A small provincial airport lived its own separate, bustling, businesslike life. The girls’ dispatcher’s voice—coldly official—conveyed to citizens announcements about the start of registrations and other useful information. Only a little more than forty minutes remained before the departure of the only flight from Tarasov to Turkey.
A customs officer in a uniform light-blue shirt with a black-and-green service chevron on his sleeve, with an exhausted gesture of someone tired of life, wiped the sweat from his brow with a damp handkerchief.