by L. Todd Wood
The joint was about half full, and the ridiculously cute girls behind the bar were keeping the older customers happy with smiles, an occasional free drink, and letting them think they had a chance later, after the place closed, which of course none of them did, unless the price was right. Peter took in the scene and wondered what to do next. He could see through the window the sun was settling towards the horizon. After a while, the crowd started to thicken. Do I stay here and drink? What to do? A man sat next to him. Peter was lost in thought.
“Cheer up,” the man next to him said after a while, in a Russian accent.
“What?” Peter said as he looked up at the man.
“I said cheer the fuck up. You look like someone killed your mother.”
“Do I? Well, maybe they did,” Peter replied, looking back down at his vodka.
“Don’t worry, we’ll find him.”
“What did you say?”
“I said, don’t fucking worry, we’ll find him.”
Peter was astonished. “I don’t know who you are, friend, but you’d better start fucking talking.”
“Or what?” The man smiled.
Peter looked at the man for the first time, focused this time. This guy didn’t look like someone he wanted to mess with, so he let the man take the first move. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?” he said in a more friendly manner.
“That’s better,” the man said. “Why don’t we take a walk?”
Peter got up and walked outside. The man followed. When they had left the bar and walked a hundred yards or so, the man spoke. “My name’s Vitali. We are on the same team. Your friends in Israel contacted me. I met with your friend a few days ago. He’s okay but he is scared. Something or someone is leaning on him big-time.”
“How did you know to find me?”
“They told me when you were coming. They told me to help you. I’m being compensated, handsomely. So, like I said, we are on the same team. At least for now.”
“So you’ve been following me?”
“Ever since you left the airport.”
“Jesus Christ. So what do we do now?”
Vitali stopped Peter under a tree and they stepped into the shadows. The people were milling around the many food stands that were set up along the avenue. The girls, decked in high heels and miniskirts, were flaunting their stuff, hoping for Mr. Oligarch to notice them. Once he was certain no one was listening, Vitali started talking. “Look, let’s get one thing straight. I’m no patriot. All I am is a mercenary. But I’m being paid quite well to help you out. So, you asked, what do we do next?”
“Yes, what do we do?” Peter replied. “And how the fuck do I know you are for real?”
“One second,” Vitali ordered. He pulled out his phone and hastily typed a text.
Thirty seconds later, Peter’s phone buzzed. He looked at the screen. All it said was, Trust him. It was from his contact at the Mossad.
Peter looked up at Vitali. “I guess you’re legit. What’s the next move?”
“I don’t think we try to follow him. That’s a waste of time. I think we try and contact him and find out what is going on.” Vitali held up his phone in the air in front of Peter’s face. “I have his phone number.”
Sergei was amused when Vitali came into the picture. He recognized him from the many photos he had seen. Vitali was a wanted man, in Russia anyway. He put down the powerful field glasses he was using to watch Peter from across the square and smiled. Well, well, my old friend Vitali. Nice to see you again. He had been tracking Peter since he left Israel, and now Vitali presented an unexpected target of opportunity.
Peter didn’t know it, but he and Sergei went way back, to Brazil, the previous year in fact. While attempting to kill Connor, Natasha, and Peter at the behest of his Russian superiors, the entire operation was interrupted by the Mossad at the last moment. Peter had led Sergei to Connor and Natasha’s safe house near Bahia, Brazil. Sergei hadn’t anticipated the Jews showing up, killing the rest of his hired team, and then spiriting his three targets out of Brazil and into Tel Aviv.
Sergei had been waiting patiently for the day when the three of them would leave Israel so he could complete his original mission, to kill them. How did his superior officer say it? Make them feel pain, and then kill them. Yes, that was it. Sergei picked up the glasses again to survey the two men and attempt to discern what their next move was. They were still talking.
The Russian agent had no idea where Murray was; all he knew was that some group in Gaza had kidnapped him and then spirited him out of the territory. This Peter chap can tell me where he is for sure, Sergei thought.
He had hoped Peter would again lead him to the target, like a moth to a flame. But now, Vitali’s entering the picture changed everything.
Vitali was a Russian traitor, a former FSB officer and a double agent. He had helped the Americans and other Western governments for some time now and for much money. He was very much wanted dead by the Kremlin. The Motherland didn’t let double agents live. Yes this is an unexpected development indeed.
Sergei made up his mind. Vitali would die, now. Then he would take Peter and interrogate him, find out where Murray had run off to. Slowly, a plan came together in Sergei’s mind.
He put down the glasses and started the vehicle he was sitting in, across the expansive square from Peter and the other Russian. The engine in the old, Soviet-built, Lada roared to life with all the gusto of a go-cart. She’ll have to do the trick, Sergei thought.
He put the car in drive and looked both ways across the square. Peter and Vitali were still across the way, talking under a tree with their backs to him. Vitali was smoking a cigarette. They had no idea Sergei was even there. Many other citizens of Chisinau walked nonchalantly about their daily lives, unaware that a murder was about to take place.
Sergei eased out of his position of concealment—he was parked between two other vehicles—and turned towards his two targets. He pressed the accelerator and moved forward, attempting to blend in to the other traffic while getting as close to his two victims as possible. When he was about twenty-five yards away, Sergei smiled and stomped on the gas pedal. The Lada shot forward.
Killing Vitali would bring him much adulation from his comrades in the security services as well as most likely a promotion. Vitali was that much of a high-value target. He would take his trophy back to Moscow and maybe even be stationed back in his favorite home city. Sergei thought briefly of the girls he would meet and take advantage of. Moscow had thousands of young, beautiful girls just waiting to meet a man of power and means. He would have both for killing this traitor to the Motherland.
Vitali heard the noise first and instantly recognized the danger. His hand went immediately to inside his sport coat flap and came out with a powerful pistol. He was trained for this type of situation. Such a dumbass I am. I let my guard down. He spun on a dime and raised the pistol to fire at the car he knew would be approaching. As he made eye contact with the driver, he could see the smile on Sergei’s face. Vitali instantly realized who his attacker was. He squeezed off two shots before the bumper of the Lada crashed into his waist and propelled him in the air into the wall behind him. He died instantly.
Peter didn’t even have time to take in the scene before the Lada brushed by him, spinning him around and knocking him to the earth. As he lay on the ground, Peter saw the Lada continue forward and crash into the same wall that Vitali had hit. He couldn’t believe his eyes and fought to regain control of his senses. Peter got up as pain shot through his hip. He tried to ignore the discomfort and limped over to where Vitali was lying in a pool of blood. He then looked inside the vehicle.
The driver was dead, one of the rounds having blown out his eye socket. Peter then reached down and felt Vitali’s pulse. Nothing. He was gone.
Vitali’s words rang through Peter’s mind. I have his phone number. He reached down and rifled his dead friend’s pockets, pulling out a cell phone as well as the weapon from his hand and
a spare magazine. Peter got up immediately and looked around. The people were approaching. He heard a siren off in the distance. Someone must have called the police.
Peter started running. He ran and ran until he couldn’t run anymore then he ducked inside a small theater, bought a ticket, and sat down in the back of the establishment to think. Jesus, what the fuck to do now?
Chapter Eight
Connor finally stepped out of the small, twin-engine turboprop onto the hard pavement at the airstrip in Provideniya. The warm air was gliding off the Pacific Ocean into the mountains surrounding the port. He glanced around at the buildings of the town, and his first reaction was a feeling of extreme loneliness. The nondescript, Soviet, concrete apartment structures were like every other former Soviet city, except here, contrasted against the empty hills behind them, they looked even more forlorn. The residents had attempted to cheer them up by painting them in pastel colors to mimic some of the Dutch islands in the Caribbean, but the attempt was weak.
There was not a tree in sight. In fact, there was barely anything alive visible at all. Nothing but gray clouds, gray concrete, and gray mountains. It must be a really tough life out here, amongst the nothingness of the Bering Sea. He finally saw a few residents milling around the small terminal building. Emptiness. Nothingness. For days and days and years and years. Yes, a tough life indeed.
Completely alone himself, Connor started walking. He carried only a small bag over his shoulder, travelling light as usual. All his earthly belongings currently were in that satchel, including the money and the identity the terrorists had given him. He didn’t know where he was going, just that he felt the need to walk, to blend in, to experience the town for himself, to decide on a plan to get out of this freaking mess! He reached up and felt the bump in his upper arm, where the device was implanted. The incision had started to heal, and he would have to get the stitches out soon. Or should I leave them in? Will removing them trigger the device?
Soon he had walked up the small incline from the airstrip to the main road leading into town. His aircraft loaded quickly and took off once again. There was no reason to hang around this godforsaken place. Rusting shipping containers lined the shoreline, left to rot in the sea spray and hot sun. Connor could see the Orthodox crosses of a cemetery on the top of the hillside looking over town. It was complete desolation.
After walking a half mile, Connor heard several cars coming down the road behind him. He stuck out his hand flat, pointed to the ground, and immediately one of the vehicles travelling into town stopped to pick him up. It was the universal Russian signal for hitchhiking and worked everywhere in the former Soviet Union. The driver was an old member of one of the native Eskimo tribes that were split between the Russian and Alaskan sides of the Bering Sea. He looked ancient; his dark skin wrinkled with the ages, but his reflexes were sharp and there was a twinkle in his eye.
“Hello, stranger, I’ve never seen you in these parts,” he said in fluent English.
“Yes, it’s my first time here. How did you know I speak English?”
“Because it’s obvious you don’t speak Russian,” he said with a smile. “And you also don’t speak Yupik. So, you must be American? Da?”
Connor smiled and said nothing.
“Where should I take you in town?” the man asked.
“I’m not really sure. I guess I need a place to stay. Is there a hotel?”
“Well, it’s not really a hotel, kind of a guest house. But don’t worry, they have plenty of rooms available. Might I suggest we start somewhere else? After all, you’re going to need a guide tonight, right? Because you really have no idea what you’re doing, right?”
Connor smiled again. The man was perceptive in his old age.
“Okay, you got me. Where do we start?”
“Why the bar of course.”
“Take me to your leader,” Connor quipped. The man chuckled.
Soon they arrived at a building on the outskirts of town. It really wasn’t a building in Connor’s opinion; it was more of a cinder block shack. Once he walked inside, he realized the structure had a charm of its own. The winters were so brutal here that the residents didn’t spend much time on the outside; however, the inside was warmly decorated. Several customers sat at the bar while others lingered at tables. There was a small stage in the corner of the room. Connor followed the man to the bar and sat beside him. Before the bartender approached, he leaned over and asked, “What’s your name?”
“People call me Sam. I’ve long forgotten what my real Yupik name is. I suppose if I thought about it long enough, I could remember it, but what’s the point? Like I said, people know me as Sam.”
“Thanks for the lift into town.”
“Don’t worry about it. I could tell you weren’t from around here. So why don’t you tell me what you’re looking for?”
Connor reached into his pocket and pulled out the card with the name written on the back that Vitali had given him. Gennadi Ivanov. He showed it to his new friend. “I’m looking for this guy. Do you know him?”
Sam’s eyes widened. Then he smiled. “Yes, I know him.”
“Can you take me to him?”
“I can. But let’s sit here and drink for a while. You are in no hurry, are you? It’s rude to leave a new friend in such a short time. Have another drink!”
“Okay, my new friend, if you say so. I’m in your hands.”
Connor had to admit, he rather enjoyed the old man’s company. He told Connor of life in Provideniya over the last decades since the Great Patriotic War. He told of the changes he had seen and the things that had not changed at all, like the barrenness and the silence. Connor could see the pain in his eyes as he spoke of loneliness and the alcoholism the people faced on a daily basis.
“How do you survive all of this time?” Connor asked.
“We cling to our traditions. We help each other. In fact, you will see some of our traditions soon. Tonight we are drumming.”
“Drumming?”
“You will see. Just wait.”
Connor and the man talked for another hour or so then Connor noticed several of the men get up from their tables or leave the bar and head to the stage in the back corner. They each pulled up a chair on the platform, and then someone brought a large kettledrum and placed it in the center of the circle of sitting men. Then the drumming started as the men used large sticks with covered ends to create the sounds. It was slow at first but then progressed to a loud, pulsing, rhythmic beat. Soon the men added a native chant to the beats of the drum. Connor sat listening, mesmerized. After about ten minutes, Sam looked at Connor and waved him to an empty seat next to him. Why not? Connor thought. He got up and joined the drumming and the chanting. The festivities continued into the night.
The Yupik tribes had settled the area long before the Russians or Americans arrived and they flourished on both sides of the Bering Sea. Regular flights had reunited families after the fall of the Soviet Union. The traditions were very similar in Nome as they were in Provideniya.
At some point, Connor didn’t really remember when, the drumming stopped, and the men drunkenly wandered back to their tables or out into the night air. Connor found himself back at the bar with Sam. “Quite an unexpected night,” he said.
“Yes, I’m sure it must be for you. For us, it is normal. It is how we survive. Our traditions keep us sane. Come, I want you to meet someone.” Sam stood up from the bar and walked over to a corner table where one of the old men who had been drumming was sitting quietly, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette, the harsh smell wafting throughout the building and adding to the ambiance. He looked even more ancient than Sam, with deep crevices in his face; his skin was more fair and his beard full and gray. Connor and Sam walked up and asked to sit. The man looked at Connor with small slits of eyes as he agreed to the request with a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
“Connor,” said Sam. “Meet Gennadi Ivanov.”
Connor’s face lit up. “I’ve travelled here to
meet you, Mr. Ivanov.” Connor then realized he didn’t know if the man spoke English. He looked at Sam for help with that question.
“He can understand you but would prefer Russian, or German.”
“Well, my Russian is not the best. Maybe you could translate.” Sam proceeded to interpret the conversation.
“What do you want?” asked Gennadi in Russian.
“I want to know about the weapons lab in Provideniya during the Great Patriotic War, and what became of it and its personnel.”
“You want too much,” replied the Russian. “I no longer speak of those things.”
“Why?”
“Because the work was evil.”
“In what way?”
“You must already know why it was evil.”
“All I know is that it was concerning weapons of mass destruction. What was your role in the process? Did you work at the lab?”
“Yes, I worked at the lab, until it was moved farther into Siberia once the war was over. I was very young at the time. Now I am old. However, I remember it clearly. Still very clearly. One day I will pay for the sin of helping to create those weapons.” The man seemed to drift off to another place. Connor fumbled for a way to move the conversation forward.
“Did you know the spy the Soviets had in Berlin? Did you know of his research efforts and the information he brought back to the Soviet Union?”
The man turned to look at Connor and seemed surprised. “Yes, I knew him. He is my brother.”
Connor let out a slow whistle and sat back in his chair and looked at Sam, who had a concerned look on his face. He looked at his old friend Gennadi and said something incomprehensible. Gennadi waved off his concern with a hand.
Connor looked at Gennadi closely. He had to be over ninety years of age but still somewhat strong and alert.
“Where is he? Can I talk to him?”
“I haven’t seen him in over sixty years. The Soviets moved the lab away from the exposure of the coast and into the heartland of Siberia. They wanted to continue the research. My brother agreed and moved with them. I wanted nothing more to do with the research. I left the project and refused to be involved anymore. As I said, it was evil.”
