“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 beforehanding 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?)
