Morgan Stone - The Russian Factor

I’m not even sure he was aware of me when I stood and snatched his empty glass a second time. He was fighting hard to stay conscious and in some sort of control. “Dollars! I, do o ooon ’av all da’ay.” He slurred. One of his eyes made a heroic effort to stay focused on me. The other had given up and wandered somewhere under his right brow. He was wilting onto his elbows as I reached for my wallet.

On the spur of the moment, I pulled out a wad of Russian rubles I’d been dragging around for who-knows-how-long, and started slapping down hundred ruble notes, counting them out, one at a time. They were barely worth three bucks apiece, but I guess all those hundreds looked pretty good to the official in his inebriated state. When I’d slapped down twenty of those bills, he snatched them up with a grin, stuffed the rubles clumsily into his pocket, and struggled to get up. Trying not to vomit, he slurred something about needing the toilet and that I should wait. As soon as he had staggered from the office, I grabbed my package and, as an afterthought, the big wad of keys on his desk. Then I simply walked out the front door. The Fiat was still parked half on the sidewalk. Walking by, I tossed the keys through an open window into a pile detritus behind the back seat.

When I’d left the marina, Shadow had been tied, on its own, to the seawall in front of Omar’s yacht sales. A shortcut back from the customs office had me crawling under the marina’s chain-link fence where I noticed Shadow’s new twin. As planned, another yacht, nearly identical — minus the long haul equipment — was rafted to Shadow. A form of double parking that left our yacht sandwiched between the new boat and the seawall. It looked like someone was doing sail repairs on the twin because its deck was piled with mounds of lightly crumpled sailcloth. It dangled haphazardly from the rigging, over the bow, and nearly into the water.

A couple of burly men were unloading plain white delivery vans when I spotted Tom approaching. “Jess, wait. We need to talk.” He waved me over with one hand. He was somehow bent, holding himself up with a hand on one knee.”

Activity aboard Shadow stopped. Sinem stood on deck, Erdem popped his head out the companionway, the mountains of muscle put their boxes down. Everyone was looking at me.

Tom noticed. “Just carry on, this boat’s gotta be ready to sail.” Then to me, “Your broker and I, we just moved that other boat on over. Made it look like someone’s drying out the sails.” Tom took a deep breath, watching the muscle-bound men passing boxes of canned goods down to Shadow’s deck. “Just the thing for a little camouflage and privacy.”

I stepped toward Shadow.

“Aw gall dang it Jess, Anna’s not there.”

My heart sank.

Tom took the boxes I’d liberated from customs. They were light and he handed them to Sinem. “She’s on my boat.”

“What’s going on?” Panicked, I spotted the catamaran from Bodrum tied where we’d seen it that morning. I didn’t see anybody on it.

“Yup, those two.” Tom took a breath, still trying to get caught up on what he missed intercepting me. “They came by while we were loading. Started speaking with Anna in Russian. I don’t know what they said, but they gave her an envelope.”

“Of what? What’s she doing on your boat? Why didn’t they just take her?”

“I reckon they think they don’t have to after what they gave her.”

“Is she okay?”

“She’s fine, but I don’t think you’ll be if you don’t keep moving.”

“I need to see her. This is crazy!”

“Jess, you need to listen to me. Whether or not she’s going with you, you have got to ready Shadow and get out of here. Now.”

I had stopped listening. Last thing I heard Tom say as I bolted for his well loved old sailboat was, “Sure, you go on ahead. I’ll catch up…”

Anna saw me coming. She was already over the side of Tom’s boat and onto the dock where I intercepted her. “Jess, I can’t.”

“Are you okay? What’s going on? What happened?”

“I’m terrified. I can’t do this. I just can’t believe this is happening.” She started up the dock. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why did it have to be them?”

“ Them who?”

“My cousins, my mom. It’s inside on the table. You can see it.” Anna waved at Tom’s boat.

“An envelope, right? Wait here, let me get it.”

“No, you can’t wait. You have to go. They’ll kill you. Don’t you get it? If you take me, they will kill you. I’m scared of the sea. I do not know what to do. Oh Jess…” Something caught in her throat.

“What? What can I do?”

“Jess, you need to go. You don’t need me now…”

I started to object.

She cut me off. “Not now! I am only going to get you killed. You’re only chance is without me. I know that! Get the boat ready. Get ready and go. I need to go away from everyone. Mother, cousins, Turks… you! Maybe I will be back before you go, but you must go! Go very quickly.” Anna turned and ran up the dock, nearly knocking Tom into the water coming the other way.

“This can’t be bloody happening!” My cheeks burned. I felt like throwing up.

Gasping Tom asked, “Have you seen the package?”

I started up the dock in Anna’s wake, stopped a few meters toward the seawall and felt gravity increase ten-fold. She was gone. “I’m screwed!”

“Not yet… deep breath … but you will be… wheeze … unless you pull it together.”

A large brown envelope sat on the table in Tom’s galley. It had been crudely opened, by Anna, I assumed. Her name was handwritten in Cyrillic on the front. Sliding out the contents, I was hit by photographic depictions of horror. Dead dogs, their bodies contorted, necks twisted, skin pulled back to expose teeth and locked jaws, puddles of red excrement and foam. Human bodies in tall grass, also contorted, crimson and brown stains, eyes open. They looked like peasants, their skin might have been dark in life, their eyes nearly black. Dead livestock, a rock strewn slope, a mountain range I recognized and then the knockout punch, pictures of Jack. One after another, eight by ten, glossy, color. His final moments sadistically recorded to elicit the very reaction I was having.

My hands shook. Shock and rage boiled up inside me. Tom his arms on my shoulders was telling me he knew it was a low blow, but to get a grip.

A thin pile of clippings and print outs was scattered on the divan Anna might have sat on. They were in Russian. Photographs told the stories clearly. Yachts on fire, smashed sailboats on rocks, overturned boats with bloated bodies floating beside them, hurricanes from space, underwater shots of smashed vessels, barely recognizable human remains trapped in the wreckage, food for crustaceans. The Cyrillic headlines screamed of disaster and tragedy at sea. Tom caught me staring at them. “Those came with the package.”

The last thing the envelope gave up was a letter, handwritten on decorated stationary, cherubs, teddy bears, children playing in an enchanted winter forest. A chipmunk with a mallet, a nut to crack, and a big clock at one minute to midnight. A sickeningly sweet Soviet depiction of “New Year’s Eve.” Presents to open in an idyllic winter scene without a hint of a religious capitalist Christmas. The letter was written in careful, cursive, Russian, Tom couldn’t decipher it.

My dear daughter, Anechka, I hope Anton and Victor did manage to give you this package and you have opened it. I also hope that you are well and unhurt.

I know what you see on these photos terrifies you, but you have to know who you are with and who you are entrusting your life to. You would not believe my words in email, so I had to resort to such a disturbing means to convince you.