Morgan Stone - The Russian Factor

The unaccustomed light of Vancouver, glowing from crystalline skyscrapers, was hard on the eyes. I felt unexpectedly numb. No dramatic final cadence. No excited applause. Just Gavin, Sandy and two uniformed officers standing on the dock as we approached, our speed bleeding off until they grabbed lines from Anna and lashed them tight. I pulled the fuel shut-off and killed the engine. Traffic noise took its place.

I looked at Shadow, our world for the last eight months, hardly believing Vancouver was just outside and whispered to myself, “Damn it all, we actually pulled it off!” Shutting down the electrics I’d cobbled together after nearly going down off San Francisco, I noticed the satellite modem’s green message light. The Dell was on the chart table and jacked in, so I retrieved the message. It was a final email from Tom, without whose steadfast assistance we could never have made it. He sent congratulations, expressed relief and broke off contact.

“This calls for a toast! Where’s Anna?” Gavin hoisted a glass of his home grown, home pressed apple cider.

“In the bath, farmer Gav.” Sandy said, stirring a pot of what I hoped was my brother’s deadly-hot meatless chili.

“She’s been in there for hours! Someone want to check on her? See if she’s drowned or something.” He put down his glass with extreme care. Not a drop of the precious golden liquid would be lost. It was his baby and he was the proud father.

“I think Anna knows her way around water by now.” Sandy approached Gavin with a steaming heap of something dark brownish red on a wooden spoon. Hugging his waist with her free arm she reached way up toward his face with the spoon. “Taste. Does this pass muster?”

He gave it a try, raised an eyebrow in contemplation then broke free of Sandy’s embrace and ran for his cider. “Whoa! That’s crazy hot!”

“Perfect, in other words, right?”

Gavin didn’t answer.

“Yup, perfect, I do believe.” Sandy winked at me.

I was sitting on a stool at the island. It was my kitchen, but I felt like an outsider. Everything that must have happened before Kiev seemed so long ago and so far away. Borrowed memories. The wooden spoon in Sandy’s hand was mine. I was vaguely aware of the countless dishes I’d stirred with it sometime in the past. But was it my past? Did I experience those disconnected events?

Anna showed up in a terrycloth robe with wet hair. It was reassuring to see someone familiar in that environment.

Dinner started in earnest with Gavin’s long awaited toast. “To doing whatever it takes no matter what the…”

“Stop! I hope you didn’t work hard on that.” I interrupted and put my glass down. “You’re going to waste your delicious cider on a toast like that?”

Gavin looked crestfallen.

“Allow me, you’ve had your turn.” I raised my glass. Sandy, Gavin and Anna raised theirs. “Here’s to the perfect apple cider!”

Silence. Puzzled looks, but only for a second before glasses clinked and the best apple cider in the world passed my lips.

The chili was powerful, the garlic toast pungent, and the conversation animated. “So, you’re going to want your house back now, I suppose?” It was Gavin. The maybe one percent alcohol content of his cider had done away with decorum — not that he had much to begin with.

“That’s right,” Sandy piped in, “we have an announcement to make.”

“We do?” Gavin looked at Sandy. All eyes were on her.

“We do, hon. And that’s enough tipple for you.” Sandy put her hand on his. “I’m moving into Gavin’s place.”

“Oh yeah, that! You’re moving in with me?”

“Not so fast, big boy. I’m moving to your place. As for with you will depend on how well you behave.”

Gavin smirked.

We ended up laughing and smiling our way through several more toasts to everything but sailing, syndicates, or security. Well, almost all of them, anyway. “I’ve got an agent!” Anna announced.

“That was quick.” Said Sandy.

“No kidding! You’ve been here what, forty-eight hours or so and Hollywood’s already come a calling?” It was Gavin.

“Hollywood? No, not Hollywood, CSIS.” Anna pronounced it see-sis .

I’d almost forgotten about the meeting Anna had that afternoon and the offer she’d been given by, Bert — her very own agent-contact from the Canadian Security and Intelligence Service. Anna might be an asset after all.

Even Roger, my own agency contact, had been in touch. In an unprecedented phone call — of all things — he wanted to see if we were indeed alive and safely on land in Canada. He was raring to get back to business. While we took our world-cruise, the Orange Revolution Democracy Movement had been all but crushed in Kiev and fissile material was flowing like hotcakes into Iran. It wasn’t over by a long-shot.

But it was at least on hold for me, for a while maybe, but not long. “Roger, boy, it’s weird to hear your voice.” He didn’t sound anything like I expected. No smoker’s cough, no swearing, no cliché. “But, I’m taking some leave. Have a big old house reno to finish, a boat to fix, trails to hike, slopes to ski.”

“The snow’s good up there? Maybe I’ll join you for some boarding.”

Roger’s a snow-boarder, how young is this guy? I wondered. “Have no idea, haven’t seen the slopes in over a year.”

“The Russian ski?”

“Only cross-country.”

“No problem, we’ll get her boarding. Let’s make it Whistler in say…” It sounded like the phone was being mauled at his end. “two weeks?” More muffled noise. There really is no good way to shoulder a cell phone. “Yup, that’s it I’ll have confirmation in a few hours. My, err, our treat, by the way. They at least owe me this and I have got to meet… what did you call her in Ukraine? The Russian factor…”

“Anna?”

“Yeah, Anna.”