Morgan Stone - The Russian Factor

I didn’t know where we would end up in Turkey or what we’d be doing there. I sure as hell didn’t know what would happen when the four grand ran dry. Convincing interested Western parties Anna was a valuable asset, was no longer a priority. But still, I stuck to my guns, what counted now was that I wasn’t leaving her to the circling jackals.

I sat back. An airliner seat felt good — first class or otherwise. We were finally getting out of the CIS, going somewhere, moving forward, taking action, and maybe, just maybe, and with a bit of luck, getting out from under The Skater.

In Istanbul we were the first passengers off the plane. We’d been left entirely alone during the short flight over the Black Sea. An airline agent whisked us up a deserted flyway and through immigration without incident.

We’d done it! The CIS was behind us.

The pressure was off, or so it seemed to my subconscious mind. There’s a cruel metabolic trick the autonomic nervous system plays on migraine sufferers: initiate an attack as the tension eases. Letting down your guard for one second can be crippling. It’s subconscious payback for getting wound up in the first place. I was well on my way with several auras, the warning signs, already flashing in my visual field. In a matter of minutes I’d have a headache with enough kick to have me doubled over in pain and nauseous.

I stopped, took a deep breath and released it slowing, counting to five.

“Jess?”

Blink, blink, blink . Damn, the auras were spreading.

“I need a dark, quiet place! Bar, lounge, restaurant, somewhere dark — now! I’m getting a migraine.”

“ A kak zhe chemodan? — What about the bag?” Anna, awestruck by the swirling multiethnic conglomerate of humanity that makes up the Istanbul hub, clung to my elbow.

“Let’s stick with English. Russian’s too conspicuous.” This time I blinked hard enough to evoke tears. No dice. The auras, getting bigger, brought smashed Christmas lights to mind. “Leave the bag. I’m in big trouble if we don’t find someplace quiet right now.” My vision was already seriously compromised. My brain was processing missing data from a visual cortex starved of oxygen by filling in the blanks with shattered stained glass. In minutes, arteries that had gone into spasm would dilate in a crippling overreaction, leaving me with a headache from hell. I had found through experience that using meditation to relax the arteries before they did so on their own was the only way to lessen the oncoming avalanche of pain.

The sprawling Istanbul airport was under renovation, at least, where we were. Then again, big airports are always being taken apart and put back together. The corridors were an endless maze of plywood and construction debris. Workers drilling into concrete, halogen lamps and chaotic activity wasn’t doing me any good. Finally, a cordoned off, “Closed for renovation,” waiting area provided refuge. I lay flat on my back, between rows of plastic bucket seats designed to prevent sleeping. Then, with gloves over my eyes, I forced myself to relax. I imagined myself in a rowboat, drifting on the glassy surface of Pyramid Lake in Jasper, Alberta. Deep breaths, and I could smell the mountain air, the evergreens, and the heat of a summer’s afternoon not quite at its zenith.

Something like fifteen minutes later, I opened my eyes to confront Anna’s visage inches from mine. “Pssst, don’t get up.” She had taken the gloves from my eyes and had a finger to her lips. “I’ve seen my mother.”

The auras were gone, but despite my frantic meditation the headache was brutal. “You have got to be kidding!” I hissed.

“No, I am not kidding. I have seen her walking down the corridor.”

I sat up. Taiko drummers hammered at my temples. We weren’t alone in the cordoned off waiting area by that time. Several travelers had randomly distributed themselves among the rows of plastic seats. None of them looked Slavic. “Did she see you?”

“I don’t think so. She did not turn her head toward here.”

“This really is not good.” I peered between rows of seats, saw nothing but scattered groups of arriving passengers. “Was she alone?”

“There were two guys walking behind who looked very much like my cousins from Samara.”

“Cousins… uncles… brothers… are these men related to you in any way or are those so called family designations?”

“Yes… maybe… I don’t know, but I don’t remember Mother spending a lot of time with them.” Anna gestured at the corridor. “There were a lot of Russians walking past. Looked like they were in a hurry; they did not look here.”

I scanned the corridor and its temporary English signs tacked to the plywood barriers. “They’ve gone to get their bags if they went that way.” A large set of one-way doors terminated the corridor under a pictogram of suitcases.

“Yes, that way.”

“Great! they think we’re getting off here, in Istanbul.”

“Are we not?”

“Not if your mother is here.” I crouched again, slapping a fist into my palm. “What is she doing here, anyway?”

Asians flowing past the cordoned off seating area had become a torrent heading for the baggage carousels. I signaled to Anna, and we made a break for it, joining the crowd. I hadn’t seen The Skater or the cousins, and hoped against reason that Anna had hallucinated them. Dead ahead, a passage branched off the main corridor under a CONNECTING PASSENGERS banner. I pulled Anna from the flow of exuberant vacationers heading through the doors to collect their luggage.

“Wait! Our bag!”

“Leave it! Your Mother’s going to be there. That’s the way she went, right?”

Anna nodded.

“She might even have the bag. Especially if you put your name on the tag.”

“Oh no, I did write the name. How stupid of me!”

“Just bloody excellent!” I pushed Anna ahead of me down the connecting-passengers corridor. “We’re getting out of Istanbul.” We navigated by following the crowds until we ended up in a large area with airline counters. The red and white of the Turkish Airlines logo reminded me of good old Air Canada, and I made a beeline for their counter.

“Two tickets on the first flight leaving Istanbul. Please hurry.”

The startled ticket agent typed at her terminal. Other agents glanced over at us. I was starting to sweat in my suede parka.

“Any bags?”

“No, no bags, just carry-on.”

“Maybe they can send the bag after us?” Anna said.

“No, no bag, we’ll call lost baggage and claim it when we get to wherever.” I cut in, trying to prevent Anna announcing to everyone we abandoned a bag in the airport.

The agent continued typing. I nervously scanned a flight information board showing arrivals. Our flight from Odessa showed as having arrived on time. Several flights below that, and just above a flight from Shanghai, a flight from Moscow was listed as having arrived late. I made a mental note of the time it came in. It was a stroke of good luck, had the Moscow flight come in on time, before we did, things would have been different.

“There is a flight to Dalaman if you wish, but we only have room in business class and it’s already boarding.” The agent didn’t bother looking up. She probably wanted us away from her station, pronto.

“Fine, two in business class.” I slapped the plastic on the counter with my passport. Anna started digging for hers. “We’re fast, we won’t hold up the plane.” I grimaced at my choice of words.

Running for it, I heard several “last call” announcements for our flight. My ankle was playing up, but the headache was a far more immediate problem. The boarding agents waved us down the flyway, and we barreled onto a waiting Boeing 737. Business class was empty and I flopped into the first seat I came to. Then, trying to control my heaving stomach, I wondered why they even bothered dividing planes into sections seeing as everyone flew economy. Nothing like inane ponderings to soothe a throbbing brain.