Tag: cia

Jazz with Ella

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“There won’t be any children, Mrs. White. It’s summer holidays,” Lona said with a smirk. Paul rolled his eyes skyward.
Jennifer felt a little sheepish. Lona was probably correct. However, it was irritating the way she always ensured that everyone knew she was correct. It was time to change the subject. “How did you happen to study Russian, David?” she said, leaning back in the grass, ignoring Lona and fixing on the young man. He had an intelligent, open face with sparkling white teeth but even at the age of 25, his hairline was just starting its slide toward the back of his head. She knew that his family was of English descent, not unlike her own history on her father’s side.
“My father’s in the Air Force,” said David, “and I guess we’ve lived on a dozen different bases as I grew up—Germany, Italy and NORAD in Colorado. I picked up a little of every language but never Russian.”
“So why Russian?” Lona asked.
“Well, six years ago I got chosen along with a lot of other army and air force brats to go on a teen cultural exchange to the U.S.S.R. I had no knowledge of the country before that. We were just supposed to be shining examples of North American kids. It was sure different than this tour. It had been organized by Sputnik—that’s the youth tour group—and we had cocky Komsomol leaders not much older than us in charge.”
“So you have more than a nodding acquaintance with Lenin?”
“And Marx. And Brezhnev. The Komsomol is seriously political, and this was before the signing of the SALT treaty so east-west tensions were high. Believe it or not, it’s more relaxed now.”
“But how did you learn the language?” Paul asked.
“Oh, we had a crash course before the trip. Then we stayed in a dormitory for four months and ate with the Eastern European kids, so we learned a lot that way. We didn’t visit the churches back then because they tried to pretend that they didn’t exist. Instead, we had to study in the dorm a lot and debate the class struggle or dialectical materialism with our team leader. Most of us didn’t have a clue!”
“My god, I’m not sure I could define them now,” laughed Jennifer. “But I bet we’ll know by the end of this trip.”
“Well, that was what sparked my interest in Russian. Learning by talking is the best way. That’s why I didn’t pack my Ozhegov.”

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Straits and Turns

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Necrophilia
Bradley reached home late at night after a long flight, during which they experienced their fair share of turbulence. He knew this flight so well after twenty years of taking it, since he started working on the East Coast, and his house was in Los Angeles. He also knew most of the American Airlines personnel; he had an account set up by the Bureau and always flew this airline. And tonight, Georgia, the flight attendant, offered him a second glass of wine and a good plateful of food, which he relished to the last crumb. Being with the Bureau for so long, he almost did everything as part of a routine, a repetitive action, from the time he’d call to arrange his reservation to the arrival at the airport and to the airline counter where most of the girls recognized him and always served him the best way.
The agency took care of all the bills, it was part of his contract with the CIA and no one ever raised an eyebrow at what he submitted; it was times when he thought of having something extra, something the bureau wouldn’t even bother to look into, however, Bradley was a common sense man and always did his side the best and fairest way possible to make sure he wouldn’t disturb any waters a couple of years away from his retirement.
When he got inside the house, he noticed there was no sound, other than the ventilation system humming its rhythmical music. Brad was so tired that he took off his shoes and went upstairs to their bedroom, only to find his wife, Beth, asleep, even though he had informed her he was on his way home. Undressed, he slipped under the bedcovers when he smelled the strong alcohol odour all over the…

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Jazz with Ella

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Hank stopped before a hammered gold ladle outlined in pearls, which had been owned by Tsar Volodya Feodorovich and was dated 1618. “Wow, dig this jewelled pooper scooper.”
Marty laughed. “Hey, take a look at Lona. She’s practically salivating over that medallion.” The two darted over to join her in front of a glass case.
“What is it?” Hank asked her.
“An encolpion,” Lona said, without tearing her eyes away from the outsized milky-blue sardonyx. “It was made in the 17th century.” Carved on its surface was a depiction of a haloed St. John set within an oval gold filigree border studded with jewels.
“Bet it’s worth a bundle,” Hank said.
Natasha scurried over, too, just in time to catch Hank’s last words. “Treasures of the Armoury are closely guarded,” she announced.
“By whom? Is that your security?” Lona asked innocently. An elderly woman, face lined, kerchief on her head, sat slumped, hands in lap, in a plain wooden chair near the doorway.
“Oh, Natasha, yoo-hoo!” called Linda Appleton. The guide winced as Linda descended on her like a warship sailing into action. “Can you tell me whether photos are permitted in here because David is taking lots of them?” As they moved off to sort out David’s picture-taking proclivities, Hank took the opportunity to corner Lona.
“So what’s an encolpion?” he asked, not expecting an answer.
Lona turned away from the showcase reluctantly. “It’s a medallion worn by bishops, of course. Don’t you know anything?”
Hank couldn’t think of a suitable response so he sloped off, frowning.
★
If they had visited only the Kremlin that first morning, it would have been enough stimulation for the jet-lagged travellers. Jennifer had already used up half a notebook with details of their breakfast, the church, the soldiers’ uniforms and the carriage of Catherine the Great. But instead of stopping for lunch, their tour guide led them out of the Armoury, back into Red Square and up to the longest and most silent of queues that they had seen thus far—for the mandatory visit to Lenin’s tomb.
“Lenin’s memorial has been closed to visitors during renovations,” she told the group. “You are lucky to visit on this one day that it will be open.”

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The Circle

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…whatever it takes to reach that point. He wants to make sure Emily understands
that right now he has to play along and do as Hakim says. The old man and
Talal’s promise to him hold him to that resolve; he has to follow this path for a
while yet, but things are going to change soon. Things will change as soon as they
get to Iraq and Talal has his own personal group of men to work with.
“No Emily, no, he answers her, but leave that to me for now. However, I
promise you that over there we’ll be respected by a lot of people. We’ll be listened
to a lot more than we are here; we’re going to be treated like royalty when we are
there, and you’ll be next to me when I command a lot of people to do as I please,
you’ll see. Leave this to me; our time is on its way. I won’t have to obey Hakim or
do whatever he wants me to do every time.”
Emily gets up and puts her robe on, feeling somewhat skeptical and
disheartened. From one point of view, she understands Talal has to do things for
Hakim; he has promised that to Ibrahim and a man’s promise is like gold when
the man is a man, as this man is in her eyes. However, she would like him to have
some independence and do as he pleases. She doesn’t know how to address this
at this time, so she leaves it alone for now. But, she is sure of one thing—Talal is
her man and her man won’t be a follower the way Matthew was his entire life.
Talal kisses her at the door and leaves.
He meets Hakim at the park entrance; finds him agitated and asks why.
“What is it? You look upset.”
“Ibrahim is not well. I’m afraid I may have to go for a while. It all depends on
how his biopsies turn out. I’ll find out soon.What’s new with you?”
“Ahmed has got the package; I’ll bring it for the Admiral on Saturday.”
“Excellent; what else do you know?”
“Nothing much. We need George Pappas to show up and list the house; have
you talked to him?”
Hakim takes his mobile phone and dials George’s number.
“George, this is Hakim; I have some more business for you. Jennifer’s mother
wants to list her house for sale; can you go by there tonight and get the
paperwork done?”
George agrees.
“It’s done; seven o’clock at Emily’s house.”
Hakim is pleased.
“Good, now we can start getting ready to go. I’m going to let go of a few
shares in the next couple of days to finance our next trip.” Talal says.
“Just give it a few days. I had a conversation with my broker in New York and
he’s looking for a potential buyer. If we are lucky, we may see the price of stock
improve a lot in a short while.”

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Jazz with Ella

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She took the elevator down one floor, intending to ask the dezhurnaya the location of Chopyk’s room but for some reason, that floor was unguarded. It took another 20 minutes of getting lost in a maze of hallways, returning to the lobby, inquiring and returning to Chopyk’s floor, only to find that he was not in his room. She rode the elevator back to her own floor, and the doors opened on a pleasant domestic scene.
The dezhurnaya no longer sat alone. On two straight-backed chairs sat a young man and a woman with her arms around a gangly child of about ten who pointed her toes, first right, then left, pressing her sandals into the worn carpet. The man looked up eagerly when the elevator doors opened. She caught his eye for a second, took in the freckle-faced child and petite mother who sat in the shadows, then sped on up the hall. But she could feel the young eyes boring into the back of her head.
“Attention! devushka, woman,” shouted the dezhurnaya. “You have guests.”
Even before Jennifer turned to face the family, it was a moment of knowing, a sense that already on this first night in Moscow profound changes would take place, and this was only the first of them. She stared. Yes, the man did look familiar in a comfortable way. The woman—his wife?—was a stranger. The child was awkward and cute at the same time. The man walked toward her, smiling, his arms outstretched in greeting. He struggled with her name in thickly accented speech.
“Do I know …?” she began and stopped.
“Mikhail Alexandrovich Abram,” he said, grasping her hand. The woman tossed a mane of glossy black hair and approached smiling. “And this is my wife, Marta, and my daughter Nadya.” The child stood knock-kneed, bowed slightly and touched the red Young Pioneer scarf tied around her neck.
“We are your family.”
Jennifer was thunderstruck. “But I have no family here…” she finally responded. She didn’t want to appear rude but she was quite sure that her mother…but then there was a lot she didn’t know about her mother’s background.
“Yes, you do. You are shocked,” Mikhail continued. “I beg your forgiveness for our sudden arrival. May we enter?” He indicated the hotel room.
“Certainly. Go in.”

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The Circle

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HAKIM IS UP VERY EARLY this Wednesday morning, and following his half
hour of meditation, sits at his workstation to communicate with his uncle. It’s
about seven in the evening in Baghdad, and someone must be at home; he hasn’t
heard from them in the last couple of days and is concerned. They must have
some news by now; the tests were to be done a few days ago.
“Hello there, my uncle, how are you?”
“Hello Hakim.” Rassan answers.
“Hi, Rassan; where is everybody?”
“Mara is at the hospital with Ibrahim; she stays overnight to keep him
company. They had tests done yesterday and today; it doesn’t look good.”
“Tell me, what were the test results?”
“They did a couple of scans and detected two small tumors—a tiny one in his
liver and a bigger one in his pancreas. They are to do biopsies tomorrow and then
we’ll have answers.”
“How is he? Is he in pain?”
“Well, in the hospital he is not in pain as they have him on painkillers; I don’t
know how he will feel when he gets home, if they allow him to come home.”
“Is he that bad that you think he may not come home soon?”
“I don’t know Hakim, I’m not the doctor. We’ll see; what I know is when he
was here the last few days he was in pain constantly.”
“Thanks Rassan, I’ll reach you again tomorrow about the same time. Make
sure you are around to give me an update of how things are. If need be, I may
come over for a few days to keep Mara company.”
“She’s going to be very happy to see you, I’m sure.”
“Say hello to both of them, and pass on a message to my uncle from his friend
Bevan, who sends his regards.”
He turns the computer off and puts on a robe; Jennifer is still asleep in the
bedroom.He walks to the balcony and looks at the weather in Los Angeles; clouds
cover the sky, in the same way that they cover his heart with this latest news. The
temperature is around 15 degrees; a pleasant temperature for the time of the year.
He has to go to the office and check on things; the business has been going a bit
better the last couple of weeks and Peter Bradshaw is very excited about a new…

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The Circle

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…back for a while; his thoughts travel to his good, old friend in Baghdad. Ibrahim has
done well with this young man; he has brought him up the right way. It’s no wonder
the old man is so proud of Hakim. It’s no wonder that he sees him as a real son; he
even calls him his son. He gets the check and goes out to find a taxi to take him to the
Sheraton. The rest of this weekend is going to be smooth and pleasant for Bevan
Longhorn.He may even sleep in peace tonight since he knows everything is coming
together nicely for his exit strategy. His plan is unfolding like clear spring water
running slowly down to freshen up the roots of the delicate vegetables and flowers.

Monday has gone by slowly but steadily, as if time learned to go by unnoticed,
like a well-tuned machine with gears grasping everyone in between them,
stretching and pulling to the point of being ready to snap. Hakim and Jennifer
spent their Monday getting ready for their move. She took the day off and did the
packing of things one does last; Hakim also stayed home and together they organized
the details of the actual move. Today, Talal has come to help them. He’s the
one who’ll get the rental truck. Emily is there as well, doing what is necessary to
help Jennifer with the kitchen items, since men do not always do things the best
way in a woman’s eyes when it comes to the kitchen.
Ahmed has gone with Talal to get the truck.
“I’ll get the stuff tomorrow,” Ahmed says.
“You got it, already?” asks Hakim.
“No but it’s ready; it’s just a matter of going for it.”
“Alright, now be careful. Who are these guys?”
“Leave that to me. Don’t worry about who they are or why they are doing
this; leave that to me.”
They get the truck and Talal drives it back to Hakim’s apartment. They start
putting things in one by one and Jennifer and Emily tell them where to position
them in the truck. It takes about an hour and they are ready to go to Emily’s for
the rest of the things. Once they finish there, they drive to the new place and
move everything upstairs. One elevator has been reserved for them and that
makes work a lot easier. By two in the afternoon, they are done; the only thing
left to do is to put together the bed and put away the kitchen things, while Talal
and Ahmed return the truck to the rental company.
When all that is done and Talal comes back with Ahmed, Hakim orders a
couple of pizzas and they sit around and enjoy the food. The weather had given
them a break with sunny periods throughout the day, and while it’s late in the
afternoon, there is still plenty of brightness, and one can see the beauty of the
view to the west toward the Pacific Ocean.

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Jazz with Ella

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Finally the plane broke through the cloud banks, the turbulence vanished and the sight below pushed all thoughts of adolescent students out of Jennifer’s head. She was flying over the birch forests and ragged patchwork fields of the mighty Soviet Union. She gazed eagerly. An image formed easily in her imagination: two young women—her mother and her aunt—thin and desperate, still grieving the loss of their parents, tramping across this very landscape in 1945 following the path of the victorious troop convoys. How far had they walked to the Polish border? It must have been a wearying journey for the two refugees…
Suddenly a wedge of apartment blocks appeared on the horizon signalling the suburbs of modern Moscow. The plane circled once, the wing dipping to reveal wide straight highways, clusters of huts amid evergreen trees, and finally, the runways of Moscow’s Sheremetyev Airport.
“Hallelujah, we’re really here!” Paul exclaimed. Eve and Dawn giggled. David opened his eyes. A wave of relief flooded the passengers as the plane bumped to a halt. Applause broke out. One stewardess allowed herself a thin-lipped smile while the other busied herself in the galley.
The thunderstorm’s humidity hit them the moment the cabin door opened. The summer air was moist and the black clouds still rolled overhead, but for the group from Canada, now shuffling down the steps to the tarmac, no amount of bad weather could destroy this imperial moment. For some, such as Maria, it was a return to the land her parents spoke of, though not always fondly. For others, Jennifer included, it was their first glimpse of a powerful myth. She had never understood Winston Churchill’s quote about Russia—”a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma”—and suspected it was hyperbole, but as she stepped from the plane onto Soviet soil, she shivered. Churchill had met Stalin. He should know.
What was this country all about? She had first come to know it through the literature of long dead authors, Pushkin and Dostoevsky, considered dissidents in their time. Lately she had come to understand its dark underside through the secret writings of Alexander Solzhenitsyn, banned in the USSR, published in the west. Yet she had also studied its most glorious moments in the ecstatic language of its revolutionaries. Despite the ordeal of the landing, she felt eager, charged, ready to go everywhere, to see it all.

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The Circle

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Bevan Longhorn dresses in casual clothes and goes down to the lobby of the
Sheraton Hotel. It’s Sunday morning and the lobby is filled with people coming
and going. Bevan has stayed here before, and this time, although he has only
been here for one night, intends to make the best of it. He has arranged his
departure for the evening with American Airlines and is to arrive in Washington
sometime before midnight, giving him enough time to relax and get to his office
Monday morning. On the other hand, if he feels tired the next morning he can
always skip work for a day; the agency will survive without him.
What presses on his mind today is making sure he can put his hands on what he
needs to proceed with his plan of exit, as he calls it. These two young men better have
thought of everything; he doesn’t have the time to pussyfoot. However, he has faith
in the old man, whom he has always trusted to deliver what is necessary.
He walks into the hotel restaurant and orders his breakfast. He opens the
morning paper and reads the headlines; the same stuff again and again. His breakfast
comes and he tries to enjoy it, despite the headlines and his thoughts. What happens
if the two young men cannot get what he needs? A shiver travels down his spine like
a thunderbolt as this thought sinks deep in his mind, and he squirms out of fear that
all his mental preparation for this last mission might be in vain.
He overhears two couples next to him talking about the Oscars scheduled
for sometime in March. They seem to be very absorbed in what they are
discussing; he hears one of the men supporting one actor over the others, and
the other three people seem to agree, as Bevan doesn’t hear any objection to the
first person’s remarks.
His thoughts take him away again to his plan of action, and he glances at his
watch; it is only 10:30 a.m. He’s so anxious about his plan that he cannot wait to
meet Hakim at Earl’s and get answers. Ibrahim’s nephew had better have good
news for him, or else. What can he do if they cannot get it?
He finishes his breakfast, pays his check and goes for a walk around the hotel
grounds with the manicured lawns and the pretty shrubs and flowers
everywhere. He needs to clear his mind and the crisp morning air will help. He
also needs to stretch his legs.

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Jazz with Ella

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“Just close your eyes and think of something else,” he told her.
Paul’s a good buddy, she thought, and he stuck with me through all of the Michael years. She realized she was already thinking of Michael in the past tense and wondered if that was a sign of healing. The last time she had been on a plane she and Michael had flown to California for their first wedding anniversary. That had been just one year ago.
As instructed, she shut out the sight of the storm clouds and retreated into her thoughts. She wondered for about the fifth time why Paul had not been selected to assist Chopyk in leading this Soviet Union trip. It meant prestige and academic advancement. Paul was at least as well educated as she was with all the same qualifications: experience as a teaching assistant and going for his Ph.D. Besides, he was a man and the department favoured men in positions of authority. The graduate women often got no farther up the tenure track than lecturer. Jennifer was a loose cannon; she knew that was her reputation around the department. She was not one to toe the party line—or to sleep with the chairman to improve her grades.
Could it be, as her women’s lib friend had told her, it was because she would accept less money for the job? Just the cost of the trip and a small daily stipend—that was all she was receiving. Paul would have held out for a real salary, she thought uncomfortably. But she had to take this trip. It was ridiculous to think she could continue as a University of Vancouver graduate student in Russian Literature without actual exposure to the Russia of today—the Soviet Union. The department had been trying to organize this language immersion tour, a first for any Canadian university, for years. It was time to damn the expense and go.
This plan had seemed pretty clear until a warm day in May when the departmental chairman, Dr. Hoefert, summoned her to a meeting at Professor Chopyk’s office, and he had hinted to her on the phone that he might have some good news regarding the language tour. It turned out that she had been summoned not so much to Chopyk’s office as to his adjacent waiting room. She spent three quarters of an hour glued to a sticky orange vinyl chair, feeling her hair frizzing wildly in the humidity of the overheated building, one foot bobbing in time to the tapping of the secretary’s typewriter.
Occasionally, Chopyk and Hoefert had glanced through the glass panel as if to determine that she was still there. At first she mentally railed at professors who expected papers to be turned in on time but couldn’t be bothered being punctual for appointments…

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