Tuesday, August 14, 2018

Life Before Project Iceworm - mini mission story continued

Chapter 3

They had Natasha locked in a waiting room guarded by two secret service looking blokes – black sunglasses, earpieces and all.   The two outside didn’t give us a glance but the couple inside stood straighter, trigger fingers twitching.  The room was 1980s drab, with faux steel reception seating bolted to the floor through factory #3345 carpeting.  The rows of matching chair clothe must have been discarded from a local DMV.  Entering the room, to my right, cross-legged atop of an innocuous foam cushion was a figure folded over itself, with hands on the back of the neck and fingers tightly knitted together.  The posture was so twisted and seemingly uncomfortable that I could only assume the figure had to be either a ballet dancer or a yogi.  She lifted her face to us as we got closer and I realized it was the latter – that was a face of a Russian ballerina whose depression is so entrenched that she forgot that she could eat normally now.   Her passport likely said she was 35 or 40 but her resting sad face pushed that number to 60 – in Russian years.  But getting even closer, I saw those cool, steely blue eyes, fierce and determined.  She may be frightened, overwhelmed even, but she knew her endgame.  Before we were nearly upon her, a low growl came from between painted red lips, “Where is my son?”

Cassidy bullied ahead of us in hopes of placating her.  “Ms. Orlov, these are the men I told you about.  Mr. and . . . Mr. Reese are going to secure your asylum in the UK.  You just need to answer a few questions – it’s the deal, right?  You give us the information and we let you go.”

“Where is my son?”  The growl was softer this time, much more menacing with the twitching left eyelid.

Right on time, my knight-in-shining-armour jumped in, “Where is this woman’s child?”

Cassidy didn’t even bother to turn around but tossed back at Angus.  “She is aware of the conditions.  They were made perfectly clear when she came here.”

“I beg your pardon?”  It was Angus’s turn to growl and his had diplomatic weight.

I’m not sure if it was Angus’s tone or Cassidy’s dislike of us that made him turn around and attempt to put my husband in his place.  “You’ll get her when I get I want.”

Angus cocked his head to the left as if he was considering his next step.  He likely was deciding whether or not it was worth possibly bruising his knuckles to punch this gnome.  My hubby is nothing if not vain, but he also makes Angelina Jolie’s humanitarian work look like a church bakes sale for the homeless.  “I see you no longer are in need of our services,” Angus replied in a crisper British accent, the only hint in his voice of his displeasure.  “We must have misunderstood our handler.  We thought we were to accept the information because of its . . . ‘potential constitutional implications’.”

Angus turned to leave but Cassidy moved his legs surprisingly fast and stopped him.  Whispering, he pleaded, “Listen, I just gotta know.  There are bets all over the intelligence community about this guy, the president I mean; folks can’t figure it out.  I mean is the man crazy or just not a man?”

“We’ll send you an email with confirmation one way or the other,” I said.

“This is interfering with our vacation.  We are leaving now with or without them.  Your national destiny or weekly pocket money isn’t the Crown’s problem.”

Cassidy looked back and forth between us, assessing our sincerity.  He turned around then dialled on his mobile.  As he stepped out the door, I overheard him say to someone, “Yeah, bring the boy down here.  Yeah, now, bring him now!”

Angus walked up to Natasha and offered his right hand.  She looked at him queerly and seemed hesitant to respond.  Her gaze eventually locked onto his left hand which was prosthetic.  He noted this and held it up, so she could see it better.  “Neskol'ko let nazad ya poteryal ruku v missii dlya MI-6.  YA do sikh por privyk k etoy veshchi (I lost it a few years back in a mission for MI-6.  I’m still getting used to this thing)!” he said in Russian.   He wiggled the fingers.  “Electro-hydraulic anatomy – it’s not the same but . . ..  He didn’t tell her about the vibrating middle finger.  She smiled a little though.  “Let me do a better introduction.  I’m Angus Reese-Mc Innes.  This is my husband Desmond, but his friends call him Deetz.”  He offered the artificial hand, reckoning that, like other people, she had a morbid curiosity about how it felt.  “I know, surprisingly life-like, eh?”  Her smile widened, and she sat up but kept her legs crossed.  The smile took 15 years off her face.

She said, “I am Natasha Orlov.”  She turned briefly to shake my hand as well but kept her eyes on Angus. 

He flashed her what I call his ‘constituent smile’ – you know the kind, sincerity on steroids – only it looks real on him.  “Are you in any way. . . harmed?”  He crafted his words carefully.  There were likely all kinds of detection devices dotting the room that could tell you everything from the visitor’s body temperature to how often the interviewee blinked. 

“I just want my son away from this government business!”  She started to straighten her back.  “I have nothing to hide.  Only after he died did I find out what my Anatoly was involved in.”

“How did you find out after his death?” I asked.

She sighed, “The Federal Security Service and Foreign Intelligence Service coming to my house was one thing.  My husband works . . .  worked for the government.  But when the NOC showed up, I knew there was going to be trouble.  I sent my son to live with my mother but that is when I noticed I was being tailed and my neighbours were being interviewed by people who said they were the police.”

“Who are the NOC?” Angus asked.

“Non-official cover,” she spat.  She looked between us as if to emphasize her certainty.  “I’ve done a lot of Internet searches.”  She looked down at her feet.  She unfolded her legs with some effort – likely stiff from the early onset arthritis common in dancers.  As she stood, she continued, “I’m sure that didn’t help either, even after I started using other people’s laptops.”  She pulled a thin set of papers folded in fours from her bra and handed them to me while giving Angus a small but genuine smile.  “I don’t know what I would have done if they undressed me.  Luckily, before it came to that, the Cossacks arrived!”

How come Felicia’s the always fancy him?  He says its account of my ‘resting bitch-face’.  Shit!  It works just fine in Asia, where I did my best prowling of cis women and lady bois.  I unfolded the paper and noted chemical formulas along with anatomical features but not much else.  I said to Angus, “We’d better have Ciara take a look at this.”  My sister is a large animal vet.  She helps with this sort of thing and has gotten good at debunking all sorts of ‘evidence of the existence of aliens’ – the closest we’ve gotten is someone with altered DNA – but that’s another story. 

As Angus was about to answer me, a little boy who looked like a brown mop with arms and legs scampered into the room.  “Mamulya!” he shouted, running up to hug his mother. 

Natashia lifted him up in an embrace as if to inhale his essence.  “Alpert!”  She pulled away for a moment to ask, “Oni prichinili tebe bol' (Did they hurt you)?”

“No, Mamulya,” he replied as if he couldn’t fathom why she would ask, “Oni byli ochen' mily. U nikh byl poyezd, Mamulya. Nabor poyezdov i konfety (They were very nice.  They had a train set, Mommy.  A train set and candy).”

“Thank G-d!” Natasha said, hugging the boy even harder.

Angus mumbled, “They would be kind to the boy.  If he was POC, he would have been deported without you.”

The temperature rose sharply as we all turned to depart.  “Well,” I said, testing the waters, “we’ll be leaving now.”

Angus simply turned around and started walking like America was still a British colony.  But Cassidy had one more jab.  “I need you, gentlemen, to sign this requisition and possession form.  Just a bureaucratic technicality.”  He must have bought petty on clearance at Costco.

Pointing to Angus as if I was reintroducing him to someone important, I said, “Send the documents to his Lordship’s secretary.  She will make sure it’s taken care of.”  I could see Cassidy about to start an argument, but Angus’s turn of the head was so menacing that it gave me pause.  Angus looked back at me with a ‘what are you waiting for’ glance and left the room.  The four CIA henchmen stepped aside as if someone of higher rank was walking by.  Montgomery would have been proud while Patton would have challenged Angus to a duel.

We worked out way of that building as quickly as we could.  While walking, Angus texted the pilot of the William Mason to do a safety sweep then contact the tower to authorize a priority diplomatic air route.  “Are you picking up anything?” Angus asked me.

“I’m not feeling our Uber driver.”

Angus nodded then pointed to a notice of interpretation services encased in plastic.  “Let’s take a chance that the bloke working Russian surveillance inside Langley doesn’t know sign language.”  He went to the lobby receptionist.  She had to get her supervisor, who called a cab for us.
Once we were in the mini-SUV, I said, “You know, they sent a second car to make sure things were done right.”  I pointed to the vehicle that had been following us for about four blocks.
“If we were in Russia, I’d just get out of the car and shoot them, but the American’s are temperamental nowadays about such behaviour and the P.M. has enough problems.”  He thought for a moment then knocked on the cabbie’s safety window.  “There’s $200 over your fare if you do exactly as I ask.”

“I don’t want trouble,” pleaded the cabbie in a Nigerian accent.  “I’m on probation – no police contact.”

“I can take care of that,” Angus said, pulling out the money along with his business card and dropping them on the front seat.  “It has my personal mobile number if you need legal assistance – ever.  Now, I want you to get to the next highway entrance.  When you get on, punch this thing hard and fast”.   He thought again then added, “Here’s another $500 for your tires.  I would imagine they’ll need replacing after this.”  While the cabbie repeatedly stared at Angus through the rearview mirror, Angus dug into his small duffle.  “Forgot I still had these,” he said showing me the police stakes.  “Got ‘em when I attended this law enforcement convention last month.  Be careful though!  I thought they were toys too when I first got them.  But, when I tried packing them and pressed down, I nearly cut my palm up!”  Angus put his hand on the door and snapped it open just as the cab hit the expressway onramp and dropped 20 of the palm-size objects that looked like the jacks my sister used to play with.  As he said, “Dumbasses drove too close to us!” you heard the tires of the nondescript black sedan behind us explode with multiple bangs.  As we pulled away, I saw that car swerve several times as the driver attempted to regain control, only to hit a convenient pothole, bounce airborne then land upside down in a ditch.

“They really have to do something about the roads around here,” I said, turning around in my seat.


The boy giggled throughout, enjoying the ride in a speeding vehicle like all kids do.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Featured Post

Old Dick and the Sea-THE FULL STORY

Click Here  for the full story in one bite. And when your done, get the real FULL STORY - go to Amazon and purchase   The Roswell Di...

Trending Jewish Podcast

ABOUT THE SHOW If Jerry Seinfeld and Larry David could make a show about nothing… we figured we could make a Jewish podcast about everything. How does Judaism intersect with contemporary culture and illuminate how people live their lives? We don’t profess to have answers, just a host of questions, some profound, some rather goofy. Along the way we’ll learn about Judaism, the arts, politics, living a good life, and the interconnectedness of all things. Join Reconstructing Judaism's Bryan Schwartzman and Rachael Burgess for a weekly podcast about everything Jewish. Subscribe by Email This podcast is produced by Reconstructing Judaism. Visit us at ReconstructingJudaism.org.

Search This Blog