After the ferry docked, the passengers made their way off the gangplank into the building. Signs instructed the passengers to form two lines. The lines to the far left were for Russian citizens. The ones to the right were for foreign nationals. The twelve people ahead of Bobby and the car dealer headed straight toward the local line. The car dealer put his hand on Bobby’s back and nudged him to the left to become the thirteenth. Bobby stepped to the right, slipped away from his touch, and bared his American passport.
“I need to use the other line,” Bobby said. “But I’ll be waiting for you on the other side.”
The car dealer stared at the blue passport.
“And no beer for me. I don’t like alcohol. Slows my legs down. But you can buy me a lemonade. After I give you your money.”
Bobby left the car dealer standing open-mouthed and blinking rapidly. Bobby removed his comfort mask and bolted to the second line for visitors to Russia. When he saw the United States passport, the immigration officer looked twice at Bobby. He asked Bobby about the purpose of his visit to Russia, and how long he was planning to stay. Bobby gave him the same story about being on a grand adventure and writing for the school newspaper. He showed him his return ticket to Japan, scheduled to depart in forty-eight hours, well within the seventy-two hour limit. The immigration officer took his paperwork and entered some information into a computer. It took him less than thirty seconds to do so, but by the time he returned the passport to Bobby there was a line of twenty arriving passengers behind him.
“Welcome to Russia,” the immigration officer said.
After he heard these words and knew he was free to enter Vladivostok, Bobby added the spiel he’d been rehearsing in his mind.
“There’s one more thing. A man walked up to me on the ferry. I think he mistook me for a Siberian native. That’s not surprising, you know, because of my background, my face. I was born in Alaska. He asked me if I wanted to buy a gun. He said he and his friends had a lot of guns. He said they had them stored in the cars they were bringing over from Japan. In places the cops would never look. He said they were selling guns to something called the Sibiryak movement, to help them free the slaves from Russian imperialism. I have no idea what that is. Maybe you do. I don’t want to be wasting your time. Maybe this is none of my business…”
The Sibiryak movement sought to unite Siberians across all ethnic backgrounds to pursue common social and economic interests. This was a socially acceptable way of saying some Siberians wanted independence from the rest of Russia. It reflected the tensions between Siberian people and those from urban areas such as Moscow, and the difference in living standards.
The immigration officer asked Bobby some questions. They resulted in him repeating the entire story.
“Where is this man?” the immigration officer asked.
Bobby pointed to the car dealer, who was looking right at them from his place in line. He was eighth now, Bobby counted. The local line was moving four times as quickly thanks to Bobby’s fiction.
The immigration officer picked up a phone, waited for a voice on the other end of the line, and rattled off an abbreviated version of what Bobby had just told him. Then he hung up and pressed a button under his desk.
Ten seconds later, three men in gray uniforms burst out of a side door carrying rifles. A sour-looking man in a black suit followed. Two of the men with rifles flanked the line for locals. The third followed the black suit. They marched to the line for foreigners. The immigration officer whispered into the ear of the man in the black suit. The latter cast an ambivalent look at Bobby, and then a considerably more disapproving one at the car dealer.
The man in the black suit asked Bobby to step forward and wait beside the booth. Bobby complied. The man in the black suit told the immigration officer to continue with the next passenger. Then he motioned to the remaining guard and approached the car dealer.
Bobby spied the look of concern in the car dealer’s expression. Gone was the arrogance of ten minutes past, when he thought he was about to earn a year’s wages in a day. It was replaced by fear. The man in the black suit was probably FSB, the secret police of the Russian Federation, successor to the KGB.
The man in the black suit asked the car dealer for his passport. The two guards who’d been flanking the line moved in and surrounded him. The man in the black suit spoke again. The car dealer shouted back at him.
People hushed. They turned their attention to the commotion in the locals’ line. Even the immigration officer who had helped Bobby stopped reviewing the next arrival’s passport. Like everyone, he was entranced by the prospect of an arrest or, even better, a fight. Anything to relieve the boredom of the job.
Bobby slipped out the front door.
The streets of Vladivostok left no doubt Bobby was back in Russia. It smelled of petroleum and cabbage instead of sea salt and fish. The shops and commercial buildings surrounding the ferry building appeared in desperate need of renovation. A gray sky loomed above. Bobby couldn’t tell if it was a function of smog or clouds.
He found a café with a view of the ferry building’s entrance. He stepped inside and remained beside the door. The waitress was busy taking orders from new arrivals. His watch said 8:15 a.m., but the clock on the wall told him it was already 10:15 a.m. Bobby hated forward time changes. They left him with the sense he’d lost two hours of his life, and he detested the thought of losing a minute.
He adjusted his watch for the two-hour time difference. He spotted a payphone on the other side of the lobby and thought of Nadia. She would be worried. If only he had time to call her.
The sound of coarse Russian reminded Bobby of his location. He was back in a place where the rule of law didn’t exist the way it did in America. Musicians were jailed for criticizing the government. The media pedaled propaganda or risked stiff consequences. A kid on his own chasing a girl held captive by powerful people could vanish if he were caught.
The sight of the driver and Eva exiting the ferry station cleared his mind. Eva was her usual self, sedated, leaning against the driver, head held low, face obscured. The driver looked around. His eyes settled on something. Bobby followed his eyes.
Two men in suits sliced their way through the crowd toward Eva and the driver. They weren’t beefy types in black leather jackets. Instead they looked like corporate executives who ran marathons. Dark pinstripe suits with gel in their hair, both in their early thirties, Bobby thought.
One of them exchanged a quick word with the driver. The other put his arm around Eva and guided her toward the street. They moved with a sense of purpose. The men with the pinstripe suits helped Eva into the back of a black Mercedes SUV, the type with the grille in the front that looked like a quasi-military vehicle.
Bobby lowered his head and ambled past the SUV toward the taxis behind it. The line was twenty people deep, which did not bode well for those who were waiting. Bobby had experience with taxis in Ukraine, though. He ignored the attendant and the line of people and marched straight to the last cab in line.
The cab driver tried to wave him off. Bobby heard passengers by the curb hurling insults at his back. He ignored both of them and climbed into the back of the taxi.
“Imbecile,” the cab driver said. “There is a line. Get out of my car. Get out of my car now.”
Bobby flashed a thick roll of rubles. Summoned his finest fluent Russian. “Follow that Mercedes jeep,” he said.