Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk, the provincial capital of Sakhalin Island in the Russian Far East, sits in a bowl surrounded by low mountains.  A ski jump prepared for the 1980 Olympics is visible in the heights, overlooking the city and dominating the skyline.  When I first arrived in the region in 1991, the first of five visits, the city was sitting on the fence in the power struggle taking place in Moscow between Yeltsin and the hard-liners.  Sakhalin had a split personality.  Sometimes the democrats, including the reform-minded Governor Fyodorov, were ascendant, and the local government was friendly.  Sometimes the Mayor, a communist with a large photo of Lenin above his desk, was ascendant, and we got a chilly welcome.  During those bad times, the local democrats and friends of the U.S., mainly younger, kept their heads down, even though Yeltsin was in power.  Statues of Lenin were still standing downtown, and state food stores predominated over private markets.  But, at the same time, the city did have a new international business center housing U.S. and Japanese oil companies. And, there were a couple of new Korean restaurants and hotels catering to businessmen from Seoul.

On my next to last trip to Sakhalin, in 1993, my colleague, David, and I were sent out from the U.S. Consulate in Vladivostok to represent the United States at a memorial service on the tenth anniversary of the shooting down of Korean Air Lines flight 007.  Sakhalin happened to be in a negative cycle when we landed.  The new Governor was anti-reform and surrounded by old Communist Party functionaries, the Deputy Governors.  The Western oil companies were having trouble getting off the ground.  The Yeltsin government was using the occasion to atone for the past, and offer relief to the families, who would lay wreaths on the waters where the plane went down. But, there were still accusations floating around that the U.S. had caused the tragedy by shadowing the Korean airliner with C-141 spy planes.  There were other “Cold War-ish” explanations by Russian hard liners, that the Korean Boeing 747 had actually been a spy plane with NSA employees behind radar screens on board.

The local Sakhalin officials didn’t mind the Korean Embassy in Moscow sending out an official delegation to help the families and pay tribute at the memorial ceremony, but they didn’t like the U.S. government sending us out, feeling the U.S. only wanted to politicize the event.  It was the usual Russian split, Yeltsin saying one thing in Moscow, and the local KGB and Defense types and hard-line Governors in the provinces not exactly going along with their own president’s desires.

David and I were allowed to come to the ceremony, to help the American families, but we would receive no recognition, not be on the program, nor be given time to make any speeches.  We were basically ignored, and given the cold shoulder at the ceremony by Sakhalin officials.  We didn’t know this would happen until we arrived.  We horned in on the activities anyway, stood around a lot, and went to the shoreline with the American families, where we examined the personal effects of the victims which had washed ashore.  These were put on tables for the family members to identify.  The Governor and Korean diplomats made speeches in the open, at a memorial being dedicated.

Towards the end, I found myself standing in a small group with a Deputy Governor, Deputy Mayor, and a Major General, conversing in Russian, discussing the families’ needs.  The General, at one point, said that “many still feel that the Boeing plane was a spy plane.”  I was a bit surprised by this, seeing the personal effects spread out nearby.  The others in the circle shared the General’s view.  They were the typical Party bigwigs: old communists and nationalists, vodka drinkers, rude jokers, veins showing on their cheeks, portly, gruff, former power wielders. I knew the type well from the Soviet era.

As I was talking with this group, which now included the Governor, who tried to ignore me, an elderly Russian World War II pensioner, wearing a beret and war ribbons on his suit jacket, came pedaling his bicycle up to us, coming to a stop in our center.  We had to step back.  The Governor looked at the others like “who is this.”

The pensioner, still straddling his bike, looked at the Governor and at me, asked in Russian if I was the American Consul General.  I nodded.  He said to me: “There were women and children on that plane, right?”  I said quietly and seriously, “yes.”  He looked at the Governor and Generals and said, “ I thought so.”  And, putting his foot carefully back on the raised pedal, slowly pedaled off.  None of the Russians said anything.

No one tried to interfere with the old man.  It was a sobering moment, with a Russian citizen who was tired of being lied to by his government.  The General cleared his throat. They all looked sheepish.

The Governor spoke to me for the first time, saying defensively about the airliner tragedy, “no one wants to hurt civilians.”

I said, “I know that. It was a sad day for us all.”   The Governor reached out and shook my hand.  I shook his hand, but passed on his offer for a drink, saying I had to get back to Vladivostok.

The next time I returned to Sakhalin, I was no longer the enemy, and was offered VIP treatment, although I declined and never met with the governor again.  It was my policy to avoid giving acceptance to hard liners.  Many of my colleagues felt this was unwise, that we had to work with everyone in the new Russia.  I only hoped that the real hero, the old man on the bicycle, was doing okay.  I think he was.

The Boeing 747 appears in the night sky as a white dot, coming from the north—from Alaska.  As the plane descends onto the large airport at  Khabarovsk, in the Russian Far East, its landing lights beam ahead through the snow and the dark.

The American diplomat stands in the cold, waiting on the tarmac.  It is the middle of the night and the buildings are closed.  The snow crunches under his feet.  The terminal  is dark and a big neon sign announcing the city’s name is turned off.  He is there to make sure there are no problems with this flight which contains “special cargo.”  This is a refueling stop.

The airport manager,wearing a dark blue Aeroflot overcoat with gold stripes on the epaulets, stands next to him, smoking.  He and the American are friends, veterans of numerous battles in the new Russia.  It is 1991, and Yeltsin has just taken power.  Yuri has satisfied many unusual last minute requests from visiting American delegations that went against Russian security regulations.  The U.S. Foreign Service Officer has also fended off hard liners on his side.

Yuri acknowledges the aircraft and says one word, “Kissinger.”  The FSO nods.

The giant blue and white plane descends smoothly, rain contrails streaming off the tail and wings.  It settles gently on the far runway, paired sets of wheels touching down at once, then engines reverse and blow snow from the runway as it slows.  At the other end of the runway, it comes to a stop, pivots around, and taxis back, led by a follow me truck and two military jeeps.  The plane turns off the runway near the terminal its large blue nose, bump on the roof, and lettered “United States of America” along the side dominate the scene.  The rivets on the aluminum fuselage throw shadows from the ground lights as the plane brakes to a final stop.  The huge engines wind down to silence.

A tanker truck comes out and hoses connect under the imposing wings.  The pilots’ faces are visible in the windows high above, as they take off their headsets.  A truck bearing an Aeroflot logo and attached ramp drive up to the plane.

The watching airport manager says matter of factly, “Na Kitai” (“to China.”)

The FSO confirms.  “Da” (“Yes.”)

“Bolshoe Delo?” (“Big things?”) Yuri asks.

“Navierna”  (“Probably,”) the American replies, without elaboration.  The silence is a bit awkward, but the Russian would be disappointed in his friend if he had received more of an answer.  He values professionalism.  Anyway Moscow probably knows what’s going on.

“Thanks for coming out in person,” the American says.

“Rabbota y’est Rabbota” (“Work is work,”) the director smiles.  He didn’t really have to come. They were both part of a fraternity of public servants.  They had been opponents in the old days, but “professional” opponents.  The Cold War had never gotten out of hand.

“Want to go with me?” The director shrugs at the ramp.

“No, I’ll let him sleep.”  The American was cold and thinking he could have sent one of his subordinates from the Consulate in Vladivostok.  But, he preferred leaving nothing to chance.  That was his style.  The  Russians would note this.

The big plane taxied out an hour later and was off into the night, red lights blinking then fading into the distance.  The diplomat thought of the sole passenger on board, Henry Kissinger.  He recalled his one previous experience with Kissinger. It had been indirect. On his first tour in Israel, as duty officer during a crisis situation, Kissinger had relayed messages through him.  Being liberal, the diplomat didn’t value Kissinger’s realpolitik.

The manager came over to him.  “Ver’nyotsa utra?”  (Flying back in the morning?)  The American diplomat had made the two-hour flight from Vladivostok, just for this, and faced a return flight.

“Da, rabbotay’est rabbota,” joked the FSO.

The Russian  looked toward the hangar. “Piloti sdes (The pilots are here,”) and paused, “Gatovi.”—(Ready if you wish.)  He peered at a YAK 40, a twenty passenger jet, parked near the hangar with tarps off the engines.

“Thanks Yuri”

Yuri patted him on the back and went to the hangar to rouse the pilots.

Alone in the small YAK cabin flying east to Vlad, in the sunrise beyond a thin pink line on the horizon ahead,, the FSO thought of Yuri’s friendship and the warm Russian nature.  In two years of running a new American consulate and lone travel around Siberia he’d not had a single unpleasant experience.

He looked wearily out the window at the winding Amur river, frozen below along the Russia-China border, and it came to him.  It was Kissinger, the special cargo disrupting his night, who had started the whole thing.  Kissinger brought Nixon to Moscow twenty years ago and starting “détente,” and leading to this night, to Russians and Americans working together as friends.  Without Kissinger’s vision, there would have been no need for a new consulate or for an American diplomat to be living out here.

Looking down at the Russian tundra, the diplomat felt less tired, happy as an unseen servant for a sleepy passenger on a snowy night, far from home.