Andrew Morgan - Vessel

‘Hi! David?’

A crash was the response, followed by a short, middle-aged man with a mop of shoulder-length brown hair who popped into the hall from a dingy doorway. His face turned from annoyance to elation the moment he saw Sean.

‘Sean! How are you?’ he said in a strange blend of Armenian and American accents, rushing out to shake Sean’s hand.

‘I’m great, thanks — how are you?’

‘Good, I’m very good,’ David said, pulling Sean by the sleeve back through the doorway he had just sprung from. ‘Can I get you anything to eat, to drink?’

‘No thank you, I’m fine.’

‘Are you sure?’ David said, stopping to look at him with a quizzical expression. ‘I have plenty!’

‘Really, it’s fine,’ Sean said, wriggling free of David’s grasp. As much as David annoyed him, he couldn’t help but like the strange man. He was his go-to guy for all things computer technology, and had been since he’d arrived in Moscow many years ago as a keen-eyed and fresh journalist looking for his first big story. David had irritated him as much then as he did now, but the affection that had built in the intervening years kept them firm friends.

David grabbed him again and continued leading him through the horrible and rather unsafe-looking building. They entered a large room, an old barn judging by the smell of manure and mildew. At the back was an array of computer monitors around an old office desk. Next to them was a scattered heap of tin cans, presumably the source of the crashing noise Sean had heard upon his arrival. Once dragged to the computers, David let Sean go and sat down on his moth-eaten desk chair. He looked up at Sean, expectant.

‘So, what can I do for you?’

‘I called by,’ Sean said, ‘because I was hoping you would be able to help me get some information.’

David continued to look at him, bright eyed.

‘So…’ Sean continued, ‘I’ve got this key card’ — he pulled it from his pocket and handed it to David — ‘and I was hoping to see what we could get from it.’

David took it and looked closely at it, turning it over, inspecting it.

‘Russian Federal Space Agency, huh?’ David said, looking at Sean with narrow eyes. ‘That’s serious business.’

‘Are you okay doing it?’

‘Sure, no problem. I charge more for government hacks, though — you know that, right?’

‘Of course.’

David grinned, a keen twinkle in his eye. What he did with all that cash, Sean thought as he looked around the disgusting habitation, was anyone’s guess. He probably slept on a big pile of the stuff.

‘This isn’t any old door-opening hotel key card,’ David said, turning his attention back to the thin slip of plastic.

‘You’re telling me…’ Sean muttered.

‘What?’ David said, looking at Sean with the sort of expression a confused dog might have.

‘I — never mind. What can you tell me about the card?’

David resumed his studying. ‘It’ll be encrypted. Cryptographic hardware, true random number generator, that sort of thing.’

‘Can you do anything with it?’

‘This isn’t the movies! I can’t just plug it in and click a few keys!’ David screeched, looking both agitated and terrified.

‘Sure, of course,’ Sean said, stepping back to give the small man some room. ‘Whatever you can do and whenever you can do it is fine by me.’

David’s cheeks were flushed pink and his fringe hung limp over his face. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Sometimes people expect too much, you know?’

‘I know,’ Sean said.

‘But not you, though.’

‘Not me.’

David grinned.

‘I’ll have a look at it now for you,’ he said, swivelling on his chair to rummage through a pile of what Sean had dismissed as broken and discarded electronics. From it he pulled a card reader, which he plugged into his computer. He slotted the card in. Navigating the on-screen menu, he opened a window filled with — to Sean — meaningless code.

‘Interesting…’ he mused, scrolling through the mess of letters and numbers.

‘What is?’

‘This isn’t an RFSA key card at all. It’s printed on one, but the data is from something else. It’s a key card alright, for a man called John Bales — Major General John Bales.’

‘Bales?’ Sean repeated, confused. ‘A Major General ?’

‘Yes, US Department of Defence.’

‘Are — are you sure ?’

‘Positive.’

‘Jesus Christ…’ Sean said in a quiet voice, propping himself up against David’s desk to support his weakening knees.

‘Are you Major Romanenko?’ Gardner asked, guiding his weightless body closer to the man with cautious apprehension. Sally followed him through the narrow hatch between the modules and drew up alongside him to see the source of the Russian accent for herself. A skinny man floated at an unfolded dining table, a vacuum-packed meal pouch held halfway to his mouth. His black, patchy beard didn’t quite meet his black, patchy hair, and the void between was filled with pale skin that glowed under the fluorescent tubes.

‘No,’ he said. He put the tube protruding from the top of the pouch into his mouth and squeezed, eyes narrowing with satisfaction. ‘We don’t get beans in Russia. We generally don’t seem to like them for some reason.’ He pointed the pouch at Gardner and Sally. ‘The Russians, that is.’

He sucked the pouch clean and deposited it in the waste disposal, then propelled himself towards the two Americans. Sally felt an instinctive urge to pull back, but she followed Gardner’s lead and held fast, even though she could feel him stiffen up. The Russian outstretched his hand as he brought himself to a stop in front of them.

‘I’m Captain Evgeny Novitskiy,’ he said.

Gardner took the hand and shook it. Novitskiy then offered it to Sally; she did the same. Novitskiy beamed. ‘You must be hungry.’

At the word, Sally’s stomach growled. She hoped no one heard it.

‘Let me get you some coveralls and then I’ll prepare you some food.’

He squeezed past them and shot off down the station with startling speed and agility. Sally and Gardner shared a look, and Gardner leaned in to whisper something almost imperceptible to her.

‘Stay close to me.’

Sally recognised the wariness in his voice: it was the same feeling that troubled her gut as well. They both watched the Russian scoot into a module and out of sight.

‘I’ll guess your sizes — don’t be insulted if I get them wrong!’ he shouted to them.

Before long he was back with two pairs of coveralls similar to the ones he was clothed in, which he handed to them with a grin. He was either ignoring the ashen look Gardner was already wearing — Sally assumed she looked about the same — or he just didn’t see it. They dressed in silence while Novitskiy helped himself to something more to eat.

‘I love the food you Americans have,’ he said wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve. ‘Every visit to your food supply is another sweet surprise. Normally everything we eat is monitored, but not any more.’

Sally pulled the zip to the top and fastened the Velcro strip across it, trying not to take her eyes off the small Russian for too long at a time. Gardner was done, and remained where he floated.

‘Come and sit down,’ Novitskiy said, patting the table. ‘I’ll get you some food. Do you like sausages? We have some quite delicious bangers and mash ’ — he forced a strange interpretation of an American accent onto the name — ‘ that I can get for you.’ He paused, looking bemused. ‘Or is bangers and mash British? I forget.’

Still beaming, he glided to a wall-mounted compartment and retrieved fresh food pouches for his guests. He fed them into another compartment, shut the small door behind them and jabbed a button. ‘It won’t be long. Please — sit down,’ he said.