Morgan Stone - The Russian Factor

“Criminal! Then why have you not called the police? Tell me, Mama, why not call the…”

The Skater pulled back and shoved the table into Anna’s diaphragm. “Enough! Shut-up now.”

Anna doubled over.

Sergei analyzed the crowd for signs of unwelcome intervention. I froze. Maybe he wouldn’t notice me. I’d slipped off my backpack, concealing it by my feet. My oversized suede, fake-fur-trimmed, parka was one thing, but that Roots Canada pack was a dead giveaway.

The Skater finally came apart at the seams. Her voice hoarse, she accused her daughter of being an embarrassment, of betraying her, of being a danger to both of them and probably not worth saving.

I figured The Skater was on thin ice with the syndicate and running in damage control mode. I wasn’t sure what Sergei was up to. Was he there to help The Skater or was he marching on someone else’s orders?

It was only for a split second, but Anna made eye contact. Instant recognition, then she stood, lifting the table with her hips, and faced off against her mother, “No! I will not go with you!”

The Skater sprang for the table. Anna flinched. My autonomic reflexes had me standing before I realized it. No turning back; I was involved now. “Stop! Let her go.” I shouted, sweeping back my hood.

Anna shoved hard on the table, calling for help. This time it was Sergei who slammed it back. The Skater snapped around to look at me and I swear I saw a replay of the hatred I’d seen in that 8 by 10 glossy, her fist-like face contorted grotesquely and she screamed at me, “Go away!”

Go away , didn’t make sense.

I saw Sergei thinking the same thing just before his face hardened, expressionless. Military programming was taking over and everything was about to change.

Lunging for the table, I yelled at the stunned diners, “Call the police!”

Sergei’s pistol whipped across my right temple. My vision cracked with lightning and my knees buckled. I became hyper-aware of Sergei’s hands clamping on my collar, hauling me up. I saw the gun jammed in his waistband, his right fist pistoning up toward my sternum. Some kind of Tai Chi embedded programming took over and I think I repulsed the monkey at light speed. His strike slid up my left arm, glancing off my shoulder. Holding my collar with his left, he pulled his right fist back for another blow. I went for his gun with my right hand while bringing my right leg up between his. Concentrating, I didn’t know where his right fist was or where he intended to land it. All I could think about was planting my right knee where it would count most, and getting that damn gun.

Three things were about to happen, in what order, was going to make all the difference.

I felt the gun’s grip in my right hand. Someone was screaming. My knee had stopped moving upward. There was an impossibly bright flash and the world was spinning.

Sergei’s right fist landing squarely on my jaw and an extra shove from his left, sent me flying. I was aware of the floor, hard and cool through an onrushing tide of pain. Rolling to see my attacker, I spotted the pistol skidding on the floor by my feet. The loose gun had the diners bolting for the stairs and Sergei scrambling to retrieve it. I kicked the gun into the stairwell and then… nothing.

Next thing I was aware of was a security guard barking at me with a wad of wet paper towel. Strange offering, I thought, until I tasted blood and noticed my eyebrow dripping. “Where are they?”

“No problem. The police took them… outside. You are okay? Need a doctor?”

“Nyet, I need to go.” I grabbed the wad and got up. Wiping blood from my eyes and concentrating to steady myself, I started after the group.

A full blown blizzard had whipped up. Getting outside into the deep cold and blowing snow sharpened my focus and felt good. Several cops worked at lighting cigarettes in the wind shadow of McDonald’s while their prisoners stood near them in handcuffs. No one was in a hurry. I got within a few meters and stood, watching, wondering where the police cars were. Eventually the security guard opened the restaurant door and called me over to get my backpack. I couldn’t come up with words, Russian or otherwise, and just took it. The cops, cigarettes lit, led their prisoners away.

I followed the group, hanging back a few meters. The cops didn’t care. We got to a road-spanning iron gate about a block down a service road from McDonald’s. A guard, sporting a machine gun, opened it and the group entered. Then he sneered at me, spat in the snow and slammed the gate in my face.

Police intervention certainly added another layer of complication to a situation I saw as nothing less than an irrationally evolving chaos. Losing track of Anna dashed any hope I had of getting her out. She must have had a similar thought because she stood her ground and started shouting, this time in English.

English hollered outside a Ukrainian police detachment cranked the excitement up a notch or two. I begged the gate-guard to let me in, promising I would defuse the situation once inside. All it got me was tersely brushed off. “If you want to file a report, you have to do it at headquarters. No foreigners in here!”

In spite of this, one of the cops decided to let me in. He and the guard shared a few good whispers and chuckles, parting with genial back slaps. The gate was opened a crack and the machine gun toting guard ordered me to stand just inside the compound. Anna’s group headed for the police building and the guard waddled into his ramshackle hut. That was it. I was left standing, bleeding from my head, out in the compound during a blizzard.

An hour went by. I was literally freezing. Blowing into my mitts and stomping my frozen feet was ineffective. It was a matter of minutes before I’d be forced to find shelter in a public building outside the compound. No doubt that was the deal between the cops and the gate guard.

Then Sergei came trudging through the snow. A half grin on his face resolved as he approached. No handcuffs, no escorts this time. I thought it was curtains when his eyes locked on mine and his right ungloved hand slid into his jacket. He pulled out his cell phone.

I flinched.

He laughed, “Tee-lee-phone, Eee-dee-ot!” and kept laughing as he plowed a path toward and out the gate like nothing at all had happened. Outside the compound he poked at his phone like an overacting mime. Whomever he called, while looking at me through narrowed eyes, he didn’t talk to for long. I held his eye contact until he snapped his flip-phone shut like an electric castanet and turned away.

I figured they were placing bets on how long I’d last, when the phone rang in the gate guard’s shack. He hung up and called me over. “You there. They want to see you. Side door.”

A man in a suit yelled at me to hurry it up. He was a plainclothes detective in his fifties, his suit looked like a thrift-store reject. His polyester tie was graced with a good size cigarette burn and he reeked of booze and stale smoke. I followed him up a flight of stairs to his cluttered, dilapidated office. “Sit down. Want a cigarette?”

“No, thank you, I don’t smoke.”

“Fine, I will get right to the point,” He started, earnestly. “Miss Ducat, your situation is not good and you could be in very serious trouble.” He looked at me for a response.

I nodded. “You know my name. What kind of trouble might I be in?”

His voice hardened. “Being caught spying in Ukraine is as bad as it gets.”

“Okay, so spying is bad. Good thing it’s not my problem. What’s happening with my friend and her mother?”

“That is none of your business! You are a spy. You can’t ask the questions.” He knuckled an open folder on his desk. In it were over-enlarged, low resolution versions of the photos I’d emailed Anna. Flipping through the folder, he showed off notes, in Russian, containing my home address and the transcripts and translations of chats and letters between Anna and Sandy and me.