Morgan Stone - The Russian Factor

Luda motioned me to the far corner. “Early in the morning you must go,” I caught the slight tremor in her voice. “If it was only me you could stay, but you bring great danger to Grandmother. She is too old to know anything about this terrible business and her life has already been hard enough. Please understand, I can not get her involved.” Luda wished me goodnight and disappeared into her, and her grandmother’s, bedroom.

Through the closed door, I heard a whine from the huge dog then Luda’s harshly whispered command to “lie down — sleep.” I kept my left boot on and buckled tight as I could stand it. It provided the sprained — possibly broken — ankle some compression and support. I was fading fast. Every muscle in my body cried out for sleep and multiple sources of bodily pain were losing the battle to keep me conscious. I lay down on my own holey dog blanket, covered myself with my parka, and felt the room spinning.

Anna was barely visible a few feet away. “Goodnight, young voyager.” I whispered, reaching out for her.

Anna’s reply was a long sigh. She was beyond REM and into deep sleep.

“I dare say, turbulence be damned, you’re in for the ride of your life.”

The dog snorted from the other room followed by a loud, “Shhhhh.”

Drifting off, my last thought was, how in hell was I going to get us out of this one.

“Time to go.” Luda stage whispered, shaking me awake.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m up.”

She poked at the mound under Anna’s blanket.

Anna groaned.

“Anna, time to get up. I do not want to explain to Baba why you must go.”

The rickety elevator hadn’t survived the night. Someone noted its demise with a scrap of paper, “Not working,” impaled on a loose screw. I glanced at my watch, just shy of seven.

Seeing as leaving together wouldn’t be the smartest play in the book, Anna headed out first. From the lobby, I watched her disappear up a deserted, snow dusted side street. Her instructions were to catch a bus to the Arsenalnaya subway station and wait for me — inconspicuously. The station wasn’t on our usual route and far enough away from the apartment — the scene of the previous night’s shootout — to just maybe, not be watched. With Anna out of sight, I left Luda’s building and waited across the street for a taxi.

At Arsenalnaya, I limped down stairs decorated with dollops of frozen spit. Anna paced back and forth just outside the super-heavy steel and glass doors of the metro station. Great way to get attention. I signaled her to stay where she was and elbowed my way toward a bank of payphones. In a gravelly voice the Canadian Vice Consul told me to meet him at the embassy ASAP.

On the way, we emerged from the subway at Khreshchatyk. Right downtown in the glittering heart of a city that always seems to be in darkness. “Is the sun ever up around here?” I growled under my breath.

An automatic teller machine in Mandarin Plaza cranked out twelve hundred American dollars without complaint. I stuffed the cash into my pocket, then with Anna’s support, hobbled back through the empty mall. I desperately needed coffee and to get off my feet — the left one, in particular. We rode one of the glass elevators to the fourth floor where a bar and restaurant were both closed. High-end dining doesn’t rise and shine with the junior executives of new Kiev, but I could see them outside, through the glass curtain-wall, alighting from their limousines and taxis. “Dear god, let there be coffee at the embassy.” I hit the call button for the elevator. “And maybe some good news for a change. We could really use some good news.”

The sky, an oppressive slate gray, had lightened somewhat above the traffic choked streets. Streetlights were randomly going dark when I hailed a taxi and we made our way to the Canadian Embassy. Of course, there was coffee, tea, and even muffins. With Anna reasonably content, enjoying her breakfast in the embassy’s homey common area, I joined the Vice Consul, coffee in hand.

“Look, you need to get out of Kiev.” The Vice Consul looked out at Anna and gently closed his door. “I made a couple of calls on your behalf. The girl’s mother, one Yana Keitel, known apparently as The Skater, seems to be quite the interesting character. There are those who would be very pleased to avail themselves of her cooperation if you could get it. The daughter is another matter, though. Under the circumstances, she would be welcomed in Canada as a refugee and potentially useful witness, but she would have to make her way there herself — she’s not valuable enough to qualify for government help. If you can find that missing passport, you can probably get her to Turkey or Egypt where it would be safer. Then you could travel to Canada from there.”

“Sure, getting the passport makes sense, but she tells me her mother took it to force her back to Russia. I’m thinking there’s no way she’s just going to give it back. Can’t someone here help with that?”

“Sorry, no, you’re on your own there. I inquired, but as things stand there’s nothing to be done. She’s on her own until she reaches Canada, and with her or without her, you need to leave here now! There was an inquiry at the Embassy yesterday after you left. Police were at the Embassy yesterday after you left. They have photos and a bulletin out for you and the Russian.”

“A bulletin for what? When did that happen?” I was stalling for time, trying to think through and assess the new data.

“Yesterday, I’d assume. It doesn’t take them long when someone’s looking for you with deep pockets. But Ms. Ducat, it doesn’t matter. It’s what they think or what they’ve been paid to think. You know how it works. It is a good thing that you’ve moved to alter your appearances somewhat, at least. You have to get out — now — and don’t use transport that requires identification. That means any, and I mean any , public bus, train, plane or donkey cart that leaves the city.”

I nodded, took a long sip of steaming coffee — Tim Horton’s, no doubt — and looked at the Michelin road map of Ukraine masking taped to the wall.

“If you insist on taking the girl, which I must emphasize that I do not recommend, then you might consider Odessa. It’s on the coast, not too far, has an airport and a seaport… worth a thought, anyhow. I can offer you the use of a room here in the Embassy to shower and rest up, and I would ask you to keep in touch whatever you decide to do, but aside from that, you are on your own.”

“Well, thanks. ‘On my own,’ happens to be the story of my life nowadays.”

We took advantage of the Embassy’s offer of a shower and a proper meal. I found Anna’s incredulity at the kindness of the Embassy personnel vaguely amusing, kind of endearing, but ultimately unsettling. Canada might be paradise, but for the moment it was pretty much out of reach.

Riding back to Mandarin Plaza, in a death-trap taxi, I mentally went over our options and their ramifications. I had been to Odessa and was reasonably familiar with it. It seemed as good a place as any to hide out and buy time.

A throng of cars choked the passenger drop-off area just outside the plaza’s ultra-modern glass foyer. Among the metallic herd of expensive, blacked out sedans disgorging businessmen , were at least a few regular looking passenger vehicles. In the former USSR, and much of the world for that matter, there are official taxis with a little sign affixed to the roof of a usually seriously decrepit car — like the one we’d just gotten out of — and there are regular private vehicles with drivers eager to offset their costs by driving for hire. Virtually any semi-serviceable vehicle with a driver is a potential taxi. I spotted a sound looking, nondescript light blue Opel by the curb, engine idling. The driver sat behind the wheel reading a paper.