Morgan Stone - The Russian Factor

By the time the cigarettes were smoked down to the filters and the drivers looked uncomfortably cold, one of the Prokuratura’s front doors opened and issued forth a high ranking official. Clad in his impeccably tailored suit and fine Italian shoes, the official moved to the sidewalk by the Mercedes and casually looked around as though he were waiting for a bus. He showed no interest or recognition when Vladimir stepped out of the Lexus, crossed the street and got into the back seat of Sergei’s Mercedes. Sergei, also playing at oblivious to what was going on in his car, ground out his cigarette, crossed his arms, and turned his back to the vehicle. That must have been the official’s invitation, because he deftly opened the driver’s side back door and got into the Mercedes.

“Damn, it’s all gonna happen in the car.” I fumed, looking over the balcony and seeing no sign of Galina. At least I had photographs of the cars, license plates, and people getting in and out, but without seeing the subjects together, it wasn’t the kind of evidence that could prove association. I had just enough time to reload the camera before all three, Vladimir, The Skater, and the well dressed official got out of the Mercedes. Hugging and kissing, they presented me with perfect shots before moving to stand behind the car. Yana Keitel, Anna’s mother, The Skater, unlocked and opened the trunk. Inside were cardboard boxes marked soy sauce in Cyrillic. I saw it all clearly through my viewfinder while getting great shots.

Vladimir leaned into the trunk and slit one of the boxes, revealing bundles of cash. The official reached for one, examined it, tossed it back into the box. He signaled to the two previously disinterested Prokuratura guards. They approached the car and reached into the trunk. Like a shot, they withdrew and backed off. I heard Galina shouting, “Stop, get back here!”

I dropped the camera and stuck my head up to look over the balcony. Anna was striding toward the Mercedes. The door to the residential building she had just emerged from slammed shut behind her. The group at the back of the Mercedes was dumbfounded as Anna approached. The Skater barked something at the two men. They took off. She slammed the trunk and spun around to face her daughter. The official ducked back into the Prokuratura followed by his bodyguards. Vladimir made a beeline for his Lexus across the street.

Sergei, forgotten in the background, leaped into action, sprinting toward where he heard Galina’s shout. Hoping she’d seen him, my mind screamed silent warnings of screw ups and betrayals. Fighting to control surging panic and the impulse to do something really stupid like cry out a warning to Galina, I watched, and even photographed, Yana frantically dealing with her daughter’s unexpected confrontation.

Fixating on what I saw through the viewfinder, I almost missed Vladimir’s Lexus fishtailing out of the driveway and onto Gusovsky Boulevard. I could hear Anna shouting at her mother, but couldn’t make out the heated conversation. I certainly heard the Skater holler for Sergei as Anna broke free of her mother’s grasp. She sprinted for the entrance of our apartment building. Paralyzed, I watched Anna punch in the lock code with Sergei closing on her fast. She swung the door open and pulled it hard. It slammed just as Sergei crashed into it. He yanked at the door a couple of times, then scanned the building. I yanked my head back, pressing my body into the snow on the balcony. I was afraid to breathe. He returned to the Mercedes. Before getting in behind the wheel, he looked the apartment building up and down. The Mercedes drove off slowly.

I crawled into the apartment. Anna was pounding on the door before using the key. She burst in, flung her mitts across the room and kicked off her boots. I said nothing. I was frozen, physically and emotionally.

“I saw the money.” Anna muttered. “What do we do now?”

“We?” I was finally moving. First thing I thought of was collecting canisters of exposed film, taping them to the back of the cupboard. I sure as hell didn’t want to be caught with that kind of evidence. I’d be holding a smoking gun pointed at the syndicate.

Anna said nothing. She just watched me hiding film and pounding on laptops. I backing up and re-encrypted data on memory chips. Those I pocketed. I was pretty damn sure of my own encryption.

I heard Galina’s key in the lock. She stomped into the apartment and grabbed her bag. “I got nothing,” Then, turning to Anna, “You bitch! You are either a traitor or you are very, very stupid.”

“Nothing?” I asked.

“Not a thing. I was too busy keeping us both from getting killed.”

“I’ve got film. And there’s data.”

“No good. This investigation is over, at least my part in it.” Galina snapped at Anna. “It is over for everyone. They know we are here now. They will do anything they can to find us, find out what happened and stop the damage. That was not only your mother down there!”

“I am not a traitor, I did not tell anyone about you.” Anna said.

“Well you ran right for the apartment. Pointed it out for them. Your mother is going to think it is an accident you showed up in the middle of a payoff? If they are not looking for me, they certainly are looking for you — daughter of The Skater — and now they know exactly where you are. It is just a matter of time.”

Galina started for the door. “I am done,” she told me. “We are in great danger.” She punched something into her cell phone and hit send. “You must right away get out of Ukraine.” She emphasized it in English for my benefit. Then she popped the back off her phone, pulled out the SIM card, snapped it between her teeth and pocketed the pieces.

“I don’t know what to say.” I reached out to shake her hand. “Where are you going?”

Galina pulled away. “Right.” She said sarcastically. “You think I will tell you? With her standing there? I am leaving Kiev now. You better do the same. I hope we never meet again.”

“Gavin, what do I do with your stuff?”

“I don’t care. Just don’t get caught with it.”

“That’s it? That’s all you’ve got to say?” I wanted to hear something — anything — reassuring.

“Well shit, Jess. You wake me in the middle of the night, calling from god-knows-where after screwing up god-knows-what.”

“This has never happened before. Never! What now?”

“What do you want from me? Deep-six the gear and get out of there.”

“Okay, okay, okay…”

“And do it now! Figure it out, Jess. This is your line of work. Why are you on the phone to me? Get the lead out and call me safe…” Click.

A bushel of documents and photos littered the apartment. Anna was catatonic. Hugging herself, she stared down at the street in front of the Prokuratura. My clothes were spread randomly throughout the place, including an abandoned wad, wet and molding in the washing machine. The fridge was full of leftovers. The sink was buried under dirty dishes. Rotting garbage overflowed the wastebasket onto a platoon of empty whiskey bottles beside it. Anna’s suitcase looked like it exploded. The contents — makeup and toiletries included — covered every horizontal surface of her room. In short, I didn’t have a hope in hell of hiding my tracks before getting out of there or getting caught.

I put the phone down before throwing it. For some reason I remembered most of the cowling and the starboard cylinder-head blowing itself off a Cessna 150 Aerobat on takeoff. That was years ago and I was just as panicked then. Jack, sitting right-seat, laughed, put his hand on my shoulder, told me to lower the nose, set up a glide and do nothing until I had taken a breath and gathered my wits. I could almost feel that hand and hear him say, “Take a breath. The answer will come.”