Igor Knyazev
The sliding glass doors of BOS Airport Terminal 4 hissed open, spitting Alain Sokolowska into the piercing October wind. She shivered and wrapped herself more tightly in her trench coat. Her knuckles turned white, clutching the handle of a silver Rimowa suitcase. It was heavier than she remembered. She stopped at the side of the road, her eyes slid over the line of black sedans waiting in the VIP passenger boarding area. She was looking for the familiar license plate, the elegant silhouette of the Knyazev family's Maybach. Nothing.
About Igor Knyazev
The sliding glass doors of BOS Airport Terminal 4 hissed open, spitting Alain Sokolowska into the piercing October wind. She shivered and wrapped herself more tightly in her trench coat. Her knuckles turned white, clutching the handle of a silver Rimowa suitcase. It was heavier than she remembered. She stopped at the side of the road, her eyes s...Read more