From Filth & Mud

by J. Manuel

  Katerina led them to the door of Lieutenant Colonel Yuri Golovkin, where two incredibly large guards stood post. She spoke quietly to the guards who never took their eyes off of Alexi and Dima. One of the guards nodded and waved them forward. As Alexi and Dima approached, the guard on the left opened the door and headed inside, while the guard on the right followed the group with his hand on his high-capacity Strizh pistol. Once inside, the guards patted-down Alexi and Dima before passing a magnetometer wand over them. They were made to sit and wait in front of an empty office desk. Lt. Col. Golovkin was undoubtedly watching them on monitors in an adjacent room. The group sat in silence for five minutes before another guard, equally as big as the first two brutes, burst through a side door with a pistol in hand.

  Dima shifted nervously in his seat. He was not accustomed to meeting high-level PRYAMO commanders. Alexi smiled calmly at Dima, encouraging him to relax. A moment later, Lt. Col. Golovkin entered the room with broad arms, and welcomed them in an exaggerated pantomime that was his customarily, unique flair. Golovkin was a little on the eccentric side and to the uninitiated, his eccentricities were rather disturbing and though he had a penchant for the flamboyant, he was deadly serious where PRYAMO matters were concerned.

  “Please tell me why because maybe I’m a mu’dak, but why in hell is Sasha dead?” Golovkin glared at Dima, who quickly averted his eyes to the floor. “I’m waiting! Am I an asshole, or what? One of you too su’kas better start talking!” Golovkin’s searing eyes narrowed in on Alexi.

  “Sir, of course you’re not an asshole, sir.” Alexi had never found Golovkin particularly frightening. “I can report that my young comrade here was escorting Sasha to the rendezvous as planned. I was waiting on the other side of the underpass, just beyond the south side archway. As the two walked through the tunnel, Sasha turned around and sucker-punched Dima with a collapsible baton that he had hidden in his pocket. Dima defended himself as best as he could, but Sasha is, well was, a rather large man. I tackled Sasha and his head hit the cobblestones. He was dead on impact. We searched the body, but did not find anything on him that would prove useful to our investigation.”

  “So what is your plan to un-fuck this situation?” Golovkin returned his glare toward Dima who was still searching the floor for an escape hatch.

  “Sir, I believe that Sasha knew more than what he was letting on about the old research program. I just haven’t been able to put the pieces together quite yet. Give me a month to follow some leads. I need to track down his former colleagues at the Soviet Academy of Sciences, Special Biological Projects Division.”

  Golovkin winced at the use of the word, Soviet. It was not good custom to use that word openly in public, let alone within the halls of the FSB. Alexi knew this, but he didn’t give a damn about custom, and that’s what made him Golovkin’s best agent. Alexi was among the elite cadre of PRYAMO’s finest field agents, and this is why he’d been passed over for promotion. Golovkin needed him in the field: working, not sitting behind some desk jockeying like some eunuch for his position. Golovkin feared Alexi’s talents, and he knew that it would only be a matter of time before the inevitable promotion came. Alexi would be fast-tracked to a position of high authority by PRYAMO’s politicians. Alexi was the kind of man that PRYAMO liked, Golovkin on the other hand, was the kind that they tolerated, so long of course, as he kept everything locked within a tightly-sealed closet.

  “Alexi, you can follow up on that trail later. I have a new, high-priority assignment for you and dumbass here. Our comrades at the FSB have been notified by their sources that an American software company CEO, Aiden Collier, will be arriving in Moscow in two days. They suspect that he is trying to find a hacker that goes by the name of Tovarich. The FSB also wants Tovarich for a number of hacking incidents which caused them and the army some embarrassments over the last couple of years.” Golovkin reached across his desk and handed Alexi a cigarette lighter. “You can read through the files at your leisure. There isn’t much information on Tovarich. Mostly some suspected activities and some geographical triangulations where Tovarich’s signals have been intercepted. I need you to follow our American friend to see if he makes contact. If he does, find out what he’s up to and who he meets with. Our friends at the FSB have assigned agent Yulia Annikova to escort Mr. Collier around. Agent Annikova is also looking for Tovarich.”

  Alexi nodded. “Of course, we will get right on it, sir.”

  “Tak!” Golovkin exclaimed and stood. The meeting was over. Alexi and Dima stood at attention as Golovkin left the room. The two large guards escorted the two men back out of the room and Katerina scurried them through the building unnoticed.

  Once outside, Alexi and Dima retrieved their vehicle from the underground parking garage where it had undoubtedly been x-rayed and physically inspected by both man and canine. Neither man spoke a word about what had been discussed at the meeting. Alexi began to talk about visiting a nearby whorehouse later that evening, and Dima played along. The car was inevitably bugged, and Alexi thought to give the eavesdroppers some scintillating information.

  Dima pulled up to a café a few miles down the road where the two men dismounted and walked inside for a cup of coffee. A few minutes later, a pair of PRYAMO junior officers drove away in the car, taking the FSB surveillance team with them. Alexi and Dima exited the café through the rear and jumped into another beat up, late-model Lada and drove past an FSB agent who was sitting in a surveillance van. The agent didn’t notice the newly bearded driver or the passenger who now wore a wool-knit cap and looked like someone’s drunken grandfather.

  Dima drove the buzzing Lada to their PRYAMO safe house which offered semi-comfortable living arrangements. The safe house was a studio apartment located above a deli in the neon light section of Moscow, which housed many youth hostels and recently shuttered gay bars. The apartment had an ill-functioning kitchen, poor electrical wiring, and substandard heat. This one came with the luxury of two cots, most did not. In fact most PRYAMO agents furnished the safe houses with chairs, coffee tables, and whatever plastic furniture they could get their hands on. Some necessities were always available: cigarettes, dirty magazines, and vodka.

  After a quick meal of Big Macs and fries, Alexi and Dima smoked untaxed Marlboros around the makeshift kitchen table that they’d constructed out of a couple of cardboard boxes, a rusty piece of sheet metal, and a plastic table cloth. Alexi reached into his pants’ pocket and removed the lighter that Golovkin had handed to him. He struck the igniter and lit a fresh cigarette until it glowed with embers. He did the same for Dima then set the lighter down on the table. Alexi pushed forward on the ignitor wheel which sprung a latch on the bottom of the lighter. He turned the lighter upside down and teased a small roll of paper out of a hidden compartment. He unfurled the roll and studied the contents which appeared to be nothing more than a series of small dots.

  Dima rummaged through the kitchen cabinets and found a magnifying glass. That was also standard issue for all PRYAMO safe houses. Unlike the FSB, or the American and European intelligence agencies, PRYAMO avoided technology like the plague. Rumor had it that PRYAMO did not own a single computer. This was rumor of course, but from what Alexi had seen throughout his career, the rumor could very well have been true. Alexi and Dima took turns reading the files, memorizing them as they went. One benefit of operating without modern technology was that each agent had to have an almost eidetic memory and therefore relied less on technological crutches to help them complete their missions. This also left less of a footprint of PRYAMO’s activities, especially for the unblinking eyes of Western intelligence agencies that now relied almost entirely on electronic surveillance and communications.

  CHAPTER 24

  Aiden landed in Moscow at 8 p.m. on a Friday, though days and times were inconsequential throughout most of the country in the dead of its January winter. He was jet-lagged from his sixteen-hour flight aboard his Gulfstream, a brand spanking new toy that he had decided to splurge on given
the $100 million dollar advance that Collier Analytics had been given on behalf of the terrified American taxpayer. Though he had flown in the utmost of luxury, pampered by an exceptionally eager crew of gorgeous stewardesses, he could not fight against his internal clock which had lost so many hours. As the door to the cabin opened, his exhaustion was beaten away by a funneled blast of penetrating cold. His body was immediately immolated by ice. He had been warned by the stewardesses, and his translator slash fixer, Sasha, that he needed to drink a little vodka before landing because it was the only way to stay alive. He had resisted at first, but then heeded their warnings once he realized that they were gravely serious.

  As Aiden froze in place, Sasha trundled up behind him and laughed heartily. “Maybe you should have drunk a whole bottle!” Sasha slapped him across the back and handed him a bottle which Aiden quickly brought to his numbed lips and gulped. The burning warmth of the alcohol conspicuously burned its way down his esophagus and into his stomach. Now emboldened, Aiden stepped through the cabin door and shivered at the grim expanse before him. The sky held still above the earth as snowflakes swirled along the tarmac like icy tumbleweeds, piling against the dimly lit hanger that stood alone in the desolate distance. Down below, lost in the snowy wind, stood a lone figure, that was barely visible through his nearly frozen corneas. Unwavering against the all-engulfing, wintry wasteland, the figure climbed methodically up the stairs and met him at the top. It motioned for him to follow, pivoted, and descended.

  “What are you waiting for?” Aiden was not sure if he or Sasha had spoken. He was delirious,and Sasha was emphatically drunk. Not seeing any other option, Aiden followed. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he could faintly see the figure standing next to a dark limousine, its outline defined by the light that it emitted from its headlights and refracted in the fog of icy snow. Aiden approached with caution as a second figure emerged from the driver’s seat, this one much bigger than the first. The second figure opened the back door of the limousine and the first disappeared within.

  Sasha jogged up alongside of Aiden and continued without hesitating, singing loudly into the wind, bags in tow. As Aiden neared, the second figure, now towering over him, swooped down and hoisted his bags out of his frostbitten hands. At that moment, he imagined what an encounter with a polar bear or yeti would be like—quick and painless he hoped. Freed from the bonds of his bags and the clutches of the cold, Aiden entered into the warmth of the sedan and gazed upon an unexpected face. His eyes began to thaw along with the rest of his now tingling body.

  The darkness could not hide her steely gaze nor could it hide her beauty. “Yulia,” the equally steely voice broke the silence. She thrust her hand out suddenly, and Aiden recoiled rather noticeably. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep, or the way the vodka slowed his ability to process movement, but either way he was not making a good impression. He obliged the handshake as his vocal cords cracked—still not fully thawed.

  “Aiden,” he managed.

  “So you are Mr. Collier?” The questioning tone revealed disappointment.

  Aiden nodded meekly.

  “And you are the man that wants to find Tovarich?”

  Aiden answered again with a meek nod and a half-thawed smile.

  “You have come a long way Mr. Collier, maybe for nothing?” Yulia’s unwavering eyes sifted through his mind and found the spark of fear that had emerged three weeks before when his prized coder had gone silent. He had searched the usual, Darknet stomping grounds to no avail. He had even tried to coax Tovarich out of hiding by daring him to hack into a closed-circuit television system that was protected by his best firewalls and polymorphic algorithms which if cracked, would have revealed a brand new Rosso-Corsa Ferrari 458 parked in a private garage below the Hilton Moscow Leningradskaya. Yet unnervingly, there it had remained for three long weeks.

  Aiden hoped that the car would be gone when he arrived at the Leningradskaya. He hoped that Tovarich was just being an impetuous teenager. Rumors had circled through the coder community that Tovarich had been picked up by the FSB for hacking into one of the Russian President’s secret accounts, and diverting some funds for his personal piggybank in the Caymans. Some had Tovarich being picked up by the CIA for tapping into the uplink of a Global Hawk drone, and diverting it from its Syrian area of operations into a loitering pattern over a Grecian nude beach. That story made it to the major media outlets. The tabloids explained that the CIA was secretly snooping on nude people to get their jollies. The latter sounded like something Tovarich might do.

  However, after three weeks of searching, his team had come up empty. Tovarich like all hackers of his ilk, loved leaving breadcrumbs for whoever was smart enough to track them down to a specific virtual or physical site where they could discuss business or share information. It was a way for coders to socialize with one another, but as with all social circles, there was a hierarchy. The more elite the coder, the smaller the circle he or she inhabited. His team members, it appeared, were not elite enough to track Tovarich, and he hated not having the very best.

  Aiden was so lost in thought that he did not realize that Yulia had not taken her piercing eyes off of him. Sasha was sloppy drunk, and he was trying vainly to gain Yulia’s attention. She made it deathly apparent that she was not interested in anything that the drunken fool had to say. The limousine made a sudden turn that robbed Sasha of his balance. The drunken man hurtled uncontrollably toward Yulia’s lap. Aiden barely caught a glimpse—a blur really—of Yulia’s leg as it extended into Sasha’s face, her boot heel finding the point of the drunkard’s chin. Luckily for Sasha, he was too drunk to feel it and he had landed on top of the limousine minibar. At least there he could soothe his aching jaw with more spirits once he regained consciousness. Aiden laughed at the display and turned his unsteady gaze back to Yulia.

  “I didn’t like him either,” he panned.

  Yulia shrugged and continued, “So where do you believe your Tovarich is?”

  “I truthfully have no idea.” Yulia was suspicious. “No, no. Honestly I’m not bullshitting you.” Aiden was trying to relax, but Yulia’s intensity was palpable.

  “So what are you doing in Moscow?”

  “I’m going to go to the hotel to wait for him. It’s not like I’ll be suffering while I’m there. I’m going to enjoy some good food, and some more of this country’s great vodka! Maybe a little dance?” Sober Aiden would not have attempted the last insinuation, but he was hardly sober. Aiden hoped that the overture would not be similarly obliged with a boot to the face.

  Yulia softened, smiling coyly, “You dance, Aiden?” He was no longer Mr. Collier, and her voice abandoned its previous steely tone as it rang with the ivory-tickled timbre of a well-tuned temptress. The staccato of her plodding, Russian accent softened subtly and floated gracefully into his ears. He managed a weak nod in response, like a teenager at his first school dance.

  “Well then maybe we can dance while you are in Moscow. After all, there is no reason why you should just work. You must always leave a little room for play, Aiden.” Yulia leaned close and bumped her shoulder into his, allowing her ample chest to rest comfortably on his arm. “When in Moscow, do as the Muscovites. Eat, drink, dance, this will be good for you.” Her emerald-tinted eyes drew him into a trance. “Don’t worry Aiden, your fox will turn up.” Yulia smiled wryly and pointed her leather-gloved finger to the ushanka, which sat atop her head, the furry exterior bearing the pelt of its previous wearer. In that moment, Aiden was overcome by the tantalizing sensation that he was the fox, and he could not think of a better fate than to have his skin wrapped around Yulia, the ravenous huntress.

  - - - - - - -

  Tovarich came as advertised. He was every bit the awkward, nerdy coder that Aiden had envisioned and he was brilliant. There was one thing that Aiden had not counted on, and that was simply that he was a she, and her name was Irina. She was a slender, gregarious type, once you pierced her guarded shell, which was cloaked in the trappings of
alt-culture, urban Russian youth. She looked like a member of an all-girl, Russian punk band and though she shared many of their cultural critiques, she was smart enough to actually rage against the machine in an effective manner.

  Irina sat across from him and downed her second shot of vodka. Two shots of whiskey were waiting on deck.

  “Thanks for the Ferrari,” she said before she downed the first whiskey shot.

  “Shouldn’t you hold off a little bit on that?” Aiden stumbled still stunned by the revelation of the hacker’s identity. He was incredulous. He would have doubted her had it not been for the improbability that she would have been able to crack the multiple cyphers that his team had slaved day and night over a week to create. She had to be Tovarich!

  Irina burped, cupped her mouth as an afterthought, drew a deep breath, and swilled the last whiskey down her throat. “Tak!” she exclaimed and then reached for a large pickled tomato that sat at the bottom of a massive pickle jar which had occupied the table long before Aiden had sat down. Using two bony fingers, she fished about the brine until she pinched the plump, soft skin between them. She smiled, pleased at her catch, and took an apple-sized bite out of it. She pointed the remnant of the brine-dripping heirloom at him. “You were saying? Oh yes, how did I find you? Why do I have a pussy and tits? How old am I? Can you fuck me? Right?”