‘Dear Mr. Peter Turner… We are pleased to inform you… Master thesis defence… Organized Crime in the Former Soviet Republics: the USA’s most pertinent security risk… successful… We congratulate you… award you with a Master of Science degree….’
The rest of the letter was irrelevant. I had done it! I let out a ‘Hoop!’ of joy that echoed up the stairwell. As I bent down to pick up my keys, I bumped my head on the sharp edge of the open post box door as I stood up. I cursed under my breath and slammed the door out of disgust. The flimsy metal door bounced open and as the door swung open again it pulled with it a postcard that landed face down on the floor at my feet. Latching the post box door closed this time, I bent down a second time to pick up the postcard at my feet. I flipped it over in my fingers as I stood up and as I was able to make out the chaotic scene of the picture, my blood froze! I stood paralyzed as I looked at the tragic scene of the Morning of the Execution of the Streltsiy in miniature, printed on glossy card stock. I instinctively flipped the card over. It read:
‘Hey Kid, Congrats on the thesis! Need a job? Ray’s Steak House, Arlington 19:00’
The elation of the moment of achievement turned to horror as I looked again at the dramatic scene on Red Square on the postcard and remembered the terror of being shot and witnessing six others lose their lives in front of my horrified eyes. I felt that I needed to run. I tucked both my letter from the university and the postcard into my book bag and exited the apartment building on to F Street and turned right on 18th Street and at the corner of H street walked straight into the Hampton Inn and booked a room for the night. I paid in cash.
I plopped down in an easy chair and pulled the telephone onto my lap. From my book bag, I took an address book, worn and battered but filled with names, numbers and email addresses of my contacts around the world. Finding the phone number I needed, a Virginia area code, I dialed and waited for an answer.
“How can I direct your call?” a nondescript operator’s voice asked.
“Special agent Hal Parker,” I replied with no niceties or greetings.
“Connecting you now,” the operator answered flatly.
After a few rings of an extension telephone I didn’t know the number to, I heard the agent answer.
“Please identify yourself,” the man’s voice said.
“Turner, Peter, 52-48-76,” I revealed.
A moment passed.
“Mr. Turner, this is special agent Parker. What is your status?” the contact questioned.
“Santander has made contact. Will meet tonight at 19:00 in Arlington. Please advise instructions,” I waited for a response.
“Are you positive?” Parker questioned in a bit of disbelief.
“Absolutely. No one else could have known the details but him,” I confirmed.
“No updates. Proceed with caution. No wires, no surveillance. Make contact and try to ascertain where he is staying. Call back no more than sixty minutes after the meeting,” were Parker’s instructions.
“Understood,” I confirmed and hung up the telephone.
I took a cab from downtown across the river on the Roosevelt bridge and up Wilson Boulevard until just passed the Court House metro station. The cab dropped me across the street. Not wanting to create any suspicion on Del’s part, I did not hesitate to cross the street and darted out in front of the oncoming traffic and lighted the curb and sidewalk in front of Ray’s The Steaks. I walked right in at seven o’clock and looked about the waiting area. Empty. I approached the hostess at her podium and stood without knowing what to ask.
“I am here to meet my party. Sanning?” I propositioned, not sure if he would use a name he had already been known by.
The cute blonde in her server’s uniform looked over her reservations lists and shook her head with an apologetic look on her face. He blonde bob shook from side to side with her head. “Are you sure it’s tonight?” she asked back.
“Oh, I’m sorry, It’s not Sanning, it is Streltsiy. Can you check again please?” I tried to sound forgetful and a bit spacey as if I met people every day at upscale steak houses as a habit.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Streltsiy has arrived and is waiting for you. Please follow me,” she smiled and showed me to the back of the restaurant, that wasn’t full, but was certainly far from empty… and then I saw him with a beer in hand, sipping carefully from a full mug. When he saw me, his face lit up and he quickly stood up from his chair.
“How the hell are ya, kid?” he bellowed and gave me a manly bear hug. I can’t say I wasn’t pleased to see him again, “How’s the shoulder? Kid, you look great! You look smarter than when I last saw you! You got your color back!”
“Del, the last time you saw me I was on the floor of the Tretyakov Gallery bleeding out!” I reminded him, “of course I’m going to look a little bit better.”
“C’mon sit down. I understand celebrations are in order! Heard you passed your thesis off for a degree.” He snapped his fingers for the waitress and ordered me a tall Pepsi with lots of ice. I chuckled remembering the fuss he made in Moscow two years ago about ice with the clueless waiter.
“Del,” I started, “of course nothing I learn about you will ever surprise me again, but how do you know that I passed my thesis defense and how did you get my home address?”
“How do I know about your thesis? Who doesn’t know about your paper? The whole community has been talking about it. It’s making the circles and you are going to be a very hot asset in the intelligence community as soon as that diploma is placed in your hands. I thought I’d try to be the first to get an offer in!” he said as a matter of simple business. “Are you hungry?”
“Sure, why not? I’ll call my father after I’ve celebrated with you,” I said with some sarcasm and opened the menu.
“So, kid. I had to lay pretty low after the shootout at the Tretyakov. I heard about a week later that you had made it stateside again but you didn’t leave any details on the answering machine. What happened with you? How did you get on?” Del asked.
“Well, it wasn’t anything crazy. Woke up in the hospital with big Bertha as a nurse. The embassy helped me get a plane ticket booked and I flew home maybe ten days later. Thank God, there was no more drama! I couldn’t have handled it.” I fibbed.
“That’s funny. Could have sworn I saw you on TV shaking hands with Boris Yeltsin at the Kremlin hospital. You looked pretty shell shocked,” he said with a wink at me as he sipped his beer again.
“Jeez, that’s right. Yeltsin! I forgot about that. Sure wish I had a picture of that.” I put on a bit of a show, trying to figure out how much he knew and how much info he was fishing for.
“So, I assume having been treated at the TsKB that you were under guard. That place is more a fortress than the Kremlin is, but doesn’t let in tourists!” he attested.
“Yes, I was kept under guard, they took a statement from me and then turned me over to the embassy. From there they booked me a flight home,” I extrapolated.
“And you had nothing to do with the shootout at the American embassy that made the international headlines,” he probed.
“Nope! Just one shootout a week for me, please! One bullet wound in my life time is enough for me, Del!” I lied.
“Funny, because I thought I saw a one-armed fellow that looked like you run from a crashed car into the embassy gates with two marines with pistols drawn,” he said with a cold stare on his face.