behind the desk was a man in a military or police uniform, slender, perhaps about forty. He smiled at her. Then he addressed her, in rather good English. "I am Vassily Kuznetov. I am, as you might say, an officer of the Novorosk militia, or police, to you. You have been referred to me, I have been told, because you do not speak Russian or Ukrainian, and you are foreigners. Sometimes persons are sent here because my English is perhaps a bit better than some of our men at the customs posts. I have been given some information about you, and it is my task to deal with you so we can resolve this matter-"
Irma could not contain herself. "We have been taken from the airport! Our luggage was taken from us! Our passports were taken! We have missed our flight! No one understands us, or can tell us what we are expected to do - then we were brought here and you kept us waiting for two hours! I insist you tell us exactly what you expect us to do, and let us get back to the airport as quickly as possible!"
Vassily listened to her outburst with as much patience as he could muster. He allowed her to finish. Then he told her, "Miss Bradley, you are charged with violation of the currency control laws and attempting to export prohibited items. You were found with rubles in your possession as you were about to embark on a flight out of the country. You were found with antique artwork in your luggage, for which you had no export permit. You had not declared either to customs. You had, in fact, wrapped the paintings in articles of clothing, in an evident attempt to hide them from inspection. These are serious matters.
"Further, the value of the artwork and the currency in your possession would seem to considerably exceed the value of foreign currency you brought into the country and legally exchanged. This suggests that you have engaged in foreign currency transactions at places not authorized to do such business. These are serious charges. Do you deny them?"
Irma was furious. "We declared all of the money we had when we entered the country. Why do you care where we spent it? We paid for everything we bought! We stole nothing! We're Americans! You can't hold us against our will! We have rights!"
"In our country," Vassily went on calmly, "We have laws that govern where you can exchange money, and what you can bring in or take out of the country. They may not be like the laws of your country, but they are our laws, and while you are here you must abide by them. The charges against you are quite serious, and it may take some time to deal with them- "
Irma interrupted him. "We are not going to stay in this place! You have no right to hold us! If you must, you can keep the things you found in my suitcase, but you have no right to hold me! I know my position! I am American, and I demand to see the consulate!"
"You will have opportunity to make your defense, Miss Bradley," Vassily answered. "In due course. We may allow you to contact the American consulate, but it is not yet time. As for the items in your suitcase, we shall indeed hold them. We intend to find out where you acquired them, and how or if you paid for them. You may have had an accomplice. What is you friend's position in all this?"
The police department was a busy place to be. Her shift should have ended long ago but, somehow she had been roped into staying another few hours. The police detective didn't need to be told that she would most likely be late for her date with her girlfriend.
With a weary sigh, Rachael answered the phone at her desk. "Yeah," she groaned. "This better be good." "I'm in trouble," she heard the voice on the phone utter barely above a whisper. Rachael sighed with a smirk. Her longtime friend saying that there was another crisis in her life was not a new occurrence. Sarah was always in trouble. When was she not?