Morgan Stone - The Russian Factor

Standing near the car, surrounded by cops with guns at the ready, Harvey’s girlfriend raised her head, tossed back her hair, locked eyes with Anna and screamed, “ Zavtra tebya neh zheet! ” — Tomorrow you die!

Bang, bang, bang! Half an hour after the Russian girlfriend’s death threat, and someone was knocking — hard. Anna nearly jumped from her skin. I froze.

Bang, thump, whump… “Hey! What’s going on, you two in there?”

“Oh geeze, it’s only Tom.” Through a port light, I saw his long legs, worn blue jeans, military green rubber boots.

Tom was an American who’d made his fortune in the technology bubble, walked away from it all, bought a sailboat and went wherever the winds and the currents took him. Although that much about him was likely true, I was pretty sure there was a lot more to Tom than met the eye.

“What was that all about?” He asked, climbing below. “You know, that’s no angel you crossed back there.”

“I did what you suggested. I fired Harvey. He stole my stuff and maxed out my credit card, so what else? I went to the cops.”

“Fine and dandy if it was just Harvey, but that girlfriend’s another matter.” Tom ran a weathered hand through his bristly gray hair. “Look, I’ve been doing some poking around. Harvey’s small potatoes, but the woman with him ain’t. So, what did you do to piss her off?”

“Nothing!”

Silence.

“Well almost nothing. The police showed me her picture…”

“I just bet they did. Tell you what I think. Those cops have been itching to get hold of her and your little dispute with Harvey was just the excuse they needed. Did they get your gear back at least?”

“I don’t know. Erdem said they were going to leave it at his uncle’s office.”

“Well then, find out. You know, Harvey’s girlfriend has been running some kind of brothel from that big old gulet? Yup, with an exclusive client list that just reeks of Russian Mafia — white slavery… likely. Rumor has it she took a bullet in a fight, dragged herself back to the boat then pulled out the slug all on her own. Those Keystone Cops may not give a rat’s ass about your equipment, but the madam on that boat’s been a burr under their saddle for months. What was it she shouted back there, anyhow?”

I dug for the glass of whiskey I’d stashed before the raid. “‘Tomorrow you die’, presumably meaning Anna. Believe-you-me, it wasn’t my intention to put the cops on to her . But that bastard stole everything you saw here then robbed my credit card.” I looked up from my glass. “Want some? It’s Irish whiskey. I even have some in a bottle.”

“Wish I could, but the ole ticker damn near quit on me a while back, so I’m off the juice. You know, I’d have called the cops too if it’d only been that Harvey fellow. But I wouldn’t go screwing around with the Russian mob and who knows what else! Fact is, that goddamned gulet isn’t even his.”

“What do you mean?” I sipped, then gulped.

“Just what I said: it’s not his! Not the madam’s either. Ran into your broker, Erdem, on the way here. He tells me the boat’s stolen. Belongs to a Greek family. He and his uncle figure Harvey’d been hired to look after it or something and then just fired it up and took off.”

“It’s been here how long , and they just figure that out now?”

“Jess, this is Turkey. Anyhow, that uncle of Erdem’s, Omar, is looking to move this yacht of yours to their own dock. Sounds like they want you two right in front of their building so they can keep an eye on you. I’d wager they’ve got some pretty good security over there.”

“You knew this all along?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

I sipped. “Nobody tells me anything.”

“I figure Erdem told his uncle the cops were raiding that gulet because of you and Omar’d know there might be some seriously pissed off folks after you gals.”

“Makes sense. Deal on the boat hasn’t closed yet. Can’t have the clients getting killed off before it does.”

“Well, they might just be grateful — getting that conniving Aussie and the Russian madam out of their territory — but you do need their help.”

Tom had a voice that really carried. As he stopped speaking, we heard Erdem’s tentative knock. “Hello, Mr. Tom, that is you?”

“Yeah, I’m here, let’s get on with it.”

Kemal, a jolly, strapping man, was the first of the Turks to show up on Shadow. He didn’t speak a word of English but somehow found an easy rapport with Anna. She watched him work, passed him tools. Efficiently, he cut away Harvey’s failed experiment in stainless steel to make way for a radar arch — a fancy name for a sturdy bridge on which to mount antennas, solar panels, and yes indeed, even radar.

The gulet, encircled with yellow police tape, had been quiet since the arrests. “Too quiet.” I half joked. Despite the protection we were getting from members of a secretive Turkish organization of businessmen Omar belonged to, the Russian madam’s connections and her unsavory clientele could mean really serious trouble.

“Call someone. Like you did in Odessa.” Anna suggested.

“There’s no one left to call,” I sighed. “When you blew cover in Kiev, at least I knew with what and whom I was dealing. Now I’m groping in the dark. If she’s big-time, connected, we’re dead.”

“But Jess, even if she’s small-time, on her own, she is Russian. If she has a tooth on us, is really pissed off, I expect she will try to hurt or kill us. In Russia you can get knifed for your watch. Here she can do whatever she wants, and she doesn’t have to have a roof.”

“Roof?”

“Protection, criminal organization, ‘syndicate,’ as you call it.”

Tom kept his promise, helping with the retrofit by offering his tools, library and advice. Anna’s feelings about him had changed. She trusted him, followed him, learned from him as she embraced the new world of sailing terms and responsibilities she was taking on.

I did everything I could myself with what was available. My father had been fiercely independent, instilling in me the same ethic of self-reliance when he wasn’t drunk. During summers on the family hobby farm and working together on do-it-yourself projects, he had endowed me with the belief that no matter what, when you put your mind to it, nothing is impossible. That attitude had gotten me into trouble more than once, but it was serving me well readying the yacht. With the help of that small army of dedicated Turkish tradesmen, it was looking more and more like we’d be good-to-go before Anna’s visa ran out, or someone dangerous showed up gunning for us.

Shadow came together with astonishing speed, impressing even the technicians working on the complex installations. What felt like miles of wiring and hose was constantly being yanked and shoved through crevasses by the Turkish technicians. Somehow they remained remarkably cheerful despite the stifling heat and cramped spaces.

Sailing lessons took place whenever the yacht wasn’t too dismantled to take out. On the sixth of those sailing trips, Sinem handed Anna a winch handle and said, “You’re ready. I am convinced you and Jess can sail this yacht.”

“What do you mean, you and Jess ?” I asked.

“Come on, Jess. I know I was teaching both of you.” Sinem said. “You can drop the charade.”

“I didn’t know that.” Anna looked at me.

“You’re not the first couple I’ve trained. You probably won’t be the last.”

Anna gaped at Sinem.

“Anna! It’s okay. Jess can sail. So can you!”