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.