Standing up in the hot sand, Guska did not quite realize just how hot it was until he began to take several steps. The scorching of his flesh brought a grimace to his face and a moan from his vocal cords. Boltran had enough sense to stand on top of his shirt. They knew they had many things to learn about the American culture, including maybe taking a seminar in beach going. Guska couldn’t remember the sand being so hot in Thailand.
Getting himself together and being joined by Boltran, the two walked to the car, Guska still smarting from the scorching his feet had absorbed. Driving down the beachside road in search of a store, they made certain to stay within the 35 mile per hour limit. They at least had enough common sense to realize that the same officer might stop them.
Spotting a small mini mall, they decided to try it. Not knowing exactly what kind of store would sell a moisturizing cream for the sun, they had no idea how lucky they would get early in their search. Looking into the front window of a pet shop, neither could envision the snakes and birds they saw having much need for the stuff. Boltran, realizing that the sun would not be up all day, decided to ask the first person he could find, which was a small old man with very wrinkled skin.
“Could you tell me where I could buy cream?”
“Well son, it all depends on what kind of cream you’re looking for.”
Boltran was now becoming confused and he looked to Guska for an answer. Cream was cream to Guska too, so he was speechless as well. While fluent in English, suntan lotion was not part of either one's vocabulary although both knew lotion. Guska looked skyward and the man instinctively understood him. It’s almost as if the spy's action was part of a universal language.
“Oh boys, why didn’t you say so? Cream for the sun. What you boys need is suntan lotion.”
“Ah yes, suntan lotion. It was on the tip of my tongue.”
“Well the tip of your tongue just ain’t where you want to put it. Could get some of that stuff over there in the pharmacy.” The man pointed them in the direction and was thanked for his effort. Their courtesy made the man suspicious that maybe they were not Americans. They just did not seem rude enough. This lack of detail to the American culture may be a major flaw in the KGB’s training; proper training could make or break a spy.
Entering the drug store, they walked up and down the aisles frantically searching for a bottle that closely resembled the one that the girl had. Starting their search in the cosmetics area, they found that they could color mustaches and their hair. If they were bold, they could do it in different colors. Nobody did that, Guska thought to himself, could they? Boltran, who had spent some time in Los Angeles, had he known what his partner was thinking, and the word was partner now since the word comrade had become politically incorrect, could have told him that craziness had become the norm.
Not finding any bottles that resembled the one on the beach, they moved into the area of medicines and first aid. As their eyes rolled along the shelves in search of something to protect them from the sun, they drew attention to themselves.
“Can I help you?”
The unexpected comment caught Boltran off guard. That was one overwhelming problem with being a spy. You were always on guard, suspicious of everything. That meant that even doing the simplest function, even shopping for suntan lotion, always had you worried that your cover was being blown.
“Yes, we’re looking for some suntan?”
“Well you won’t get it here from the fluorescent lighting,” responded the clerk to Guska’s question.
“Suntan lotion was what he meant,” corrected Boltran, quick to recognize the error.
“Over here.” The two newcomers to the island life followed the clerk over several aisles where they saw probably twenty types of bottles of suntan lotion. The aisle was a beachgoers paradise with beach towels, coolers, sunglasses, tank tops, shorts, sandals, etc. Watching the two shoppers, the clerk was amused at their quizzical expressions as Boltran and Guska scanned the suntan lotions, curiosity running rampant in their expressions.
“Is there something wrong, sir?”
“What is this SPF?”
“It tells you just how long you could stay out in the sun.”
“So what’s the difference between four and eight besides four?”
“Four is for a person with a dark complexion, someone that doesn’t burn easily. Eight would be for someone that burned a little easier.”
“Well what’s with this thing called sun block?”
“It’s for people who turn red at the sight of a match.”
“Well what do you think would look best on me?”
Boltran could not help breaking into a smug smile at Guska’s comment. Guska sounded to Boltran like someone looking for a new autumn wardrobe. Was America so fashion conscious that maybe it did start making its lotions in different colors? Boltran remembered his history well and recalled the psychedelic period of American culture, so the idea might not be out of the question.
“Well what would be good for me?” The clerk studied Guska before answering. Although he was being paid minimum wage, he at least needed to feel professional, feel important.
“You look like an eight. You might be able to get away with a six but use an eight just to be on the safe side.”
“Thanks.”
“And me?” asked Boltran, wanting to make certain that he bought the right stuff. The clerk gave him a quick glance before responding, “Try an eight too.”
“Thanks, thanks a lot. You’ve been a great help.”
Smiling, the clerk went back to his other duties, leaving the two to now decide which of the suntan lotions that had an SPF 8 on them to purchase. In Russia, one never had these kinds of problems with everything being made by the state. The bottom of these bottles told you which state they were made.
Looking at the bottles, Boltran’s eyes quickly noticed the batch numbers marked on the various bottles. He was amazed at America’s infatuation with numbers. Social security numbers, driver’s license numbers, lotto numbers, bank account numbers, zip codes, area codes all captivated the American consciousness. The Russians certainly had no money to speak of that they needed to concern themselves with bank account numbers. This started Boltran’s mind wandering toward Communist China where they could be in big trouble with area codes if everyone in that country owned a telephone. It didn’t matter that the Chinese language was read up and down, you could read the numbers anyway one wanted to, they would still run out of area codes.
Finally just picking out several bottles since the labels read, “apply liberally," it never occurred to them that the manufacturer who was trying to sell the stuff put those words on the bottle. While Guska just grabbed the bottles, he never conferred with his partner if it was acceptable with him. They did however find one thing of mutual agreement, they wanted to return to Moscow with a great tan. It would look so cool with the gray buildings and white snow as a backdrop, they thought.
As they moved down the aisle, they started to give some serious attention to the other beach items that were on the shelves in the aisle. Before they knew it, Boltran had to get a cart because they saw some towels, a blanket, two lounge chairs in a neat lime green, they thought, and of course the cooler. They both thought they were ready for the beach. They acted as if they would be prime candidates for the blue light specials.
Orlina had been back in Moscow now several weeks and she had lost thirteen pounds. She was also beginning to feel physically better and was far less lethargic. The aerobics class that she was giving to the four wives of the university professors was having the same effect. Each of the women had lost at least enough weight so that it showed, so that they could feel a difference and be motivated to continue.
Alexi loved seeing his wife with this new found upbeat attitude and the energy that it generated. Maybe it was creating a little too much energy. Arriving home, Alexi now found that the group had expanded to eight women. Two of the new women were wives of college professors at the university.
One woman’s husband was an expert on nutrition but could never practice what he preached as he approached the three hundred pound mark on a five foot nine inch skeletal base. Nina ended up putting on the weight because her husband did not want to suffer alone so he only ate fattening foods that he knew Nina loved. She could not resist.
The other professor’s wife was Georgina Orlov who was married to Gregory Orlov, a professor of biology. He had kept himself in good shape by jogging. He would jog before classes and after classes. He would also jog before dinner and after dinner. He could not understand that when he left his wife alone, she became frustrated. When Georgina became frustrated, she ate. When she ate, she put on weight. He once asked her to jog with him but then became angry with her when she could not keep up the pace he had set. That’s when she started becoming frustrated and with it she began eating more and more.
The other two women looked familiar but the premier could not remember from where. The manicures that the two wore told Alexi that these two did not wait in line for bread, they had too much of it.
While the instructions blurted out, Alexi circled the room already knowing the routine. Orlina decided that she needed to do these exercises uninterrupted so she would always prepare Alexi and the children’s meals ahead of time. Alexi knew where to find them. Entering the enormous kitchen, he moved toward the refrigerator where he found another salad waiting for him. If he decided to eat it, Alexi recalled that this would be the fifth day in a row for something he had to toss. Thank goodness McDonald’s had come to Moscow because right about now a quarter pounder with cheese was sounding heavenly. He knew he could have one because since Orlina started this program to lose weight, he had lost six pounds himself.
Moving through the house, he made his way to the children’s room where the two youngsters were having a field day with the Legos that their cousin Mikhail had given them. Alexi knew once he saw this sight there was only thing that could pry them from their building blocks.
“McDonald's anyone?” Alexi wished he could get the general population to move as fast as the children were, getting ready to take a ride to the Golden Arches.
“Oooooo the golden arches. I love the golden arches,” cried out the jubilant Mitchev as he put on his shoes. Alexi started to draw upon his memory and recalled that in America there was an archway in Saint Louis, Missouri, the city known as the gateway to the West. The irony of McDonald's being the first American fast food restaurant in Moscow just when Russia was attempting to replicate some of the west’s free market economies brought a small sense of glee to Alexi.
The glee disappeared when the premier turned his thoughts in another direction, that of the kidnapping of his nephew. He needed Mikhail to make this fast food thing good for everyone, not just his family. He wondered how Operation Tropical Ghost was going? Standing proudly in front of his father, a man that he was proud of, was Mitchev.
“Ready, Poppa!”
“And Demitri?”
Turning around to look at his brother, Mitchev saw that he was first getting his socks on his feet. Quickly, he rushed over to help, leaving Alexi with a smile. While knowing that Mitchev was only doing it because he was afraid that McDonald's would be closing before Demitri finished dressing, it was a cute scene anyway.
The three finally made it downstairs where the women were taking a break. Sitting on the floor chatting amongst themselves, Orlina noticed her husband with the boys.
“Did you eat the salad I prepared for you?”
“No.”
“Well where are you going, Alexi?”
Mitchev raised his hands and used them to form an arch.
“McDonald's!”
Before Alexi knew what hit him, women in extra large leotards ordering double cheeseburgers, large fries and shakes besieged him. His instincts told him that they could not have possibly have lost what they were about to gain. This scene did not really surprise him because these were the kind of people that did not like putting anything in their bodies with less than four grams of fat. The hell with the aspirin give me a cupcake mentality was coming at him full force.
“Are you going to eat yours there?” asked Orlina
“No.”
“Then I must finish this workout before you return so I don’t eat what I should not eat.”
The luxuriant condominium that Mikhail owned came with a door attendant. Guska and Boltran were now about to embark upon their mission, to kidnap the savior of Russia. They even got their hands on a BMW, sensing that either a Bimmer or a Porsche would be easiest to persuade the Russian yuppie to get into. They had a complete psychological profile. They chose a BMW since there would be three.
Looking at the exterior of the condo, Boltran was now having second thoughts about the kidnapping. While still intending to abduct the spy turned UCLA law student, the motive was now beginning to change. Looking at the elegant surroundings that Mikhail lived in, he figured that the guy was worth a bundle. If he were going to kidnap him for the money, he had to find out who would be willing to pay for him and how much. Boltran knew he did not have enough time for that.
Approaching the front of the condo, they were met by the uniformed servant.
“May I help you?”
“Er, yes. We’re here to see Mister Mikhail Debenov.”
“Mister Debenov has left town. He was called away on business. I’m sorry.” The two spies looked at each other, their horrified looks leaving the door attendant in a quandary.
“Is there something wrong?”
“He was expecting us.”
“Well I’m sorry, there is nothing I can do. As I said, Mister Debenov was called away on business.”
“Do you know when he’ll return?” asked Boltran.
“I have no idea, sir. He flew to Los Angeles this afternoon with his girlfriend. I suspect he’ll be gone a couple of days.”
Realizing that there was nothing that the doorman could do for them, they thanked him and went on their way.
“We’re up the creek,” commented Guska, his worrisome tone in sync with the words said it all.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know! What are you, out of your mind? Medansky is out there in the Pacific sitting in that submarine expecting us to deliver Debenov tonight. How could we deliver someone who is not around? Answer that one, will you?”
“It’s like what we heard the kids on the beach saying, mellow out. So let’s mellow.”
“Mellow out! You’re nuts. Medansky’s sitting out there in the middle of the Pacific Ocean waiting for the Wall Street Journal to be delivered. Do you have any idea what the temperature difference is between Hawaii and Siberia?"
Guska’s adrenaline was flowing and the words were now starting to come out in rapid-fire mode, his excitability flowing.
“Listen Guska, he owns this condo, right?”
“Yeah right, so he owns this condo. What’s that going to do for us?”
“He’s going to come back,” replied Boltran assuredly.
“Did it ever occur to you that we could be in Siberia by the time he came back?”
“We’re not going to Siberia,” answered Boltran, his composure intact.
“Well maybe we could nab a homeless person or something.”
“Guska, get hold of yourself. What’s a homeless person going to teach the people in Russia about capitalism, how to panhandle? They already know how to do that.”
“Is there anything we could do to bring him back?”
“Maybe we ought to try and go to Los Angeles and nab him there.”
“Sure, we’ll just put him on an American Airlines and fly him back over here. I’m sure that he’ll come back with us willingly when he finds out who we really are.”
The point was well taken by Guska, who realized that he was irrational for a moment. He knew Boltran was right, they had to nab their intended victim in Hawaii.
“So what do we do in the meantime?”
“Work on our tans.” This w
as an answer that Boltran just loved giving and it quickly satisfied Guska, who was looking for an alternative activity to keeping out of trouble. The two got lost down the walkway and disappeared from the view of the doorman.
March was in its first day and the temperatures on Maui were in the eighties. The sun provided both Guska and Boltran wonderful tans, but Boltran knew that he still did not approach George Hamilton’s league. He had seen enough photos of him when he was spying in Los Angeles several years’ back to really know what a good tan was; he had become a connoisseur. While they had gotten most of their tan on the beach, they spent a number of hours on the putting green. Boltran introduced Guska to the game and he was really getting into it.
Having had dinner, the two men had discovered earlier in the day that Mikhail had returned, the doorman told him that he had returned that morning. Tonight was to be the night. The premier’s office had set the whole thing up and established the two kidnappers as trade liaisons so Mikhail would be expecting them with his defenses down. They had been told enough about Mikhail in their briefing dealing with his psychological profile that they had an idea of what they were dealing with. It was because of this briefing that they did not find it hard to swallow when he stood them up for a chance at another almighty dollar, probably a sure thing.
Pulling up in front of the condo, they eyed the place and drove away. Having parked their rented BMW a short distance from the entrance they walked the remaining few yards to the condominium entrance. Approaching the doorman, they received a smile and immediately became leery. It never occurred to them that he was being paid to do just that, smile and hold doors open.
“Yes, gentlemen, Mister Debenov is expecting you.”
“Thank you.”
“Right down that corridor, turn right and there’s the elevator. It’ll be the third one to your right when you get off.”
Doing Lunch Page 10