Chapter Three
Cameron
Once in Moscow I’d be operating as black market art broker, Noah Beck and was to travel by train to St. Petersburg where I would meet a deep cover officer using the name Eleanor Finch.
Together, we were to infiltrate the home of Sasha Fedya posing as business and romantic partners.
Once our mission was complete, we were to split up.
The brief, while detailed in some regards, lacked key mission information, and I looked forward to officer Finch filling me in on some of the missing details.
In all honesty, I was thankful to have a partner on my first international case and was confident that whomever Leslie assigned to assist me on the mission would be competent and helpful.
“Catching up on some light reading?” a voice asked.
I looked up to see Ambassador George Korman coming down the aisle. He was a dapper man in his early eighties. Impeccably dressed and groomed to perfection. Never a hair nor a word out of place. His appearance bested only by his legacy as a global peacemaker.
“Uh, yeah. Just going over my itinerary,” I replied with a smile, casually closing the brief.
“Always be prepared,” the ambassador replied. “That’s the Scout’s motto, you know.”
“Be prepared in mind by having disciplined yourself to be obedient to every order, and also by having thought out beforehand any accident or situation that might occur, so that you know the right thing to do at the right moment and are willing to do it,” I replied to a delighted ambassador who responded by giving the two-fingered Scout salute.
“Be prepared in body by making yourself strong and active and able to do the right thing at the right moment and do it,” he said, completing the motto.
“Yes, sir,” I replied.
“I didn’t think young people like yourself even knew what the Scouts were.”
“My dad had me dressed in Cub Scout blue by kindergarten.”
This, of course, was a lie. After our mother’s death, our father went off the rails and killed a man in an illegal underground fight and was imprisoned.
Our older brother became like a dad to all of us younger siblings and tried everything he could to bring order and structure to our lives, including enrolling me into the Scouts at age twelve.
Although, I loved the camping, shooting, and fishing aspect of scouting, not to mention, the fact that we got to carry and use big-ass knives, I could never fully conform to the entire Scout ethos and would flame out after a few years.
But thanks to my eidetic memory, every word of the Scout handbook was seared into my brain.
From knot making to the Scouts’ oaths, laws, and mottos.
The ambassador motioned to the empty seat across from mine. “Do you mind if I sit?”
“Please, Ambassador Korman, by all means,” I replied.
“Call me George,” he said, settling into place.
“Pleased to meet you, George. I’m Cliff,” I said.
The ambassador smiled wide, giving me a knowing nod. “Cliff, is it? Okay, we’ll go with that.”
I laughed. “What do you mean?”
George glanced around to make sure we were out of ear shot. “I’ve been on enough flights with ‘camera men,’ ‘journalists,’ and ‘diplomatic liaisons,’ who pack light and disappear the moment the plane touches ground to spot one of you as soon as you get on board.”
“I’m not an air marshal if that’s what you’re implying,” I said, with a chuckle.
“I know you’re not. More importantly I know what you are.”
I smiled. “Of course you do, it’s right here on my press laminate. I’m a photographer.”
The ambassador nodded. “Of course, of course. I understand. You’re just here to take pictures.”
“That’s what Uncle Sam pays me for,” I said.
“I’d bet your camera bag is full of all sorts of fun toys.”
“I’m pretty old school. I travel lightly. One camera, two lenses, and extra batteries and SD cards.”
“Tell me. What do you shoot with? Canon or a Nikon,” George asked, clearly testing my cover story.
“Neither. My main camera is a Hasselblad XCD 100C.”
“Hasselblad? You truly are a man out of time, aren’t you, Cliff?”
“A legacy manufacturer for sure, but this model utilizes the latest mirrorless technology.” I pointed to the camera bag on the seat next to me. “I can show you if you’d like.”
“No, please don’t bother. I’m sure I’ll get to take a good look at it later since you’ll be with our group.”
“Of course,” I replied, knowing as well as George did that I’d break away from the group at the very first opportunity.
“Tell you what,” George said, reaching into his coat pocket. “Here’s my card. Should we become separated, and you find yourself in need of assistance while in Russia, please don’t hesitate to reach out.”
“That’s kind of you.”
“Think nothing of it. Weary travelers such as us need to stick together. I wasn’t always a diplomat, just as you haven’t always been a photographer. As a young man, I also travelled to Russia for the first time.”
“What makes you think this is my first trip to Russia?”
“Because you’re studying your ‘itinerary,’” he said, making air quotes. “If you’d ever been to Russia, you’d know that nothing there works or runs on time or as expected. There’s a chaos factor that figures into everything and everyone. I call it ‘Red Havoc.’”
“Is that so?”
George continued. “To survive in Russia, you’ve got be ready to adapt at a moment’s notice to even the slightest change in the temperature of a room.
You must learn to think two steps ahead of that chaos in order to move forward with success.
” He paused for a moment, as if struck by a thought.
“I suppose it’s why Russia has produced so many chess champions over the years. ”
“I always figured it had something to do with poverty, being snowed in for half the year, and being able to play while drinking vodka.”
George laughed. “You’re clever. That’s good. Just remember what I said about the chaos.”
I smiled wide. “Thanks for the advice. But, like I said, I’m just—”
“Here to take pictures. I know, I know,” he said standing to leave. “Just remember what I said about Red Havoc, and don’t lose that card.”
“I’ll keep it safe,” I replied.
“Keep yourself safe, Cliff, and don’t trust anyone.”
The shift in George’s tone sent a chill through my bones.
“We understand one another, then?” he asked.
I did George the courtesy of wiping the dumb smile off my face before giving him a silent nod.
“Good,” he said, loud enough for anyone within earshot to hear. “Then I’ll see you when I see you. It was a pleasure meeting you, Cliff.”
“The pleasure was mine, George.”
With that, the ambassador left me to rejoin the rest of his group at the front of the plane, leaving me alone with my thoughts. The chief of which was, “What the hell was that all about and what the hell was I about to step into?”
* * *
Our plane touched ground at 8:15AM Moscow time.
I was the last to exit the plane, and true to George’s words, I split from the group the moment I had the chance, making my way through the airport to the exit as quickly as possible, doing my best to avoid security cameras or drawing attention to myself.
Fortunately for me, twenty-nine-year-old men dress exactly the same in Portland, Oregon, as they do in Moscow.
Designer jeans, a heavy flannel shirt over an overpriced T-shirt, and pristine Nike sneakers.
Complete with my Pacific Northwest tan (which is precisely one shade darker than the skin of one afflicted with albinism), I should have little problem blending in with Russian crowds.
Also true to George’s words, the Russian chaos theory was in full effect.
First, the taxi I hired to take me from the airport to the train station in Moscow got a flat tire and I had to flag down another cab in the middle of a city world-famous for its horrific traffic jams. Then, once I finally got to the station, the train to St. Petersburg was running one hour and seven minutes behind schedule.
An anomaly as Russia’s train system is typically reliable and on time.
By the time I boarded the train, I was dead flat exhausted.
Under normal circumstances I would have headed straight to the dining car, knocked back a couple shots of Smirnoff and slept in my seat until we reached St, Petersburg.
But my circumstances were far from normal, and snoozing on the job could compromise the mission or cost me my life.
The Train conductor, who’d been busy checking my fellow passengers’ travel credentials, made his way to me.
“Mogu li ya uvidet' vash bilet?” he asked, requesting to see my ticket.
“Da, konechno,” I replied in my best Russian, handing it to him.
The conductor then punched my ticket before handing it back to me.
“Spasibo,” he replied with a polite smile, before moving on.
I felt relieved. So far my Russian speaking skills had managed to get me through hailing two taxis and successfully boarding a train. Maybe Leslie was right to recommend me for this mission after all.
Just then a beautiful woman who was seated with her back to me a few rows away stood up, turned around, and began walking down the aisle, toward me.
I assumed she was Russian given her tall, slender stature, high cheekbones, dark blonde hair, and ice-blue eyes, and was surprised when she took the empty seat across from and facing me.
“Vy ne protiv, yesli ya syadu zdes'?” (Do you mind if I sit here?)
I smiled and shook my head, motioning toward the empty seat.
She thanked me and then asked, “Vy vpervyye v Rossii?” (Is this your first time in Russia?)
“Pochemu ty sprashivayesh'?” (Why do you ask?), I replied.
“Izvinite, ya ne khochu pokazat'sya grubym.
Mne pokazalos', chto ya ulovil amerikanskiy aktsent, kogda vy govorili s konduktorom. YA pytayus' uluchshit' svoi navyki angliyskogo yazyka i lyublyu obshchat'sya s amerikantsami...” (I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. I thought I detected an American accent when you were speaking with the conductor. I’m trying to improve my English-speaking skills and enjoy talking to Americans.)
I understood enough of what she was saying to catch her meaning. “Is my Russian that bad?” I asked.
The Russian beauty smiled and shook her head. “No, but your accent needs a little work.”
“You could tell I was American, huh?”
“I can almost always spot an American by their accent, even when speaking Russian. Sometimes I can even tell what part of the United States they are from.”
“What about me? Can you tell where I’m from?”
My new travel companion twisted up her face, tapping her finger to her pursed lips as if she was lost in deep thought. She looked like Diane Lane circa The Outsiders and admittedly, I’d always had a crush on Cherry Valance. But my god, who didn’t?
This woman was absolutely fucking adorable, and if I wasn’t here as a matter of national security, I’d get off at whatever stop she was getting off at.
“I think you’re from California. Am I right? Oh, I hope so. I want to go to California so bad.”
“You’re pretty close,” I replied. “I’m from the state right next door to California called Nevada, in a town called Las Vegas.”
Her baby blues widened. “Oooh, Las Vegas. I’ve heard of that, of course. That’s a very fancy place.”
I chuckled. “Yes, it can be very fancy. It can also be a little bit rough.”
“I don’t mind,” she replied. “In Russia we’re used to rough.”
“I’m Noah,” I said, extending my hand, which she shook gently.
“Pleased to meet you, Noah. My name is Alina.”
“I must say, Alina. Your English is excellent. I hope someday my Russian will be as good.”
At this point, I was ninety-percent sure Alina was a prostitute and that this train was her hunting ground.
It would certainly explain why she could pick out an American accent from across a train car, and why such an exotically beautiful woman would be on a commuter train headed to St. Petersburg mid-day on a Monday.
“Keep practicing and you’ll get better,” Alina replied before asking, “What brought to Russia? Are you here to meet your Russian fiancé for the first time?”
I laughed. “No, nothing like that. I’m an art broker.”
“A fancy job as well as a fancy town,” Alina said.
“It’s not as glamorous as you’d think. All I do is help collectors locate and acquire works they are interested in purchasing. It’s as simple as that, really.”
Even if Alina was a working girl, it didn’t hurt to have someone to rehearse my cover story on.
“And is there something you’d like to acquire while you’re in Russia?” she asked seductively.
Alina wasn’t just pretty. She was drop dead gorgeous. I’d never once paid for sex, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted at that moment.
I smiled politely. “I’m afraid this trip is all business.”
“Maybe next time you visit, you will make some time for pleasure,” she purred.
It was more than ironic that my family and friends thought I was a playboy.
It was cruel. Since joining the agency, I had zero time for dating.
While everyone thought I was out on the town with a lovely lady on my arm, I’d been working undercover dancing cheek-to-cheek with some of the worst people on earth.
People who traded human lives for money.
Now, I found myself away from home being hit on by a Russian supermodel and I couldn’t do a damn thing about it if I wanted to. And I certainly did.
“Next time,” I replied with a polite smile.
Alina leaned closer to me. “Can I ask you one more thing before I go back to my seat?”
“Of course,” I replied.
She smiled wide. “Have you considered visiting St. Basil’s cathedral while you’re here?”
My ears began to ring. A sign of elevated blood pressure. I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or throw myself from the train. For the briefest of moments, I questioned if I’d heard her right, but she’d clearly spoken the mission’s passphrase and so I replied.
“I’m afraid I don’t have time, but my grandfather tells me it’s beautiful.”
Fuck me, Alina wasn’t a prostitute at all. She was my contact.