The Mingrelian

by Ed Baldwin

She laughed.

  “You sound like a Marxist. First, he had the money from dealings we’ve had that I haven’t discussed with you yet. Then, he had the connections. The current government is eager to enable larger farms, but farming requires capital to buy equipment and seed, and knowledge to use it to best effect. That’s why he hired a farm manager.”

  Boyd nodded but said nothing. The houses were similar but not exactly alike: two stories; covered porches all around; a ground floor that might double as barn for livestock storage or more rooms; a half-acre fenced yard planted with fruit trees and grapes; and some surrounding land grazing pigs and cattle. He’d never seen free-grazing pigs before, but here they were along the roadside, rooting away with the cattle, and dogs and chickens everywhere. Subsistence agriculture.

  “Boy, what a guy could do with a few hundred acres of that land and a John Deere 6 Series with accessories,” Boyd said, craning to see around a house at a larger field of maintained hay spotted with black and white cattle.

  “What’s a John Deere?” Niko piped up from the back seat, tired of being ignored.

  “That’s a big, green tractor,” Boyd responded, looking around for some kind of farm machinery to compare it with. There was no farm machinery in sight; none, of any type.

  “What’s a tractor?”

  “City boy,” Boyd nodded at Niko and turned around. For the next 10 minutes, in simple sentences with frequent translations from his mother, Niko learned what a fine piece of machinery a John Deere tractor was and what it could do. Then he heard stories of Boyd driving one when he was Niko’s age – possibly an exaggeration – and how to pick cotton.”

  “The Russians were here,” Ekaterina said, as they passed through Gori, 50 miles west of Tbilisi.

  “Really, here in the center of Georgia?” Boyd said, looking around.

  “They bombed those apartments over there,” she said as they sped along the divided highway through the small town, pointing at new apartment buildings. “We lived there. David was assigned to the training base here, before the war started.”

  “Oh.”

  “Our genius government decided we should take the province of South Ossetia back from the Russians, and the crazy Muslims who live there.”

  “Big mistake.”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you here when it was bombed?”

  “No, when the war started, Niko and I moved in with Grandfather. It all happened very fast.”

  Tears filled her eyes.

  “One week I was a young mother living with a soldier, the next I was a widow.”

  Boyd glanced into the back seat to see tears in Niko’s eyes as well. He didn’t have any words to cope with this. Had they been alone, he would have reminded Ekaterina that she was being courted by a soldier, and one with a far more dangerous job than her first husband had.

  They sped along in silence for a while, and he thought of his first flubbed relationship, where his determination to fly fast and free with his buddies in the wild blue yonder had scared off a fine, attractive woman. The fast and free in the wild blue yonder part was done now.

  Perhaps the swaggering, bulletproof hero stuff should be, too. Would his demons permit that? Once you’ve been Superman, can you be Clark Kent again?

  They entered a rocky, mountainous area with steep switchbacks. Trucks lumbered up hills, blocking traffic. Small hotels and signs of a resort industry, and people selling fruit and baskets, were along the road. Coming down from the hills, he could see the land flatten out again, only this time greener and wetter. He began to see banana and orange trees. The porches of the houses along the road had rows of long brown hanging cylinders that looked like skinny sausages.

  “What are those things?” Boyd asked as they whizzed by a roadside stand selling fruit and stacks of the dried brown things.

  “We’ll stop,” Ekaterina said, slowing down. “Niko loves churchkhela.”

  She continued driving, scrutinizing the stands. She found a promising one and pulled over.

  An older lady bundled in sweaters stood hopefully by her stand, which was laden with oranges, apples, pears and fruits Boyd had never seen. Her stack of brown, knobby-looking items, each with string protruding from one end, attracted his attention first.

  “This is churchkhela, which they make by cooking grape juice with some flour, then threading hazelnuts onto the string and dipping it in the grape must, then they dry it in the sun. It must be in the sun. You notice, all the racks drying are on the east or the south side of the houses. If you dry it in the shade it will spoil.”

  The woman cut off the end of one, revealing a string, then cut a small section and slid it off the string and handed it to Boyd. It was nutty, chewy and slightly sweet, not enough to be considered candy, but pleasant. He nodded.

  Ekaterina picked up a large stack and handed it to the woman to weigh.

  “Niko takes them to school with his lunch. You can get them in Tbilisi, but they aren’t as good.”

  “What’s that?” Boyd asked, pointing to a large, shiny, orange fruit with a crown of leaves at the top.

  “Oh, those are karalioki. They grow wild here.”

  “That,” Boyd said, picking one up and looking at it closely, “is a persimmon. They grow wild in Missouri, but they aren’t that big. You can’t eat those until they’re ripe,” he said, squeezing the fruit, which remained firm.

  “They’re ripe. Get some, they’re delicious.”

  They bought a big bag of fruit, including the persimmons, apples, pears, figs and smooth green fruits with a thick sour rind and a tasty sweet interior. The woman provided some fresh water from her well, and they washed the fruit and munched their way into Zugdidi.

  *****

  “The priest says a certain leeway from the usual prohibitions is permitted during the courting process,” she said, breathless, standing in the vineyard the next afternoon with her riding breeches down to her knees. They were dismounted, and Boyd knelt in front of her.

  “You saw mine, I should get to see yours,” he said, giving her a brief kiss.

  “And you have,” she said, shuddering as he touched her again.

  “Shall I stop?”

  “No.”

  *****

  “This is chacha,” Lado Chikovani said as he opened a cabinet in the parlor and brought out a bottle of clear liquid. They had just finished dinner with the whole family, and Ekaterina and her mother, Mariami, were clearing the dishes. He poured two small glasses, toasted to Boyd and downed his in one gulp. Boyd did the same.

  “Whew,” Boyd said as he raised his eyebrows. It was about as strong as straight vodka but with a much fruitier taste.

  “Not bad,” Boyd said. He’d downed shots of whisky, vodka, tequila and other distilled spirits, so this was not in any sense a chore. They had another.

  “We make it here,” Lado said, pointing toward the vineyard above the house where Boyd and Ekaterina had had such a pleasant ride a few hours before. He poured them another and walked to his chair and indicated that Boyd should have a seat. Then, he sat there, saying nothing, an expectant look on his face.

  “Ah ...” Boyd said. He was caught by surprise. This was no different than at home. At this point in a relationship, a man is supposed to communicate his level of interest to a girl’s father. Well, here they were. His heart began to pound. Part of him wanted to run, but he’d been the adolescent, swaggering fighter jock for too long. It was time to do something different.

  “Ah, I think I love Ekaterina,” he said simply.

  “I think she loves you,” Lado said, smiling and taking a sip of his estate chacha.

  Lado’s English was not as good as Ekaterina’s, so their talk was brief. Soon they were joined by the ladies, and the conversation took a rather abrupt change of direction.

  “Georgian law permits a much greater level of freedom in international-banking transactions than most countries,” Ekaterina explained, seated nex
t to her mother on a large couch. “We have taken advantage of that freedom and our longstanding friendship with certain families and businesses in Iran to help them circumvent the American embargo on Iran’s oil.”

  Boyd realized they were all watching him, gauging his reaction. They were taking some risk in revealing their business dealings, but they’d been taking these risks before he came along.

  “You and a lot of others,” he said. This was his third adventure that had bankers at its core, and he knew a bit about laundering money.

  “Without your relationships we wouldn’t have gotten the information we have,” Boyd said. “I have no problem with it.”

  The night went on for another hour or more, with talk of their families, their past, their dreams. His part of that was brief; he had no family. He was embarrassed at times with the candor they displayed, and he responded in kind with some details of his missions and the symptoms of his post-traumatic stress disorder and how it had affected him.

  *****

  “The priest has told me that it is a sin to spill the seed in a nonproductive place as that puts our will above God’s in deciding when to create a life,” she said midweek when they were alone at Grandfather’s apartment. “But, he said it can be forgiven occasionally as it is necessary as a demonstration that a potential partner is, uh, fertile.”

  “Yes, we need to know that,” he said, supine on the couch.

  “It shouldn’t be abused, of course,” she said seriously, kneeling beside.

  “Abuse of what, the practice or the organ?”

  “Neither.”

  “No,” he said, toes beginning to curl.

  “Oh, it works!”

  “Yes, a revelation at last.”

  *****

  “I’m eager to learn what the priest and your mother have in store for us this week,” Boyd said, meeting Ekaterina on the following Saturday afternoon at the Tbilisi Botanical Garden. “I feel like I’m dating a committee.”

  “The committee has decided it is time for you to meet the priest and learn about the Georgian Orthodox Catholic Church. There is a formal course, and it begins next week.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t look so glum. It’s not that bad, and I’ll go with you.”

  “That’s a plus, considering it’s probably not given in English. Do we get to do some more of that discovery process afterward?”

  She clasped her hands in front of her as she walked, and looked off in the distance, as if lost in deep thought.

  “Possibly,” she said with a smile.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” she said, looking back over her shoulder. “The Iranians have hit a hitch, and it will be another month before their nuclear triggers are operational with the plutonium weapons.”

  “Weapons, are they now. That’s the official military terminology. You’ve called them bombs before.”

  “That was the word used in the message this week.”

  “Hmm.”

  He put his hand in her back pocket, and they walked along looking at the dormant grass and deciduous trees without their leaves, nearly alone on an early winter afternoon. They were silent for several minutes, each lost in their own thoughts.

  “OK, more due diligence.”

  “I’m a banker. I know about due diligence,” she said.

  “I’ve told you about my, uh, adventures.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you know what I do is dangerous, and that I can’t just drop out. Not until this Iranian thing is done, whenever that is. I came here on a six month TDY, temporary duty. I was flying the embassy run from Incirlik, Turkey. After the assassination attempt, they pulled me off that and assigned me for a three-year tour at the embassy.”

  “I like that.”

  “Let’s say the Iranians fess up and quit trying to build a plutonium weapon. I’d probably go back to flying the embassy run, but still reside here.”

  “Good.”

  “You need to know something else about me. I didn’t mention this last week with your parents. I like action. I like it a lot. I’m not a guy who can just fly a bus around the world and watch people get on and off. I need to be up against something. I like speed, and fights, and noise.”

  “I’ve known that,” she said. “It shows.”

  Chapter 27: Betrayal

  “I

  t’s all you,” Rick Shands said as he spotted Boyd Chailland on the bench press, hands following the bar upward toward the rack.

  “Unnghh!” Boyd expelled his breath in a loud final heave and extended 295 pounds up to the level of the rack for Rick to guide back into place.

  “That is absolutely all I can do,” Boyd said, panting and sitting up. “That right shoulder just won’t extend all the way.”

  “Yeah, I could see it hang up just at the top of the extension. You’ve got to keep breaking down that scar tissue in the back,” Rick said, stepping to the side to remove a 35 pound plate. They’d been working out for nearly an hour, each coaching the other, spotting, encouraging, working together to add and take off the plates, move the bar, the bench, the pulleys, all the paraphernalia of the weight room.

  “Yeah, we need to get a speed bag in here,” Boyd said, removing the 35 from the other side. “I was making good progress back at Little Rock. When I started, I could just get to here,” he said, demonstrating a right cross punch and stopping it several inches before complete extension.

  Dabney St. Clair observed silently from across the room, riding steadily on the exercise bike while she pretended to read a book. She was decked out in her best Spandex workout pants, the pink ones. She had complained to the ambassador that the military members of the embassy staff took off during the duty day to run or work out at the gym. She felt this should be done on their own time, but the ambassador said he could see nothing wrong with that. She was here exercising her right to do the same.

  Marine Corps Maj. Rick Shands, military attaché and chief of security, was the smaller man, trim, compact, fit.

  Boyd Chailland, his deputy, was the larger man, well over 6 feet tall with long arms and, now that she could see him clearly in his tank top and cutoff sweat pants, very impressively muscled. The deltoid muscle, she mused, contributes to the pleasing sense of broad shoulders in a clothed man. But, seeing that muscle bare and in action in that bench press of what seemed an incredible amount of weight was … quite pleasant.

  Both men were sweating freely, coming to the end of more than an hour of intense exercise. The room was warm. There was a scent. Dabney increased her pace for a final sprint to the finish.

  “How much does that bar weigh?” Dabney asked, dismounting from her bike and approaching the weight area as Boyd and Rick were replacing the equipment.

  “It weighs 45 pounds, ma’am,” Shands said.

  She wished they’d be less formal. She was, after all, not that much older than they were. She was significantly higher in seniority, of course, and she understood that subordinates needed to maintain a certain distance. She dried her face with the towel and turned a quarter turn to take in the scene in the mirror, the three of them standing there, sweaty, tired, fit. Comrades. She thought her butt looked pretty good, too.

  “Uh, Boyd,” she said, assuming a more authoritative voice, “I received an invitation to a social event from the British Embassy. It’s this weekend, and I need someone to escort me.”

  “Which day?” He’d hesitated just a moment. Was he collecting his thoughts, checking a schedule?

  “Friday.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’d be happy to escort you.”

  “I’m not creating a conflict am I?” she asked.

  “Nothing that can’t be changed,” he said.

  But she detected just a hint of annoyance. She prided herself on reading people, and she read that he’d had something else planned. She had, after all, spent several years as a covert operator.

  “You seem to be gone a lot on weekends,”
she said, still annoyed that he hadn’t jumped at the chance to escort her to the German cocktail party weeks before.

  “It’s a cultural emersion,” he said seriously.

  She didn’t see Shands struggle to contain a laugh.

  *****

  “Our diplomatic mission here in Tbilisi is one of our most important,” Farhad Shirazi, the Iranian deputy ambassador, said as they strolled through the spacious dining room at the British Embassy. “We consider it a primary contact point for diplomatic initiatives. Such a sophisticated international community. Don’t you agree?”

  “Oh, completely, Farhad. If I may call you that,” Dabney said.

  “By all means. Among friends, we should be relaxed. Formality is for formal occasions.”

  Dabney was ecstatic. This was turning out exactly as she’d hoped. She was eager to be the conduit for a diplomatic communication between two great nations. Let those small minds back at CIA headquarters hold what opinions they would. Time would show that she was above all that pettiness.

  “I have been preparing an invitation, a formal invitation, for you to visit Iran as our guest,” he said, looking suddenly serious. “But there’s no reason I can’t bring it up now.”

  “Yes?” She could hardly contain herself. Her disappointment at Boyd’s lukewarm acceptance of her request to attend this necessary function was now dampened by this proposal by dark, mysterious, charming Farhad Shirazi, an ambassador.

  “Soon, perhaps next month, we will be hosting diplomats from several nations to tour some of our facilities and speak with our highest leadership about ...”

  He paused, looking into the distance, trying to get just the right word.

  “Uh, about our future as one of the leading democracies in the world. We would like you to be one of those diplomats.”

  “Oh, of course,” she said gaily. She caught Boyd’s eye across the room and raised her empty wine glass. He nodded and headed back to the bar.

  “It would have to be handled discretely,” Shirazi said. “Some embassy personnel might feel slighted if the invitation went to you.”

  “I have the complete trust of the ambassador, and I feel certain our diplomatic mission would support such a trip with enthusiasm.”