There.
Are you back?
Okay, good. Try to stick with me here.
So, remember that kind-of-cheesy guy who came up and just started randomly talking to me at the secret supper club last night? The one who I was supposed to talk to because I guess girls here are supposed to talk to every Tom, Dick, and Vlad who comes out of the woodwork? Well, that kid, Uri, is this guy’s son. And this guy, Dimitri, the one we are looking at, looks like he could wrestle a bear. And win.
Now watch with me for a second.
Beside him sits a kind of ice princess with white-blond hair, who is completely disinterested in everything around her and who has been checking her lipstick in a knife for the past hour. For obvious reasons we’ll call her Elsa. And on the other side of Dimitri is a man in a dark blazer who sits down. Judging by his fidgeting hands, he’s some kind of minion. Let’s just call him Underling.
“Why the long wait?”
“There is FSB everywhere. Oleg is like mommy to him. Will not let him out of sight.” Underling seems a bit nervous.
“What about noise?”
“Yes, there is chatter. We don’t know. We are trying to figure out.”
“You have billion-dollar baby just sitting there drinking his latte and you do nothing?” Dimitri smiles at Underling. It’s not a nice smile. It’s more like a kill-you smile.
“Everybody know he is like billion-dollar baby. That is why Oleg is man for job. He must have twenty FSB agents, all around. Is like Putin’s personal guard.”
“Never mind. We will find a way. In the meantime, find me more bidders.”
“How to find bidders when we don’t know what they are bidding for?”
“You try to say freedom hacker, with number one clearance, does not have valuable information up sleeve? He must have. Or CIA kill him by now. You try to say States just happy to have him floating around? Making them look like no-pants embarrassment?”
Underling shakes his head. “Americans—very uptight about nudity.”
“Get me more bidders. Or I get Raynes myself.”
And with that, bald, pudgy, and mean stands up with his blasé Queen Elsa and the two of them glide out of this palatial insanity, presumably leaving Underling with the bill.
So, there you have it. Now you know. RAITH is not the only one interested in Raynes.
To recap: Sean Raynes is a “person of interest” to us, the Russians, and this guy, Dimitri, aka Moscow Kingpin, who does not qualify as the Russian government but as more of a—what do you call it—a freelancer.
The question is . . . how long can Raynes remain a “person of interest” before he inevitably becomes a “person who is six feet under”?
And why is he not dead already?
Questions to ponder. But let’s get back to our regularly scheduled programming, shall we?
16
Congratulations.
You made it to the first day of my mission.
Operation Make Raynes Notice Me begins this morning. Look, no offense, but I just need you to stay in the background for this part. Otherwise, you could blow it.
You’ll be happy to know I did a little bit of research on Sean Raynes and I have found that we actually do have something in common.
We both share a love of Elliott Smith.
If you don’t know who Elliott Smith is, let me enlighten you. Imagine the most beautiful but sad lyrics set to the most beautiful but sad guitar sung by the most troubled person in the history of mankind. Then imagine that troubled, beautiful, and sad person kills himself and all of the beautiful and sad music he was ever going to make for the rest of his life is gone forever. But he left us the music he made before.
That’s Elliott Smith.
Don’t worry. When you listen to him you’ll understand.
Now it turns out that Sean Raynes, the Sean Raynes, who everybody and their dog is either spying on, plotting against, or sending naked pics to (That last part is true, by the way. He had to tweet everybody to stop sending him naked pictures of themselves.) also, like yours truly, has a love of the profound emo kick in the teeth that is Elliott Smith.
So my plan of attack is as follows:
First, I will wear my Elliott Smith T-shirt, which does not say “Elliott Smith” because that is way too on the nose and commercial but says, instead, “SAY YES.” This happens to be a name of one of his songs. That is all. Just “SAY YES” on a black background in cursive-y disturbed letters.
Second, I will venture to Café Treplev, which is a hidden, wooden, book-lined restaurant that looks more like someone’s personal library than a place of commerce. It, in fact, looks like the library I would like to one day have in my imaginary mansion on the cliff with Gael. Oh, you don’t have an imaginary mansion on the cliff? Fine. You can come over to mine. But don’t steal the soaps.
Madden has done me the kind favor of equipping me with all of Raynes’s routines and his most frequented stop is this little precious gem because Raynes is cool and, also, he is obviously trying to lay low, what with all the people trying to find him, shake him down, kill him, and send him the aforementioned naked photos.
If you’re wondering where I am in this little nook, I am in an actual nook in the corner. A book nook. I am wearing my “SAY YES” T-shirt and I am pretending to be calm, cool, collected, and definitely not stalking anyone.
Except . . . there he is.
Oh, sweet Jesus.
I really wasn’t expecting him to show up for another hour or so. I guess Madden’s research is out-of-date.
There he is, Sean Raynes, in all his glasses-wearing, raven-haired, skinny-but-sexy-AF glory. His hair’s a little messy and he probably didn’t shave for the past two days, but that is just adding to the effect.
It is possible there may be live ladybugs in my stomach.
I am not kidding. They are in there, and I think they are mating.
America’s number one most polarizing enemy of the state walks to the counter and orders an espresso.
Behind him, and probably all around him, are very calm-looking gentlemen of the kind that could obviously kill you because everyone in this entire café is probably an FSB agent. I do not see Oleg. I guess he is maniacally petting a cat somewhere.
Now America’s number one enemy is waiting for his espresso.
And now . . .
America’s number one enemy is looking at my T-shirt.
I pretend, without turning beet red, that I am still reading my book, which is White Noise by Don DeLillo. (An excellent book, which I recommend to anyone interested, and which I have chosen because it seems intellectual enough to imply intelligence but not pretentious enough to seem contrived. Like, if I were reading War and Peace . . . too obvious.)
I can tell, using my spider sense, that he is now investigating the girl wrapped in the “SAY YES” T-shirt. Aka, me.
Pale. Check. Mouse-brown hair. Check. Reading a cool, intellectual but not too pretentious book in English. Check.
And this magic moment could last forever. In fact, I wish it would. There is something to being checked out by America’s most polarizing figure that is most definitely, and unexpectedly, hot.
Except that now some doofus jumps out in front of Raynes and snaps a picture with his iPhone. And now that doofus is grabbed by the arm and flung into a table, and his phone is smashed by a hearty but diabolical-looking man who is most definitely Oleg Zamiatin.
Ah, Oleg. Nice of you to join us! First-time caller, longtime fan.
The doofus lies there recovering on the parquet floor while Sean Raynes, who I will now call America’s Hottest Enemy Number One, is whisked out by all the seemingly normal people of the café who were FSB agents all along. Wow. There are a lot of them. Even one of the cashiers!
Raynes is practically carried out with his feet off the ground but right before he clears the doorway, and I mean this by millimeters . . .
He. Looks. Back.
At me.
17
When I get back to my dorm room, there it is, staring at me from above my bed. The Vladimir Putin calendar. Ha! I guess Katerina got a copy of it for me after my drunken rant at the secret supper club about how I had to ironically have one.
This is a girl after my own heart.
You have to see this calendar.
July: Vladimir Putin fly-fishing topless. March: Vladimir Putin smelling a flower. November: Vladimir Putin holding a puppy. I’m not kidding. Holding a puppy!
I laugh to myself. Katerina sure has my number. Maybe she will be my BFF even after I go back to the States.
Wait. Do I have a new friend?
Or, really, a friend?
There’s a pair of red Beats in my suitcase. You know, the Dr. Dre headphones everyone’s crazy about. And I am crazy about them, too. The only problem is . . . I don’t own any red Beats. So, that’s interesting.
I pick them up and inspect them.
Underneath, there’s a note: For you, Bryn Mawr.
Hmm.
I put them on and immediately hear Madden.
“Go outside. Now.”
Ah. I get it. Subterfugeian communication device. Clever.
It’s not far to the Moskva River, so I suppose I could just pretend to jog along the river. While I listen to my spy overlord.
“What do you know about your roommate? Just talk. I can hear you.”
“She’s cool. She’s beautiful. She got me a Vladimir Putin calendar to masturbate to.” I swear I can hear Madden blush.
“Do you think she’s FSB?”
“Not sure. She certainly looks cool enough to be a spy.”
“What about this Uri guy? The guy from the secret supper club.”
“Are you serious right now? How do you know about Uri?”
“Oh, did I forget to tell you your purse is bugged? And there’s a camera involved. By the way, you really can’t hold your liquor, Bryn Mawr. We’ve got something to help with that. I’ll get you some.”
“Thanks. Did you see Raynes this morning, then?”
“Yes, we did. Nicely done. Wait two days before going back. You don’t want to seem desperate.”
“Uh, thanks, girlfriend, for your sisterly advice. By the way, loving my shitty digs.”
“Think of it as having an authentic experience. Look, keep an eye on that Uri. Get close. Fit in. Not that you could ever fit in anywhere.”
“Aw! Does that mean you’re not going to take me home to meet your mother?”
“Paige, you may be surprised to hear this, but my mother would actually love you.”
“Really?”
“Yes. She’s a sucker for lost causes. Night-night.”
And click, there he goes, Madden and my connection to the States. This may sound pathetic, but I might miss it in a few days. That’s the funny thing. I consider myself to be so worldly, but then whenever I go anywhere, I start getting homesick after about four days. Totally pathetic.
I guess I’ll have to find some kind of faux-American café and order a grilled cheese and french fries. But not yet. I’ll hold out. I should at least wait a week otherwise I won’t respect myself in the morning.
The sun is starting to set over the Moskva River, bright-pink-and-blue clouds. A white river cruise boat floats by under the bridge. I have to admit, I wasn’t prepared for the beauty of this city. Venice? Yes. Kyoto? Of course. But Moscow? Honestly, who knew?
I’m not halfway back to campus when I see Katerina.
“Ah, you are jogging. Healthy, American girl.”
“It’s honestly unfair that I’m the one jogging and you’re the one who’s so skinny, but I’m trying not to focus on that right now.”
She smiles.
“You like calendar?”
“I love calendar,” I tell her. It’s possible that actual hearts are dancing in my eyes when I say it.
“We have invite tonight, yes?”
We are walking past the gazing pond, back to the dorm. Everywhere around us is the rush of students, that excitement you get at sunset. What’s gonna happen? What’s gonna happen tonight?
“We have invite? Where do we have invite?”
“To club. From your boyfriend, Uri, gangster boy.”
“Should we go?”
Katerina shrugs.
Madden did just ask me to fit in.
“You know what, let’s do. Let’s go.”
“Are you sure? His dad is really no joke. This is Moscow, not Disneyland.”
“Katerina, honestly, why do you think he wants to be friends with us so badly?”
“The answer is in your pants.”
Once again, I find myself play-swatting my new bae.
“But I am serious, American Paige . . . These places, especially with gangster, it is not like cakewalk. And everyone knows Americans are like little baby with no idea what is going on.”
“Yes, I am little baby. Bring me to club. Give me bottle.”
Katerina smiles.
“I guess you are adventurous little baby.”
I smirk. “Da.”
18
What do you do when the Cold War is over, kind of, and you are stuck with a bunch of bunkers all over the place?
Well, if you’re Russian, I guess you turn one of those bunkers into a club. Which is where we are now. And, by the way, they’ve really gone full throttle with the kind of Cold War, Stalin, agitprop theme. Everything in here is in that Russian Stalin font, and there are profiles of Lenin everywhere. But it’s ironic. I think.
There’s an entire back area, complete with its own vodka bar, where Uri sits. You would think there would be more people back here. VIP’s so lonely.
Katerina and I are not halfway through the door when he gets up.
“Weeeehhll. American girl. Will you talk to me now?”
“Well, now that I’m properly introduced, I think it’s okay.”
“Ah, so proper, you Americans, while you are busy robbing the world of its resources.”
Can’t say I disagree with him.
“But you do it with smile, no?”
He smiles and gestures for Katerina and me to sit.
“Please, Uri, don’t bore our new friend with your thoughts on American foreign policy. She is one of the good ones. Stick to rap.”
Nice of Katerina to stick up for me. I didn’t know I was one of the good ones.
“So, tell me, Paige, why is it you come to Russia?”
“To become a lesbian.”
Uri snarfs his drink. “That is funny! You make jokes. I make rhymes.”
“Excuse me?”
Suddenly, Uri starts beatboxing in earnest.
“Yo, I’m not straight out of Compton, I’m straight from the Kremlin, come hop in my Bentley, take a ride with the kingpin.”
Uri looks to me expectantly.
It really is always uncomfortable when anyone starts trying to rap in front of you. Especially if they’re white.
“I have to give you credit. It’s not that easy to rhyme with Kremlin. All I can think of, honestly, is gremlin.”
“Do you like this club?” He motions around for Katerina and me to be dazzled. “It is like dream from my pants.”
“I think something got lost in translation there.”
Katerina smiles and orders a vodka. Or rather, a bottle of vodka.
This bottle, of course, leads to other bottles and other toasts and more bottles and more toasts . . . and before I know it the top of this bunker-slash-bar is spinning around in Cold War circles.
All part of the job.
Luckily, nothing of note happens.
Except. Well, there is one thing.
At around two in the morning the place erupts in gunfire.
Oh yeah. That.
19
You never really know what you’re going to do when a place explodes into a hail of bullets until it happens to you.
I would like to think I would be especially brave, but what happens in this case is that I dive under a tabl
e, only to watch as Katerina throws Uri behind her and basically starts shooting back.
So Katerina is packing heat.
Good to know.
I, on the other hand, am not packing heat. I, on the other hand, am being rushed out of this place by Uri’s bodyguards, Uri, and pistol-packin’ Katerina.
The funny thing about putting a bar in a bunker is that there are actually a million little secret hallways everywhere to hide in, scurry to, or hightail it out of in a blaze of glory. The supersecret hallway we’re in is painted bright burgundy and there is a silhouette of the Kremlin with a hammer and sickle underneath. But I am not here to enjoy the totalitarian art.
Uri’s bodyguards seem to be holding the back of this brigade, as the three of us rush through a seemingly endless concrete maze, with bullets zinging around in the background. Pshew. Pshew. Blam. Pshew.
Have I mentioned that I hate guns?
It seems like we wind and wind farther and farther through this endless vestige of a Cold War fantasy until finally Katerina slams open a door and a rush of biting air flies past us. The Moscow cold slaps us in the face as we are suddenly driven outside.
This would all be perfect except two extremely blond, muscle-bound men appear out of nowhere. It’s possible they emerged either out of the alley or a Monster Energy drink sales convention. Not sure.
They stand there for a second.
And then one of them kicks the gun out of Katerina’s hand.
Welp, I was trying to preserve my cover, but right now I think I possibly, potentially, might be in actual danger with my new bae and future, never-to-be, rap-star boyfriend.
What to do, what to do . . . ?
“You! Come.”
No-neck blond nods to Uri. It’s not much of a nod, though. You need a neck to nod. Try it. Without a neck it’s more of a spasm.
Katerina and I stand there for a second in what I can only assume are our very own respective interior monologues.
And then . . . I do the oldest trick in the book, which I seriously can’t believe they fall for, but, let’s face it, we are not dealing with Albert Einstein and Stephen Hawking over here.
I look behind them, point, and yell, “Holy fuckballs!”
Liberty Page 10