by Kenneth Eade
“You hungry, Mr. CIA?”
“I won’t refuse.”
“Come with me. I show you where you can clean up and then we eat.”
***
Robert showered, and found a first aid kit to fix up his nose. He stuffed his nostrils with gauze and taped it over the bridge, which looked like he was wearing some kind of a macabre Halloween mask, and tended to his cuts and scrapes with antiseptic and bandages. Then, he donned a fresh set of BDUs from the closet. They were a little baggy, no doubt because his hosts were taller than he was, but the fit worked. He wandered around, asking in Arabic where the Russians were, and was directed to the officers’ mess. Lyosha saw him come in and waved.
“Hey, CIA! Get yourself a plate and come on over!”
Robert stepped up to the mess, grabbed a tray and plate and the cook filled it generously. He walked back to the table and began to slide in next to Lyosha, only to be interrupted by introductions and a short hand shaking ceremony.
“Bob, this is Slava, Yuri, Sasha and that little guy over there is Pyotr.”
The “little guy” was over six feet tall. Robert felt like a Lilliputian in their presence. He shook their hands with gratitude.
“Thank you all for saving my life today.”
“We can’t let CIA man die, can we, ribyata?” There was a round of negative “niets,” as Lyosha grabbed a bottle of Titomirov vodka and poured everyone’s glass full. He raised his glass and nodded to Robert, who followed suit with his.
“To our new American friend. Tibya zdarovia!”
Robert clinked everyone’s glass, and watched as they all slammed their payloads in less than a second. Then, he realized they were all looking at him.
“Go ahead, Boab. It won’t kill you. Might help nose!”
Lyosha translated and all the Russians laughed. Robert took the shot down all at once, Russian style. It was ice cold to his lips and burned warm against the back of his throat. He looked back at Lyosha, who handed him a pickle and refilled his glass.
Robert took the pickle and bit into it as Lyosha performed the next toast in Russian and then translated for Robert. “To sending those terrorist bastards straight to hell!”
The group rumbled in approval as they clicked, slammed and exhaled briskly. They feasted on plate after plate of food between drinks and pickles, until the bottle was getting lonely. The room was spinning around Robert’s head, but it felt good. All of a sudden, Yuri broke into song. Lyosha translated the lyrics.
“Song is about space travelers, dreaming of green grass of home. Sing wiz us!”
“But I don’t know the lyrics.”
“Boab, you been drinking vodka wiz Russians all night. Feel your way.”
“I snitsya nam ne rokot kosmadrova
Ne eta lendenaya snievam
A snitsya nam trava, trava i doma”
Lyosha slapped Robert’s shoulder, “Davai!”
“Zilonaya, zilonaya trava!”
The tune was contagious, so Robert chimed in, slurring his la-la-las along with the music. As the song concluded, the vodka flowed once more, until the next song, and the next.
“Our friend Boab is going on otdykhayat, and so are we. So we must drink to otdykhayat!”
As they toasted, Robert guessed that meant they were all taking some R & R. “Where are you going?”
“Everyone goes home to see family. Slava goes to St. Petersburg, Pyotr to Ekaterinburg. Yuri is from Siberia. I’m the only one going to Moscow. Why don’t you come wiz me?”
Robert shook his head. “Oh, I don’t know.”
“Have you ever been to Russia?”
“No.”
“Then you must come. I invite you. Do you have visa?” He paused, then grinned. “Of course you do. All CIA have visa to Russia!”
He raised his glass. “Za Moskva! To Moscow!”
Robert slammed down his drink and chomped on another pickle. Lyosha refilled everyone’s shots. Robert saw what he was doing and put a hand over the top of his glass.
“Oh, no more for me.”
Lyosha ignored him, swept his hand out of the way and poured his glass full.
“Don’t be silly. This is last drink. He raised his glass. “To Russian holiday!”
They toasted, drank and then Lyosha’s expression turned serious.
“You know, I like you, Boab. I hope I don’t have to kill you someday.”
Lyosha was smiling. Robert smiled back, but kept his response to himself.
“It was joke, CIA, joke!”
He translated the joke to his buddies, and they all erupted in laughter, including Robert. They all slammed their shots. But the jovial mood was underscored by reality. Robert had been thinking exactly the same thing.
CHAPTER FOUR
It was a desolate trek through ancient ruins and olive orchards to the Syrian border crossing of Bab al-Hawa, where each band of ne’er-do-wells was trying to accomplish some nefarious task. There were smoldering masses of refugees trying to escape from Syria, weapons smugglers trying to bring weapons and fighters in, and oil and gas smugglers trying to get ISIS oil and gas out. The band of Russian brothers spoke in Russian, of course. They talked about their girlfriends back home and what they planned to do on their holiday, but Lyosha translated what he thought would be the most interesting for Robert.
“So Boab, do you have someone?’
“Me, no, nobody.”
“Good looking chilavek like you? Come on, you must have left million broken hearts back home.”
“Just a dog.”
“You have dog? What kind?”
“I don’t know. Just an ugly old dog. Back home we call ‘em Heinz 57s. He showed up on my doorstep one day and wouldn’t go away.”
“Your dog’s name Heinz?”
“No, actually, it’s Butthead.”
“Butthead? Like Ass-face?”
“Well, kind of. His face looks a little like his ass, and vice-versa.”
Lyosha shrugged. “Girl much better than dog. She don’t pee on rug and you don’t have to take her outside, unless you want of course. I introduce you to girl in Moscow. If she don’t steal your heart, at least you have lot of fun.”
Lyosha translated for his friends, who laughed heartily.
“We have most beautiful girls in Russia. More girls than man. It is paradise for man, believe me.”
The traffic began to slow to a stop. Yuri moved off onto the right shoulder and made his own little freeway, passing long lines of trucks and buses, and following the signs for diplomatic crossings as they sped by masses of people sitting off the sides of the road in their own filth. A few tents, but mostly whole families parked on blankets among the trees. Lyosha motioned with his head toward the window.
“Those people nobody care about. They have nowhere to go. It’s all about money, my friend.”
Robert nodded. He knew it was all about money. He made his killing people, and couldn’t understand Lyosha’s concern for those who weren’t strong enough to make their own place in this scum-filled world. He looked out the window at them: Young men, old men and women sitting around, and children running around, playing in the dirt.
I guess I’m lucky I wasn’t born here.
Their crossing was without incident, as Lyosha had promised. A short while later, they were exchanging the Tigers for civilian transportation and heading for the idyllic Mediterranean city of Iskenderun, formerly known as Alexandria.
***
Iskanderun’s palm-lined promenade was inviting, as was the cool breeze that drifted in from the sea, but Robert had only one stop he wanted to make before the airport.
“Yuri, could you please stop over there at Societe Generale?”
“You going to rob bank, Boab? Then we all split money.”
“Just taking what’s mine.”
“Isn’t that what your Dalton Brothers said when they robbed banks in Wild West?”
Robert grinned and nodded. “I suppose it was.” They pulled up in fro
nt of the bank and Robert got out. He hung back and leaned into the window. “Just be a minute.”
Before going into the bank, Robert broke open the lining of his jacket and fished out a small key. He entered the lobby and checked in with the safety deposit box teller. After signing in, he gave the teller his key and she opened a slot in the vault and withdrew a medium sized box, which Robert took into the private room. He scanned the corners of the room for any security cameras and found one blinking at him. He flashed his laser pointer at it, settling it at the proper angle to block the camera while he opened the box. Inside was the usual espionage go-bag contents packed in a small backpack: Passports from various European countries, stacks of cash in euros and dollars, a satellite phone, some burner phones, and his favorite – the Glock 19 with three clips. He grabbed some bricks of euros and dollars, one of the passports that he (not they) had secured, and a couple of the burners, and stuffed them into the backpack. He picked up and fondled the Glock and then put it back down.
Not this time, baby. Too dangerous to go into Russia with a gun.
He closed the box and switched off the laser.
***
An alarm went off at the state-of-the-art operations area of the National Counterterrorism Center at the same time its counterpart went off at CIA headquarters in Langley. The technician noted the information, then left the hi-tech control room with its dozens of computer terminals and large video screens and headed for the boss’ office. Nathan Anderson had left explicit instructions to be informed of any new developments. His agency, NCTC, had compiled the finest database in the world on suspected terrorists. The only problem is there was nothing they could do with the data except pass it on to their other acronymic counterparts.
It was an agency designed to combat terrorism which had no enforcement power of its own and could only be described as impotent. But Anderson, its head, an Obama appointee, was looking for a dose of Viagra to inflate the agency’s importance. Robert Garcia, also known in social media by his pseudonym, Paladine, was his pet project. Even though Robert reported to the CIA, Anderson made sure he was informed of his status on a regular basis. They had Robert by the balls; an indentured servitude of sorts, but only for a limited time. Robert could kill his way back to freedom and get paid for it as well.
The technician entered Anderson’s office and handed him the status report, encrusted with the CIA’s special cryptogram on Robert: PAL.
“Your status report on PAL, sir.”
Anderson looked up at the technician, trying to hide his excitement. Any news on Robert always perked him up.
“Thank you.”
The technician set the report on Anderson’s desk and he waited until he was out to pick it up.
***
Not far away, at a similar, yet older installation, Ted Barnard, the head of the CIA, was getting the same briefing from one of his agents.
“We just got a report that PAL has entered Russia.”
Barnard almost choked on his coffee. He set the cup down and licked his lips.
“Russia?”
“One of his passports – the one he thinks we don’t know about – just scanned through at Sheremetyevo.”
“What’s he doing in Moscow?”
“I don’t know, sir. I hear he was pretty peeved when his pickup didn’t happen in Aleppo. Do you think maybe he went rogue?”
“No. Once he completed his assignment we’d agreed he could take some time off. He’s probably just blowing off steam.”
“But in Moscow?”
“Well, they say the best hookers are from Eastern Europe.”
Barnard chuckled, suppressing his anger and embarrassment. An operative like Robert, even an illegal one they would never acknowledge, could be tortured and be compelled to reveal vital secret information. As long as he was there, he was more of a liability than he normally was.
“I’ll let you know when we receive a new development.”
“You do that. Oh, and have him paid a visit when he gets back home – remind him who he really works for.”
The agent nodded and left the office, closing the door behind him. Barnard looked up at his wall at the photograph of himself with the president. He didn’t trust Robert and he was worried. The hands of power at the CIA had changed too frequently during the past decade, from scandal to scandal. He wasn’t about to be the next fall guy.
CHAPTER FIVE
A blank stare, green eyes flicked up and down, up and down. The Border Service guard was taking her time with Robert’s passport. She had already scanned it, but kept looking down at his picture and flashing her green eyes back up at him. He stayed calm, cool and collected as she studied him with emotionless expression. If there was an alert out on him as a suspected CIA operative, he would deal with it, one step at a time. Robert’s realm was the undercurrent of the illegitimate space of covert operations – the dirty little (and big) things the government does but doesn’t want to admit to. One of the consequences of working in that space is getting caught and having your own country turn its back on you. Finally, she printed his immigration card, gave it to him to sign, returned his passport, and he was done.
Lyosha was standing, impatiently outside the passport control booth . “What hell took you so long?”
“Not my country, you tell me.”
“Doesn’t matter. Moscow waits.”
Robert didn’t have any bags – only the small backpack – and Lyosha’s had already been picked up, so it was a quick exit to curbside and an even quicker pickup in a shiny black Mercedes 600.
“Nice ride.”
Lyosha tipped his head toward the dark, sleek vehicle. “Their car. On salary they pay me, I can’t afford Russian Volga.” Robert slid into the backseat and Lyosha into the front. He turned to the driver and said, “Piekhele,” and the car took off smoothly, but with what seemed like the speed of a drag racer.
“They probably know you’re in Moscow.”
“I don’t think so. I took precautions.”
“Don’t underestimate your government, my friend. ‘C’ in Russian is pronounced like your ‘S,’ so first letter in CIA stands for ‘sneaky.’”
This guy has a real witty sense of humor.
Robert couldn’t help but grin. It probably did stand for sneaky.
“I know you don’t want them to know where you are, so I arranged for you to rent apartment from my friend.”
“That means your people will know where I am.”
Lyosha laughed. “Of course they will. They have to. We know where all foreigners are. It is law.”
“I get that.”
“Apartment is by Bellarousky train station. Close to center.”
As they sped up the ramp on the highway, Robert could see the red lights of cars piling up ahead. The driver simply opened the window and popped a little flashing light on top of the car. That allowed him to pass the slow traffic on the shoulder and when there wasn’t any shoulder, people got out of their way.
The buildings began to take on a classic form, and their mass was impressive. He tried to sound out the names of the signs on the stores with his limited knowledge of the Cyrillic alphabet as the highway merged into a large, multi-lane street.
As they approached a huge white building, the driver pulled off the road.
“Bellarousky Vokzal. This your neighborhood.”
They crawled through a mass of traffic circulating around the station and continued to head toward the center of the city. Lyosha pointed out a couple of fancy restaurants he said Robert could reach on foot.
“But, don’t worry. I am your guide in Moscow. You will have first-class holiday.”
They pulled up in front of a classic looking building constructed of granite.
“Most apartment buildings look like shit, but my friend’s building was made by Stalin. Beautiful, no?”
Robert had to admit the architecture was strong but appealing. It looked like a hotel. They parked in front and met Lyosha’s frie
nd outside the lobby. He was short, balding, a little plump, and had beady eyes. He bore no resemblance to the crusher Lyosha was. Robert couldn’t help thinking he looked a little like a used car dealer.
“Boab, this is Sasha. He will show you apartment. Everything is there – towels, toothpaste, coffee, milk. I come back in two hours after you have chance to clean up and relax. We go to store and pick up whatever else you need.”
Robert nodded, shook Lyosha’s hand, and followed Sasha into the building and into the elevator.
The one-bedroom apartment was comfortable and adequate for Robert’s needs. Sasha showed him around, but most of it was self-explanatory. There was nothing to sign, the only papers involved were cash bills. Robert hadn’t exchanged any of his currency for rubles, but, with the ruble in a freefall, Sasha was more than happy to take dollars.
After Sasha left, Robert made a cursory sweep of the apartment for bugs. Miraculously, there weren’t any.
***
Lyosha picked Robert up as agreed two hours later and took him to Tzum, the shopping mall in the center of town where the prices were as shocking as the styles chic.
“This place expensive, but you can get anything you want here.”
With the help of an attractive salesgirl, Robert stocked up on the wardrobe he would need for the week. Lyosha pushed him gently in the direction of sports jackets.
“Hey, Mr. Noll Noll Sem. You need to dress like secret agent for girls.”
Robert shrugged. Why not? I’ve got lots of cash. He never really went out for entertainment. Whenever he wasn’t on the job it was always just him and the dog. “Sounds good. What is Noll Noll Sem?”
“Double-oh-seven.”
Robert laughed.
Lyosha sought the advice of the salesgirl who set Robert up styling. She looked at Robert and, without asking his size, took a sleek dinner jacket off the rack, slipped it over Robert’s hefty shoulders and smoothed her hands over it, checking the fit against his skin. She smiled when she ran her fingers over his ample biceps. Lyosha noticed, and raised his eyebrows.
