by Mike Coony
With luck, this side trip to Finland and Russia won’t clash with any of the business I have under way with Gerry and Earl. I reckon Sui-Lin can handle the bank account openings, and Gerry will keep watch over the Gambia, Manila and Yokohama timber deal.
Hamish has agreed to sell the receipts for two of the apartments I hold booking deposits on – to raise some extra dosh. I offered him a cut of the profits, but he said he’d prefer more ‘Russian lessons’ in Macau; Gerry’s pal Nico can arrange those. Hamish seems to get a thrill out of spending a weekend with a whore without paying for the pleasure. Perhaps he pretends to himself that it’s a date, not a business arrangement. Just so long as he doesn’t fall for a Ruskie beauty and think of marrying her. I have enough on my plate trying to look after Gerry’s situation, without having a love-sick, freckle-faced Jock looking to ‘buy out’ the love of his life.
33
MOSCOW: OCTOBER, 1985
I’ve booked and pre-paid our Moscow accommodation. We have two adjoining rooms at the three-star Hotel Katarina in the name of the Shangri-La Hotel Group, with guests’ names to be confirmed upon arrival. The train tickets for the return journey will be bought locally, and the tickets to Japan will be purchased on board the ferry.
Mac gave Anna operating funds, and he sorted out her plane tickets and overnight accommodation in Finland. She’s flying directly from Helsinki to Moscow, but she’ll be stopping in Helsinki to go shopping for clothes and soft toys with ‘made in Finland’ labels for Nakita Sylvina, and an anorak for me. The temperature in Hong Kong is still a pleasant twenty-eight degrees Celsius, but it could be twenty degrees below zero in the USSR.
———
I flew from Hong Kong to Finland and took a Finnair flight from Helsinki-Vantaa Airport to Moscow’s Domodedovo International Airport. I thought it was cold in Finland, but the icy wind that hit me as I stepped out of Moscow’s largest airport took my breath away. With every intake of breath it feels like shards of ice are forming in my lungs. I stuffed my gloved fist in my mouth in a futile attempt to stop my tongue from turning to ice.
Despite all the warnings I’ve been given, I hailed a taxi. Against the noise of the wind and the roar of aircraft engines taking off from the runway behind me, I summoned the last of my breath and yelled to the taxi driver. “Hotel Katarina, Shlyuzovaya Embankment.”
I spoke to the driver in Finnish, but he’s convinced himself that I’m an American – on speaking terms with Michael Jackson and Mel Gibson. Nothing I say persuades him otherwise, so I gave up trying. I concentrated on the snow-covered buildings, monuments and parks we’re passing on our forty kilometre drive into the city centre. It strikes me how effective a blanket of snow is at unifying the ugly and unkempt, transforming it into something that looks beautiful and cared for.
The elderly man behind the reception counter at Hotel Katarina glanced with glazed eyes at my passport and handed it back to me. I always try to hang on to my passport in a foreign country – especially when it’s not my passport – and I’m relieved that I don’t have to leave it with him. Just as in France, hotels in the USSR are obligated to retain visitors’ passports for police inspection, but obviously the elderly gent has other ideas. Maybe he’s a White Russian and he has no truck with the Red Russian rules and regulations. Anyway, he reached up and dislodged a room key – attached to a lump of grey granite – from a hook above his head. He banged the key down on the counter in front of me, mumbled something under his breath and appeared to fall asleep. Thank God he’s in no mood for conversation.
A porter in a Cossack outfit appeared out of nowhere, grabbed my bag and took off in the direction of the lifts. I chased after him, and we rose silently until the lift came to a shuddering stop on the eleventh floor. We walked down the corridor and the porter stuffed my suitcase under his arm when we got to my door. Before he turned the key in the lock, the door swung open to reveal a medium-sized girl with fair hair, ice-blue eyes and a slightly upturned nose standing akimbo in her pyjamas.
Anna babbled something in Russian, leapt past the bewildered Cossack and sprang into my arms. Our love making started tentatively. But it quickly picked-up where it left off twenty-one months earlier in the studio apartment in Helsingborg – before I took the ferry to Helsingør.
I can tell Anna’s itching to quiz me about who I’ve been with, but she resisted the temptation. I’m impressed with her maturity, almost as much as I am with the sex. And thankfully, I don’t get the impression she’s been practising with anyone else.
———
Anna and I are in the hotel coffee shop waiting for our breakfast. I get the feeling that we’re being helped already, but I can’t be sure. No one came asking for our passports this morning, but that could just be carelessness on the part of the hotel.
An Asian man dressed in workers’ dungarees just dropped a note on our table as he walked by; the note’s written in Russian. Anna translated it first into Swedish and then English – because that’s the way she learnt to do it at school.
When her translations were complete, she read the note out loud. “Go outside the hotel and wait on the pavement. At ten thirty a taxi will pull up to collect you. Get in. Finn, it’s signed Friend of your Friends. What the heck does that mean? Is it the IRA? Are we really doing something for the cause?”
I have no response for her. So I just used a kind of knowing smile to put off giving her an answer until I’m certain myself.
We stood outside, as the note instructed; a taxi pulled up at precisely ten thirty a.m. The taxi drove to Ulitsa Okhotnyy Ryad, and then to Bolshaya Nikitskaya, where we collected a Chinese man.
“So pleased to meet you. I am Robin, and I have the honour of being the ‘Friend of your Friends’ of Uncle Sui. I am responsible for assisting you in any way we can.”
As we pulled back into traffic, Robin gave me a photograph of a young girl with pigtails and rosy cheeks. The child’s dressed in a school uniform, holding the hand of a tall, middle-aged woman wearing a head scarf and a long woollen coat trailing in the snow. Robin handed Anna a bulky envelope with twenty more photographs, and the middle-aged woman’s address – which we already have from Nataliya Yelena. He also provided the name and address of the school Nakita Sylvina attends from seven forty-five a.m. until five p.m., Monday to Saturday.
Robin’s speaking rapidly in Russian to Anna, and she’s translating for me. “‘The receptionist at your hotel has been instructed not to record your arrivals in the hotel records, and not to hold your passports for the police. Your bills will disappear before they reach the accounts office, so…enjoy your stay.’”
It crosses my mind what a pity it is that I’ve pre-paid the hotel rooms.
“Mister Finn Flynn, please forgive my use of my native tongue, rather than conversing in English…of which I make many errors. You will forgive, yes?” Robin said.
“Of course,” I assured him.
The taxi pulled to the side of the road, and Robin got out without a backward glance.
When the taxi stopped in front of Hotel Katarina I reached into my pocket for roubles, but the taxi driver shook his head no. He passed a mobile phone to Anna and said something to her in Russian which, of course, I don’t understand. “Cпасибо,” she said, which I do understand. She put the mobile phone in her leather knapsack, together with the bulky envelope from Robin.
On the way up in the lift Anna explained that the taxi driver told her to use the pre-programmed number in the telephone to contact him. He said he’ll collect us if we need to go anywhere, and he’ll arrange anything we want arranged.
I’d been anticipating some assistance from Uncle Sui’s contacts, but this is way beyond my wildest expectations. Still, never look a gift horse in the mouth….Isn’t that what they say?
Anna has a load of questions, as I expected she would. “Finn, who are these people? What is a Russian-born Chinese man doing in the Irish Republican Army? Who is Uncle Sui? And why are they helping you?”
> I appreciate why Anna is so curious about Uncle Sui and his Russian contacts, and I tried to answer her questions.
“Uncle Sui is a very powerful man who’s been asked by my friends to look after me until it’s safe for me to return home.” That seems to satisfy her.
“I hope home means my home,” she whispered in my ear as we walked along the corridor to our adjoining rooms.
I rang Mac using the American satellite phone he gave Anna when they were in Helsingborg. The signal on the American phone is weak, so I cut the call short.
Mac was impressed by the help on offer from Uncle Sui, but he warned me to ‘row your own boat as long as you’ve a pair of paddles.’ Typical Mac, he never really trusts anyone, and faced with a gift horse he’d probably thump it between the eyes rather than jump on its back. That’s Mac for you.
I want to ring Hong Kong, so I decided to see if Brother Leader Gaddafi’s satellite phone has a better signal. I should explain….I have a set of satellite phones that I forgot to return to the stores when I left Brother Leader Muammar al-Gaddafi’s training camp in Libya. I think it’s comical that the Libyan Oil Exporting Corporation pays for these very expensive satellite calls – while the British, Russians, Chinese and Americans listen in. If the calls are ever traced they’ll eventually lead back to Tripoli, and probably no farther.
Brother Leader’s present works perfectly; Gerry answered within fifteen seconds. I can hear him loud and clear…and Nataliya Yelena in the background. “Who is that, is it Finn Flynn? Speak to me Gerry. Is there any…” Gerry must’ve put his hand over the mouthpiece; I can no longer hear Nataliya Yelena’s voice.
I handed the phone to Anna. “Ask to speak with Nataliya Yelena. Try to learn any pet names for Nakita, and the names of her favourite stuffed toys. Get any information at all that will help to convince the child we’re her mother’s friends.” Anna and Nataliya spoke for ten minutes before Anna handed the phone back to me.
“Well, how’s it going buddy? Is everything OK?” asked Gerry.
“The old Chinaman has done as he said he would. I hope to join you for dim sum within a month.”
As I was speaking to Gerry, Anna wrote down the information from Nataliya Yelena on a sheet of Hotel Katarina notepaper. I ended the call and grabbed the paper before Anna could put it in her bag. She’s shocked at my aggression; tears are welling up in her eyes. I realise she has no idea why I did that.
“Pet, we must not carry anything that will link us with this hotel…like that paper I just snatched from you. Our names aren’t on the registry here, so the police have no record of us checking in. We can’t ever have anything with us that will identify where we’re staying. So even if we’re picked up by the police, they won’t know where to look for our belongings, and they won’t discover the photographs of Nakita Sylvina.”
“I understand Finn.”
I kissed the tears from her eyes. She smiled, and my earlier roughness is forgiven.
———
The streets emptied at nightfall, and we decided to look for Nataliya Yelena’s mother’s apartment. Hotel Katarina is a ten minute drive from the Bolshoi Theatre, and the Bolshoi Theatre is within walking distance of the apartment block where Nataliya Yelena’s mother is the resident caretaker. We'll take the metro as far as the Bolshoi.
The wind howling down Shlyuzovaya Embankment must be blowing uninterrupted from the Arctic. It’s chilling every bone in my body, cutting through the heavy woollen fleece I’m wearing underneath the anorak Anna bought for me in Helsinki. Anna, on the other hand, doesn’t seem bothered by the cold. She's covered from head to toe in animal hides and furs of one sort or another; I can just about see her face grinning at me.
We walked hand in gloved hand through the falling snow, towards the Paveletskaya Metro Station. I’m relieved to be going down into the subterranean warmth of a colossal underground tunnel. Anna checked out the route map and we paid our few kopeks for two tickets. We took the train to Teatral’naya metro stop, just off Teatral’nyy Proyezd, close to the Bolshoi Theatre.
Standing in two feet of snow, with wind and snow whipping around us, it’s not hard to imagine the Russian nobility arriving at the steps of the Bolshoi in horse-drawn winter sleighs. The place reeks of grace and privilege. I’m no fan of the Russian Communist Party, but at least they had the good sense to leave this symbol of social disadvantage standing. But we don’t have time to stand around admiring the architecture…no matter how impressive the place is.
We plodded on in search of the apartment block of Mrs. Galina Maksimovna, mother of Nataliya Yelena Maksimovna, and grandmother of little Miss Nakita Sylvina Maksimovna. It took fifteen minutes of trudging through deep snow, battling fierce winds, to make our way up Ulitsa Bol’shaya Dmitrovka. We turned left into Kamergerskiy Pereulok and walked a short distance to find the aptly named Theatre Apartments.
The apartment block is not what I expected. Many of the streets and apartment blocks we passed are run down or derelict. But this block is fairly modern, and from what we can see, it appears to be well maintained.
Anna read a notice-board beside the freshly painted front door. “Finn, this is a block of service apartments rented by the night, week or month!” she yelled against the swirling snow.
Without warning, she rang the doorbell. I walked a few feet away so I won’t be seen by whoever answers the door. When the door opened Anna stomped the snow off her furry boots and entered the building. I took cover from the snow and Arctic breezes in the doorway of the next building, and waited for Anna to reappear….
“I’ve met Mrs. Maksimovna and little Nakita Sylvina,” she announced. “They’re expecting me to book a studio apartment within the week. I didn’t say how long I’ll be staying.” She cocked her head to one side, with a cheeky ain’t I the clever one grin on her face, and asked, “Was that OK?”
———
I found Finn in the doorway of the building next to Theatre Apartments, sheltering from the snow and wind. He didn’t answer my question about booking a room, but I spotted a flicker of admiration. I began the conversation again with one of my cheeky statements that I know he loves – although he’d never say so.
“Finn, I’m not really sure if you appreciate how clever I am. Do you?”
“Grrmmph…what did you say love? I can’t hear you with the wind and this scarf wrapped around my head.”
“I was saying, if I move into Theatre Apartments I can talk to Galina Maksimovna about her daughter, and ask Nakita Sylvina about her mother. They believed me when I told them I’m from Murmansk. If I convince Galina Maksimovna that I’ve not been sent from some nosey government department to spy on her, I just know she’ll be delighted to show me photographs and talk about Nataliya Yelena. You know, mother and daughter, grandmamma and granddaughter….How could they not be proud of each other and want to share their pride?”
“Yes, they might want to talk about Nataliya. But we can’t forget that the Soviet authorities take a very dim view of anyone exporting one of their citizens without the necessary paperwork.”
We argued back and forth until, eventually, Finn agreed that I’ll get a room in Theatre Apartments tomorrow.
“OK, but we need to get you an address in Murmansk, and train ticket stubs from Murmansk to Moscow,” he smiled. “After that, there are your Swedish clothes to consider. We’ll have to go shopping at GUM…and hope we can make you look more like a hick from the sticks than a follower of fashion from Stockholm.”
I can’t help giggling when Finn suggests shopping for a peasant disguise.
“Finn…my sweetie…Murmansk, where I’m supposed to be from, is a shipping port just hours from Finland. You don’t seem to appreciate that people in Murmansk can buy all the Scandinavian fashions they want if they have the money. Still, I don’t mind going shopping for clothes I don’t need.”
When we got back to the hotel Finn asked me to ring our helpers. I rang the taxi driver and told him that we need ticket stubs fro
m Murmansk to Moscow and an address in Murmansk, and that we’d like to go shopping in the morning. He said he’ll bring the Murmansk evidence when he collects us outside the hotel at ten thirty a.m.
34
LANTAU ISLAND
Earl just called from Central Pier. He’s getting on the Sea Ranch motor launch in five minutes, and he wants to have ‘a private conversation’. I don’t know what this is all about, but him coming out here is a first…makes me kind of nervous. There better be no trouble with the duck farmers. The last thing I need right now is to have to go to Taiwan to fix a screw-up.
Nataliya’s out on the patio, and I need to get her to go out somewhere. She can meet Earl if it comes down to it, but I get the feeling that he wants to talk to me alone. Why the hell else would he be hauling himself out here?
“Nataliya, sweetheart…what’re you doin’?”
“Nothing my love. Are you hungry? Do you want your lunch?”
“No, no, that’s OK, thanks. It’s just my buddy Earl just called, and…he’s coming over…sorta uninvited. He says we have some business to discuss…if you get my drift.”
“Yes Gerry. I can…how do you Americans say it? Make myself scarce?”
“That’s my girl. Earl shouldn’t be here for too long. Give us about an hour. I should have him outa here by the time you make yourself unscarce.”
“Unscarce? My darling, do not confuse me with your poor American English! But of course, I will be gone long enough for you to discuss your business with Earl.”
“Thanks doll. Hey, you wanna call Rickie for a tennis lesson?”
“No, no tennis this afternoon, Rickie’s busy. I’ll go for a walk…it’s a clear day and I would like to see the monastery on the hill.”
“OK, but don’t go getting all religious on me.”