by Terry Toler
“She matches the description,” Petrov argued. “How many blonde, American girls are walking around Minsk? Not very many.”
“We checked her out thoroughly when she went through customs. The girl is legit. We pulled up her birth certificate and matched her social security number. We’ve seen her college transcripts. She has credit cards, a Facebook page. She already has pictures of Minsk posted on her Instagram and Snapchat accounts.”
Petrov knew Americans were good at creating cover stories for their operatives. His boss would know that as well. Creating fake documents and social media pages were easy enough for the Americans to do.
“I don’t know who she is,” Petrov said. “But why is she even in Minsk, traveling alone? It seems suspicious. She might be a spy or something.”
“She doesn’t fit the profile for a spy,” Kozlov retorted. “We can’t hassle her without proof, even if she is a spy.”
“I don’t want to hassle her, I just want to ask her a few questions,” Petrov explained.
“I’m under intense pressure from the higher ups to lay off American tourists,” Kozlov rebutted.
Belarus was trying to encourage more Americans to visit. For a number
of reasons, Americans avoided Belarus and opted for the surrounding countries instead. Tiny Estonia had twice the number of American visitors every year and it didn’t have near the attractions Belarus had. The President had sent a specific directive that American tourists were to feel welcome in Belarus. Police harassing them did not make them feel welcomed. Petrov knew that his boss was not about to go against that directive without a good reason.
“Remember the Chinese woman from a few years ago who came here and was seducing rich men at parties?” Petrov said. “Government men. She was spying, trying to extract information. She left the country before we could capture her. I don’t want that to happen again.”
Petrov started on the force after Perestroika, so while the official policy was more openness and reform, the police and military were the last to accept the changes. Both Petrov and Kozlov were old school and longed for the days of communist rule and a police state where whatever the Militsia said was the law and they could enforce it in whatever way they saw fit. That’s why Petrov could push back to some extent. He had a lot of years of experience.
“This girl says she has a boyfriend back home. What was his name?” Kozlov thumbed through the paperwork. “Alex. She has a boyfriend named Alex.”
Petrov started to say something, but Kozlov interrupted him, raising his voice and getting more annoyed. “The report says she’s doing research for a graduate paper. There’s nothing about her in our database that would suggest she’s anything other than a grad student. You need more proof before you can bring her in for questioning. Even if she is a spy, I don’t think we’d want to bring her in. We’d want to follow her and see what we find. Besides, I’m not buying the boy’s story. Why would an American spy attack them on the streets for no reason?”
“I agree,” Petrov said, realizing that arguing with the boss wasn’t getting him anywhere. He’d try a different approach. “Something about the boy’s story doesn’t make sense either,” he continued. “He might be trying to pin it on her to hide something he was doing wrong. I pulled the two boys records. They were involved in a few minor crimes when they were kids. Graffiti. Truancy. Little stuff like that. Nothing major. They aren’t connected to any gangs.”
“It does seem suspicious and highly coincidental, but we don’t have enough to go on. Have your man follow her for a couple more days. There’s a picture of her in the file that was taken at the customs office. Go to the hospital and see if the kid can positively ID her. Have you searched her hotel room?”
“Yes. But we didn’t find anything.”
“Search it again. Look more thoroughly. Stop her on the street for a routine check of her passport. Tell your men to be considerate and nice and not to do anything to raise suspicion. Have them search her bag and see if they find anything. If you don’t find anything in a couple days, then cut her loose. I don’t want to waste any more manpower on her than we have to. If she is up to no good, you should know it immediately.”
“If the kid IDs her, then what?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. If you find anything in her hotel room or on her person, then we’ll turn her over to the KGB. If she’s hiding something, they’ll find out what it is.”
“I think she’s more than just a tourist,” Petrov said.
“You don’t get paid to think,” Kozlov said in a huff. “You get paid to agree with what I think. Now get out of here.” He waived his hand dismissively.
Petrov left without another word. Back in his office, he found Fabi still sitting right where he’d left him. “I want you to follow the girl for two more days,” he told Fabi. “Don’t let her out of your sight. Do you think she’s spotted you?”
“No. She definitely doesn’t know I’m there,” Fabi answered confidently.
“Good. Keep it that way. Have her hotel room searched again. This time have them look closer and go through every nook and cranny. Stop her and do a routine search. Check out her passport and visa and make sure it’s in order. Have them search her bags. They can even pat her down if they’re suspicious. Something’s not right about this girl, but I don’t know what it is. I want you to find it.”
“I think she’s just a tourist.”
“You don’t get paid to think. You get paid to agree with what I think.”
“Yes sir.”
Lieutenant Petrov took a picture of the girl out of the file and headed to the hospital.
***
Fabi let out a deep sigh of relief and left the office. He called his wife. “Honey. I’m going to be home late tonight. Don’t wait up for me. I’m working on a big case. If I can break this case open, I can get in good with the Inspector. I might even get a commendation or a promotion with a raise. Don’t tell anyone, but I think I’m tracking an American spy. Wish me luck.”
***
Jamie was still sound asleep in her hotel room.
9
Pinsk, Belarus
Candice “Candy” Smith sat in her plush office in Pinsk, Belarus, loving life and thrilled with the business adventure that had brought her there. Pinsk was a quaint town on the southwest side of Belarus in the province of Brest. A far cry from L.A. and the glitz, glamour, and nightlife Candy grew up in as a Valley Girl. But she loved it, nevertheless. Candy was born in Hermosa Beach, California. She attended UCLA for one year but got bored and dropped out, never able to apply her drive and perfectionism to the pursuit of education.
Her father died unexpectedly of a heart attack when she was nineteen, and she blamed her alcoholic mother, who spent too much of his money and was more interested in her country club friends than in her husband. From that point on, Candy looked for her every opportunity to disappoint her mother and get as far away from her as possible. Pinsk was exactly 6,604 miles from her mom’s house in the San Fernando Valley. Just far enough, as far as she was concerned.
Candy sat in a high-back leather chair, idling her time, admiring the view. Two sides of the office were solid windows looking out at the large, white, steeple of the Franciscan Church of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary and Monastery that dominated the sky and was the number-one tourist attraction in Pinsk. While she had no religious affiliation or interest in anything spiritual and hadn’t stepped foot in a church in years, she often found herself staring at the church, feeling some type of deep connection. A spiritual oneness with either the Virgin Mary or the female nuns who’d taken vows of celibacy, or perhaps both.
Ironic. Considering her line of work.
“You look nice today as usual,” her assistant Jada said, interrupting her thoughts as she brought a file in and laid it on her desk.
“You do as well,” Candy responded.
Jada had to look nice. Candy demanded it, and Jada complied. Something necessary, considering t
heir entire business was centered around finding beautiful girls. Candy remembered the first time Jada came in for an interview. She’d worn a plain-colored brown dress with flats. Except for the fact that she was exceptionally beautiful, she would’ve been kicked right out of the office without a single question. But Candy saw something in Jada and hired her on the spot, transforming her into the gorgeous assistant who stood before her today in a skin-tight, mini, black faux-leather dress, pumps, and a green scarf to accent it. Her long, silky, black hair was thick and shiny. Hair Candy would give anything to have been born with.
“Your first appointment is here,” Jada said.
“Have her wait. I’ll see her in a minute.”
She looked around the office to satisfy herself everything was in order. The office was modern and stylish. A white, built-in bookcase covered the entire left wall. The books were only for decoration and were neatly arranged by a designer who charged more than $15,000 American dollars to create what was the nicest office in all of Pinsk.
Her handcrafted pedestal desk from Italy was organized with no papers, a decorative lamp, a computer, and a white acrylic statue of a man and woman embracing. A perfectionist by nature, Candy insisted her office always reflect her attention to detail. Always be reflective of the elegance of the person occupying it.
The desk had a transparent glass top with no drawers and an L-shape return with two drawers. Not having drawers in the front allowed Candy’s long, slender, and perfectly proportioned legs to be displayed so that they were the first thing most people saw when they walked into the room. The second thing they usually saw was her breathtaking beauty.
Although a normal day at the office, Candy was dressed for success. She wore a high-waisted, black-leather designer mini-skirt, tight and form fitting. Her Rio red blouse had a plunging V neck, the three-quarter sleeves made of perfectly draped, silk fabric. Her shoes were bright red spiked, closed toe, patent leather Versace stilettos, and were the most expensive item in her presentation, including her jewelry, which was made up of diamond hoop earrings and one classic princess-cut diamond ring which was her grandmother’s wedding ring. Something she wore proudly on the middle finger of her left hand. Hands and fingers that were perfectly manicured with French nails mailed in from Paris once a month.
Candy hit the intercom button on her phone and said, “I’ll see her now.” She liked to keep the girls waiting so they would become even more nervous. The girls must both admire and fear her. Something she started instilling in them with the first meeting.
She stood and walked around the desk as a young, nineteen-year-old woman entered, escorted by Jada.
Candy held out her hand and said in a friendly manner, “My name is Candice, but everyone calls me Candy.”
“Hi. I’m Olga,” she said nervously.
Olga’s hands were sweaty and clammy but not shaking, clearly doing everything she could to present a composed manner. Her shoulders were back and her head up. She looked Candy in the eye when she shook her hand. A good first impression—except for the clothes.
Olga was wearing a pink midi-skirt, a white blouse with ruffles, and a knockoff brown leather jacket whose sleeves came down just below the elbow. Her hair was chocolate brown and shoulder length, parted slightly off the center to the left. Her nails were painted a shade of pink that didn’t match her skirt. Her brown, two-inch heeled shoes were scuffed, and while she obviously tried to polish them before she came to the meeting, they were noticeably worn. As was the dirty brown handbag with a long strap that had seen better days.
Candy grinned slightly. Everything about the outfit was wrong. But Olga had a quality. A girl-next-door beauty. Outfit and styling could be changed. Poise and elegance could be taught. But inner beauty was innate. The girl either had it or she didn’t. If she didn’t, she would be rejected immediately. Candy had been doing this long enough to know which girls would be successful in the program and who would wash out. Nina had potential to be one of her best girls.
“How did you hear about us?” Candy asked.
“I saw your website and I filled out an application. Someone called me, and I met with her… I believe her name was Tatiana. And here I am.” She put both hands out in front of her with her palms up and shrugged her shoulders as a gesture to say this is me. This is what you get. For better or for worse.
The website was called bellesofbelarus.com. Tatiana was one of twelve salespeople—all women—who Candy hired to go throughout Belarus and recruit the women. Within a few months, they had a waiting list of more than twelve-hundred women who were waiting to be matched with men. They had so many applicants, they also began recruiting women to serve as escorts at the casinos in Minsk. A select few were flown to the Middle East to service the clients there.
She’s cute.
Olga was well spoken, confident, and appropriately nervous. Anyone would be in that setting.
Candy flipped through the file. “It says you are nineteen. Are you a virgin?”
Olga blushed and looked down, shaking her head no.
“Tatiana said I didn’t have to be,” Olga said, her voice shaking.
The answer didn’t matter. Candy just wanted to see her reaction. About half the girls she saw were still virgins at nineteen. So, half weren’t. Some American men requested virgins, but most didn’t. Some preferred women with sexual experiences. The casinos in Minsk definitely wanted experienced girls. Nina was better suited for the mail-order-bride business. “Why do you want to go to America?” Candy asked.
Olga’s eyes began to sparkle as a look of excitement came over her face. “I want to make a better life for myself. I want to go to school and be an architect.”
Olga went on to share about her background and family troubles. Candy let her continue uninterrupted. Olga was a typical Belarusian woman. The unemployment rate for young, single women in Belarus was more than fifty percent, so there were a lot of women looking for work. Olga had her share of family and work troubles. Unable to afford college, she’d likely end up working for the state, destined to a life consumed by long hours at a demanding and demeaning job. Candy didn’t let herself have emotional attachments to the girls, but that didn’t mean she didn’t feel sorry for them and their plight. It warmed her heart to know she was helping these girls.
The decision was made. Olga was in. She’d get her on the next group of girls going to America.
“Here’s how it works,” Candy said. “We’re going to schedule you for a complete makeover. Hair, makeup, nails, and spa treatments. Then we’ll do a photo shoot. A photographer will create a portfolio of pictures for the website.”
“I can’t afford all of that,” Olga said hesitantly.
“It’s all provided,” Candy said dismissively. “We pay the cost. We’ll get you a visa, passport, and pay for your plane ticket to America. However, I need to know that you’re serious about going. You’re going to marry an American man sight unseen. Are you okay with that?”
“I understand. I will grow to love him.”
One of the reasons the program was so successful. Belarusian women were notoriously loyal. Subservience to men was ingrained in them from childhood. A philosophy Candy could never accept but admired in her girls.
“What if he doesn’t like me?” Olga asked.
“He will. I’m sure of it. But if he doesn’t, you’ll stay in America while we try to find you another match. If we can’t find one, then you’ll come back here and go back on the waiting list until we find someone. I don’t think you’ll have a problem. Once you’re married, you’ll be a US citizen. You can divorce him after one year and still maintain your citizenship.”
Candy took out the file and handed Olga a piece of paper. A confidentiality agreement.
“Read this over. This is the most important thing. You’re not allowed to contact your family for a year. You can’t tell them anything about the process or who you are matched with. They will not be able to contact you. Before you leave for America, you’ll
write letters and cards that we will mail to them over the year. Do you understand that?”
Olga nodded yes.
“If an emergency comes up, we’ll contact you. If you agree to those terms, sign the document, and we’ll get you started on your makeover.” Candy took a pen out of her desk and handed it to Olga. She took the pen and signed the form. Candy called for Jada to come back into the office.
“Olga is going to join us. Get her set up for a makeover.” “Congratulations, Olga. You’re in.” A wide smile came on the girl’s face as she let out a little squeal of delight.
Candy stood, walked around the desk, and gave Olga a hug.
“You’re going to do very well. I’m confident we can find you a husband in America.”
***
The unusual career path started for Candy right after her father died when she was approached by a friend who told her she could make good money dancing privately for rich men. Shortly thereafter, she found her calling. She didn’t need the money. She had a trust fund with more money in it than she’d ever need. The thrill and the control she had over men was what she loved. She didn’t find it demeaning; she found it empowering. She signed a contract with a company called VIP escorts and became one of their top women. Men paid as much as a $1,000 an hour for her time. Seventy percent of that was her take. Anything extra was negotiated between her and the men.
She quickly earned a reputation for being discreet, beautiful, and worth whatever she cost. When asked to go to the Middle East for $20,000 to meet privately with a real estate developer from Turkey, she agreed. Her father did a lot of business in Saudi Arabia and Oman, so she was familiar with the area, and as a girl, dreamed of meeting a prince or rich Middle Eastern businessman.
The man’s name was Omer Asaf.
Eventually, Candy started acting as a liaison and coordinated other American girls to come to the Middle East for what they called “sessions.” Omer set up a company, and they shared the profits equally. It became highly lucrative, and Candy started making more than a million dollars a year—tax free—since the money was run through a Turkish company.
