The Officially Unofficial Files of Dr. Gordon B. Gray

by Darcy Fray

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but would it be possible to use the phone in the teacher’s lounge? I need to call St. Petersburg.”

  Anna looked up from her papers.

  “I know who you are.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said, I know who you are. The young physicist. Correct?”

  “I...uh,” Gordon stammered.

  “We do have newspapers here in Gagarin, you know. Your photo was in the paper after the fire at the hotel. Did you kill those men?”

  “No, no, I swear to you. Two of those men were there to protect me and the other man was an FSB agent. I am just a physicist.”

  “Then why do you need protection? And why does the FSB want you?”

  “A Russian physicist who may have a very dangerous weapon is missing and my government sent me here to try to find him, before that weapon is used again.”

  “What is this weapon?”

  “The weapon makes people dematerialize, disappear. It’s been used on small villages in China and the U.S.”

  “Sounds impossible.”

  “Yes, it does, but I assure you it is very real.”

  “Why isn’t your government helping you now?”

  “Because I’m not sure who I can and can’t trust. Yesterday I saw my father murdered before my eyes, and as you can see I came pretty close myself.” Gordon gestured to his bandaged face. “Just an inch to the right and we wouldn’t be talking right now. Are you going to report me?”

  “To who? The FSB? I loathe the FSB and everything they stand for.”

  “Thank you,” Gordon replied, relieved.

  “You are welcome and yes, you may use the phone.” Anna looked back down at the paperwork, cueing Gordon’s exit.

  Gordon retraced his steps back down the hallway that was now beginning to fill with elementary school children, all of whom eyed him with suspicion. A simple reminder of how odd he must look with a huge bandage covering one side of his face. He entered the teacher’s lounge, closed the door and sat back down at the communal table. He opened the browser on his father’s laptop and typed Jurek Novokov into the Google search box.

  Novokov Fine Jewelers - Nevsky Prospect 45, Saint Petersburg, Russia - 3102784203

  Gordon jotted down the info on a slip of paper, walked to the rotary phone sitting on the windowsill next to the potted cactus and Wi-Fi router, picked up the handset and dialed the number.

  “Dóbry utra,” a man answered in Russian.

  “Hello, do you speak English?” Gordon asked, easily identifying Jurek’s voice.

  “Yes, little.”

  “May I speak to the jeweler Jurek Novokov?”

  “This is he.”

  “Hello, Mr. Novokov. My name is Jerry Cosby and I would like to order an engagement ring. You did some work for a friend of mine in Moscow, which my wife-to-be really adores. I have a design in mind.”

  “Yes, go on.”

  “I would like a gold anchor that wraps around the finger, with an English rose on the front.”

  “I see.” Jurek had suspected he was speaking to the “dead” young American physicist, but now he was certain. Only a man writing a book on his cousin Dmitry would know such details.

  “My fiancée has requested that the rose be made of a type of mineral called lonsdaleite. It’s rare, would you be able to track it down?”

  “Yes, that is something I can find.”

  “I’m traveling from Austria today, but I will check back with you tomorrow and we can discuss this further. I’m very pleased to have spoken to you. Your work is beautiful.”

  “Thank you.”

  Gordon hung up the phone, opened his father’s wallet and withdrew five thousand rubles. He rummaged through a supply drawer in the corner of the room, found an envelope and inserted the money in it. A row of wooden mail receptacles addressed with each of the teacher’s names lined the wall next to the door. Anna’s was the first. He placed the envelope inside it before quietly departing from the school.

  •••

  Burbank, CA - Bob Hope Airport

  Harper Crisp turned into the entrance of the Bob Hope Airport in Burbank. Fletcher rode shotgun, his ballistic nylon duffel bag perched on his lap.

  “Thanks for the lift, love.”

  “I really don’t see why you’re the one dealing with this,” Harper pleaded.

  “The kid needs help and I have a lot of respect for his father, who would have done the same thing for you, I’m sure.”

  “But we have people in Moscow who can deal with this kind of thing.”

  “Just like the cabbie in Saint Petersburg who led them right to Veritas 151?”

  “You don’t know that. It could even be this guy Gordon, for all you know.”

  “I would think you would display a little more loyalty toward a fellow Caltech professor,” Fletcher quipped, doing his best to lighten the tone of the conversation.

  “Former Caltech professor. You really trust him? Do I need to remind you that he was working for the US Army -- the same guys who orchestrated the Crimm cover-up?”

  “His father was friends with Wilkinson, and I’m sure he thought he could trust him.”

  “Whatever.” Harper pulled to a stop outside the terminal, coldly turning her gaze away from her father. She knew her behavior was childish, but he was all she had left.

  “You’re not going to let me leave with that kind of a goodbye, are you?” Fletcher leaned his cheek in close for a goodbye kiss. Harper turned back toward him and rolled her eyes. He was relentless and it was nearly impossible to stay mad at him.

  “Fine.” She gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “But if this Gordon guy gets you in any trouble, I will kill him myself, with my bare hands.”

  “That’s my girl. Love you. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Be safe.” Harper looked him directly in the eyes for just a moment, before shifting her gaze back ahead. She hated teary goodbyes as much as her father did. It was his cue to exit.

  Bag in hand, Fletcher walked down the busy sidewalk. Harper’s eyes followed him with each step. Her father always turned to wave just before entering the terminal -- it was a silly unspoken thing they shared. As Fletcher was about to pass through the door, she smiled in anticipation, but today was different -- her father didn’t look back.

  •••

  Moscow, Russia - The Savany Motel

  Gordon crawled along on the M1 in his ailing Mosvitch 412. The steering wheel rattled out of control anytime he accelerated over fifty miles an hour. Progress was slow.

  Even with the icy conditions, drivers flew by Gordon doing far in excess of the 90kph speed limit. President Medvedev had once described Russian drivers as “undisciplined and criminally careless” and Gordon had to agree. He had been on the road for two and a half hours and had witnessed three major accidents. It wasn’t difficult to understand the widespread use of dashboard cams on Russian roads.

  While the Mosvitch was certainly warmer than the windowless Lada, Gordon soon discovered that when he cranked the heater, the radio came on at full volume. Naturally, the radio’s volume knob happened to be missing. Gordon found that by tuning in between channels, the blaring static sound was almost tolerable. He turned the heat off every fifteen minutes, until the windows began to freeze up, at which point he cranked it back up for another two or three minutes. It seemed an odd form of sensory torture, but it served as a healthy distraction from dwelling on the murder of his father, as well as the unusual nature of his current predicament. He had no clue who would be meeting him in Moscow. A dead man’s trust was guiding him now.

  Gordon entered the Moscow city limits and approached what appeared to be a budget motel, The Savarny. He parked the Mosvitch in the almost vacant parking lot, grabbed his laptop from the passenger seat and walked into the small front lobby where the unfriendly face of the middle-aged desk attendant failed to greet him.

  “Hello, do you speak English?”

  “Little.” The man didn�
�t even look up from the computer keyboard he was busily typing away on.

  “How much for a room?”

  “Seven hundred rubles. I need ID,” the man replied, still immersed in his computer activities.

  “I’m afraid I was robbed and my wallet was stolen. Can I perhaps pay a little more for the room?” Gordon proffered, hoping his luck with bribery would continue.

  “No ID and room costs seven thousand rubles.”

  “How about five?” Gordon handed the man a crisp five thousand ruble note. The attendant eyed Gordon with disdain, before reluctantly grabbing the bill.

  “Okay, but no bathroom in your suite.”

  Gordon nodded.

  The man pushed a hotel registration book and a pen toward Gordon. “You fill out.”

  Gordon registered under the assumed name, Jerry Cosby; a baffling marriage of two iconic American comedians’ names, Jerry Seinfeld and Bill Cosby. He glanced back up as the attendant slammed down a key with the number 21 engraved on it. A real key, old school.

  “Upstairs. Left.” The attendant practically spat the directions in Gordon’s face.

  Gordon ascended the stairs at the back of the lobby, turning as instructed. Room 21 was the first door on the left. He inserted the key and entered the darkened chamber. He flicked on the light switch, illuminating the 12’ x 12’ room. “Suite” was perhaps a bit too grand a word. The decor was Russian Imperialism meets the 1970s, with heavy gold drapery, a fake potted fern, faded green carpeting, gold print bedspread, cherry veneer headboard and a gold lamp with a mint green pleated upholstered shade. Gordon sat on the corner of the queen-size bed and the entire mattress sprang up behind him. He was far too tired to care.

  He disrobed, crawled under the covers and closed his eyes.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Moscow

  Somewhere Over The North Pacific Ocean

  FLETCHER SAT RECLINED in his seat, sipping a gin and tonic and dining on a surprisingly tasty take on boeuf bourguignon. An attractive middle-aged blonde sat next to him. Fletcher could already see the telltale signs of interest. She had already dropped her cloth napkin twice, presumably so she could lean his way, casually brushing up against his leg like an attention-starved kitten.

  She dropped it again. Time for action.

  “You need a leash for that one,” Fletcher joked, breaking the ice. It was a long flight and some conversation might speed it along.

  “I’m so sorry, but it just doesn’t want to stay in one place.”

  “Not a problem.” Fletcher leaned over and picked it up for her, allowing for a nice view of her lean, sculpted legs. He handed her back the napkin.

  “Thank you. Melanie Johnson,” Melanie responded, extending her hand.

  “Fletcher Crisp.”

  “Are you traveling to Moscow for business or pleasure?”

  Fletcher admired her direct approach. “I’m a spy. So a bit of both, I suppose.”

  “Ooooh, a spy. Shouldn’t you be drinking martinis?” she giggled coquettishly.

  “Afraid gin’s my sin,” he replied, holding up his glass.

  “Cheers,” she said as she lifted her glass of Napa Valley chardonnay to meet his. “So where do spies stay in Russia these days?”

  “If I told you that, I’m afraid I would have to kill you. You?” Fletcher smiled.

  “I’m at the Ararat Park Hyatt,” she replied all too eagerly.

  “Ahh, yes, the low-rent district,” he said, smiling. “And what brings you to Moscow?”

  “I’m in the exporting business. I sell oil and gas field equipment.”

  “Ahh, CIA,” Fletcher retorted, causing Melanie to almost double over with laughter. “Perhaps we should meet this evening to exchange intel over a few dry martinis?”

  “I’d like that. There’s a lovely bar in the Park Hyatt. If you’ll excuse me, I need to map out the upcoming invasion of Iran.” Melanie smiled, pointing to her laptop.

  “Of course.” Fletcher removed the eye mask from the complimentary traveler package wedged in the seat back. His military training had left him well-versed in the economy of sleep.

  •••

  Moscow, Russia - The Savany Motel

  Gordon felt good. He had slept for fifteen hours straight and the intense throbbing in his cheek had settled down to a tolerable dull ache. He removed the soiled bandage from his wound in front of the full-length dressing mirror in the corner of the room. The first image that came to mind was Frankenstein. He barely recognized the face staring back at him. It was an odd sensation, appearing a stranger to oneself. He counted thirty stitches on the surface, plus whatever had been done underneath. He would be wearing this scar to the grave.

  He redressed the wound with some supplies he had picked up earlier that morning, opting for two extra-large skin-colored Band-aids instead of the more conspicuous white gauze Dr. Batkin had used. His appearance improved dramatically.

  Gordon rummaged through his pockets in search of the slip of paper he’d written Jurek’s number on. Every time he opened the billfold, his mother’s eyes were there, staring back at him. He couldn’t understand how his father could live with the constant reminder. He removed the photo and gently tucked it behind his father’s credit cards which all bore the assumed name, John Wayne. He had never really considered his father’s sense of humor before that moment, but clearly there had been one lurking in the depths.

  He pulled out the slip of paper with Jurek’s number on it, which had been tucked in between two five-thousand ruble notes.

  Novokov Fine Jewelers - Nevsky Prospect 45, Saint Petersburg, Russia - 3102784203

  Jurek picked up immediately. “Dóbry dyen.”

  “Mr. Novokov?”

  “Yes, this is he.”

  “Hello, this is Jerry Cosby, we spoke yesterday about a ring for my future wife.”

  “Yes, I remember. She want lonsdaleite?”

  “That’s correct. Did you manage to have any luck tracking some down?”

  “Some. There is collector in Moscow who may be able to assist you. His name is Konstantin Chekhov.”

  “Thank you. I am in Moscow and I will negotiate the price with him directly. I will be in touch.”

  “Good luck, my friend.”

  Gordon grabbed his laptop, walked downstairs and exited through the lobby. The distracted desk attendant didn’t even look up from his newspaper. It made Gordon homesick for the smiling faces that greeted him every morning at his local Starbucks. He was developing a newfound appreciation for the small things, including good old American customer service.

  He approached his Mosvitch 412. Strange. The driver’s window was rolled halfway down. He was certain he hadn’t left it that way. He hopped in the car, set his laptop down on the passenger seat and looked around. Everything appeared to be in its right place. No bodies in the back seat. Still apprehensive, Gordon departed for the internet cafe at Chayanova Street 18 in downtown Moscow.

  •••

  Moscow, Russia - Moscow Domodedovo Airport

  Fletcher grabbed his duffel bag from the overhead bin and stood in the aisle waiting for the front passenger door of the Boeing 777 to open. Still seated, Melanie, who had been asleep for most of the journey, rubbed her eyes and ran her fingers through her long silky ash-blonde hair. She glanced up at Fletcher.

  “Wow. Guess I was tired.”

  “I’ll say. I’ve never heard such snoring in my life...and the drooling...it’s a wonder they let you sit in first class,” Fletcher joked with a warm smile and a wink.

  Melanie, still groggy, wasn’t quite ready for humor. He recognized her slightly annoyed expression as the same one Harper regularly displayed before she had her first cup of morning coffee.

  “Kidding, of course. You didn’t make a peep,” Fletcher replied.

  “Sorry, my sense of humor takes at least an hour to wake up after my eyes are open. Can I bother you to grab my bag for me?”

  “Certainly.” Fletcher grabbed the only other b
ag in the overhead compartment and handed it to her as she rose to join him in the aisle. They de-planed together and walked side by side down the long concourse on their way to the airport exit.

  “Alas, this is where we part. Have a safe journey into town.” Fletcher headed directly for customs as she continued on to baggage claim.

  “I’ll be waiting for that drink later,” she called after him, with a wink.

  “Save me a seat,” Fletcher smoothly replied, unfazed by his uncanny ability to charm and disarm.

  •••

  Moscow, Russia - Cafemax

  Gordon glanced around the Cafemax, Moscow’s immense twenty-four hour Internet cafe. Before him lay endless rows of stations with back-to-back computer terminals mounted in modern looking wooden cubicle style desks. Three hundred in total, offering little privacy, beyond a short wooden barrier separating each terminal.

  Gordon walked to the very back of the sparsely populated room and sat down at the end of a vacant row. He logged on to the computer with the credentials provided at the front desk and navigated to the Los Angeles Times front page. He had hoped to see some mention of his demise there, but alas, his death was already old news. He fought the urge to Google his own name, as he felt certain the computers were under state surveillance.

  Just seeing the Times logo made him pine for home. He missed his daily morning routine of sitting down with the paper and a cup of coffee. Would anything ever feel normal again? Would he even be able to return to the U.S.? The future held many unanswered questions. Familiar feelings of anxiety began to creep up on him. “One thing at a time, Gordon,” -- his mother’s voice was always close.

  Fletcher entered the Cafemax internet café and purchased an hour of computer time for sixty rubles. He immediately spied Gordon sitting at the back of the cafe. He might as well have been wearing a bull’s-eye on his back. The dozen or so other occupants were all between the ages of twelve and sixteen, with the majority of them clustered together playing video games.