Earlier, being a meticulous consultant he had stood by and defended his views on the Waterfall Methodology. The Russian goons at the German’s orders had tied him to a raft and thrown him into the nearby Yenisei River. As he had drifted away, Primakov the prick had yelled out aloud, “There are no waterfalls in Russia.”
But sadly, the Yenisei had turned out to be nothing like the Congo or Amazon. No crocs, no serpents, no piranhas… no nothing. What an anticlimax? Wide as a 10 lane highway with barges full of people, fish and nickel — 24x7x365, the Yenisei was more like the Interstate — 5 of Siberia.
Initially, unsure about the Russian motives he had been fearful of starvation and dehydration. But within two hours, he realized that this was all part of yet another elaborate prank. Each time his raft passed a fishing hamlet, a bunch of Russian dudes boarded the raft and squeezed a few lemons. It was probably the best lemonade he had tasted. Every third stop the dudes were replaced by belles. Their lemonades were certainly sweeter. On his 8th hour, with darkness settling in, a Russian dude had loaded him up with vodka and some excellent beef stroganoff.
Thus 16 hours on the Yenisei, Pulikesi was once again enjoying this new yet very creative punishment. It might not have been as fun as blitzing through the Fergana Valley, but whatever…
At daybreak, just north of the Podtesovo village, he had a surprise visitor. This dude unlike the previous dudes brought beer and fish.
“Hey man whats up?” said the lanky bespectacled stranger.
“Edward Snowden?” exclaimed Pulikesi.
“In the flesh,” said Snowden.
“This… this is where you live?”
Snowden shrugged, “I am here to make sure you are in good spirits. Beer?”
“Only hell yeah.”
Edward Snowden cracked a couple of Bud Lites and handed one to Pulikesi.
“Fish?” offered Snowden, “you know, the Riverboat Roadhouse in Podtesovo has the best carp on the Yenisei.”
“No shit dude, this is delicious. And the beer, the Bud Lite… it’s like America all over your mouth…”
Edward Snowden offered his trademark, sad-yet-cocky-yet-bashful-yet-better-than-you smile.
“I guess.”
“Well so what do you do these days man? Heard you were working at ynadex.com or was it VK.com…”
“Two chicks at the same time man…”
“Two… two chicks… Respect man. RESPECT.” Pulikesi high-fived the free man.
“Thanks Pulikesi. Just follow the right thing and the truth, the belief will follow easily…”
“What?”
“Oh… I’m sorry. People keep expecting me to say deep shit all the time. I throw up pseudo babble to appease. Sorry… sorry.”
“Oh don’t worry man. Being a consultant I spew shit all day. By four in the afternoon I feel like puking too… Happens to the best of us.”
“You do?” asked Snowden a skeptically.
“Oh yeah. But working for the Russians has been a… a… departure. They kinda keep it real. You know what I mean?”
“I do.”
“Right obviously, you know the Russians better than anybody… uh oh… I didn’t mean it like that… I am not insinuating or anything… the thing you did was pretty ballsy… sorry…”
Snowden cracked another of his trademark smiles, “Chill man. Chill.”
Pulikesi looked around for another beer.
“Mr. Snowden…”
“You can call me Snow.”
“Snow? That’s so cool… just like real snow… as in cool as snow…”
Damn. A celebrity meeting. And unlike McConaughey at Venice Beach, Snowden hadn’t flipped him off. In fact he was now on a freaking nickname basis. Whatever messed up little game the Russians were playing, it was working and it was fun. Pulikesi surrendered to the Yenisei.
“Snow… Snow, looks like we are out of beer…”
Snowden looked up into the grey Siberian sky and waved his empty Bud Lite bottle.
Within seconds, a super quiet Mi-8 attack chopper dropped off a chilled six pack.
“That is sick…Ebola sick…”
Snowden cocked his head, again with his trademark expression.
“Too soon?”
The Mi-8’s pilot opened a secure communication channel to Krasnoyarsk base.
“Go for Primakov.”
“Our asset’s shirt collar was turned up.”
“What the hell does that mean?” asked Primakov.
“Means our asset has turned your asset.”
Primakov tried again, “Did my asset personally turn up your asset’s collar? Wait, who is my asset and who is your asset?”
The elite chopper pilot swore, “I fucking hate amateurs… Your guy, the Indian guy you put on the boat, is ready to work for you.”
“Ahh. Finally. So when can I have him back?”
“The next extraction point is 2 hours away. A chopper ride from there to Dudinka is 3 hours. A jet back to Krasnoyarsk another 4 hours. Give or take, ten hours.”
“Fine, bring him in.”
Chapter 36
Washington DC
Jim Borland knew he had fucked up big. The list of people wanting his ass was so eclectic that it would have made guys like Imad Mugs blush. For starters there was the CIA his future-former employer, the State Department whose trust he had used to fund the Havana op. Then of course there was that large sandwich chain and finally some producer from NCIS: Havana.
With so many people after his wrinkly ass, he decided to do the honorable thing and abscond. Abscond to someplace where extradition treaties were frowned upon. But pop history suggested that every decade could have only one traitor. There was Ames for the 90s, Hanssen for the 00s and now Snowden for the 10s. That albino at the Peruvian embassy didn’t help either. Even without shopping around, he knew that the market for a new traitor was nonexistent.
Nevertheless, Jim got to work and created a shortlist of places by meticulously balancing the pros and cons with tequila and Adderall.
Andalusia had been the spot during the era of cool heists and train robberies. Perhaps, if Dillinger had been euro trash, he would have picked a stylish Mediterranean villa instead of that termite lodge in Wisconsin. Despite its history, the emergence of nefarious outfits like Ryanair and Interpol had tarnished Andalusia’s status as a favored destination. These days it ranked lower than Key West. Yikes.
Just south of Andalusia lay Western Sahara. Western Sahara with its exquisite Atlantic coast was a first-rate hideout… if one had an entourage of Uzi toting guards, a phalanx of bitches and a gold cache. Jim Borland crossed it off his list.
Venezuela? Dick countries couldn’t be trusted. Period. Especially not after Libya and Cuba.
Svalbard — North of Norway. Former Soviet coal town. Russians abandoned because it was too cold. Has cool new TV show… police procedural… raincheck? Wait… Too cold for Russians?
Liberland — A slick Swede, not the sex act, had walked into a forgotten crack of former Yugoslavia and claimed his own nation. It had everything from flags to passports and stamps… everything that could be made with Photoshop. Population 30. Crazy Ayn Rand types?
After thinking long and hard, Jim Borland disappeared.
Krasnoyarsk, Siberia
“Well hows it coming along?” asked Primakov walking into the work floor.
“Hey, hey man… we are trying to work here,” faked Pulikesi.
“Well?”
“Well, it’s pretty much ready. There are a few bugs. But tomorrow morning you can take it out for a test.”