Morgan Stone - The Russian Factor

“And what if it doesn’t, Jack? Huh, ever think of that?” I growled to myself while breaking the situation down into individual problems, each with its own outcome and ramifications. I went at the computers and their not-so-legal peripherals, ripping up cables I’d run, prying loose cameras, antennas, hubs and transceivers. They had somehow multiplied and entwined during their few weeks in service. There was more junk than I remembered, and none of it, other than the two laptops, was the kind of stuff one would find at the corner computer store.

My frantic network demolition got to Anna. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like? Getting out of here.”

“What about me? The Skater — what you call my mother, she will find me.”

“The Skater?”

“Da, The Skater . I saw your pictures… papers.” Anna waved at the documents spilling from the table. “I found them today, remember?”

“Wish I could forget, and yes, I suppose your mother will find you. You practically begged her to snatch you out there.” I piled more computer junk on the table.

Anna paled. “But I told you, I had to see for myself what was the truth, what is going on. Now I do not know whom to trust. Where will I go? My life is falling apart because you dragged me into this and now you are just getting out?”

I slapped a rat’s nest of cable and peripherals onto my growing junk pile. My mind reeled. I was focused on getting to the airport and getting out. Visa requirements imposed on Russians meant that Anna wasn’t getting out anytime soon. Either I ditch the girl and make a break for the first plane heading west, then poison my guilty conscience with enough whiskey to drop a water buffalo, or I find her somewhere to hole up in Ukraine. I hate snap life-and-death decisions! “Why does this shit always happen to me?” I growled in English.

“What is happening to you ?” Anna picked up in Russian. “I am sorry. I know it was stupid. What was I thinking? I saw her there… so close. My mother! That was my mother out there. Those people, Sergei, boxes of money! I could not be sure of anything. Oh Jess, I needed to be sure.”

“Well, now you are! You have all the confirmation in the world and because of your need-to-know we’re in some damned serious danger. They’ll kill us in the blink of an eye! No joke. You don’t cross these people. You don’t even let them know you exist!”

“Jess, I am no spy! How was I supposed to know what these people are or how to deal with them? I did not ask you to get me into this.”

“Holy crap, am I ever sorry it came out like this, Anna, but you had to know. It’s for your own good. Your survival is at stake. I thought you knew what was involved. Showing you the evidence sure should have cleared up any doubts. You had a chance to get out quietly before it all came crashing down.” I shook my head. “Down there, on the street, all you had to do was stay down and keep your mouth shut. Don’t you get it? You signed your death warrant out there! Probably mine too, if I don’t cut and run.”

“Do you take me with you? Please, Jess. I can be useful and I want to be with you.”

“Oh shit, this isn’t going to end well, I just know it,” I switched back to Russian mid sentence, “Fine, I’m not going to leave you in this mess. I can’t! I don’t have it in me or I’d already be gone.” The roof would have fallen in on her eventually, but my letting her blow that payoff brought it down a lot quicker. She just might survive the implosion of her world if she stuck with me. “Grab what you can then help me get rid of this junk. We’ve got to run and I mean now!”

The doorstop, a cast-iron, bandura playing, Ukrainian Cossack, effectively pulverized most of the electronics. Anna held a doubled green garbage bag and I dumped in rotting kitchen waste followed by the smithereens of illicit computer gear. I gave the thing a good shake, turning it into one stinky mélange. I’d find a dumpster somewhere, preferably one on fire, and chuck the bag in. The documents were another problem. There were a lot of them and they were a security risk. Without a fireplace to burn them in, we were taking them with us.

Into my Roots Canada pack, I stuffed the two laptops, all the memory cards I could find, my Leicaflex camera, ID, money, credit cards, phones and anything else that would fit. It felt like an overstuffed bag of doorknobs. Anna crammed her travel documents, toiletries and who knows what else, into her nylon bag. In an I heart NYC duffel bag I found lying around, I packed what I hoped were all the documents from the job and a terabyte size external hard drive. That thing, resembling a hefty metal brick, wasn’t designed for portability in any way. With luck, the I heart NYC bag wouldn’t burst at the seams.

It was 8:00 pm. Time to go. Other than the usual megaphone protester, it was dark and quiet around the Prokuratura. Every parked car was a threat, approaching headlights, a pursuit and dark passageways, hiding places. Heading for the Pecherska subway station, we ended up retracing the route of that morning’s Block Yuliya demonstrators.

The Central Election Commission’s square was lit up and noisy. Dozens of booths from different parties occupied the open area. A carnival atmosphere provided good cover and a chance to lose any tail we might have picked up. The radical Green Party encampment looked like the right place to ditch the mashed electronics. They’d set up a camp, complete with oil-drums, marked as radiation hazards, spewing flames and choking black smoke. The young radicals were more than happy to add my garbage to the fire. They chortled at my promise the electro-junk, plastic and other nasties, crammed in the hefty-bag, would produce lots of toxic smoke. It would stink up the Central Election Commission’s offices, big-time, or so they hoped. I’d have given them the I heart NYC duffel bag of documents, but wasn’t going to wait around to ensure they all got burned — and stirred, just for good measure.

“What now, Jess?” Anna asked. “We have to go somewhere.”

“I know and it’s bloody freezing.” The black granite maw of a subway entrance gaped nearby. “Downtown, my dear, that’s where one goes for nightlife in the glittering heart of Ukraine.”

“ Choomeechka — crazy girl.” She stood, staring at me.

“Come on, let’s go.” I grabbed her by one bright red mitten.

We ducked underground, hopped on the subway and ended up resurfacing in Maydan Nezalezhnosti — Independence Square — right downtown.

“So, where do we go now?” Anna’s breath became an instant ice cloud.

“I don’t know, but it’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey.”

“What?”

“Forget it… an expression. It loses something in Russian.” I turned toward what looked like a hotel. “We need to get inside.”

The Grand Eastern — Hotel Kiev, a nondescript anonymous monolithic structure was convenient and as good a place as any to come in from the cold. I got a room using my credit card, wondering too late if that was a good idea. What the hell, nobody knew my name… or did they? On the way to the elevators I noticed a topless bar stuffed to the rafters with male clientele. “How do you like that? We’re spending the night in a brothel.” I was steamed.

“How can you care about that? It is inside.” Anna looked almost relieved. Taking one of the I heart NYC duffel bag’s straps and some of its weight, she said, “Have we not, as you are so fond of saying, ‘got bigger fish to fry?’”

The room’s 1970’s decor gave it a Soviet hominess reminiscent of the Grand Eastern’s previous incarnation as an Intourist flagship. The prevalent stench of stale cigarette smoke left my eyes watering. I booted a laptop and risked the Wi-Fi to establish a connection to my email through Sandy’s cousin’s proxy server in Germany. Just a WHAT-THE-HECK’S-GOING-ON-NOW? rant, from Gavin, written in the all-caps chat equivalent of yelling.