The Russian Mothers
Chapter 5
Jersey got back to me and confirmed the memo of understanding was signed off by all concerned parties. It outlined the objectives for the joint venture between two putative adversaries and spelled out the rules of the road. If either side reneged on the deal, all bets were off. He asked me to stop by his office when I had a chance to read and memorize the terms and conditions in the five page document. The relationship and state of cooperation between the countries had just reached a highpoint not seen since World War II.
I congratulated him for pushing it through the bureaucracy in record time. With the department’s seniors blessing the agreement and their counterparts at other agencies doing the same, Jersey had plenty of cover for his role in moving the project forward. He’d get off scot-free if things later turned sour. It was a perfect situation for him. He’d immediately get a feather in his cap without the risk of a bitch slap on the wrist later on from Mother State.
Sometimes those who serve and protect must pay tribute to their DSS superiors: Hail Caesar, those who are about to die salute you!
***
Jersey finally told me where in the world I was headed: Moscow! It was to be Moscow in November no less. The very thought of it chilled me to the bone. I was to meet with Major Petrov to develop a game plan, a plan of action, to locate Vladimir and put a stop to his madness.
That seemed unfair to me since we were equal partners and should meet each other halfway on matters such as this one, like in Bermuda. However, Jersey didn’t buy what I was trying to sell. So, I’d be a Muscovite for awhile as we hashed out the details of our plan. I hoped she had some good ideas since I was empty-headed as usual. I’d have to remember to pack my mukluks, long-johns and earmuffs. And I worried they might clash with my trendy leisure suits.
I had some housekeeping chores to do before I could depart for my winter wonderland vacation in Russia. I tried to look on the bright side of the trip, but couldn’t see any sunlight shining on the adventure. But maybe I’d get lucky. As their guest, they might put me up at a charming dacha in the wooded suburbs. That would be a nice touch.
I envisioned snow covering its roof and the many birch trees in the garden sprinkled with the white stuff as well. Christmas was drawing close, so sugarplum fairies danced in my head and I could almost see Santa and his sleigh on the rooftop delivering toys to good girls and boys. Bing Crosby was singing about a white Christmas in the background.
My thoughts of the pastoral scene and the bit of auditory hallucination I’d just experienced then abruptly faded in my mind. I realized I’d not been a nice person this past year. I never donated any money to the charities that sent me the little address labels and always shortchanged the girl scouts delivering my order of cookies. As a scrooge, I was likely to get lumps of coal, or perhaps worse, as a gift: just my just deserts in this case. But most of all, I greatly fretted about the sleigh part of the Christmas card imagery. The scene frightened me to death.
Getting ready for my journey, I submitted my dip passport for a dip visa and dipped into my meager savings for a cash advance for expenses. I visited the courier division and it set me up with a small, orange goodie bag since I would be hand-carrying sensitive items as a non-pro courier. Despite a common belief, a courier wasn’t shackled to the diplomatic pouch, only to his work schedule and career. The bag and its contents were inviolate under international law and diplomatic protocol. I hoped they might apply to my mortality too.
It was D-Day, departure day, and I was ready as I’d ever be to brave the Russian weather and the vicissitudes of my occupation. I smoked several Marlboros in quick succession before entering the C Concourse at Dulles International Airport. The nicotine fix would only last a few hours and then I’d be climbing the cabin’s walls. I brought a couple of Xanax to relax me during the long flight. Thank God for the curative powers of imposed self-discipline, nail-biting, inane airline rules and good old fashioned sedatives. A few glasses of wine would also numb my discomfort.
The flight to Moscow’s Sheremetyevo airport was direct, long and uneventful. Fortunately, I slept much of the trip bolstered by several glasses of wine and my meds. I was actually feeling like a mellow fellow when we landed. I breezed through customs and immigration which was highly unusual. I guessed they had my name in their computers and that’s why I passed through so quickly. Sometimes it helped to have questionable friends in high places, I thought.
Lugging my luggage to curbside, I saw someone with a hand-printed sign with my name on it. It read Mr. A. Very, close enough for government work whether in the U.S. or Russia, I supposed. He motioned me to the car and opened the rear passenger door and I hopped inside for a 45 minute ride to my new digs. I was still hoping for the dacha in the forest with its beamed ceiling, sleeping loft and beautifully paneled, knotty pine walls. But I was to be sorely disappointed.
We stopped directly in front of a dreary, drab walk-up apartment building in the center of the city. It was a damn Khrushchevski! Not even a Motel 6 or a Hojo, but an ugly, four story concrete building with no elevator. Khrushchev ordered the building of hundreds of thousands of the eyesores, cum bunkers, across the country in the 1950s to meet a rising population. Over the years, they’d become a standing joke among the Russians and represented the best in shoddy construction, uninspired architecture, cookie-cutter mass production and the questionable virtues of central planning. They stuck out like sore thumbs and were universally ridiculed.
Fortunately, many had been torn down over the years and replaced by modern buildings. But not my abode it seemed. No, I was about to experience a little slice of Soviet history. I didn’t know if my future SVR compatriots were pulling a prank or not. I’d find out in the morning. The driver handed me the keys to the apartment and left me stranded. Welcome to Moscow I thought. My apartment turned out to be on the top floor. No big surprise there!