By design, he knew very little about his contact down the line, except that the man lived in Chicago. The American had let that slip once, but he was much too smart to let that happen to him. His contact only knew him as Ivan Andreyevich Krylov, an alias of his own choosing. The name meant nothing to his capitalist counterpart. The man was probably no more than an uneducated pig.
Known as the Russian Aesop, his namesake Krylov was an accomplished author of satirical Russian fables who died in the mid-1800s. Many of his stories and characters still resonated with the pop culture of his country today.
But the American would not know this.
Still, it made a fitting name for him to use. And he was fond of fables, hence his use of SnowMaiden when he first contacted the girl in a chat room. In truth, she had made the first move. He’d learned it worked better that way, to dangle the bait and linger with patience. He made a respectable living from his skill, amidst such rustic surroundings.
The remote seaport of Providenija was nothing more than a crude airstrip and a modest harbor located at the base of a mountain range on the southeast coast of Chukotka Peninsula. The larger landmass projected into the waters of the Chukchi and the Bering Seas. Just under forty miles separated Russian land from St. Lawrence Island near Alaska, part of the United States. In Providenija, housing consisted of tenements and prefabricated metal structures barged into port in the off season when the ice flows permitted. And the main source of income came from the sea and hunting.
Although he prided himself on his enterprising means to rise above such a livelihood, he remained cautious not to call attention to it. Once he had enough money saved, he would move to Moscow under an assumed name as a man of means once more, or perhaps leave the country, bound for someplace warm. That thought pleased him.
He knew from experience that he was only a cog in a much larger wheel. Any message from Ivan Krylov would be funneled down the line. Safer that way. He didn’t care how things worked or why anyone wanted these overindulged children. He only cared about getting paid. He spent enough money to keep him in food and cigarettes, with a roof over his head and the occasional acquisition from the black market when it suited him. Mostly, he saved for the better life he deserved. After all, he had need of comforts, especially at his age.
The old man pulled up the Web page to Globe Harvest, a site with a note that it was under construction. The notice had been there for as long as he remembered. He hit the keystrokes to open the site, a predesignated arrangement. An ID and password box flashed onto the screen. He typed his unique code and hit Enter. After a few seconds a mailbox appeared. No emails waited for him, but he sent one of his own to
Delivery from AK on its way to Chicago as agreed. ETA two days.
His American comrade might not know who Krylov was, but he would know what to do when he got this message. The old man got to his feet and stretched his back. After lighting another smoke, he trudged across his kitchen, heading for the toilet down the hall. The onions had soured his stomach, and his bladder required attention. He reached for the newspaper thrown onto a bookshelf near his apartment door and tucked it under his arm.
But a ping sounded, calling him back. His computer. When he returned, the old man glared at the screen.
GR8OZ: Hey man how r u?
The chat box blinked. A young flamer from Calgary, Alberta, in Canada, full of tattoos and both ears pierced. The blond-haired, blue-eyed gay boy had sent photos of himself last week. And his ears weren’t the only places he had punctured. Perhaps the boy thought to entice him with his provocative and depraved ways. He reached for the prints he had made and glared at the young man’s nakedness. It had taken time to earn this one’s trust, but now that he had it, he knew what to do. It wouldn’t take long.
Perhaps in some small measure he made a living from fishing after all. The old man stared down at his flashing laptop, blowing smoke from his nostrils. A smile strained the contours of his face.
Yes, there was little doubt. Money would be good this week.
South Chicago
9:50 P.M.
The cheap motel room reeked of cigarettes, stale beer, and pizza. The best thing Charlie Swain could say about the four walls that closed in on him now was that a heat wave kept his AC cranked. And he had the TV blaring to cover up the sound of sex from the next room. The woman was a real screamer.
He loved sticking it to a woman who knew how to scream, but having to listen to someone else do it left him frustrated, with no options except a five-finger spankfest. He raked fingers through his thinning hair and lit another cigarette, pacing the floor.
This dump had been his home for five days, but for the last two weeks he’d lived out of a suitcase, moving from place to place. While he waited for new ID and a gig with a connected dealer up North, he’d severed all links to his old life, including giving up his wheels. Buses had become his new mode of transportation, to stretch his limited funds. Fake ID would cost him serious coin.
But Charlie knew boredom would be the real test. When his cell phone rang, he wanted nothing more than to answer it, breaking up the monotony. Instead, he let it roll to voice mail, cautiously screening his calls. He finished the last of his warm beer and sat on the edge of his mattress until curiosity needled him into retrieving the message. He didn’t recognize the phone number, but the caller had left a message.
A woman’s voice. Crying. Cursing. The melodrama made him chuckle until he heard a familiar name. The message was intended for his ex-girlfriend, the bitch. He replayed the call, trying to make out the words between the curses and sobs.
He might have found the whole thing entertaining, except that Annie had dumped him before his life went into the crapper. And now everything made sense. That whore had been cheating on him with Dan the Man.
“Shit.” He threw the beer bottle across the room, shattering it against the wall.
When his cell phone rang again, he looked at the display and recognized the number. The same woman was calling back. This time he answered it.
“Yeah.”
The woman didn’t say anything at first, but he heard her crying. In a soft voice, she finally spoke.
“I’m sorry. I m-must have the…wrong number. Do you know wh-where I can find…Annie Rae Miller?”
“I got your last message,” he offered. “You think your man’s with her now?”
“Hell, yeah. I know it for a fact. That’s why…”
Rage flooded through him like water hitting a fast boil. He didn’t even listen to what the woman said. “What’s your name again?”
“Sophie.”
“Well, Sophie girl, I know this is gonna sound crazy, but please…come and get me. I don’t have a car at the moment, but I know where you can find that bitch,” he pleaded. “But you gotta come pick me up first.”
It took him time to convince the woman that he was on the level, but she eventually agreed to pick him up.
“Hello, Charlie.” The woman grinned, aiming the weapon between his eyes. “Looks like my man Danny isn’t the only one getting screwed.”
Taller than he was, she was lean and athletic, glaring at him with unflinching dark eyes. The woman wore a windbreaker with the top of her Kevlar vest showing, prepared for business. And she had a scar above an eyebrow, the jagged mark too nasty to ignore. No shrinking violet, the bitch would have been intimidating even if she weren’t carrying a gun.
