“Why?”
“This ain’t no normal Russian stogie. I didn’t notice it when it was covered in dry-dock, but this one is different.”
“Can you tell me how?”
“Kind of like a Star Trek design, if you get my drift. It’s stretched at least another half a length. The bow and stern have concave sections. It’s longer and thinner, I guess. Maybe someone who knows these boats should have a peek at this thing.” Josh began going through the pictures with a magnifying glass. “Even though I’m an air force jock, I do think that something is wrong with this ship.” He put the pictures on the screen and zoomed in.
“Can you e-mail them to me?”
“Protocol won’t allow it.”
“I’ll be down later today,” Sukudo replied.
“They’ll be ready when you get here.”
Josh was beginning to warm up to the admiral. Sukudo took his opinions seriously and never pretended to know more than he really did. He came off as levelheaded, and Josh respected that. He was now willing to do a little more for him than the other superior officers with whom he usually dealt.
The bus station was located near the beach. George’s bus rumbled to a stop, and the few passengers exited; George got out last. He scanned the morning rush of jiggling stomachs to the surf. One thing about Slavic people was that they were not ashamed of their bodies. Some should be, but they never let things such as appearances inhibit their having a good time.
Morning shops and cafés were opening as the owners called to the public that they were ready for business. It was an odd feeling, but George had to make himself noticeable again. There had to be a contact here, and he or she had to find him. George went out in plain view of everything.
He walked over to the nearest stand and purchased two packs of cigarettes. He discarded one pack unopened in the trash and then proceeded to light one cigarette from the other. This was his signal. He never liked smoking, so he tried not to vomit every time he inhaled. He hoped his contact would see him.
Rather than wait around, he began to move up the street, peeking in the windows of the shops. If he weren’t contacted soon, he’d have to move to plan B. This he didn’t like because he wasn’t sure what plan B was.
She howled like a dog at first, and then picked herself off the ground. George hadn’t seen her. He didn’t know how he could have stepped on a person who he was sure wasn’t there the moment before. It didn’t matter, though. The toothless old hag spat insults at him faster than he could apologize. Some passersby smirked as she gave him hell for not watching where he was stepping. George, playing the dazed and confused American, decided that he was drawing too much attention and began to retreat. He tried to walk away, but the tramp followed. What he heard next froze him in his tracks.
“You dropped your key,” she said in decent English.
George spun around to see her smiling and holding a room key in her hand. It was almost too much. This is my contact? Still, the woman extended her hand.
“Thank you,” he replied, taking it.
It was so awkward that he couldn’t do anything but stand in front of her. A million questions raced through his head, yet he had lost the capacity to speak.
“You buy me coffee now.” Her authority exerted itself, and she grabbed him by the sleeve and dragged him away.
Surprisingly, when George looked around, no one had paid any attention to them.
“Don’t worry. I do this every day. They are all used to it,” she said, waving her arm in the air. Her grin showed more gum than enamel. They turned into a small coffee shop.
The event was over his head. George was a spy who operated by the book. He worked with a known plan and known contacts — nothing ever like this. He finally blurted out, “You’re my contact?”
“Now that’s very unprofessional,” she replied. “We don’t say things like that in public — and look like you are apologetic.”
“What?”
“You are sorry for stepping on me, and now you will buy me coffee. It’s the way I get along.”
“What?”
“I get tourists to pay money for me to go away.” She cackled, thinking it was a brilliant scam.
George felt a migraine trying to come on as she boastfully announced their entrance in Russian to the café crowd. The shop was full of men, and they roared with laughter as she sat George by the window.
“They think you are stupid. I tell them you are my boyfriend.”
Alarm ran through him. “They know what I’m doing?”
“No. They believe that you are another victim of mine, so you must behave that way.”
“Oh.” He was not impressed and very uncomfortable. The woman broke all the rules of the game. It seemed to be working, though, which he found unsettling. “I’m not used to operating this way.”
“No one who meets me is.” She raised her hand and ordered two coffees. The shop owner acknowledged and went about making them. “This is the most natural thing for me. It is what the public expects. There is no worry. You have already been forgotten.”
It seemed to George that the old woman had taken over his assignment. She had, actually. He couldn’t make another move without her information. “What happens next?”
“The key.” She lowered her voice. “It belongs to room number four thirty-one, in the Azou Hotel. That is all I know. The hotel is three blocks from here on the right side of the street. Understand?”
George nodded. He was pleased that his request had been fulfilled. It also suggested that someone in the company thought enough of him to give him some support on short notice. The coffee was brought, and he paid the smiling waiter. “Do these people understand English?”
“Very little.” The woman became a bit agitated. “I said that you were safe here. Relax and drink your coffee. Then you may leave.”
“There is one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“I’m looking for a man. Andri Stemovich.”
The woman motioned to the man behind the bar, and he presented himself quickly. She spoke in Russian and brought up Andri’s name. He replied. It seeming a bit lengthy to George, but the old woman nodded patiently and thanked him. Then he left.
“He pilots a tourist boat for his cousin. It’s located four kilometers south of here on the shore.”
George thought it was his luck with this information, but it wasn’t. The citizens of Sevastopol dismissed tourists as just that. Any person who comes and lives in their community goes through great scrutiny. It was no coincidence that the shop owner knew of Andri. He knew of Andri when he first arrived. Many people for weeks had observed the outsider in one way or another. They tried to guess what kind of man he was by his actions. Andri for the most part kept to himself, thus inviting the locals to spy even more and ultimately finding him harmless. It was a process to which every newcomer was subject. The tourists, though, were always overlooked.
She stared at George with a silly grin, totally expecting him to ask another question. He had none and proceeded to excuse himself. “You owe me money,” she quickly interjected.
He had learned not to argue in her domain. He withdrew a euro from his wallet, and she snatched it out of his hand before he could object.
“You’re quite generous,” she cackled. “I’ll be around if you should need more help.”
He nodded and left. She boasted something to the café crowd, and the men laughed. He knew they were chuckling at his expense, but it was all part of the game. That was what he hoped, at least.
Five minutes later, he found the Azou Hotel. It was a rich establishment. Obviously the one spot where the Western tourists stayed. People bustled about, and no one really took any notice of him when he slipped in the stairwell to go to the fourth floor. The key opened room 431 silently, and George found a black, plastic suitcase in the top of the closet. To his amusement, it was covered with stickers from the various places it had traveled. Even the CIA has a sense of humor. He smiled as he looked at the destinations where the luggage had traveled. The contents were exactly what he had ordered. One LSALD (light sensitive audible listening device) and $10,000 in $100 bills.