Morgan Stone - The Russian Factor

“I do hope we aren’t crowding you.” A snide comment is a terrible thing to waste.

“Not at all. I’m doing calculations for a cargo delivery.” He paused, “I’m Captain Alexi Laddin, ship’s captain, at your service. I do my best planning here, around people. It is so lonely, you must understand, on those long ocean crossings.”

“A ship’s captain. Really?” I shot Dmitri a sideways glance.

“Absolutely. I am from Rotterdam. I will be taking a freighter back to Germany soon.”

That he made a point of saying he was from Rotterdam but taking a ship to Germany didn’t make sense. Nonetheless, what were the chances of running into a ship’s captain just when we needed one? Serendipity certainly seemed to be on our side all of a sudden.

“Are you going to stop in Rotterdam or go all the way to Germany?” I asked.

“No stops. Going all the way to Rotterdam.”

Hearing me geographically trip up the old man, Dmitri parachuted into the conversation. They spoke in rapid-fire Ukrainian, wrapping up when Dmitri had a sudden hankering for another cardboard skiff of Tater Tots. He demanded money and headed for the counter. Speaking comically pompous Russian, Captain Laddin informed me that Dmitri, our business partner , had told him of our need for discreet, safe passage out of Ukraine. The good Captain, Alexi Laddin, then deigned to meet with us the following day outside his office building.

Dmitri’s “excellent, cheap hotel” must have been condemned. Once upon a time it had been an ornate nineteenth century building of several stories and grand staircases. Now it was a neglected ruin with holes in the walls, torn rugs, and naked bulbs dangling on wires. Dmitri insisted on carrying all the bags, including the Roots Canada backpack with my money and the Pelican case of film.

The front desk wasn’t staffed at the time. Dmitri bellowed down dark and musty corridors. “Hey, how about some service here!

“Are you sure this place is open?” The carpet squished. I was afraid to look down.

“Shut up, you know nothing!”

“I know we’re not staying here! I’ll pay you the three hundred and give you something for a room. Then, we’re done.” I reached for the backpack.

“ Ach, ti suka — you bitch. I can turn you over to the police right now.” He backed away with the pack. “You are obviously criminals. You owe me. I’m your business partner now. The only way you two are getting out of Ukraine is by doing things my way.”

“Alright, alright… I understand.” I said, trying for an escape ruse. “But we need to talk in private, in the car. Away from prying ears.” It got us out of the seedy hotel and back into the car. I proposed that a criminal enterprise such as ours would be far more successful at a luxury hotel. “The kind of place you see in the movies. You know, where the truly powerful criminal connections and high rollers hang out.”

Dmitri thought for a moment and agreed.

Odessa’s version of Park Avenue, Prymorsky Boulevard, provided a brightly lit hotel with doormen standing at the ready. “Pull over. That’s the kind of high class place we’re looking for.”

“Da, of course.” Dmitri pulled a brusque u-turn and came to a spasmodic stop in front of the hotel.

“Classy driving.”

“It shows them we mean business.” Dmitri said.

“It shows them we’re assholes. It’s obvious, you don’t know your way around a place like this. Wait in the car while I get us some rooms.”

“The girl stays with me,” He was suddenly defensive, “I have your bags and your money.”

A doorman, dressed vaguely like a Beefeater minus the tall fur hat, started toward the car. I jumped out to intercept him.

Taking a chance on his knowing English, I growled, “Stay away from the car. Call security.” I didn’t make eye contact, passing by him on my way to the entrance.

The frail elderly man changed direction and beat me to the hotel’s leaded crystal doors. “Welcome to the Windsor Arms Hotel. How may I be of assistance?” His English was impeccable.

The regal lobby enveloped me in a world of civility I had almost forgotten existed. The doorman listened to me explain the situation then smiled thoughtfully. Holding his pointy chin with a white gloved hand and tapping his nose with his index finger, he said, “Let me see what I can do.”

A couple of well-dressed, largish young men showed up seconds after the doorman picked up an antique desk phone. He briefed them, then told me to wait inside while the three of them headed out. Moments later, Anna walked into the lobby looking dazed.

The doorman followed with our bags. “As you can see, there was no trouble at all. I shall take payment to the driver now. I believe he requested it in American dollars.”

“Three hundred, and a room for the night.” I pulled the fifteen twenties from my pocket.

“A room for the driver here? Oh dear, I regret we are rather booked up. Perhaps the young gentleman and his the automobile would be better accommodated elsewhere.” He took the damp wad of twenties.

“Oh god, no. I definitely didn’t mean here!”

“Very good, madam.” He was visibly relieved. “I shall recommend one of the motor hotels on the way out of the city. I believe thirty American dollars will be more than sufficient to accommodate the young gentleman.”

I smiled and dug an additional thirty from my pack.

“I do not believe he will give you any more trouble.”

At the front desk, filling out the register, I heard the muffled squealing of tires and breathed a huge sigh of relief.

Downtown Odessa is so unlike Kiev; it feels like another country. I wasn’t used to seeing people actually enjoying themselves outdoors. I’d grown accustomed to the Kiev dash — a sprint from one underground passage to the next. Not only that, but the perpetual leaden ceiling of cloud that hangs over Kiev doesn’t make it all the way to Odessa. It’s an entirely different ballgame climatically, and all it took was that one crazy taxi ride to leave winter behind.

On the way to Alexi’s office, I noticed the interplay of shadow and light for the first time in weeks. Living in Vancouver, you’d think I’d be used to the dank and gray, but Odessa reminded me how starved for sunlight I’d become. The address Alexi provided, the previous night at the mall, turned out to be The Port Authority building, an out-of-place modern structure. It had likely been built in the last quarter century on a lot made suddenly vacant during the Second World War. Various government offices occupied its several stories of uninspired glass and concrete. Predictably, nobody in the place had heard of a Captain Alexi Laddin.

“What a bastard! I can’t believe I fell for whatever that crazy old goat was selling.” I was steamed. “You see a lamp around here?”

“It is daytime, Jess. For what do you need a lamp?”

“I’m looking for A. Laddin, as in ‘Aladdin,’ last I heard, he lives in one… or is it a bottle?”

“Jess, look. It’s Alexi!”

He strode toward us through the lunch crowd, his cape flying. “So sorry. Very important business meeting, very important.” He stopped. “Ah, lunch would be called for at this time, do you not think? Let us eat while we discuss business.” He led the way to a dark wood paneled restaurant where the maître d’ looked at us strangely. In no time, he’d ordered a bottle of about the most expensive German beer I’ve ever heard of, and then, almost as an afterthought, a bottle of Georgian wine for the table.

“It is very important that we are completely honest with each other. I am a businessman and I do business only with people who are serious about doing business. If you are not serious about business, you must tell me now and we can part ways honorably.” Alexi was firm. “You have money? You can pay for my services? I will not waste my valuable time helping you for nothing, you know.”