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Chapter Two: “No End in Sight” On the Lam
Oct 14: Talinn, Estonia Jurgen glanced around the tiny hotel room where he had been holed up for two days. “This dump doesn't even rate one star.” One naked bulb hung from the water-stained ceiling. The sickly yellow light barely allowed him to read, but reading had been his only activity the last two days, unless you counted pacing and worrying. Normally he enjoyed reading H.P. Lovecraft, but the inaction was getting on his nerves. He had read the same paragraph in the old dog-eared copy of The Necronomicon three times, understanding nothing. “When’s that contact going to call? I can’t take much more of this.” He tossed the book on the shabby bed and stared, unfocused, at the grey paint flaking off the wall. The incident several days ago in Innsbruck had him really worried. “Damn. That Interpol agent was such bad luck. I’m sure he recognized me. If he reports me, this whole thing could fall apart like a deck of cards.” The escape plan from Section that Jurgen had worked out was being done on the fly with the help of a few colleagues and a loose network of, for want of a better word, he called “the malcontents.” “We need a better plan than flitting all over Europe. This is too risky.” He recalled that Dreyer was a bit of a malcontent too. “Has too much conscience for the job he does,” he reflected. “Maybe he won’t turn me in.” The incident in Paris bothered him too. The little man who came up to him seemed to know him though he didn’t use any names. “Not sure my German tourist guise fooled him…Oh, hell, I’m worrying too much. This rat hole has got me down. It could be worse ---none of the plan would have worked at all without help from...” The phone, a 50s relic with a real brass bell, clanged loudly, jarring him from his sour musings. He was actually surprised that the damn thing worked. The voice was curt: “Your swim suit is ready.” Finally, the coded message he has been waiting for. Responding, he said: “When do I leave for Cancun?” The voice on the other end directed him to a bar named Molotov in the older Russian part of Talinn. Jurgen smiled at the name of the bar. “Maybe I’ll have a cocktail there.” “Be there at midnight,” said the voice. “Midnight?” repeated Jurgen, looking at his Russian Navy-surplus watch. It was 11:30pm. “On my way.” Mindful of the already wintery weather in this region, he pulled on a tattered parka and knit cap and started out the door. “At last, progress.” On the street, the chill wind blowing in from the Baltic made him grimace. He began walking determinedly. Finally, twenty miserable minutes later, Jurgen entered the tavern and was hit immediately with a blast of heavy tobacco smoke and raucous noise. “Jeez, just my kind of place.” He made his way to the table in the back he had been directed to, the one under the old fly-specked poster of Elvis (one from his lean years, not the Vegas years). “Even in the Soviet Union,” he noted with amusement, “people liked Elvis.” Jurgen didn’t recognize the young red-haired man at the table. In low-keyed voices, they exchanged the proper code words. The man, a Russian operative, slowly slid a small package wrapped in plain brown paper across the table. Jurgen slipped the package into an inner pocket in his parka. “New passport, plane and train tickets, and money,” whispered the other agent. “For a few days, you’re going to be Andrei Mishkin, a middle level manager of a plant that makes parts for refrigerators. You'll be traveling with a Russian passport. How’s your Russian?” “Da, da, govoriu dastchno xorosho, tovarish,” Jurgen answered with a curt nod. “What’s my next stop?” “By plane to Munich, then on to Vienna. You'll pick up a train to Athens there. Just a regular train, not the Orient Express. Sorry, it's too expensive.” Jurgen shook his head in dismay. “This is too damn slow. When do I get to someplace warm?” “Patience. You know we have to be very careful. We’ve got this first part all worked out,” the agent assured him. “But now I have to get back to Moskva before I’m missed. We’ve got an elaborate plot going there involving a tractor plant and a munitions dealer.” He chuckled softly, then stood up. Jurgen muttered “Thanks. If I hadn’t been cooped up in Hotel Hell for two days with nothing to eat but cold peroshkis washed down with cheap beer, I’d probably be more patient.” “After you reach Athens, the next stop is Kea,” said the agent, with a faint smile. “It’s warm there and the Greek food is great.” “Kea? Kea’s on the itinerary too? Well, that sounds a lot better than this rat hole here.” The other man nodded goodbye and disappeared out the back door. Jurgen, eyeing a plateful of steaming food passing by, decided to stay long enough to quell his long-suffering stomach. Pouring a shot of Turi from the bottle left on the table, Jurgen threw down the bittersweet vodka with gusto. He preferred the Russian Ikon vodka himself but poured another shot of the Estonian brand. “It beats the hell out of that crap at the hotel.” He quickly downed the second glass. Continue to Chapter Three |