Aristocratic Thieves

by Richard Dorrance

  Chapter 20 – Entering Romanov Country

  Roger said, “Not so fast. We have another problem. We need visas.” There are two ways to get a visa for Russia. The way for average people is to apply to the Russian Consulate in the United States. That way requires a level of Russian bureaucratic scrutiny the Junes thought they should avoid. The other way for VIPs to get a visa is to go to one of your Senators. This, of course, requires that you actually know one of your Senators. Guess what? Roger’s auntie knows one of South Carolina’s senators, because her husband sold the Senator the lot on which he built one of his several houses. The Uncle sold the lot cheap, and after that the Senator was a regular at the auntie’s tea parties when the Senator was in town. So before leaving Charleston, Roger and Gwen had gone to the Senator’s office in the old Customs House Building and asked the staffer if the good Senator would get them visas for Russia. That was no problem at all. The problem now was getting Jinny a visa to go along with his nice, new passport that appeared to show a lot of wear and tear, and that showed recent trips to Bali, Kuala Lumpur, and Hong Kong, among other locales. Roger had to come through again.

  The three comrades piled into a taxi and headed to the US Embassy on the Rue de Garde Provençale. There, they asked the Marine guard-cum-greeter if they could see the Ambassador’s staffer. They showed the Marine their passports and Russian visas, and the letter signed by the Senator that accompanied the visas. Three minutes later they were in the staffer’s office, where they explained their predicament. Their story, told of course by the radiantly smiling Gwen, was that three days previously, in the Musée d’Orsay, they had run into their dear, dear friend Mr. Hermantine. She pointed to Jinny. They had convinced Mr. Hermantine to join them on their jaunt to Saint Petersburg, departing tomorrow. This was possible, of course, if the Ambassador would consider issuing Mr. Hermantine a visa as a favor to the Senator from the great State of South Carolina, who so very willingly had issued Mr. and Mrs. June their very special VIP visas (as a great favor to the widow of his very special friend famous for developing Charleston marsh-front real estate and golf courses). The Ambassador’s staffer listened intently, while absorbing all that was absorbable of Gwen’s newly Deneuvian-laced magnetic persona. Under this influence the staffer was malleable, like clay under the hands of a great sculptor. The three VIP American citizens were served coffee by the staffer’s highly graded civil service flunky, while the visa was prepared.

  As they left the Embassy offices, Mr. Hermantine, aka Little Jinny Blistov, stopped next to a fully armed Marine guard and, pointing to the Marine’s sidearm, asked Gwen what type of handgun it was. In the act of pointing, Mr. Hermantine’s hand got within two feet of the Marine’s fully functional sidearm. This elicited from the six foot four and 240 pound combat trained soldier a stare that chilled both Roger and Gwen. Roger grabbed Jinny by the shirtfront and dragged him towards the door. Gwen said, “Sorry, he’s our retarded nephew and does dumb things sometimes, sorry, really.” As she followed the others out the door of the Embassy, she turned back to the Marine, fired him a smile and said, “Beretta, 45 caliber, three inch barrel ported for minimal recoil, laser sight, fifteen round composite material magazine. Bye, babe.”

  Back at the hotel, Roger and Gwen sensed they had done enough for the team for a while, and now it was time to stuff the ball into the hands of Mr. Hermantine. Mr. Jenley Hermantine, no less, as indicated on the passport. Gwen asked Roger where the forger had gotten a name like that to put on the passport, and Roger reminded Gwen that Henky’s real name was Harmond Flourcroft Richland IV. “Oh, yeah, right,” said Gwen. Roger made plane reservations for the day after tomorrow, and told Jinny, er, Jenley, that they would meet him at the airport. Gwen told Jenley that he better have his shit together when they arrived in Saint Petersburg in two days, and reminded him what would happen if he didn’t. This time, instead of giving his cheek an affectionate squeeze, she slapped him in the center of his forehead with the heel of her hand. And with that, the Junes left Jenley for a forty-eight hour romp through Paris. “What a woman,” he thought.

  Jenley retired to his room and called Plouriva. The phones smoked. The first thing Plouriva said when Jenley told her they were arriving the day after tomorrow was, “Are you crazy? Is this what time in America has done to your mind? Made it like Russian snow in June: soft and mushy?” Jenley counted to ten, and asked Plouriva if she could meet them at the airport. He asked her where she was going to put him up for the next month. He asked her if she was ready to make things happen. He asked her if she had been talking to potential candidates for winter emigration to Charleston. He asked her if her phone still was secure. He asked her if she had found a way to get the goods into containers and onto ships.

  Now it was Plouriva’s turn to count to ten. Was this guy kidding? The last time they had talked he didn’t even know if he was going to make it into the country. Now he’s arriving the day after tomorrow, and talking about getting out of the country with a bunch of contraband state property. But Plouriva was kind of like Jenley. She was smart, strong, experienced, and gutsy. So she stayed calm and told him he would stay in an apartment owned by someone who owed her a favor, and that she had talked with a few mobster types about spending some time in the States. She said her phone was very secure, and that she was working on the container thing. This simple recitation calmed Jenley, and made him realize why he had brought Plouriva into this gig. She was a serious woman with serious skills. He could hardly wait to see her.

  The last thing Plouriva said was she would not meet him at the airport, that would be stupid, she would see him at the apartment. She said, “Jinny, it’s going to be great to see you again.”

  Jinny wasn’t sure this was the time to tell her about his new name. He decided it would be better to do this sooner rather than later, so he said, “Plouriva, I gotta new name. It’s Jenley. Jenley Hermantine.”

  Plouriva said, “Why?”

  He said he would tell her later.

  She said ok, although Jenley sounded like a girl’s name.

  Jenley thought things were looking up in St. Petes, and he was ready to go. He spent his last day in Paris walking the streets and looking at French women. He figured if the Russian customs boys smelled a rat and grabbed him, he wasn’t going to be seeing any women of any nationality for quite some time. He contemplated looking for a whorehouse, but figured Gwen wouldn’t approve of that sort of recreational activity, and Gwen rules. So he bit his tongue. The French babes strolling the rues were flogging hot.

  Early the next morning the three teammates rendezvoused at the Aeroflot ticket counter, where Gwen looked Jenley over and gave him an encouraging kiss, which steadied his nerves. He would ask for another kiss after they landed and headed for customs inspection. That’s when he really would need his nerves to obey his mind. And then he would ask for another kiss when they …. The airplane was quite different from the one that had taken him from Saint Petersburg to Pittsburgh some years before. This one had seats in it. And toilets. When the hostess asked Jenley if he wanted champagne or prosecco, he looked at Gwen. She said prosecco (for her, champagne was a non-sequitur on a Russian commercial airplane, even in first class). Jenley was tempted to gulp the Prosecco and ask for more, but knew better with Gwen sitting across the aisle from him. He drank the wine in two swallows rather than one, and waited an entire minute and a half before asking for more.

  There wasn’t much to talk about on the three hour flight to St. Petes. The plan was fairly simple. The three were friends travelling together, and Jenley was a retired American who happened to speak Russian fairly well after a career at the State Department. The Junes were retired professors of art history, making their first trip to Russia. They had wanted to visit Saint Petersburg for many years to see the treasures of the Hermitage and the architecture of the city, and planned on spending two weeks looking at all the art the city had
to offer. After his retirement Jenley gave up his special passport and now had a common issue one. This was the surface strategy. Underneath the surface, the subterranean plan was pretty simple too. The Junes would act like tourists doing the art and museum thing, while Jenley would rekindle an old, short-term affair he had had with Plouriva, head grounds-keeper at the Hermitage. Jenley would hang out with her and her friends, some of whom would just happen to be quite recent acquaintances. The Junes and their American friend would get-together every few days for drinks or dinner. The team now was in Jenley’s territory, and Roger and Gwen would have to rely on him.

  Gwen allowed Jenley a second glass of Prosecco, and then cut him off. He understood. It was wait time. He knew this was going to fly, or it wasn’t, and was resigned to either way. During the three hours he thought about a lot of things: Roger climbing over the balcony railing at his house, pointing a gun at him, and saying, “You swindled my auntie. Time to pay.” Then meeting Gwen for the first time at the French restaurant, and finding out she was packing heat. And eating shrimp and grits for the first time. And meeting Deneuve and drinking wine with her. In a very short time, either he would be back with Plouriva, scheming to sack the grade C Hermitage treasures, or he would be in jail….for good.

  Things went his way at the Saint Petersburg airport. He showed his passport, kept his mouth shut as much as possible, answered questions with “yes” or “no”, demonstrated by his body language that he was with the Junes, and made it through. He was home. A taxi took them to the Corinthia Hotel, Nevsky Prospekt 57.

  Jenley went into the hotel with the Junes, and while they checked in, he went to the bar. He was smart, and did not order vodka, though his whole being ached for several large glasses of it. He ordered a martini, and then a second one. The Junes came down from their room, joined him, and also ordered martinis. The caper was moving forward. There wasn’t much of significance to discuss at this point. The Junes would be in the bar or dining room every evening. If Jenley had something of note to tell them, he would join them. In the meantime, they were tourists, looking at art and architecture. Jenley did start to tell them which of the many bathrooms at the Hermitage they should check out, but Gwen cut him off. That was it. They finished their drinks, made a show of saying friendly goodbyes, and split up. The Junes went back to their room, where Gwen immediately checked that the bathroom towel-warmers were working. They were, and she was content. Jenley got into a taxi and gave the driver the address of the apartment on loan to Plouriva. The three comrades were in Romanov country.