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Zenya was two-and-a-half when two very strange people came to visit her orphanage. They talked funny, as if almost able to speak properly, but with such horrible accents it was difficult to understand them. She assumed they were stupid. Gloopy, in Russian. They were there to see her, though – just her! – so she let it go.
She was devastated when they stopped coming after just one week. It was not fair! They had been coming every day, and she had bows in her hair and wore a pretty dress every time! She thought they were The Ones! Guess not.
After a couple months – forever at that age – the memory of her visitors faded as that infamous Russian winter approached and she blended back into daily life at Dome Rebyenka (Baby Home) No. 1 on the outskirts of town. Someday, she knew, she would have her very own grown-ups to take care of her. She just knew it! They needed to hurry up, though.
Sure enough, one day as she and a dozen other children sat in kid-sized chairs along the back wall, those same two wonderful strangers reappeared.
Smiles all around lit up the playroom. Zenya’s exuberance then collapsed into a withering pout as she remembered the abandonment last time. They better not do that again!
She waited to see their reaction to this pout. And, satisfied that her point had been made, she allowed one of the caregivers to walk her across the room to her visitors.
Her gray eyes looked deep into those of her visitors, and she allowed herself a controlled smile. She was still unsure about them. Spying a stuffed toy on a shelf to her right, she tried to reach it. The strange man smiled as he grabbed it for her. She had already lost interest, but found a colorful book behind him on another shelf and tried to reach that. This time, it was the woman who got it for her.
Zenya took the book, turned a couple of pages as if studying its contents, then dropped it on the floor for the woman to pick up. It was the grown-ups’ job to put things back on the shelves.
Her eyes twinkled with delight upon realizing all she had to do was point at various items beyond her reach – even the ones she didn't care for – and her visitors would dutifully give them to her.
The power she had over these people was intoxicating! She would remember this. Always. Especially the part about letting them clean up after her.
When the man asked in that strange accent, "Tee hoachesh eegrut?" (You want to play?), she of course said, "Da!" (Yes!) And that was when she knew she had found her forever parents.
Her world – the world – was once again as it should be!
Halfway into the long drive back from Louisville to Saint Louis, Clay Desno is looking forward to a hot shower and cold beer. He has just bought a brand new Chevy Silverado pickup, fully loaded, and is following the dealer's advice to keep his speed down until the odometer reaches at least 500 miles.
He's never had a brand new car before. Always used. Then again, he's never done so well playing the ponies before.
On a whim Friday afternoon, he drove the four hours it takes to get to Louisville for the Kentucky Derby. Saturdays are usually game days for the minor league soccer team he coaches, but his team had a bye/day off, so he took the opportunity, after all these years as a fan, to attend the Derby in person.
It was all too last-minute to get a seat in the grandstands, and he resigned himself to suffering through the drunken buffoonery of the infield crowd. There was a time when he would have fit right in with these folks but, after meeting and marrying Pamela, he cleaned up his act.
The crowd was not so bad once he got into the swing of things. His winnings for the day – thanks to a tip from a racing stable employee – were so good he splurged on a new pickup truck on his way back to the hotel. As he told the happy salesman, "You only live once, right?!"
Worried about parking his new toy overnight in the hotel lot, exposed, Clay considered driving all night to get home, but decided against it. He would just have to risk it, and get a fresh start in the morning.
He is feeling pretty good about life now. Playing the ponies. Buying a new truck. Singing along to Tom Petty's American Girl as he heads home. Basically, doing whatever he wants because Pamela is no longer there to say otherwise.
When his phone rings, he sees that it’s Pamela. He is tempted to let it go to voicemail, but finally turns the radio down and answers.
"Hello?"
"Have you seen Jenna?!" Pamela shrieks on the other end, not bothering to say hello.
"I've been out of town," he exhales. He wants to ask what sort of knock-down, drag-out fight she and their daughter have gotten into now. They have been at each other's throats almost constantly the past few years. Instead, he says, "She's probably just out with friends. Want me to try calling her?"
"Could you? I thought she might have gone to the Derby with you, but... she's not with you, is she?"
"Wait, let me check under the seat," he rolls his eyes. "No, Pam, she's not here with me."
"Okay, well, I haven't seen or heard from her…" she hesitates, "since yesterday."
"Yesterday?!" Clay grips the steering wheel tighter. "And you're only now calling?! She could be…!"
"I know, I know. Please just come home, Mud Man?"
After hanging up, he shakes his head. He should have known it would come to this. His two favorite people on the planet have been fighting like cats since Jenna hit her teens, and he has been playing referee. Almost to the day since she hit thirteen it was like a switch had flipped and she became the hellion that she is today.
Mud Man was a play on the name Clay that Pamela came up with early in their relationship. More recently it's used only when she needs to soften him up.
His own relationship with their daughter has not been much better than Pamela’s, but at least there's less drama. When those two go at it, household items tend to get airborne.
Before he knows it, Clay has his new Silverado doing 90 miles an hour, headed west.
As he pulls into the driveway of Pamela's house in the Glendale suburb of Saint Louis – his old house – Clay doesn't notice the unmarked, unoccupied Crown Victoria on the street. He pulls in behind Pamela’s car, gets out, and takes his usual shortcut to the porch, the space between the driveway and first of three rose bushes. Everyone else uses the paved walkway to the door. It is only a few extra feet, but Clay likes to cut through the bushes. The first time Pamela saw him do it, she let it go. After the third or fourth time, she made him put down octagonal pea-gravel steps in that space so he would at least not track dirt into the house.
Without knocking, he bursts through the door, only to be confronted by Police Detectives Wilson and Cheval. The latter pulls his gun.
Standing behind Cheval, Pamela shouts, "Don't shoot him! Not fatally, anyway." She moves to place a hand on the detective's shoulder, then stops for fear that he might pull the trigger. "This," she explains, "is the ex-husband I've been talking about."
"Not officially exes yet, Pam," Clay smiles and raises his hands in the air. "And don't believe whatever she says about me, officers."
"Detectives," Cheval corrects him and slides his gun back into its holster.
"Any word yet on Jenna?" Clay asks. “She hasn't returned my calls or texts." He almost adds "I'm getting worried" but doesn't come right out and say that. There is this thing that comes over a man when dealing with other men, especially strangers, in front of his wife or girlfriend. He feels the need to be strong, unwavering, impervious, and not look weak.
In answer to his question, Pam shakes her head. She has not heard anything further.
"Anyone check her bedroom?" he continues. "Recently? She might've snuck back in. It's what I used to do at that age." Pamela raises an eyebrow at this tidbit from Clay's past. When both detectives stare blankly at him, he shakes his head and says, "I'll go look."
Detective Wilson – the taller, thinner, blonde and slightly older of the two – puts up a hand and says with a friendly smile, "We only just got here ourselves, Mr. Denso…"
"Desno," Clay corrects him automatically, used to the mispronunciation.
"I'll go check," Wilson continues. “You stay here."
Watching the man climb the stairs, Clay feels useless. I need to be doing something! his mind screams. He and Pamela never installed tracking software on Jenna’s phone. They thought they could trust her. Big mistake. Since she went missing, they have been calling everyone they can think of. No luck.
Clay flops onto the couch. Pamela gives an exasperated look. She always hated that, complaining more than once over the years, "Can't you be more civilized? You're like a teenager."
To this, he would usually shrug, which infuriated her even more. She is holding her tongue now, choosing to glare at him as she and Detective Cheval stand together at the dining room table.
"What?" Clay asks under the weight of her stare. She shakes her head and looks for something else to glare at.
Detective Cheval picks up where she left off, and a staring contest ensues between him and Clay. The latter is the first to look away.
As he turns away and rolls his eyes, he realizes the couch is new. All the furniture is. Tufted upholstery, it's called, though to him it simply looks old-fashioned. There is a new coat of paint on the walls, too. A soft yellow has replaced the light brown.
Returning his attention to his estranged wife, Clay decides that it’s nice to see her again, despite the circumstances. It’s been months since they were in the same room together. He almost forgot how much he loved those intelligent blue eyes (in happier times), that smiling face, and her long mane of wavy auburn hair now pulled back in a ponytail. He cannot help but smile, if fleetingly, forgetting for a moment all the reasons they are no longer together.
It is Pamela's turn to snap in response to being stared at. "What?!"
Clay recoils.
She hadn't meant to snap at him, but Detective Cheval's hand had brushed up against her butt cheek just prior and she was trying to decide if it was an accident and whether or not she should allow herself to enjoy it.
Clay focuses on the décor. There is a black and white family portrait on the wall, featuring a smiling Pamela and Jenna… but no Clay. He turns back toward her just as Cheval is pulling out a chair for her to sit at the dining room table.
Pamela smiles warmly before casting a smirk and an arched eyebrow at Clay.
At some point while racing over here, Clay found himself looking forward to saving the day. Finding Jenna. Being the hero. Pamela's hero… somehow, only to be beaten to the punch by this Cheval dude.
Even Clay can see that she is moving on with her life. Too many angry words had passed between them. She is now buying new furniture, posing for family portraits without him, flirting with other knights in shinier armor.
"Why call me," he asks as Cheval takes a seat next to her, "if you're just gonna call the cops, anyway?"
"I'm sorry," Pamela is sarcastic, "should I not have called you?! When I searched the entire house, looking for her, thinking she'd been… kidnapped," she barely gets that word out without crying, "I called everyone!"
"Come on, you two," Cheval plays mediator with a friendly pat on her hand. "This is not helping. Your daughter is missing. We need to work together."
Pamela nods and takes a firm grasp of the detective's hand. Clay studies them. They are awfully chummy, making him wonder what transpired between them before he arrived. The man is younger and better-looking than Clay, but he would be the first to admit that's a low bar these days.
Clean-shaven with short dark-brown hair and eyes, Cheval has squeezed his athletic frame into a dark gray suit, lavender shirt, top button undone, no tie, and – as Clay can see under the table – matching lavender socks. Like Crockett or Tubbs from Miami Vice twenty years ago, Clay thinks. That look might still work in south Florida but this is suburban Saint Louis. Maybe he's gay!
Clay decides the partner, Detective Wilson – dark blue slacks, plaid tie, white short-sleeved shirt and no jacket – looks like a Mormon missionary or someone from 1960s corporate America.
As Wilson descends the stairs, Cheval asks, "Anything?"
Wilson shakes his head, "no."
"Would you care to join us at the table?" Cheval asks Clay politely, despite the palpable tension between them. "We have a few questions."
"No, I'm good here," Clay says from the couch, just to be difficult. He knows they are only doing their jobs, but this whole thing has him on edge.
Wilson slides into a chair at the foot of the stairs, strategically positioning himself between Clay and the front door.
Clay keeps an eye on Cheval's hands under the table. He guesses he'll be the one to play "bad cop" but is disappointed when there is no such charade. Both detectives are irritatingly polite and professional throughout the questioning.
"When did you leave town?" one of them asks Clay.
"Where have you been?" asks the other.
"Why Louisville?"
"Seems like a long way to go to buy a new car."
"What do you do for a living?"
"Didn't know there was a local minor league soccer team to be head coach of," Cheval says with a smirk.
Detective Wilson ends with, "Please don't leave town again until Jenna is found."
With all questions more or less answered, the detectives fold up their notepads and prepare to leave.
Clay finds it odd that Cheval, a detective, would be unaware of his soccer team, or any semi-pro sports team in town. He lets it go and disappears into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. “These guys need to be out looking for Jenna," he mutters aloud to no one, “not asking stupid questions and implying that I'm a suspect!"
The detectives assure Pamela they will be "looking into the matter" as she walks them to the door. Cheval leans in conspiratorially and hands Pamela his business card.
"Call me any time," he says with a smile.
Wilson cringes at his partner's incessant womanizing. Pamela is flattered, but in no mood to be womanized.
Wilson picks up the soda can Clay was drinking from and seals it in a baggie to test later for fingerprints and DNA.
Pamela hears the back screen door slap up against its frame. Did Clay just escape out the back?
The detectives had been treating him like a suspect, but she never considered him one until just this moment. Clay loved their little girl more than anything on Earth, but he also had a temper. It never got to the point of violence but could be pretty scary, nonetheless.
She now wonders if he had anything to do with Jenna's disappearance. It is suspicious how he just happened to be out of town when Jenna went missing.
She is about to express her concerns to the detectives when the front door bursts open. Jenna has returned. Laughing and stumbling over each other as they enter, blonde-haired Jenna and her mostly-brunette posse pull up short upon seeing the somber adults in front of them in the foyer.
Pamela closes her eyes briefly in relief and exclaims, "Jenna!" Toward the heavens, she mouths, Thank you! She would hug and kiss her wayward daughter but knows she would be mortified by such overt affection in front of her friends. Pamela is left standing there bursting at the seams with joy.
The still-giggling Jenna points at the detectives and asks, "So, what's with the 5-O?"
Pamela despises this thug-speak that Jenna uses when hanging out with friends, but says nothing.
"You must be Jenna," Detective Cheval oozes what he thinks is charm. "And I see you're wearing a green silky top, and white Capri pants."
Jenna gives him a dirty look and steps away from him.
"Your mother," Detective Wilson explains with a laugh, "couldn't remember exactly what you were wearing. My partner here is not as creepy as he sounds. Not this time." He winks at the now-cringing Cheval.
Jenna nods absently. With her pretty face, blonde hair, and now-green eyes – they had changed over the years from gray – she is used to men giving her lascivious looks.
Noticing the body language and look on her mother's face, Jenna asks, "Whoa, who died?"
"No one, honey," Pamela says with a laugh, unable to keep from hugging her. "And no one has ever been happier to have their little girl back home!"
"Geez, mom," Jenna is thoroughly embarrassed, as expected.
"Jenna!" Clay rushes into the living room with a shout.
"Dad!" she is surprised. "I didn't know you were home! I saw your truck but thought it was Barry's." The name Barry drips with derision. "I usually try to sneak in when he's around. Talk about creepy."
Pamela wonders what Barry has ever done to creep Jenna out, but says nothing. There is no hesitation from Jenna as she and her father rush into each other's arms and hug tightly.
Clay lifts her off her feet and spins her around like a child.
Pamela knows Jenna has always preferred Clay over her from the moment they met at the orphanage, but in all these years – with people saying "She's just a daddy's girl! It's normal!" – it has never gotten any easier to accept. After failing to conceive their own child, it was Pamela's idea to adopt a child, after all, not Clay's. If either parent should be second fiddle, to her way of thinking, it should be Clay.
"Who's Barry?" Clay asks Pamela, mimicking Jenna's inflection as he sets her back down. Jenna throws her father's hands out to his sides and pirouettes away like a ballerina like when she was small. Suddenly remembering her audience, she self-consciously glances out the corner of her eye to her friends smirking.
"Just someone I've been spending time with," Pamela says. She is in no mood for a public discussion of her love life.
"A lot of time," Jenna adds with a smile.
"Anyway," Clay changes the subject. He doesn't want to hear about Pamela's love life, either. "Where have you been this whole time, Jenna? We've been worried sick!"
"Good to see you, too, Dad!"
"You know I love you, honey," Clay continues, "but you've done this, what, three times now? Do we have to send you to a boarding school where there's no chance of escape?"
"How about prison?!" she counters, sneaking a smile at her friends. "The cops are already here. I'll just go with them!"
"Works for me!" Clay says. He is angry but does not mean a word of it. He is looking for a reaction from Pamela when he realizes her hair is not pulled into a ponytail. It's twelve inches shorter. "Your hair! You chopped it completely off!"
"Not completely," Pamela replies with a smile. "You like it?" She knew he wouldn't.
"I told her not to do it," Jenna adds, happy to deflect attention away from herself.
Detective Wilson shakes his head and interjects. "If there's nothing else, Ms. McGill…?"
"'McGill?!'"Clay scoffs. "You've gone back to your maiden name already?!"
Pamela shrugs, hoping it irritates Clay as much as his own irritate her.
With the detectives and Jenna's friends gone, Clay and Pamela are sitting on opposite ends of the same couch. Jenna is draped sideways across one of the chairs, with her legs dangling over the side. Normally, Pamela would complain about this abuse of her new furniture, but she is too drained to argue.
"We're still going to Russia, right?" Jenna sits up to broach the subject of their impending "homeland tour." They are due to leave next week, and she cannot hide her excitement.
"Ah, geez," says Clay. "Let us recover from this latest drama before we have to think about that?"
He is not looking forward to returning to a country he never enjoyed in the first place. He was beginning to hope this little episode would be an excuse to call the whole thing off.
To be fair to Russia, Clay knows he must never forget that their visits were not vacations. Not even business trips. They were for the purpose of adopting a child – a beautiful little girl – and came with an inordinate amount of stress, uncertainty, and time spent dealing with Russia's infamous bureaucracy. He and Pamela were too focused on the adoption process to properly appreciate their host country as tourists.
They both laughed, though, at how well their experience summed up Russia itself: You never know what you'll get. Or, as Winston Churchill said, "Russia is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma."
They had gone over there expecting to meet and adopt a brown-haired four-year-old boy, only to end up with a two-year-old blonde girl. And, while Clay was pleasantly surprised at the time, Pamela was ecstatic. Beyond ecstatic.
During that final visit – after the court appearance in which the adoption was approved – they had to endure two weeks of limbo holed up in their hotel waiting for the official paperwork to be finalized. They convinced themselves that those two weeks were a ploy by the government to keep adoptive parents "in country" and spending as much money as possible.
On the flight home and still recovering from the ordeal, Pamela suggested they convince their daughter she was born in The Bahamas so they could "return" there when the time came for this homeland tour. She was joking. Clay thought it was a great idea.
Years later during Jenna's rebellious teen phase before they separated, Clay said to Pamela, "Maybe we should've lied to her from the start."
"To who? About what?"
"To Jenna about being her adoptive parents. Not just your joke about saying she was born in The Bahamas, but we should have made up an elaborate story and told her we are her birth parents but had to leave her behind while on a secret mission somewhere. We're spies, you see," he continued the fantasy while Pamela listened, politely incredulous, "and we had dangerous work to do but didn't want her to get hurt. We just happened to be in Russia when she was born, so that's where we placed her."
Pamela thought this was stupid. "Well, for one, she would have asked years later why we didn't at least drop her in the south of France or somewhere nicer than Russia. She would have hated us for dropping her anywhere! Either way, what good would it do to make up a story like that?"
"A lot of our problems with her, mainly the defiance, might stem from a certain lack of respect. Remember I told you about one of the Russian hotel maids having a conversation with Jenna? I didn't understand most of it, but after one question, Jenna looked at me and said ‘gloopy,’ which means "stupid" in Russian. I could tell by the woman's reaction she was embarrassed for me. ‘Gloopy’ was definitely directed at us, or at least me."
"I'd forgotten about that," Pamela nodded.
"It's like we're not entirely legitimate in her eyes because we're 'only' her adoptive parents. Like students with a substitute teacher, or players with an interim coach. Know what I mean? If we had her believing from the start that we were her birth parents, it might've helped. That's all I'm saying."
"So, you're a psychologist now?" she teased.
"Actually, as a head coach, I have to be part psychotherapist."
"I think you're reading too much into that 'gloopy' thing, but it's a moot point. And, from everything I've read about adoption, honesty is the best policy. You just tell the truth and let the chips fall where they may."
In Pamela's living room now, Clay shakes his head and says to Jenna, "Think about it, honey. The three of us… together in Russia… after all this?"
"I'm with your father on this," Pamela says. "I don't even want to think about that right now."
"You see there?!" Jenna laughs. "I've already got you two agreeing on something! I should be a marriage counselor! But, seriously, it's all arranged and paid for. We can't back out now!"
Clay knows she's right. He had concerns about the trip before any of this latest drama, but there is no point worrying aloud and putting such thoughts out there. It’s like one of his soccer matches. As coach, he makes a plan and sets goals. Once the game starts, though, you just deal with whatever comes up, make adjustments and hope for the best. That's all he can do here.
Clay is back at the soccer fields the next day. As his players perform drills nearby, he and the other coaches shout corrections and encouragement at them, interspersed between Clay telling his coaches every possible thing they might need to know in his absence. When one of the players misses a wide-open header into the net, Clay shouts "You can do better, Justin! See the ball, be the ball!"
He is still shaking his head when another unwelcome call from Pamela comes in. She again forgoes the customary hello and announces, "I won't be making the trip. Sorry, but you and Jenna will be on your own in Russia. I feel terrible, but there's no way around it."
"What?!" Clay snaps before lowering his voice and walking away, out of earshot. "How convenient. Now you, Barry, and Miami Vice can have quality time together while your daughter and I try to survive on the other side of the world."
Clay always regrets such outbursts, but she caught him at work in "coach" mode. If a key player had come to him just prior to a match with such an excuse, the words out of his mouth would have been a lot worse.
"A little melodramatic, aren't we?" Pamela says with a smirk. "It's not a war zone over there in Russia. And what does Miami Vice have to do with anything?"
He ignores this, now thinking how, as a head coach, he is good at dealing with young men, not women, especially his head-strong drama queen young daughter. He is more upset at the thought of being alone with Jenna, having to handle her all by himself, so far from home. If there was one thing he and Pamela always agreed on, it was that it was best to have their little darling outnumbered. Double-teamed, as he put it. That concept alone might have been what kept the unhappy couple together longer than they might have otherwise.
More than anything else, he wanted this homeland tour to double as a marriage reconciliation tour. As he hangs up, Clay makes a mental note to stop saying things he later regrets. He thought he overcame this failing years ago. Apparently not, but he does give himself credit for recognizing the problem. And that, as they say, is the first step toward recovery.
Until his daughter came into his life, he almost never acknowledged having any character flaws. But, like a walking, talking, full-length mirror, Jenna made him painfully aware over the years – through words and actions coming from her but recognized as originating from himself – of a wide variety of unsightly personality blemishes.
He knew he had to do better.
On departure day, Jenna is in the shower when Clay comes to pick her up. That girl lives in the shower, he thinks. He once looked forward to a much lower water bill after she moved out, but now that is Pamela's problem.
He kills time snooping around her bedroom; nothing too intrusive, just your normal parental snooping. She has left a Russian genealogy web page up on her computer screen. It is written in Cyrillic, which might as well be hieroglyphics to Clay. On a scratch pad to the right of the keyboard Jenna has scrawled several names, also in Cyrillic; some scratched out, some circled.
She always had a knack for languages. She was speaking fluent Russian when they met her, after all, then switched to English impressively fast during her first year in the States. Clay thought she had lost her Russian language skills, but she has done well relearning it.
She comes out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel just as Clay is trying to get a closer look at her Cyrillic scribbling. "A little privacy, please!" she snaps and quickly turns off the monitor and flips the notepad face-down with one hand while keeping her towel up with the other.
"OK," he puts his hands up in surrender. "But, is there anything you need to tell me? You know I hate surprises, especially in foreign countries."
"Nothing at all!" she says a little too forcefully. "Why do you ask?"
"Who's Maksim?" he asks. He had deciphered that much from her scribbling. The fact that it was underlined several times brought it to his attention.
"Just this guy," she says unconvincingly, with a guilty look. "A pen pal helping me to learn Russian."
It is obvious she is not being completely forthcoming, but Clay lets it go. Girls like to have their little secrets, he tells himself. Let her have this one. It can't be anything too terrible.
From Saint Louis to New York to Moscow to Astrakhan, the much-anticipated (or dreaded, depending on who is asked) trip begins. Their last visit to Astrakhan lasted twenty-eight days and felt like an incarceration. Under normal circumstances, they might have behaved like typical tourists – sight-seeing, and all that – but neither Pamela nor Clay saw that as an option due to the never-ending below-freezing temperatures. Sure, they could stay indoors with museums and such, but felt their time would be best spent in one spot, keeping things simple, just puttering around the hotel and getting to know their two-year-old bundle of joy.
It is proving difficult, but Clay is now trying to keep a good attitude, trying to find a bright side to everything that might come up. Before any trip, he tends to worry, though he likes to call it a "heightened awareness of anything and everything that could possibly go wrong." That's not worry, he says, that's preparedness!
He spends most of the 10-hour flight across the Atlantic convincing himself that their time in Russia will go as "smooth as glass," his favorite saying. They'll be fine. It's like being thrown into the water. Once you're in, it's sink or swim. And he has never been the type to sink.
Should his mantra be "smooth as glass," he now wonders, or "sink or swim?" So many metaphors to choose from. It doesn't matter, so long as he stays positive.
This, he decides, calls for visualization exercises. With his eyes closed, listening to the adoption video and its soundtrack that he made fifteen years prior, he envisions himself and Jenna as just another couple of tourists in Russia. The music is setting the tone, the expectation level. Everything is going smoothly, he predicts with confidence, same as it did the first time. Jenna is getting this itch out of her system.
He had done this exercise at home – envisioning the three of them returning as one big happy family – but, with Pamela now out of the picture the new plan is to return as a happy father-daughter team. Go team!
Jenna, meanwhile, is thinking through her own plans for Russia – most of which have not been shared with her father. She wonders if Maksim has found what she asked for. She also wonders if he is as cute in person as he is online.
Just prior to landing in Moscow, Clay is idly thumbing through his passport when he notices his tourist visa is good for only one week. "That can't be right," he mumbles. He had verified ahead of time that Jenna's was good for 30 days, and simply assumed his was the same.
"Govna!" he uses a recently-learned Russian expletive, followed by, "No bueno!"
"Wait," Jenna feigns confusion, "are we going to Russia or Spain? Ooh, can we go to Spain after?!"
Clay rolls his eyes and shakes his head.
Upon arrival at Moscow's Sheremetyevo Airport that evening, Clay is apprehensive. Fifteen years ago he was afraid to go anywhere in Russia without his "papers." Never sure of the consequences if caught lacking, he didn't want to find out then and doesn't want to find out now. He knew it might be an unfounded fear stemming from all the anti-Russian propaganda Americans endured during (and after) the Cold War, but the thought of green-and-red-uniformed Russian officials throwing him into the gulag was, and still is, a very real concern.
The jet has stopped moving, and the captain has turned off the "fasten seat belts" sign. Everyone is getting up to leave. Clay is in the aisle seat, with an empty one between him and Jenna in her window seat. He lets her out ahead of him, and is about to fall in behind her, when something sparkles in the corner of his eye. He glances over to see that she has left a bracelet on her seat.
"Jenna, wait, your bracelet!" She either ignores or doesn't hear him over all the chattering of passengers getting up and pulling their bags down from the overhead compartments. He reaches over to retrieve the piece of jewelry. Several passengers get ahead of him, rushing to deplane, and there are now a dozen people between him and Jenna.
She looks back, smiles and indicates through exaggerated pantomime that she will wait for him at the gate. Her antics make him laugh despite himself.
As she disappears into the crowd, off the plane and out of sight, he is still smiling until a moment of panic hits him. It makes no sense. He'll see her again in a minute. When is panic ever logical? These mini panic attacks have been happening more and more lately.
You need to get over it! he scolds himself as he stuffs the bracelet into his pants pocket and hurries to catch up with her.
Jenna, on the other hand, is positively glowing, she is so happy to be back in Russia. As she emerges out of the jet-way into the open space of the international terminal, she falls in love with the cacophony of swirling humanity as she joyously breathes it all in.
Finally back in my mother country! she thinks. I'm back home!
"It's a shame no one put up a 'Welcome Home' banner," she jokes once Clay rejoins her. He laughs, happy she is enjoying herself, but even happier to have her back within sight.
As he made clear to her earlier, this trip is entirely for her benefit. He would have preferred to go almost anywhere else, but at least for this visit to Russia it is summertime and will be just ten days, not twenty-eight.
She studies the hairstyles and attire of everyone, especially the women. She listens to the many languages, not just Russian, being spoken all around her as she soaks in the sights, smells and sounds.
The terminal's impossibly-tall windows let in all of the sunlight, making the colors around her that much more brilliant. She is surprised by the brightness of the natural light, given that it is past 8PM, until she remembers how close they are to the North Pole.
Who would have thought an airport could be so enchanting? she thinks. Aloud, she says, "Hey, isn't this where that whistle-blower Edward Snowden landed?"
"I think so," Clay answers absently. He can't relax. How are we going to get through Passport Control, he wonders, when they see our visas are not for the same duration?! He hopes they will not care, but when dealing with bureaucrats, one should assume the worst. Prepare for the worst and hope for the best, he likes to say. In this case, he assumes they will make things difficult. It's what bureaucrats do, especially in this country.
Clay walks in a straight line, following signs as they progress forward, while his daughter spins slow circles with every new thing that catches her attention. This continues for several yards before they find themselves descending stairs into the Passport Control area.
After a few minutes, the Americans are at the front of the line. With a gulp, Clay steps up to the booth to face his "executioner" – a bored young man dressed in a white shirt, green tie and matching jacket, and sitting on a stool behind bullet-proof glass. The man is in absolutely no hurry as he takes Clay's passport. Everything is in slow motion. Clay gets the impression the slow pace is not in the spirit of thoroughness, but in the interest of slowness itself. If someone is in a hurry and these proceedings are interfering with that, Clay guesses this officer would consider that a bonus.
Meanwhile, the traveler at the front of the line to their right is busy digging through one of his bags, failing to notice that it is his turn to step forward. People behind him are saying "Next!" in several languages which the man apparently does not speak. Jenna sees this, smiles mischievously, and takes his place at that window, because she can. The dour, middle-aged woman behind the glass sees what Jenna has done, but does not seem to care.
A moment later, with a sigh of relief, Clay's fears are proved to be unfounded as he and Jenna are allowed to progress unmolested into "glorious" Mother Russia. After Baggage Claim and another paperwork checkpoint through which they are mercifully waved forward without inspection, Clay and Jenna weave their way through the crowd of other people's families, friends, lovers and connections.
Clay scans the signs held aloft, hoping for one with his name on it, but there is none. He had arranged to meet an interpreter/guide upon arrival. Jenna was missing her "Welcome Home" sign, and now Clay sees nothing with his name on it.
"We'll just have to get used to the fact that no one gives a damn," he jokes.
Jenna is not listening. She is intent on soaking in all things Russian and not Dad-related.
After twenty minutes of fending off swarming cabbies and their persistent offers for a ride, Clay is ready to give in and say yes when an attractive, thirty-something, hazel-eyed, brunette woman in tight pants and heels approaches.
Yes! he thinks to himself.
With an uncertain smile, the woman holds up a photo and compares Clay's visage against it. After a moment, she smiles wide and introduces herself as Sofia Ponomaryova, their long-awaited interpreter/guide. "Please call me Sofia," she says.
One of the few things she learned in her last-minute training was that most Americans prefer informality. She was also told, explicitly, to make physical contact with her mark, Clay, as much as possible. When she made a face and asked why, she was told, "To make him fall in love, silly."
"I am not a call girl!" she had protested.
"You are whatever we need you to be," she was told. And those were her last in-person instructions. Everything else from that point forward would come remotely "by phone, text or carrier pigeon."
Clay expects her to apologize for her tardiness, but she does not. Instead – standing much too close, with no apparent sense of personal space – she tilts her head back and smiles up at him. Involuntarily taking a step back, he smiles and introduces himself as "Clay… as in 'mud.'"
She stares blankly. The corners of her mouth come down briefly before she forces the smile back into place. Jenna takes pity and explains with a laugh, "My father is trying to be funny."
"Ah, yes, of course," Sofia laughs unconvincingly, not getting whatever humor might have been hidden within Clay's words.
When he tries to say in Russian, "It is a pleasure to meet you," what he actually says, due to mispronunciation and intonation, is "I will pleasure you!"
Jenna laughs out loud before covering her mouth.
"Another joke?" Sofia asks Jenna for help.
"What did you mean to say, Dad? Just say it in English."
Clay explains, everyone laughs, and he changes the subject. "Now that we've had a good laugh at my expense, let's get down to business. My visa only seems to be good for one week."
"Oh, that is not long enough," Sofia states the obvious with great confidence, once again stepping in too close. Her hip is pressed against his leg as she takes his passport for a closer look.
"I never noticed," he says, "until the flight coming over."
It has been too long since he has been intimate with a woman, and he is now conflicted. On one hand, politeness dictates that he should step back to a more respectable distance. His animal instincts, however, tell him to let this increasingly attractive woman snuggle up as close as she wants.
The top of her head is right under his nose. Her hair smells nice.
"You are right," she says. "This is terrible. We must take care of this immediately." She then breaks contact with him, snapping the spell. "Russia is no place to be without proper paperwork."
"So I've heard."
A plump, pinch-faced, dark-haired middle-aged man half again as old as Sofia steps forward. Clay had not noticed him until that moment, but assumes he is their driver.
The Russians are speaking in hushed tones as they lead the Americans to the outside parking lot. Jenna overhears the word "mudak," meaning "jerk" (to put it mildly), spoken by Sofia. Jenna is not sure to whom the woman is referring until the driver looks guiltily at Jenna.
They cannot possibly be referring to me! she thinks. I've been on my best behavior the entire few minutes they've known me.
The driver's expression then changes into a more open and friendly one as he addresses Jenna. "I am sorry," he says in English, "but my associate Ms. Ponomaryova did not properly introduce us. My name is Vitaly. I will be your driver." He does not give his last name. With a friendly smile, he asks in Russian, "Do you speak Russian?"
"Nee mnoga" (Not much), Jenna lies.
"Know any bad words?" he persists in English. "I always want to know the bad words." He winks at Clay. Clay frowns. Sofia gives Vitaly an exasperated look.
"You mean like 'mudak?'" Jenna replies in perfect Russian, smiling. "Yes. I am familiar with that one."
Sofia turns away, her face now beet red. Clay knows only one expletive, used earlier, and is thus blissfully ignorant of the content of this conversation. She takes him by the arm and, with her most endearing smile says, "You have hired me as your guide. So, please, let me guide you!"
"Like a seeing-eye dog," Jenna mutters under her breath. Vitaly chuckles.
"Please do," says Clay. If he didn't know better, he might think he was smitten. More like desperate, the voice in his head – sounding a lot like Pamela – rebukes him.
Approaching the parking lot as Jenna is stepping off the curb, Vitaly quickly, almost violently, grabs her by the arm. Clay begins to protest until realizing that Vitaly has just saved her from getting hit by a car.
Shouting insults at the offending driver – a fellow cabby – Vitaly turns to Jenna and says, "You must watch for crazy drivers. You are in Moscow now, the big city!"
"Good to know," Jenna says with a smile. "Spaseeba." (Thank you.)
"Saint Louis is a fairly big city, too," Clay chimes in. Vitaly scoffs. "But," Clay continues, "I'd forgotten Russians are the craziest drivers."
"Not as bad as New York!" Vitaly now feels obligated to defend his countrymen. "I know, how do you say, in-person. I visited to my cousin in ‘the Big Apple' last year and was almost killed! Two times! Twice?" Sofia nods. "Yes, twice."
"That's New York," Clay admits, softening his tone. "If you're not almost killed at least once, you never really visited." He doesn't want to get into a pissing contest over whose cities are bigger and more dangerous, and so drops the subject.
Getting into Vitaly's cab, Sofia instructs Jenna to sit up front to allow her and her father "some privacy" in back. Jenna does not normally tolerate being ordered around, but is happy to keep her distance from whatever is going on between this woman and her father. It was bad enough seeing her mother actively dating after the separation, but now even worse watching her father do all the stupid things best left to teenagers like herself.
Vitaly unintentionally gives them all a lesson in Russian curse words as he navigates Moscow's horribly congested traffic on the way to the hotel. Sofia acts as a counter-balance to Vitaly by happily reciting the many virtues of the "world's greatest city," her home, Moscow. She occasionally tells Vitaly which exit to take in order to pass through more interesting scenery. Vitaly generally takes her advice but sometimes vetoes her directions when traffic issues warrant.
Sofia, as instructed, physically touches Clay every chance she gets. His shoulder, arm, knee… his upper thigh. Clay cannot recall a more enjoyable taxi ride.
In Moscow, near Red Square and the Kremlin, Clay and Jenna are without their Russian escorts at an outdoor table having a late dinner. The underground shopping mall is directly beneath them. Sofia is off somewhere taking care of Clay's visa problem – without him, which makes no sense to him – but this is Russia, where not much of anything makes sense.
As Jenna and Clay sip their soft drinks – with Clay wishing his was a beer – he cannot help but notice the absurd number of beautiful women passing by. It is as if a fashion show has just let out. He remembers this from last time. There are so many attractive Russian women, but the men? Not so much.
Jenna warns her father. "You know she's just playing you, right?"
"Who, Sofia? Don't worry about me. I'm a big boy. But, what does she have to gain by 'playing' me?"
"Money, favors, lure you into a dark alley and steal your wallet; whatever. But, why did you hire her? Between the two of us, we speak Russian well enough to get by."
"I don't know. I guess she's my security blanket."
Under the blankets is where you want to be with her, Jenna thinks but keeps that to herself.
What Clay doesn't say is that while Jenna's language skills may be enough to get by, his are not good at all. And what if – God forbid – she goes missing again? He would be up a creek without a paddle, or whatever the Russian equivalent is.
A man and his toddler daughter pass by, evoking an old memory in Clay. "Remember," he begins, "and this is going way back to those first few months we were home from Russia, but you always wanted to go outside? Even when it was freezing?"
"Freezing temperature to Russian girl," Jenna jokes in a fake Russian accent, "like springtime to anyone else." Dropping the accent, she adds, "But, no, I don't remember that."
"You always wanted to go somewhere," he continues. "I guess that hasn't changed. But you would say in Russian with that charming little smile, 'Pajoom!' I didn't know what it meant, exactly, but could guess it meant 'come on!' Well, I recently learned I was right, though it's pronounced 'pa idyem.'"
"O… kay…" she says in that "why should I care?" tone of voice.
"I know," he admits, "that was out of the blue. It just came to me, and I always wondered, so thought I would share." It is now his turn to do a fake voice as he adds in his best throaty, overly-dramatic movie-trailer voice, "It's like a puzzle from long ago, finally solved!"
"Whatever, Dad," she rolls her eyes. "But just so you know, I was saying it right. That was my Astrakhan accent."
At the curb of their hotel, Sofia is first out of the cab and leading the way to the front desk. Jenna leaves her father to deal with the luggage so she can run past Sofia and be first inside. She is tired of following Sofia's lead. She always did want to be ‘line leader' in elementary school, Clay thinks with a laugh.
At the counter, Jenna introduces herself in Russian and asks if their rooms are ready. Sofia, standing just behind her, smiles and watches in amusement. Jenna has, naturally, singled out and is dealing with the only male behind the counter, ignoring the three young women. Sofia is smiling because she knows this young man will not be of much help, no matter how cute he is. He is the bellhop who just happened to be behind the counter restocking supplies when Jenna arrived and zeroed in on him.
Clay trudges in, loaded down with luggage, smiling wearily after a difficult navigation through the hotel's exterior, then interior, set of doors. In Russia, like anywhere that gets serious winters, these redundant doorways are a must for keeping the heat in and the cold out.
The bellhop rushes up to Clay and apologizes, explaining that he would have helped had "that girl" not intercepted him.
"It's okay," says Clay. "‘That girl' is my daughter."
"I am so sorry," the bellboy again apologizes. With a pout in Jenna's direction, he explains to her, in Russian, that he has a "depressingly limited" role here at the hotel. There is so much more he could do, he says, if they would only let him.
Jenna now realizes the young man is "just" a bellhop, and she should not be wasting her time with him. Maintaining a cool exterior, she turns toward one of the female desk clerks. The pretty, dark-haired young woman – whose name tag reads Marina – pretends to not have already heard Jenna's entire story as Jenna repeats it.
Clay is impressed that she is taking charge and wants to encourage such initiative, and so lets her take care of the arrangements while he strolls around the lobby perusing his surroundings. When Sofia joins him he asks if she would like to have a drink at the hotel bar later. Jenna can stay up in the room, he says.
With a smile, Sofia avoids the question and informs him that she overheard Jenna reserving two separate rooms, and made sure the bellhop knew which one she would be in. He returns to the counter, exasperated, and explains to his daughter that they only need the one room. If she's worried about privacy she can change in the bathroom, he says.
"Or, I can stand out in the hall while you change. I don't care, but I am not going to spend all my money on this… 'vacation' paying for separate rooms."
With faux-remorse, Jenna says, "Oops! My bad!"
Sofia waits patiently by the elevators. The waning sun now casts her in a subdued light perfectly accentuating her delicate features. Every man who walks by, Clay included, gives her a look or a smile. Clay rejoins her and asks again about that drink. He is not normally so aggressive, but something about being on the other side of the world in the company of a beautiful woman – knowing Pamela is moving on with her own love life – has made him eager to try a new approach to things.
Sofia is again declining his offer, explaining, with apologies as Jenna catches up to them, that she simply must get back to her sick mother as soon as possible. She is kind enough to verify that the Americans' accommodations are confirmed for the night, but it is time to go. She kisses Clay once on each cheek and promises to pick them up in the morning.
Seeing the look in her father's eyes, Jenna feigns a gag reflex at both of them. With their guide now gone, Jenna walks up and says, "Pfft! Sick mother. Right. I can't tell you how many times I've used that line. 'I simply must get back to poor ol' mumsy!'" she uses an English accent for some reason while mocking Sofia. In her normal voice, she adds, "With moves like that, Dad, how did you and mom ever hook up?"
Clay tries to ignore the comment, but knows she's right. He could never be accused of being smooth with the ladies, though he hopes she is wrong this time. He smiles at the thought.
Jenna knows that smile. Sofia must have whispered something in his ear, and he believed whatever she said. Men are so easy to manipulate. Of course, that has always worked well for her, but she expects her own father to display a little more skill with women. It's embarrassing.
Sofia returns to Vitaly who has been waiting patiently outside in the cab. "Done for the night?" he asks as she gets in.
"Yes!" she exhales. "I had no idea being a tour guide could be so exhausting! Let's go home!" Vitaly is happy to, at last, have her all to himself.
The next day at Sheremetyevo's domestic terminal – a run-down old Soviet-era thing, nothing like its more modern international terminal – Clay and Jenna are dropped off and left to fend for themselves until Sofia can return from "an important errand."
One of the baggage inspectors – a large, middle-aged woman – yells at Clay for placing an item in the wrong spot. He had forgotten about this typical Russian rudeness coming from those who deal with the public. Luckily, that and the tendency to run people down in the street are the only unattractive qualities he can think of in regard to Russians. Otherwise, they are a perfectly wonderful people. No worse than New Yorkers, at least, he agrees with Vitaly's earlier sentiment.
The woman yells at him again for not moving through the line fast enough. This time he laughs and says, "Eez veneetya!" (Excuse me!).
Jenna steps in. As she and her father are leaving, she snaps at the woman in Russian, "I can see why they keep you here in the domestic terminal away from the more civilized travelers."
Clay is oblivious to this parting shot, though he does wonder why Jenna is grabbing his arm and urging him away as quickly as possible.
A few minutes later, Clay spots Sofia down the hall talking to an unfamiliar man. "There's our so-called guide," he snorts.
Seeing Clay, the man scowls, turns, and escapes around a corner. Sofia smiles and waves before the man's arm reaches out and pulls her back, out of sight.
"Boyfriend, I guess," Clay says to Jenna as he turns around. She is not there, and he panics a second until spotting her a short distance away.
Dressed in a flower print blouse, blue jeans, sandals, and her purse across her shoulder, she is window-shopping at one of the airport stores. She glances in his direction and smiles a particularly sweet and charming smile.
She is such a beautiful young lady, he thinks. If she only knew how important she is to me. God help me keep the boys down to a manageable few.
He is waving and smiling at his precious child when the unthinkable happens. At the far end of the hallway near her, there is a massive explosion. The last image he has of her – before the entire space fills with black smoke – she is throwing her arms up to cover her face, then crumpling to the floor.
Debris is everywhere. Bits of ceiling tile, lighting fixtures and live electrical wires are falling down around him as he sprints toward his stricken daughter. The smoke clears just enough for him to locate her prone body sprawled several yards away from where she had been moments earlier. Another wave of smoke then obscures everything again.
An involuntary "No!" escapes his lips as he navigates through the now-frantic crowd.
Airport security and black-clad military personnel are soon swarming the area. They have materialized like ethereal beings out of the clouds of smoke.
Kneeling down as he reaches Jenna, Clay sees that she is remarkably intact, almost unscathed, but he fears the worst. "God, no," he gasps. Tears pour down his cheeks as he cries out, "Jenna! What have they done?!"
He moves in to check for a pulse, but stops himself when he sees eye movement beneath her lids. He catches his breath. She then opens her eyes and coughs.
"You're alive!" he shouts. He lifts her head onto his lap and holds her still, afraid to move her. "Jenna," he asks through dissipating tears, "are you okay? Are you hurt?"
She shakes her head, no. That she can shake her head at all is a good sign but he doesn't know which question she is answering. He rephrases it. "Where does it hurt?"
"Ya ne bol'na" (I'm not hurt) she replies in Russian. He thinks he understands, but why is she speaking Russian?
She tries to stand up. "Careful," he says in English, before adding in Russian, "Astarozhne." She allows him to help her up, only to then fight him off so she can walk unassisted. Under her own power, she lasts just two steps before clutching his arm and allowing him to lead her back to the bench where he had earlier set their bags.
He now feels like a football blocker protecting her against the melee of panic-stricken travelers. "I was a good blocker back in the day," he says aloud, but Jenna is not listening.
The bench is occupied except for a little bit of space at one end. "Just enough room," Clay jokes, "for a skinny-butt girl like you."
Something is missing, he thinks. "Our bags! I left them right here! Son of a…" his voice trails off. "My phone was in there!"
Before leaving home, Clay had bought each of them a disposable international "burner" phone, giving them the option to not use their "real" phones, should they choose, in this part of the world infamous for its hackers. "It's always good to have options," he said at the time. It is his "real" phone that is now missing. Jenna should still have both of hers.
She only gives him a confused look. A moment later, he is on one knee with one hand absently on her knee, scanning the area for their bags and maybe a place to get her something to drink. "Are you okay?" he asks again.
Her response is to push his hand off her knee. His feelings are hurt, but he lets it go. She is still in shock. There's no telling how she might react to things.
Both of them are trying to come to grips with what has just happened – is still happening – when a security guard walks up and hands Jenna a bottle of water. She gladly accepts and, in flawless Russian, says, "Exactly what I needed! Thank you!"
Other than "thank you," Clay does not know what she said, though his feelings are hurt once again. She is being friendlier with this stranger than she is with him. The man asks in Russian, "And you, sir? Are you okay?"
It takes Clay a moment to translate this in his head. "Yes," he says in English, nodding, before adding in Russian, "Spaseeba."
"Americansky?!" the man asks with a friendly smile.
"Da." (Yes.)
The man reaches into his backpack for another bottle of carbonated water and hands it to Clay. Clay prefers "still" (non-carbonated) water, but beggars can't be choosers. It will serve to wash the smoke and dust from his throat. With another smile, the security man says "da zvedanya" (goodbye), and moves on.
Clay is trying to think of something to say to Jenna besides asking how she's feeling. He settles on complimenting her Russian language skills. She eyes him warily while drinking her water. She has not looked at him like this since they first met at the orphanage. It is disconcerting. What did that blast do to her?
Then, as mysteriously as it had started, it stops. A more familiar look returns to her eyes, and she asks in English, "What happened, Dad?"
"There's my American girl!" Clay sighs with relief. "Don't you remember, honey? There was a bomb. And then some ass… someone stole our bags."
Shaking her head, she says, "Bomb?" But Clay does not have to explain. She can see the destruction for herself.
"That's twice now in the past two weeks where I thought I'd lost you," he continues. "We're not taking any more chances. Forget this 'homeland tour!' Let's just go home!"
"But we are home, papa!" Jenna replies. She has not called him "papa" since the age of three.
"Home, my butt," he says. "This isn't home. You don't see an Ace Hardware or even a Starbucks anywhere, do you? I've barely seen anything in our own alphabet."
"We passed at least one Starbucks on the way over here," she counters, "and a KFC and Subway, all of them in the English alphabet."
He shakes his head, knowing he will lose this argument, and changes the subject. "Where's Sofia?"
"I am right here," the woman in question smiles as she comes up from behind them.
"Where have you been?" Clay asks.
She holds up a Starbucks latté as proof of where.
"It took you all this time to get coffee?"
"I had to… um…" she struggles for an explanation, but is rescued when two soldiers – a man and woman – show up, barking out orders. Clay notices several teams like them; each pair apparently tasked with herding travelers out of the terminal.
Clay and his group are complying with their marching orders when he says, "Wait, our luggage!"
"You said it was stolen," Jenna is confused, still groggy.
"Those were our carry-on bags. I'm talking about the suitcases."
"Forget it," says Sofia. "The explosion came from someone's luggage at our gate. It is all now… what is the word… smithereens."
Clay and Jenna both wonder how Sofia could be privy to such information. She sees the question in their eyes, and addresses Clay. "We are at war, Mr. Desno… Clay," she lightly caresses his arm, which she can see soothes his nerves. "No one knows," she continued, "who is involved, exactly. We must all be careful."
Jenna has tears in her eyes as Sofia speaks of terrorism. This sort of thing is not supposed to happen in her beautiful Russia. Seeing this, Clay wraps a comforting arm around her.
"Did you notice," she then whispers into her dad's ear, "how Sofia never said whose side she is on in this so-called 'war?'"
This makes Clay suspicious for a moment before dismissing the idea as silly.
At the exit, everyone is scrutinized and scanned by a hand-held wand, then sniffed by a bomb-sniffing dog. Clay remembers a documentary he saw on these dogs bred in Russia specifically for this task. Neither he nor the dogs' handlers, however, are now in the mood for a conversation on the subject. At random intervals, people are pulled aside for further questioning, but apparently no one in Clay's group is deemed suspicious. That, alone, makes Jenna even more leery of Sofia. Are they getting special treatment because of their? If so, why?
By the time they are outside on the sidewalk, Jenna seems to have made a complete recovery. In the short time it takes to exit the building, she has stopped leaning on Dad; stopped crying; and, her more typically confident, determined look has returned to her eyes. She surprises Clay when she insists, "Despite everything, Dad, we must keep going. Now, more than ever! We must go to Astrakhan!"
He shakes his head and begins, "I really don't..."
"But we've come this far!"
He shakes his head again.
"...spent all this money," she continues, "gone to all this trouble. To turn around now would be a travesty!"
"A travesty?" he asks. "You've taken too many drama classes."
They are now in the parking lot, standing like castaways on a four-inch-high concrete island. Clay is waving at and getting no response from any cabs. He wonders aloud if there is a Russian way to successfully hail a cab.
Jenna smiles at the thought of pretending to know the answer. She comes up with an embarrassing way for him to hail a cab, but thinks better of it and refrains from saying anything. She is still trying to convince him to stay in Russia. Pulling a prank now would not help her cause.
Why is it, she wonders, suddenly philosophical, the greatest opportunities in life so often present themselves only when it is completely inappropriate to take advantage?
"You'll make a great lawyer someday, honey," says Clay. "You're so persistent and good at arguing your case." He knows she had not made an especially strong case, but his coaching instincts compel him to give words of encouragement, nonetheless. She is persistent, he has to give her that.
She smiles and looks up at him. "So… what's your answer?" She holds her gaze for maximum effect.
After a moment under her withering stare, Clay, with a defeated groan, caves in. "All right, all right, we'll continue on to Astrakhan! Can't let the terrorists win, and all that, right?"
"Yes!" she says, pumping her fist. She then does a little impromptu dance, chanting, "Continuing on to As-tra-khan! Continuing on to As-tra-khan!"
Clay sincerely hopes he does not regret his decision. Turning to Sofia, he asks, "Is there at least a train we can take?"
She is on the phone and does not immediately answer. Once she does, she seems offended. "Of course there is a train, but it will be a 20 to 30 hour trip, depending on your train."
"Twenty to thirty hours?!" Clay exclaims. "Don't you have bullet trains here like in Europe?"
"This is Europe," Sofia says, again insulted. To herself, she mutters in Russian, "Stupid Americans don't know simple geography!" She glances at Jenna in case she overheard, but Jenna is not listening. To Clay, she adds, "The Sapsan – our bullet train – does not go to Astrakhan, but there is an express train. It will take 20 hours."
"'Express' train taking 20 hours?" Clay is incredulous. "I am not going to sit on a train for 20, let alone 30 hours! Do people on these trains ever go crazy and just jump…?"
He makes an attempt at humor, but his voice trails off. After surviving a terrorist attack, the thought of anyone jumping off a train or being injured in any way is just not funny.
"Americans are too impatient!" Sofia scolds him. "Besides, you don't have any bullet trains in your country!"
"Good point," Clay has to admit. "Aren't there three or four major airports in Moscow?"
"Yes," she says. "Domodedovo might have a flight to Astrakhan."
"Book it!" he says without hesitation.
"I am not your travel agent," Sofia again scolds him. To herself, she wonders how much longer she can keep up this façade as his dutiful courtier.
"I'm sorry," he apologizes. "I got excited. Will you please call a travel agent and have it arranged?"
"Yes," she smiles. "And thank you for apologizing. Most men do not know how." Again, she touches his arm, but this time it is she who enjoys it and is genuinely surprised by it.
Seeing this, Jenna chimes in, "Back home, he's always doing something he has to apologize for. So, yeah, he's gotten pretty good at it." And she smiles that charming little smile like just before the explosion.
Clay hopes that smile will not be forever tied in his mind to the horrifying image of her falling to the floor in a cloud of smoke. Getting a little choked up now, he says in a sober, appreciative tone, "I'm glad to see you're back to your smart-ass old self, Jen."
A few minutes later, a taxi pulls up and offers them a ride. Clay steps down from their little concrete island. He has his hand on the door handle when Sofia stops him. "This is not our ride."
She tells the cabby through the open passenger window to move along, but the man is insistent. "Come on, get in!" he shouts, almost angrily, before smiling as if belatedly remembering his manners. Clay cannot see the man's face from this angle, or know what he is saying, but his tone has convinced Clay he will take Sofia's advice and not get in.
"Why can't we take this one?" Jenna asks.
"You want to ride with a crazy cabby who yells at his customers?" Clay asks. Jenna shrugs.
Another cab then shows up, honking his horn at the first one to get out of the way. Sofia leads the Americans to this second cab, saying, "This is our ride."
The first cabby shouts something ugly out the window, then speeds off. Neither Jenna nor Clay ever got a good look at him, but Sofia did. He is familiar from somewhere, though she can't quite place him. It is not from anywhere good, she knows that much.
Sofia slides into the front seat in this second cab while Clay and Jenna pile into the back. Their driver is the now-familiar Vitaly.
"Jenna and… Americansky!" Vitaly greets them with a forced, patronizing cheeriness.
Funny how he remembers her name but not mine, Clay thinks. They were in his cab just this morning on the way here from the hotel. Vitaly did seem a bit preoccupied this morning, Clay now recalls. He was quiet between the hotel and airport, not cursing anyone in traffic.
Vitaly could have told Clay his silence this morning was due to his own hurt feelings after Sofia snubbed his advances last night, repeatedly. But, he would never reveal such a thing, least of all to this American tourist. Vitaly was now slightly cheered to have Sofia riding up front with him. Perhaps she has reconsidered his proposition?
Hope springs eternal, a trait that Clay and Vitaly share in regard to Sofia.
Clay might normally have replied to Vitaly's "Americansky!" with his own sarcastic "Russky!" but he decides against it. The bomb blast has knocked the humor right out of him. He simply nods and smiles.
To Jenna, Clay says, "All of our stuff is gone. I mean all our stuff, other than our cash – and passports, thank God – and the clothes on our backs. We'll have to buy everything all over again."
"Let's go shopping!" Jenna says happily. Clay looks at her with amazement. Half an hour ago she was nearly killed, then speaking Russian in some sort of altered state, and now she is "all about the shopping" as if nothing happened.
"I have to admit," Clay says, "the thought of shopping – which you know I hate – does sound appealing." He hopes it will help return them to some sense of normalcy.
Sofia hopes Clay will find it in his heart to buy her a few things, but she doesn't dare ask. "We should wait until we get to Astrakhan before buying too many things," she offers sensibly. "Travel lightly until we reach our destination."
"Good idea," Clay agrees, then, in gallows humor, adds, "No point buying more luggage and filling it with stuff, only to have it blown to smithereens again at the next airport, right?" Vitaly laughs uproariously, but even Clay doesn't think it was that funny.
"Wait, 'we?'" Jenna refers to Sofia's comment. "She said 'we.' She's coming with us?"
"If we're staying in Russia," says Clay, "yes, she's coming with us."
"Oh, right. Security blanket. What about Vitaly?" Jenna asks sarcastically. "Him, too?"
"I don't know," says Clay. "Vitaly, can you fly a plane?" Vitaly shakes his head. "Then, no," says Clay.
"What about your 'sick' mother?" Jenna asks Sofia.
"Oh, she is much better now!" Sofia replies evenly, controlling her tongue. "Thank you for asking!"
Jenna rolls her eyes and drops the subject. Sofia smiles as if winning a major battle.
Vitaly drops them at the curb at Domodedovo Airport on the other side of town. As Clay and Jenna get out and start down the sidewalk, Clay's usual airport-induced trepidation is now multiplied tenfold. He turns to see where his security blanket, Sofia, is.
He can see her and Vitaly through the back window of the cab, still inside. Vitaly is holding her by the wrist, which she has apparently raised up as if to strike him. They are arguing about something. She is now trying to pull away. Her words are growing angrier and louder.
Clay starts back toward the cab to help, but Sofia has now freed herself from Vitaly's grip. She slams the door behind her, and is now rejoining the Americans, rubbing her wrist all the while.
Loudly, through the rolled-down passenger window, Vitaly shouts at them all, "Watch out for bombs!" And he cackles at his own joke.
They all turn and glare at him. Remembering his vow to not say things he regrets, however, Clay takes a deep breath and remains silent. Sofia is shaking her head, also silent. It is Jenna who responds with a very crude Russian epithet.
Vitaly's jaw drops, he gives them a dismissive wave and speeds off, thoroughly insulted.
"I hope you told him he was not funny," says Clay.
"Pretty much, yeah," says Jenna with an impish grin.
"It was quite a bit stronger than that," says Sofia, also offended.
Seeing Sofia's reaction, Clay asks Jenna, "Try not to say things like that, whatever it was, okay? I don't want people accusing us of being ugly Americans."
Too late, Sofia thinks. Aloud, she defends Vitaly, despite what just occurred between the two of them. She appreciates his infatuation with her. It is sweet, and not unexpected. "I think Vitaly was trying to add to Clay's joke about any new luggage being blown up, but it came out badly."
"Oopsies," says Jenna, now feeling like an ass.
None of them notice the crazy, angry cab driver – the other crazy cabby, from earlier – now easing to a stop along the curb a few car lengths away. He watches them enter the terminal, then gets on his phone to report back.
Inside their second Moscow airport of the day, Clay spots a security guard on an upper level crosswalk. The man is dividing his attention between Clay's group and some sort of device in his hand. He looks like the guard – the one who gave them a bottle of water – at the other airport. Clay is about to say something, but Sofia and Jenna are too preoccupied with the devices in their own hands.
"No wonder terrorists get away with planting bombs," Clay declares to no one. "Nobody's paying attention to the world around them!"
He decides to have some fun at the security guard's expense. Clay smiles and waves when the guard next looks up. The guard cringes and looks away, either not wanting to be recognized, or having no idea why someone is waving at him. Most likely, the latter.
Probably not the same guy. Security guards pretty much all look alike in those uniforms, and he is too far away to be sure. The device in his hand is probably just a phone. And, like every other male passerby, he is simply attracted to the two beautiful women flanking Clay.
Not everyone in Russia is a spy!
Their second attempt at a flight to Astrakhan is mercifully uneventful… except for the weirdness upon arrival at Baggage Claim. There, inexplicably, Clay's and Jenna's carry-on bags have magically reappeared. It is common practice here to seal one's luggage in plastic wrap to prevent theft. Entire suitcases encased in what looks like Saran wrap. The Americans' luggage is among the very few items not so-wrapped, which makes it stand out.
Clay would have walked right past them if they were not directly in front, as if on display. What the…?
Seeing what her father is seeing, Jenna immediately digs into hers. She is looking for her make-up kit and hairbrush. Clay is afraid his bag will explode. It doesn't, but his smart phone is no longer in there.
There is an unopened water bottle that had not been there before. Jenna's contains one as well, which she is now happily guzzling. "Exactly what I needed!" she says with a smile, repeating the same words used when accepting that Moscow security guard's offering. "I was parched!"
Clay shakes his head and smiles. There is absolutely nothing cautious about his daughter. Everything she does is full speed ahead.
"You need to relax," she admonishes her father. "Ever since that bomb, you've been uptight."
Clay cannot help but laugh. "Yes, bombs have that effect on me!"
"Do they give you flashbacks to the war, or something?" she asks quite seriously.
"What war?"
"I don't know," she says, "the war. There's always a war."
"Yes, unfortunately, there is always a war somewhere. But, no, I was never in any war… unless you count marriage to your mother!"
He laughs. She doesn't.
Clay has almost no recollection from that last trip of the airport's surrounding area and terrain. He does remember their arrival being at night. He had been gaping out the window like a typical slack-jawed tourist until a teenager in a passing vehicle mocked him for it. Leaving Astrakhan, however, he was so absorbed with their new child, it was all just a blur. It is still daylight now, but there is not much to look at. Maybe that explains my lack of recollection?
Astrakhan is in the southwest of the country on the Volga River delta where it dumps into the Caspian Sea. The terrain between the city and airport is just a lot of flat marsh land. The fishing and duck hunting in the area is well-known, drawing Russians from all over the country, but it is not much to look at.
The town itself is not much to look at, either, as Clay recalls. The lack of rain keeps the area dry and dusty, but he tries not to dwell on negative thoughts. Must be positive! he reminds himself.
It is early evening by the time the now-battle-hardened Americans arrive at their hotel overlooking the river. Jet lag and stress make it feel like the middle of the night to Clay, but Jenna is ready to hit the town.
Ah, to be young again, Clay thinks. For the sake of a good night's sleep, however, he vetoes Jenna's plans. They can "hit it hard in the morning," he says.
Remembering Jenna's shenanigans at the Moscow hotel, Clay takes charge at the front desk and gets them checked into their suite: One two-room suite. He then stops and shakes his head at himself. God, I'm getting old. First, he thinks Ah, to be young again, and now he is using words like "shenanigans!"
Their suite would never be confused with a suite at The Plaza, but Clay had insisted before leaving home that they stay at this hotel, same as before. He wanted a familiar "home base" to ensure that their experience in Astrakhan would be "smooth as glass."
Looking around now, though, this place has been renovated so extensively it could be any hotel anywhere. There are none of the typical earth tones found in older Russian décor. Everything here is post-modern black, blue and white.
In the lobby, there are several sour-faced, thick-necked middle-aged men with five-o'clock shadows, dressed entirely in black. There's nothing post-modern about these guys. They're right out of an old gangster movie. The thing about the men in this town, Clay remembers, is the younger ones in their twenties and early thirties seem normal (from his Western perspective). The more mature men – Clay's age, give or take – however, have a strong tendency to look like thugs. The truly elderly men do at least return to Western European norms once they get past those awkward middle-age years.
Clay hates thugs – any sort of bully type, really – and often feels the childish urge to punch them in the face. Not being an especially large or tough guy, however, he wisely resists such temptation. Usually. There was that one time, but he was drunk. Generally, he is smart enough to walk away before anything stupid happens. And now, being in a foreign country, with ladies present, Clay chooses discretion and ignores the men.
Sofia bids him adieu, kissing him once on each cheek. Clay says, "I love it when you speak French!" She does not get the Addams Family reference. He then offers to share his hotel room with her, which makes both Jenna and Sofia gasp.
Realizing how that must have sounded, he explains, "No, no, I will sleep on the couch. You and Jenna will each have your own bedroom."
"Thank you, no," Sofia declines as sweetly as she can. "I will be staying with friends in town. I am sorry. In all of the excitement, I forgot to mention it." She giggles at Jenna.
Jenna, at a distance with her arms crossed, responds with a sarcastic, mocking giggle before turning away.
"Of course. Friends," Clay struggles to save face. Smooth move, dumb-ass.
As Clay and Jenna enter their suite, he notices the mirrored sliding closet door to his left. Most of the hotel may have changed, but this closet door is the same as what he captured in an old photo of Jenna at the age of two. She was flopping on the floor at the time, throwing a tantrum. He now laughs at the memory. Jenna asks what's so funny, but before he can answer, there is a knock at the door. Assuming it is one of the hotel staff, Clay opens it.
A week from now, he will wish he never opened that door.
A tall, skinny, dark-haired young man – a boy, really – is standing in the doorway. Clay gets the impression he interrupted him rehearsing something. His head is down while mumbling to himself. A hallway light directly overhead then goes out, leaving him in partial darkness. Both men's attention is drawn briefly to the offending light before they return their attention to each other.
"You have literally darkened my doorway," Clay jokes, still trying to get a good look at the kid's face. "Can I help you?" Judging by his attire, the boy cannot be with the hotel staff unless this place has absolutely no dress code.
The boy then forces an over-the-top salesman's smile just as Jenna is maneuvering from behind her father to see who it is. The boy's smile grows from ear to ear upon seeing her. Clay is not sure if this is because she is so pretty, or if the kid knows her… somehow.
"I am Maksim," the boy says in thickly-accented English.
Clay notices a fairly prominent inch-long vertical scar on the boy's left cheek, and a spot of white in his otherwise dark brown hair. "Ah, yes, the mystery man," he nods knowingly, remembering that name from Jenna's handwritten notes. He narrows his eyes at him.
"Maksim!" Jenna squeals.
When Clay, consciously or not, stands to block the door, Maksim asks, "May I come in?"
"Come in, please," says Jenna. "Come in!" She is beside herself with excitement.
"We've been in town five minutes," Clay says to her, "and you've already got boys knocking on our door?" Neither of them is listening to him. "I could strip naked and run up and down the hallway," Clay jokes, "and neither of you would notice."
"Okay, Dad," Jenna replies absently, not listening. "Could you get me a Coke while you're out?"
"What does he mean by 'mystery man'?" Maksim whispers to Jenna. "And, is he a nudist?"
"Ignore him," Jenna says. "He is constantly telling jokes that are not funny." Maksim glances back and smirks at Clay.
Clay shuts the door, mercifully still fully clothed. Jenna is leading Maksim into her bedroom, but Clay is able to herd them back toward one of the two couches in the main room.
Taking a seat across from them, Clay lets out a great sigh of relief as he takes off his shoes and socks. "My feet are killing me!" he says. The teenagers are still not listening.
Jenna had not planned to reveal this so soon, but with the three of them now staring at each other, she goes ahead. "Dad," she begins hesitantly, glancing at his feet, hoping they don't stink, "I have something to tell you."
Clay cringes. "Yes?"
"Maksim and I…" she begins.
"Yes?" Clay cannot stand the suspense. His first thought, despite the fact they are only now meeting in person, is, Please don't say you're pregnant! Aloud, he says, "Go on."
"…have been emailing each other," she continues, "for about a year now."
With another sigh of relief, Clay says, "Oh, yeah, I already knew that."
"Yes," she continues. "What you probably didn't know is that Maksim has been helping me with my 'Who's Your Daddy?' project."
"Your what?" Clay asks.
"Well, it should be called 'Who's Your Daddy & Mommy' project," she explains, "but that's not as fly." When Clay stares at her, awaiting further explanation, she adds, "That means 'cool' or 'catchy.'"
"I'm aware of what 'fly' means, more or less. Go on."
"I'm trying…" she explains, "…been trying to find my birth parents. My Russian parents. And Maksim's helping me."
"Oh, that," says Clay. "Yeah, I figured as much."
"You did not!" she is incredulous.
"I did," he insists. "I never thought it would have such a 'fly' title, but, yeah, I'm not as dumb as I look. It sounds like your mom – your adoptive mom, your real mom as far as I'm concerned – has rubbed off on you. She's always assigning 'campaign names' to her projects. I used to like that about her. But, why did we have to come all the way to Russia for this? You can do all this through the Internet and DNA tests now."
"Mom was the one who came up with the 'Who's Your Daddy' title," she says, conveniently ignoring that last question.
"Wait," says Clay. "Your mom has known about this for a year, and she never told me?!"
Jenna nods. Clay rolls his eyes, but before he can launch into one of his anti-Pamela rants, she continues, "This 'homeland tour' was Maksim's idea."
"So, this is the bast… guy I have to thank for us being here!" Clay glares at Maksim. The low esteem in which Clay already holds the kid plummets even further. He reminds himself to stay calm. Deep breaths. Zen. No point arguing the need to be in Russia. We're here now. Deal with it.
"Zen always makes me hungry," he says finally. "Let's go to dinner."
The next morning, Sofia and Maksim rejoin the Americans for the surprisingly good free breakfast that the hotel offers to its guests. Clay has arranged for a cultural/historical tour of Astrakhan afterward, but Jenna could not care less about any of that. She wants to visit her old orphanage immediately after breakfast.
They are all still at the table when Sofia hangs up the phone and happily gives Jenna the bad news: Even if they wanted to skip the historical tour and go directly to the orphanage, there are no visitors allowed until after noon.
"Does that mean literally after 12 noon or just some time in the afternoon?" Jenna wants to know. "Who did you talk to?"
"The orphanage director herself."
"Give me the phone," Jenna demands. "I'll talk to her." To Clay, she adds with a smile, "I can be very persuasive!"
"Tell me about it," Clay agrees.
"You have your own phone," Sofia complains and grips it tighter.
From her own phone, Jenna dials the number and lets the phone ring seven times – she counts the rings – without an answer. She hangs up and gives Sofia a dirty look. Sofia had expected this, and now smiles. The orphanage director had told her that she was too busy to talk. Sofia knew the next person who called her would get no answer or, at best, the answering machine.
Clay observes their power struggle while trying not to take sides.
"Exactly when in the afternoon did they say we could visit?" Jenna repeats her earlier question.
Sofia shrugs. Clay nods to himself, remembering that this is the Russian way: Leave everyone guessing… all the time… about everything. He reluctantly adds it to the list of irritating Russian cultural tendencies, but reminds himself how short that list is. Must not let negativity seep in.
Jenna has no choice but to wait until this afternoon for her orphanage visit, but now feels the need to take charge of something… anything. The point is that everyone must know she is in charge.
"Pajoom!" (Come on!) she says with a mischievous grin, purposely mispronouncing it for her father's benefit. "Maksim, you drive!"
"Where are you going?" Clay asks. "We signed up for that tour!" Getting no response, Clay shakes his head. He knows he can insist on it, but it is not especially important that they follow any specific itinerary. Life is more fun with spontaneity. Besides all that, he knows there is no point arguing with her when she gets this way, and he was hoping to leave the screaming matches behind.
On their way out, Jenna stops for a croissant at a shop in the hotel lobby. "We just had breakfast," says Clay.
"Still hungry," Jenna shrugs. Outside, she is tripped up by a protruding flagstone, and drops half the croissant. Cursing her own clumsiness, she stops to pick it up.
"Leave it!" says Maksim, as if speaking to a dog, as he and Sofia continue toward his car at the curb. His car is actually straddling the curb.
Smelling or seeing the croissant, a stray husky-lab mix dog appears out of nowhere. Russia is full of such strays. Maksim spins and kicks at it, but misses the dog.
"Hey, be nice!" Jenna shouts as she bends down to pet the sabaka.
"Astarozhne!" (Careful!) Clay warns in Russian. "Great," he scolds himself, "now I'm speaking Russian without thinking about it." What is it about this place?
"He's fine," Jenna says of the dog. She gives it her entire croissant, not just the dropped half. It wags its tail while eating the morsel. She would have expected it to wolf it down, but the dog is a surprisingly delicate eater.
Jenna fishes a lavender bandanna from her purse and ties it loosely around its neck. "This will let everyone know that this dog belongs to someone, so maybe they'll be nice to him." She gives Maksim a dirty look.
At the latter's car, Clay opens its back door and says, "Ladies?" The dog jumps in instead.
Maksim is horrified to see the animal inside his beloved car, and he makes that clear. Jenna shouts him down, then, very calmly and sweetly turns to the presumptuous canine and ushers it out the door.
"Come on, Carlton," she says. "No ride for you today."
"Carlton?" Clay asks.
"He looks like a Carlton," Jenna explains. "Elderly and dignified, yet friendly. Carlton."
With the dog out of the car, Maksim is considerably more calm. Jenna sits next to him and pats his leg while speaking to him softly. Clay wonders if the kid realizes she is handling him the same as she handled Carlton, with similar results.
"Not a dog lover, I guess," Clay whispers to Sofia, happily alone in the back seat with her. "I prefer Carlton."
She giggles. Maksim gives him a dirty look in the rear-view mirror, leaving Clay to wonder if he has supersonic hearing or was going to glare, anyway, no matter what. Probably the latter.
Jenna pouts through the window at "Carlton's" sad old face as they leave. The dog follows behind for several yards before giving up.
Sofia is so used to playing tour guide that she now dutifully reads from a brochure she found in the hotel lobby. "Astrakhan," she recites, "was once an important stop in Golden Horde territory on the famous Silk Road!" Clay nods. Jenna rolls her eyes. "It sits," Sofia continues, "atop what used to be the city of Atil, the capital of Khazaria."
"'Atil?'" Clay is honestly interested. "As in Attila the Hun?"
She shrugs and continues, "Khazaria is, arguably, the ancestral home of most modern Jews, the Ashkenazim, which qualifies Astrakhan as a truly historically significant city!"
Everyone agrees – or pretends – this is interesting, but Maksim takes it one step further. "We are more than an anecdote in a tourist pamphlet! My people will rule the world once again!"
"And who, exactly, are your people?" Jenna wants to know. "Are you saying you're Jewish, Khazar, both, or what?"
Maksim has nothing more to say as he glares ahead through the windshield.
"He's trying to tell us," Clay says with a laugh, "he is a direct descendant of Attila the Hun."
Maksim gives another dirty look in the mirror.
"Astrakhan is a delta city," Sofia continues her narration, "straddling eleven islands where the Volga River empties into the Caspian Sea." She is enjoying herself for the first time in quite a while. She thinks she might have a future as a tour guide.
"Canals and bridges criss-cross this charming city," the brochure continues, "While St. Petersburg likes to call itself the Venice of the North, Astrakhan has been called the Venice of the South, or, the City of Bridges."
Clay has never been to St. Petersburg or Venice, but something tells him neither city has anything to worry about from Astrakhan. It is a nice enough town, and legitimately world-famous for its caviar – as well as being regionally renowned for its watermelon – but has never been considered a "hot ticket" destination for most foreign tourists.
Jenna and her entourage – the girl does best with an entourage – stop at a farmer's market. Several vendors are selling watermelon, caviar, or both, among other things. Jenna entertains herself by irritating these and other sellers by haggling over things that she has no intention of buying. "Skolka?" (how much?) Clay hears her say repeatedly. "Stoy eta?" (what is this?)
"I'm pretending to be Russian," says Jenna.
"Pretend all you like," Sofia snaps at her, "but you are not Russian. Do not even try."
Clay wants to remind her Jenna was born in this town, or at least somewhere nearby, but he lets it go. Jenna ignores Sofia completely.
She takes a "selfie" with Maksim, and texts it to her mom back home with the message, "Haven great time! Wish u were hear!" Spelling is not one of her strengths and the phone's auto-correct is no help. Clay will soon find himself wishing he had that picture, but she sends it only to Pamela.
They next visit a small store, what Clay would call a "convenience store" back home, without the gas station. And, as is the local custom, everyone must stash their shopping bags into lockers provided in the small entrance ante-room to protect against theft. Each unused locker has an orange, numbered key in it. Like at the gym, Clay thinks, as he chooses one and puts everyone's things into it.
The four of them then spread out to navigate the narrow aisles. Sofia and Clay take one aisle, with Jenna and Maksim choosing another. The ever-present security guard – every Russian business open to the public seems to have its own security guard – must choose which pair to follow, and he chooses Jenna and Maksim. Wise choice, Clay thinks.
Their next stop is a small park with a lake in the middle that locals call Swan Lake. Here, the foursome happens upon "performance art" in action. On cue, a couple dozen young people in a small area lie down next to each other and "take a nap." Twenty-some people, in the middle of the day, in a public park, lying down and taking a nap.
Three local police officers are standing by, apparently wondering what is going on. Jenna et al. watch the nappers in rapt attention, waiting for something else to happen. Nothing does. After one minute, exactly, the show is over. Everyone gets up, dust themselves off, and strolls away, satisfied in having performed their daily quota of whatever that was.
Jenna and Clay give their respective escorts a questioning look. Maksim and Sofia both shrug. "Your guess is as good as mine," says Maksim.
"Yes," Sofia adds, shaking her head, "this is not something we Russians typically do. Trust me."
They finally arrive at their destination: Dome Rebyenka (Baby Home) Number 1. There is nothing impressive about the place except that this is where Clay, Pamela and Jenna's lives all took a decidedly good turn fifteen years ago. Those years haven't always been easy, to say the least, but it has been a learning and character-building experience. Clay's greatest hope now is that by coming here in person, Jenna will better appreciate the life she has now, compared to where she came from.
The orphanage is tucked in behind a five- or six-story block of Soviet-era apartment buildings on the outskirts of town. The neighborhood is a bit run-down but does not feel unsafe. Unlike in The States where the "poor side of town" translates to the "get the hell outta there" part of town, it is not like that in Astrakhan. Not this neighborhood, anyway.
Clay finds himself getting emotional standing in front of the old building with Jenna beside him. Last time they were here, Jenna – Zenya, at the time – was crying as she left the orphanage behind forever.
Clay is now the one with tears in his eyes, but they are both in awe, as if pilgrims arriving at Mecca. Clay has been imagining this for years, since before he knew they would do a homeland tour.
"It's a cliché," Jenna comments on the building, "but it looks smaller, doesn't it?"
Clay smiles and nods. "Funny how that works."
Maksim intrudes upon their reverie when he shouts from the parking lot, announcing that he will be joining them.
"No!" Clay shouts at him. "Get back in the car!" He thought they had made it clear on their way over that they did not want Maksim or Sofia inside the orphanage with them.
"No offense," Jenna tried to soften the blow, "but it will be strictly father-daughter time."
Jenna enters the old building first, with Clay close behind. The smell of disinfectant hits Just a few steps inside past the entryway, they are instructed to sit on a bare, industrial-strength metal bench to put blue paper booties over their shoes. Clay has a grin on his face as he looks over at Jenna on the opposite end of the bench.
She does not look especially happy. Enchanted, perhaps. Maybe even a little uneasy. Either way, not saying a thing.
As they stand up, now properly "bootied," a young, crying toddler collides with Jenna. The little girl stops crying and tugs at Jenna's pant leg until Jenna picks her up.
"Well, hello little one!" Jenna says in Russian. "What is your name?"
"Zenya," says the little girl.
Jenna gasps. That name sounds so familiar, though she does not immediately remember it as her own original nickname. Smiling – now teary-eyed, though not entirely sure why – Jenna continues speaking Russian. "Everything is going to be okay, Zenya. Your parents will come for you just as mine came for me." She nods in Clay's direction.
The little girl takes a moment to assess Clay as Jenna translates everything she said to the girl. Clay reaches out and shakes the girl's tiny hand. "Very nice to meet you, Zenya!"
The girl does not understand a word of it, but a beautiful smile and laugh indicates her approval. "I think she likes you!" says Jenna.
"Well, da!" he says, as if it's a given, then wonders if "da!" is where Americans got the word "duh!"
After a moment, a flustered nurse quite grumpily, almost angrily, pulls the child from Jenna's arms. She says something Clay does not understand.
Jenna rolls her eyes. "Fussy old nurse-maids!"
"Old?" says Clay with a laugh. "The woman is thirty-something."
"Like I said," Jenna smiles, "old. But for you, Dad, she would be a hot younger woman! I didn't see a ring on her finger. Want me to hook you up? Anyone is better than Sofia."
"Um, no, that's okay," says Clay, noticing that she used the same derisive tone with the name "Sofia" as she had said "Barry" back home. She will not approve of anyone new who either of her parents wants to date.
Waving goodbye to little Zenya, Jenna suddenly feels dizzy and says, "I have to sit down."
Clay stands next to her for a moment, concerned. When she lies down on the bench and closes her eyes, he goes looking for that "old" nurse, or anyone else who might help.
Jenna hears voices, Russian voices. She opens her eyes and looks around. No one is there. Maybe it is the orphanage staff conversations, she thinks, echoing down the hallway. No, that can't be it. The voices are now as clear as if whispered in her ear. She has had realistic dreams before, but nothing like this. Her eyes are wide open. She is not dreaming.
As soon as she closes her eyes, she feels as if she is being held aloft. She never left the bench and is too big these days to be carried her like this. She must be dreaming, she decides, but, if so, has no desire to wake up.
It is a beautiful young blonde woman holding her, swinging her around, laughing, whispering sweet nothings. Tears are now streaming down Jenna's cheeks, but she is laughing. Pure joy bursts from her very core as she realizes who this woman is. She has not laughed like this since she was an infant in her Russian birth-mother's arms.
The woman now beams brighter than ever and confirms, Yes, I am your mama. Svetlana Nadezhda Luganskaya at your service!
Mama! Jenna starts bawling. Where have you been?! I've been looking all over for you! You left me and never came back!
The woman is now crying, as well. I am so sorry, Zenya. I never meant to leave you, but it could not be helped.
What do you mean?
There is something I have wanted to tell someone since I… left, Svetlana says, ignoring the question, bursting with excitement. When your body dies, you feel like you have awakened from a dream, as if life on Earth is just a dream!
Hmmm, says Jenna, not sure what to make of that.
Your new parents, Svetlana returns to more practical matters, love you very much. They will never be as good as me, of course, she laughs, but it will break their hearts if you do what I can see you are planning to do.
But they're so mean sometimes, Jenna complains. And stupid, she adds, regressing back to her toddler mentality.
Stay away from Maksim, Svetlana warns. Most of all, stay away from your father. He is a very bad man.
Dad?
Your Russian father.
Who is my Russian father?
He does not even deserve to be called that! Svetlana snaps. Sorry, I did not mean to… If you only knew…!
Tell me!
Someone is now tapping Jenna on the shoulder. "Jenna, wake up! Are you okay? Jenna!"
"Meenya zavoot Zenya," (My name is Zenya), she says upon opening her eyes.
Clay is taken aback by her speaking Russian again. He smiles and says, "Yes, honey, that was your nickname here. It's short for Eugenia. We changed it to 'Jenna,' remember?"
She sits up and realizes she has been on the bench the entire time. The indentations in her arms from the metal mesh prove it. Her mama, Svetlana, is gone but she was trying to tell her something. Something about a dream? Something about her father. Was it all just a dream?
The euphoria she felt in that dream is now gone, shattered by Clay waking her up. She slowly adjusts to the drab polished concrete floor and featureless walls that now surround her. Her adoptive father and that grumpy old nurse are standing in front of her.
Clay looks worried. He has been talking, but she missed whatever was said. The nurse looks disgusted, as if finding a homeless person asleep on her bench.
"I've come to the right place," Jenna says in Russian.
"Congratulations, you can read a map!" the nurse is sarcastic. Clay has no idea what either of them is saying. Jenna does not mention anything about her birth-mother., Svetlana.
What Clay does comprehend is that Jenna is very deeply disturbed, enough to revert back to speaking Russian. Worst of all, she is looking at him again as if he is a complete stranger.
"It's time to go back to the hotel," he says. He never meant for this to be such a quick visit but, given her behavior, it seems best.
"Pakah!" Jenna says. (Bye!)
"When I say it's time to go back," Clay clarifies, "I mean it's time for us to go back."
"Okay," Jenna replies with a laugh, "you and this nurse can go back to the hotel. Have fun!"
Clay is not amused. An argument ensues. Increasing histrionics by Jenna and loud counter-arguments from Clay are such that the orphanage doctor on duty comes to see what the problem is.
Jenna begs in Russian for the doctor to allow her to spend the night at the orphanage. "Just one night?" she asks. "It would mean so much."
This is against the rules, the doctor knows, but with Jenna being so young and pretty – and begging, which he finds irresistible – he agrees to let her spend the night. "We have an extra room," he says with a lascivious twinkle in his eye.
"We do?" the nurse asks, then shakes her head as she remembers him hitting on her when she first arrived.
Clay insists that if Jenna is spending the night, then so is he.
"Please," she argues, "just let me do this! One night alone! It is perfectly safe here. I need to reconnect. It's important to me."
An old saying comes to Clay: "Set your loved ones free; if their love is true, they will come back to you." He knows a certain amount of flexibility is sometimes required. He also knows he was probably a little too flexible with her, growing up, but that's water under the bridge.
He never notices the lecherous look in the doctor's eyes. If he had, this would be an easy decision in the opposite direction. But, as it is, he reluctantly lets Jenna have her way. He can guess most parents would never do it, but Jenna has always been an incredibly independent spirit. He loves that about her – to a point – and hates his own decision, but he lets her spend the night.
You just have to give them their space sometimes, he is still arguing with himself, no matter how much it kills you. He just hopes it doesn't literally get her killed.
Struggling for a sense of clarity, feeling nauseous from this latest episode of "Jenna drama," with one last exhalation Clay walks dejectedly out the orphanage door. He wakes up the next morning with a couple of things he hasn't had in a while: A massive hangover, and a woman in his bed. It is Sofia.
The day before, after walking out of the orphanage without Jenna, he was surprised to see Maksim's car still in the parking lot. He had assumed the punk would leave him behind once Jenna texted to say she was staying.
Its windows were too dark to see inside, so Clay tried the back door. It was locked, but the front passenger door was unlocked, and he climbed in. That's when he discovered Maksim and Sofia in the backseat together. She sprang upright, startled, wiping her mouth. Maksim quickly zipped up his pants while cursing in Russian.
"If you two are, uh, finished," Clay reflexively turned away, "please take me back to the hotel. Jenna will not be joining us. And, to answer your next question, Maksim, yes I am sure. Davai!"
What happened next, though still murky, is slowly returning to Clay as he lies in bed with Sofia. Someone – he cannot remember who – showed up and drove him back to the hotel. The man identified himself as a friend of someone, but Clay cannot remember who. All that he remembers about the man is his athletic build and short-cropped hair.
Inside the hotel lobby – dumped there, in a daze – Clay was waiting for the elevator when Sofia ran up to him. Catching her breath, she said, "How about that drink?"
If he had stopped to think about this, he might have turned her down, but he has never turned down a beautiful woman asking to have a drink with him. And so it was that he downed several vodkas with beer chasers at the hotel bar.
Not much of a drinker in the first place, he still does not enjoy vodka, not even when sharing it with a beautiful woman in Russia. This, he decides, is a sure sign he does not belong here.
The rest of that night was a blur.
As he and Sofia climb out of bed the next morning, Clay announces his intention to return to the orphanage. Coming out of the shower twenty minutes later, wrapped in a towel, Sofia does not share Clay's urgency. "You need food in your stomach after last night," she says. "And, as you Americans say, your daughter needs her space. She will still be there."
On the way to the orphanage, Sofia repeatedly makes excuses to delay their arrival. First, it's for cigarettes, and he has never seen her smoke. Then she "needs" a soda, which she barely touches. Finally, she has to use "the toilet."
Fed up, Clay says, "Next time we stop, I will leave you there. The only thing we need to do is get my daughter!"
"Typical man," Sofia shoots back. "Now that you have had me in bed, you think I am, what do you say, your bitch?"
"Don't make this about you," he snaps at her, "or I will drop you in the middle of nowhere. By the way, can't you people use the word 'bathroom' or 'restroom' instead of 'toilet?' 'Toilet' is so… crude."
"What do you mean 'you people?'"
"Hey, I know," he ignores her attempt at being offended, "from now on, say you need to 'powder your nose.'"
"Now you are lecturing me on culture?" She is insulted… again. Striving for American-style sarcasm but not quite pulling it off, she adds, "That is funny, ha-ha. I might now ask to be dropped somewhere. But I promised to stay with you, and that is what I will do. I am a woman of my word."
"I don't remember you promising anything," says Clay. "I'm not even sure we had sex. For all I know, I passed out, you stripped me naked and made it look like we had sex so I would feel beholden to you."
She smiles and bites her lip.
"And," he continues, "when I tried to follow you into the shower, you locked the door! If we'd really had sex already, you would have let me in."
"Not necessarily. In the shower is maybe the only time I have any real privacy."
Clay drops the subject. He has more important things to do.
When they return to the orphanage, his heart sinks when the "fussy old nurse-maid" from yesterday informs them Jenna has "run off." He glares at Sofia for making them late. She looks away. The nurse adds that they would have missed her, anyway. She has been gone several hours.
"Why would she leave?" Clay is heart-sick. "Where would she go? I'm the only family she has here!" He is on the verge of tears.
Awaiting Sofia's translation but seeing for herself the pain in Clay's eyes, the nurse sympathizes. "I am sorry to say, but your daughter attacked the doctor during the night and ran off with a young man."
Clay wants to shout at the woman that what she just described is impossible. Even in her current state, Jenna would never attack anyone. "Are you sure you translated that right?" he asks Sofia. She nods, yes. "What exactly does she mean by 'attacked?'"
Sofia gets clarification and relays it to Clay. "She says your daughter stabbed the doctor with a pair of scissors!"
"Oh my God," Clay mutters in disbelief, trying to wrap his head around this.
Don't shoot the messenger, he reminds himself. The nurse is merely relaying what happened, or at least what the doctor said had happened.
He describes Maksim for them, assuming he is the "young man" mentioned. Sofia translates, adding several details such as Maksim's facial scar; the unusual shock of white in his hair; and the leather "ankle strap" shoes he always wears. Another caretaker appears, having just finished her shift. She confirms that Clay and Sofia have perfectly described the boy last seen with Jenna.
Clay wonders if his daughter left willingly. Even if she had attacked the doctor – who must have deserved it – she had specifically promised back home that she would never run off in Russia. Of course, his assumptions are based on the "old" Jenna, the American Jenna, not this alternate personality she has transformed into.
Clay asks to see the doctor Jenna had "attacked," but he is in the hospital… as a patient. "Well, good!" Clay replies, surprising himself.
He wonders if he has forever lost his sweet little girl to this now violent, emotionally-unbalanced hellion she has turned into. Is this really any different than what most fathers of teenage girls go through? he asks himself. Yes, he answers, this is very different. Sure, she has always been a little trouble-maker, but nothing like this.
"She gets it from me," it occurs to him, now thinking out loud. "First I compliment her for cussing out Vitaly back in Moscow, and now I'm happy she's put someone in the hospital!" Sofia does not translate this to the orphanage staff.
Clay has no choice but to go looking for Jenna. When she fails to return any of his calls or texts, it is just like when she went missing back home. He calls Pamela to let her know what's going on, but there is no answer. With the nine-hour time difference, he can only guess she is in bed, asleep.
He gets it half right. She is in bed, but neither asleep nor alone.
Clay misses her, despite Sofia's companionship. Maybe because of it. Pamela was always the one better-equipped to deal with Jenna. She would have a few ideas how to handle this situation… like calling the police and filing a report as she did in Saint Louis. Would that even work in Russia? Clay wonders. Do they even care about missing persons here, let alone tourists? There is a certain callousness to these people.
He asks Sofia if they should get the police involved, to which she merely shrugs, which leaves him wondering if even she cares. You're on your own, he tells himself. Sofia is nothing more than a useful tool. A very attractive and occasionally agreeable woman, sure, but if he had some sort of real-time translation device in his pocket, he would replace her immediately. Their relationship is not what it used to be.
Think! he shouts internally. Jenna is with Maksim. Find him, you find her. Aloud, he asks, "Do you know where Maksim lives or works?"
"No."
He gives her a look. "You had sex with him in the back seat yesterday! You don't even know where he hangs out?"
She shrugs again. This is her response to everything lately. He knows he should have vetted her and Maksim more thoroughly, but never anticipated this situation. Never thought Jenna would run off. He believed her when she promised to not do this very thing. In hindsight, he knows he was naïve, but if you can't trust your own daughter's promise – and your own judgment – what's the point of anything?
He learns first-hand there is nothing more desperate, nothing more heart-wrenching than searching for a child – his child – gone missing. Being halfway around the world surrounded by uncaring foreign assholes doesn’t help. Jenna suffered from separation anxiety as a kid – common with adoptees – but now Clay is the one suffering. He tries to console himself with the thought that she at least ran off with someone. She's not alone. True, it is that idiot boy, Maksim, but it was of her own volition. She was not kidnapped. No one means to do her any harm… as far as he knows.
He is left asking, through Sofia as his translator, random strangers on the street if they have seen Maksim or Jenna, and it is going about as well as one might expect. He doesn't realize Sofia is introducing herself as his wife, and referring to Jenna as her step-daughter.
She suggests they put up "lost" fliers with Jenna's picture, but that is not an option because Clay cannot find a single photo of her in his wallet. His regular cell phone had plenty of photos, but that was lost in the airport bombing.
"How can you not," Sofia asks, "have a picture of your own daughter?"
"I don't know," Clay gets defensive. "Real men don't carry mementos like that." As soon as he says it, he knows it's not true, but that's the story he's going with.
She rolls her eyes.
Even if he had a photo, Clay decides that putting up "lost" fliers is not a good idea. Anyone who sees the flier then spots Jenna might see her as an easy target.
He appreciates the energy Sofia is now, finally, putting into the search but has no idea why she was stalling earlier.
He has no idea what Jenna is thinking, what she might do next, where she has gone, and what might happen to her along the way. The only thing to do is to keep looking… and hoping.
He has never felt more alone. He pulls his arms in close to his body, with his hands stuffed deep into his pockets. It's something he does when under stress. His fingers then make contact with Jenna's bracelet – the one left on the plane – at the bottom of his pocket. He gasps in recognition and pulls it out. He does have a memento! Just not a very useful one.
Holding the bracelet in his hand like a precious jewel, he wonders if this is the last vestige of Jenna he will ever hold. The thought sends a tear down his cheek, and he has to stop and lean against a street sign until the feeling passes.
Get a grip! he scolds himself. He has never been a crier, but has never lost a child before, and it has left a gaping wound.
He then notices strangers following him and Sofia. He worries it might be because he is an American and they hate Americans. Several of them do give disparaging looks, but when he asks Sofia about it, she scoffs.
"Oh, please, you are being ridiculous. These complete strangers are helping us find your daughter, asking everyone if they have seen her or Maksim. Anti-American? Please.
"Several of them," she adds with a grin, "were appalled, though, when I told them you do not have a single photo of her."
Clay smiles, turns, and loud enough for all to hear, he says with a hand on his heart to his anonymous posse, "Spaseeba! Spaseeba!" (Thank you! Thank you!)
Several of them – other than the older men – smile, nod or wave, and Clay realizes there are decent people in the world, after all, even in Russia.
Sofia leads him and their band of helpers – Jenna's not the only one who can have a posse, he gives a fractured laugh – past the Lenta grocery store and Park Planeta amusement park they passed everyday fifteen years ago on their way from their hotel on the Volga to the orphanage. He remembers wondering back then if the orphans ever took a field trip here. He never got around to asking then, so asks Sofia now.
“Do you think the kids at the orphanage ever came here on a field trip? It’s not even a mile away."
“Field trip?"
“Yeah, just a day out."
“No, I do not think so. They cannot afford such things. This place is not cheap, even for normal families."
“Shame," Clay shook his head.
The rides are ancient, like an old traveling carnival that set up one day and never left... and never improved. He knows a disadvantaged child would not care about that, and he pictures little Zenya smiling, ecstatic, as she rode one of those creaking, rickety old rides for the first time. That was the look in her eyes the first several times they took her to such a place back home. Again, tears well up, and he shakes it off.
Eventually, they end up at a local police station to file a missing person report. The crowd disperses at that point, leaving things to the authorities.
Inside the station, Clay and Sofia are discouraged by the response to their plight, or lack thereof. He catches a glimmer of recognition from one of the officers at the mention of Maksim's name, but decides it is more likely the gleam of lust at the sight of Sofia. The man has been undressing her with his eyes the entire time.
As they exit the station, Clay bumps into a much taller man coming from the opposite direction. They exchange pardons in their respective languages, and Clay does a double-take.
"No way," he says as the man walks away. "Did you see that guy?" he asks Sofia. She shakes her head, no. "He looks just like Liam Neeson."
"Who?"
"Liam Neeson… the actor in those Taken movies? The ones where his daughter keeps getting kidnapped? I guess that's what keeps happening. I only saw the first one."
She shakes her head. "I do not watch American films."
Clay considers chasing after the man to get his advice – he’s so desperate – until someone across the street catches his eye. He might not have noticed the woman had she not looked directly at him. She resembles their translator, Vika, from fifteen years ago. She has the same straight, dark, shoulder-length hair; petite figure; pretty face; and friendly, smiling eyes. If it is her, she has aged well.
Everyone seems familiar all of a sudden, and he wonders if that’s some sort of stress response. When she vanishes into the crowd, he throws up hands. Even if it is Vika, he doesn't know how she might help.
Vika Karimova has been tracking Jenna and Clay since the moment they arrived in Astrakhan. The transmitters – smaller than a grain of rice – that her man Gennady slipped into their water bottles in Moscow and again at the Astrakhan airport – are still broadcasting their location from somewhere in their respective digestive tracts. It is not perfect technology. People do sometimes pass the transmitters through their systems, but these newer bugs act like live insects and latch onto whichever internal organ they settle upon.
She is ashamed for allowing herself to be spotted just now by Clay. Having been a FSB (Federal'naya sluzhba bezopasnosti) contractor for almost two decades, she never should have been so careless. Any sense of superiority she may have felt over Gennady – he was not just spotted but waved at in Moscow – has been lost. She had given him a tongue-lashing over that, but now she has done virtually the same thing.
At least she wasn't waved at. There was something about Clay just now – his desperation, perhaps – that held her attention just a second too long. She was, after all, the facilitator of his and Pamela's adoption of Jenna. It was a beautiful experience they had all shared: Taking a little girl out of an orphanage into the loving arms of her forever family. They had a personal connection.
The despair now in Clay's eyes made her sad. Colleagues have long criticized her for being too soft, too caring, too human. Maybe they are right. She slipped up.
Having followed her quarry's movements since they arrived, it piques Vika's curiosity when she sees where and with whom Jenna has been hanging out.
After what seems an eternity of fruitless searching – from inside the taxi as well as on foot – Clay lets Sofia talk him into stopping for lunch. She leads him into a dark hole-in-the-wall diner.
One wall of the restaurant is adorned with red silk banners with gold tassels on light-brown, intricately-patterned wallpaper. Very Russian, Clay thinks. The other wall consists of diagonal wood slats, positioned at opposite angles within each new section, giving it a rustic, horse stable look.
Clay, however, could not care less about the décor. Finding Jenna is all that matters. He stares long and hard at everyone in the restaurant as he follows Sofia and the hostess through the narrow restaurant to their table near the back. A few patrons seem uncomfortable with Clay's penetrating, slightly-crazed stare.
At his table, Clay's meal of borscht, beet salad and pork sandwich with a beet on top is surprisingly good. These people sure like their beets, he thinks. Back home – on his home planet, it feels like – Clay hates beets. Finding himself liking them now tells him that he must have gone insane… like Jenna. There is no other explanation.
He smirks at the thought of a fictional billboard: Welcome to Russia! You must now go insane.
His "burner" phone rings. It provides no caller ID, but Jenna, Pamela and Sofia are the only ones who have the number.
"Oh, thank God, Jenna," he answers it, "where have you been?"
It's not Jenna. The man on the other end growls in Russian, "We have your daughter!"
Clay understands only "doach" (daughter). "Moy doach?!" he asks.
"Da, vasha doach, gloopy Americansky!" (Yes, your daughter, stupid American), says the man.
Clay understands every word, and his world falls out from under him. A gasp escapes his lips and a lump forms in his throat.
After a moment, he swallows hard, and anger rises up within him to overpower his fear. By the time he speaks again, there is murder in his voice.
"Put her on the phone!" he growls. Everyone within earshot in the tiny restaurant turns to look at him. Sofia is aroused by the venom in Clay's voice, and she latches onto his arm.
There is a pause as a second man gets on the phone. This one, laughing and sounding younger, says in Russian, "Pay us one million dollars, or you will never see the girl again!"
Having no clue what the man said, Clay hands the phone to Sofia. "You talk to these people. Find out what they want."
"Allo?" says Sofia, taking the phone.
"Remember our agreement!" the younger man says to her, and hangs up before she can respond or even recognize his voice. It sounds as if he is disguising it, but she has made only one agreement lately, which tells her who the caller is. She stops herself from saying his name aloud.
Clay, along with everyone else in the restaurant, is staring at her. The restaurant's security guard is now moving toward them.
"Well?" Clay asks Sofia. "What did he say?"
"Nothing," Sofia lies. "He simply hung up." And she shrugs her shoulders.
"How am I supposed to pay their ransom?"
When she shrugs again, Clay regurgitates – as well as he can – what he was told. He tries to approximate the Russian words spoken to him.
Several nearby diners are openly listening as Sofia translates it for Clay.
"One million dollars?!" he shrieks. "I don't have that kind of money!"
"You don't?"
"No! If you thought I was rich, you will be very disappointed."
"But you said you were a football… soccer head coach," she says. "Head coaches make a lot of money! Everyone in America makes a lot of money."
"Not me," Clay corrects her. "I'm a minor league soccer coach, which is not a real money-maker in the U.S. I can barely pay the bills." He stands up in disgust and throws a few ruble notes on the table. "The credit card bills for this little trip to Paradise Lost will take the rest of my life to pay off."
Clay glares at the security guard on his way out, if for no other reason than because the man is big, ugly, Russian... and breathing.
Sofia takes a portion of Clay's money off the table and stuffs it into her purse. There is barely enough to cover the total. The food was good, she thinks, but the service did not warrant a tip.
The security guard smiles and admires Sofia from behind as she walks away. Aroused as she was a moment ago by the venom in Clay's voice, only to be ignored, she now smiles at the guard's unabashed ogling. At least someone appreciates her.
Other than ensuring his own basic survival to continue the search, Clay's every thought and movement is about Jenna now. Several hours into the search with his daughter still missing, Clay leaves another voicemail update for Pamela. He is beside himself wondering why she never answers her phone. She must know by now their daughter is missing.
Sofia once again talks him into stopping for a meal, and he is again too tired to put up a fight. He thought he was in good shape, but there is a big difference between working out in a gym or running around on a soccer field versus traversing a city, half of it on foot, worried sick, looking for a lost child. He is physically and emotionally drained.
In the middle of dinner, Sofia catches sight of Maksim through the window across the street. Her eyes flash in recognition. She wants to say something, but the man's last words were clear: "Remember our agreement."
Clay is not paying attention. He is lost in thought, absently watching their server fill their water glasses. The Russian word "вода" (water) is embossed on the carafe. Clay realizes this must be where the term "boda bag" (flexible water pouch used by hikers) comes from. He figures some Russian fur trapper etched these letters onto his water pouch a couple hundred years ago; English-speaking people saw, misread and mispronounced it; and a new "American English" term was born: Boda bag.
"Who cares?!" he yells at himself, then immediately cringes. He didn't mean to say it out loud. This, he decides, is further proof of his imminent insanity. Sofia turns away from the window to see what Clay's problem is. He takes a peek out to see what she was looking at… and sees Maksim. His eyes go wide. He almost knocks the decanter out of the waiter's hand as he points and shouts, "There he is!"
Sofia pretends to be surprised while silently cursing herself for choosing a table by the window. Clay again throws money on the table, hoping it's enough, and bolts out the door. With apologies to the waiter, Sofia again reallocates Clay's "over-payment" into her purse, and follows him out the door.
She finds herself relieved that Clay has finally found Maksim. She has been increasingly uneasy – almost guilty – about her involvement, minimal as it has been. The onus is now off her and on Clay to catch Maksim and figure out what has become of Jenna. Either way, she hopes this means her role as Clay's dutiful companion has at last come to an end. She can relax.
Let the men have their little chase now, she thinks. Men love the thrill of the chase. If Clay can catch up to Maksim, the two of them can have fun beating each other up. Men are so stupid. She hates herself for needing them, but such is her life. There is no point thinking too much about it. She just needs to find one to take care of her, buy her nice things once in a while, and not beat her too often. Maybe she will find someone here in Astrakhan. The locals are much nicer and the weather is better than Moscow.
Maksim is on his mobile phone when he sees Clay chasing after him. With a giggle, he stuffs the phone into his back pocket and dashes inside what looks like a hardware store. Close behind, Clay thinks, Great, a store with potential weapons on display, just hanging there! Then he realizes this might work to his advantage. If he can get his hands on an ax…
In one of the aisles, he comes upon three middle-aged thugs blocking his passage. He bursts through the phalanx, but one of them sticks out his foot and trips him, sending him smashing into nearby shelves.
Barely maintaining his balance, Clay flips off his aggressors to continue after his prey who has by now disappeared around a corner. Clay does not immediately notice, but crashing into those shelves put a bloody gash in his forehead.
He finds himself in a dark hallway. Unarmed. The aisle containing his hoped-for "garden weaponry" was the one occupied by those thugs blocking any chance he might have had at grabbing something useful.
In the hallway, boxes are stacked to the ceiling on either side, leaving barely enough room for an adult to walk through. Clay wipes what he thinks is sweat off his forehead. The store's back door then clicks shut just as he comes around a corner. He flings the door open and steps out into the alley, prepared to see Maksim running away. But Maksim is nowhere to be seen… until Clay is tackled from behind just as he turns around.
Embarrassed at being outmaneuvered by a kid, Clay finds renewed strength. He throws the younger man off him and adopts a stance learned years ago in karate. OK, you're in the stance, he tells himself. Make some moves! But he can't remember any moves. He was never an especially adept student. He barely attained Yellow Belt before quitting in favor of something much more interesting – dating Pamela. What was the likelihood, he thought at the time, of ever getting into a real fight, anyway? He certainly never expected something like this.
The old goons from inside the store then join the fight, unseen from behind and coming toward Clay. The biggest one – a mountain of a man – wraps his arms around the American, pinning his arms to his sides. Maksim steps in and pummels Clay like a punching bag.
The blood from Clay's forehead finally reaches his lips. He uses the mountain man as a fulcrum, whipping his right leg up and putting a foot hard into Maksim's crotch as if it were a soccer ball. Maksim flops to the ground, screaming in pain.
Clay is ever-so-briefly happy on several levels. If this asshole and his daughter have been having sex – and they are unsupervised teenagers, so they probably have been – a good kick in the groin will put at least a temporary stop to that.
The "mountain man" releases his grip just long enough to spin Clay him around and punch him hard in the jaw. Another goon takes his turn, kicking him in the ribs as he goes down. Clay has never had his jaw or ribs broken before, but he can guess that he has now.
He slowly regains his feet – managing a few more swings and kicks – but is hampered by his now-broken ribs and the need to keep one hand on the gash in his forehead to staunch the bleeding. Most of his own punches hit nothing but air. There is no avoiding the simple fact that he is outnumbered.
He doesn't make it past Round One. The last thing he sees after hitting the pavement is Maksim getting back on his feet, hovering over him and laughing. He recognizes that laugh from the kidnapper's phone call. It was the younger, second voice.
Maksim then kicks him in the solar plexus, knocking him out. That prospective new client of Pamela's who caused her to miss the homeland tour has once again postponed their meeting, this time until next week. Pamela insists it will have to wait, then, until she returns from Russia where she has "a previous engagement." The client is okay with it – impressed, even, by her globetrotting – but her boss, CEO Barry ("not Barney") Miller, is not happy.
She is not concerned with his happiness as she interrupts his meeting with Richard Cohn, Regional VP of Talent Acquisition – or whatever his title is these days. Over-paid, full-time suck-up is his real job. He spends half of his time in Barry's office, probably under the desk, she thinks with a smile.
"The competition will steal your new client away!" Barry says to Pamela after the initial greeting in which Barry shouted "I'm in a meeting!"
To this, she had said, "I don't care!"
She thinks he is being overly dramatic for Richard's benefit, playing the part of the in-charge boss. She curses her bad timing and lack of decorum, but "desperate times call for desperate measures," and all that. If it was just the two of them, he would be more easily persuaded.
"No, Pamela," Barry continues, "I can't let you go. This presentation must happen whenever, wherever and however the client wants; and you need to be the presenter. It will bring in millions every year!"
"You think I don't know that?" Pamela argues. "But this is my daughter we're talking about, Barry, gone missing in Russia! I'd say that's just a little more important than a prospective client with a possible contract! Anyway, they said they're okay with waiting until I get back. I guess if you're desperate, Richard here might stumble his way through the presentation for you."
"Thanks for the ringing endorsement, Pamela," Richard sneers. "But the boss is right. I can't sell it like you can. You've got other… attributes I don't have," he looks her up and down. "Besides, it's your baby."
"Funny you should use those words," she says. "It's my baby Jenna that I'm worried about!"
"Your husband," says Barry, "whatshisname, Brick, he's over there. He can take care of things. He can go to the authorities and have them find your daughter just as easily as you can. She's probably just out partying again like last time. It runs in the family!" He gives her a wink.
"My husband's name is Clay," she says, now glowering at him, "and no, he apparently can't take care of things. He's more useless than Richard here. And there are no proper authorities, Barry! It's Russia! Almost everyone is corrupt!"
Tears are welling up in her eyes. All she knows – all she has heard – is that Jenna has gone missing again. That's bad enough, but her phone has been dead, leaving her completely unaware of the more recent ransom call. The next words from her mouth spew out before she can stop herself: "My daughter needs me, you son-of-a-bitch!"
"Hey, now, Pammie," Barry warns her. "Remember who you're talking to!"
"I'm sorry, but… Did you just call me 'Pammie?!'"
To Richard, Barry confides, "This is why women never rise above the glass ceiling. Too emotional."
"Oh… my… God," says Pamela, sounding more like her daughter than the smooth corporate professional that she is… normally. "You're making me choose between my job and my daughter?! Well, adios, then!"
"Don't you mean dass vedanny?" Richard adds, thinking he is speaking Russian.
"Sucking up to the boss must be one of those 'duties to be named later,' eh, Richard?" Pamela counters on her way out. To Barry she says, "But, y'all need to lawyer-up, 'cuz this ain't over!"
"It ain't?" he mocks her speech, which tends to get provincial when upset. He then adds with as bored a voice as possible, "We have attorneys on retainer."
"Bastard could not care less!" she mutters to herself on her way out.
Richard follows her. Beyond the boss's earshot, he says, "Makes you wonder what good it did sleeping with him, eh, Pammie? May I call you Pammie?"
"No! May I call you Dick?!" She then does something she would never do, normally, but at the moment it feels right. She grabs a half-full coffee cup off the nearest person's desk.
"Hey! My spit cup!" says the cup's owner. His words don't register with Pamela until it's too late as she empties its contents onto Richard's crisp, formerly-white dress shirt.
When she realizes she has dumped tobacco spit on him, she laughs and says, "Ooh, that shirt is ruined, isn't it?!" With a wicked smile, she adds, "That was so unlike me!"
~
As soon as she gets home, Pamela recharges her phone then flips on the laptop on the kitchen counter to send another email to Vika. She never got a response to her first one. At the time, it was an innocent attempt at having lunch in Astrakhan to show off their beautiful daughter, now all grown up. She thought it would be nice to "catch up" with the woman who was so instrumental in their successful adoption so many years ago. But, that was when it would be the three of them returning to Astrakhan as a family.
Her follow-up message is much more dire. She lost Vika's phone number long ago, never had her street address, and now can't recall her last name, if she ever knew it. The email user name does not divulge anything useful. Pamela can only hope it is still a valid account.
She would have contacted someone from the adoption agency, but they went bankrupt years ago following a corruption scandal. She considers cc'ing the US Consulate on the email but decides against it. Not only would they not care – if a human even read it – but, in her professional experience, involving government officials in anything almost always makes things worse. Most government officials, unfortunately, are good at keeping their jobs… and almost nothing else.
Her cell phone starts vibrating and playing a cacophony of ringtones as it comes back to life with all of its messages finally arriving. That is when she hears Clay's voicemail in which he is clearly distraught while describing their daughter's kidnapping. When she sees the "haven great time" text and picture from Jenna, she breaks down crying.
She feels staggeringly guilty for using her scheduling conflict as an excuse to not join them on their trip. She could have worked it out, she knows, but after Jenna's most recent disappearing act – her third in the past twelve months – combined with the aggravation and stress from her legal separation from Clay, she simply needed a break from the both of them. Let Clay deal with Jenna 24-7 for a while, she figured. Maybe they would come back from Russia appreciating her a little more.
Apparently, that was too much to ask, but there is no time for that. She needs to be strong. She needs to keep it together and call her travel agent.
The agent tells her she has missed today's last flight to Moscow on her usual airline but might catch another one with another airline. The only catch is that she won't be able to use her frequent-flier mileage. It will cost nearly $1,000 more than it otherwise would have.
Pamela makes a nice salary. She's comfortable, but spending an extra grand here or there is not something she does lightly. Even so, there is not the slightest hesitation when she says, "Get me on whichever flight gets me to Russia the fastest!"
Before hanging up, the travel agent casually mentions that there is an official U.S. State Department warning against travel to Russia due to the recent bombing at the airport.
"The airport?!" Pamela is taken aback. That hits close to home, but it also steels her resolve. Puffing out her chest and scoffing as if facing down a corporate opponent, she says, "The way I'm feeling right now, honey, the State Department best be warning the Russians that I'm coming!" Clay awakens to find himself bound and gagged on the floor of what looks like a storeroom. Judging by the light shining through the one small window, he guesses it is now morning, the next day. The opening is up too high and too small, unfortunately, to offer any chance of escape.
He feels drugged. Beyond that, all he knows for sure is that he physically hurts all over, especially in the face and ribs. He can feel the swelling.
A large, dark-haired man then opens the door. He has a red hard-plastic box in one hand and a huge knife in the other.
So, this is how it ends, Clay thinks to himself, this guy is going to harvest one or two of my organs, and leave me to die.
The man surprises him when he tosses the plastic box at him. Clay is too slow to react and it hits him in the chest.
The man laughs and says, "Yeda."
Doesn't 'yeda' mean bear? Clay wonders. It doesn't, but Clay decides it does. Not sure why someone would say "bear" in this situation, he assumes the man is introducing himself.
"Bear" puts a six-pack each of water and beer into a refrigerator. Clay never noticed the fridge until that very moment.
Seeing Clay still bound and gagged, the man reaches down and slices open Clay's plastic restraints and leaves without another word.
Clay gingerly examines his "gift." The box has three matryoshka nesting doll stickers, in decreasing size, on the outside. "Russia is like a matryoshka doll," Clay paraphrases Forrest Gump. "You never know what you'll get." Inside the box, he is pleasantly surprised to find food. "Oh, right, 'yeda' means food.'"
The meal consists of several meat-filled dumplings, a sealed plastic bowl of borscht (no spoon), a piece of dark bread, and a travel-size bottle of vodka. How nice, Clay thinks to himself. Yes, they beat me and lock me in a closet, but they serve a balanced meal! It is more like dinner than breakfast, but he is starving and eats it.
"Bear" returns a couple hours later to snatch Clay's lunch box and again leave without a word. As the door closes, Clay can hear a hushed young woman's voice speaking Russian to the man. The voice is too quiet to recognize or understand.
A couple hours after that, Clay's attempts to find a way out of his prison are interrupted when Bear returns with the same lunch box, refilled with the same items. The gang must have knocked over a lunch truck, Clay thinks, and this is what they feed their prisoners.
"There is no way out," Bear says in Russian, guessing what the Americansky has been up to. Clay understands nothing until the man asks if he needs to "use the toilet." That word sounds the same in Russian and French to Clay's untrained ear, so he nods and follows Bear down the hall to what the Russian might consider a restroom. The smell confirms it.
Glancing around the room after his eyes adjust to the darkness, Clay sees nothing but a small dark room with a hole in the middle of the floor. There is a light bulb hanging down on a long cord. It's off and he sees no way of turning it on. There is an almost-empty roll of toilet paper – single-ply – in a dispenser on the wall. Flies are now buzzing around Clay's head. A diagonal metal handrail is fastened to the wall. "So it's a wheelchair-friendly room with a hole," he says to no one. Bear is in the hallway, not listening.
Clay survives the bathroom break, but would love a hot shower right about now. Pamela's words "it's not a war zone over there" come to mind, to which he scoffs and says, "I beg to differ!"
After returning to his "holding cell," with Bear having just left the room, the door reopens. Clay looks up from what has become his spot – an ugly green but surprisingly comfortable overstuffed chair. He is shocked by who enters.
"Jenna? What the…?"
"Are you okay?" she asks. "Are you hurt?"
"Yes!" says Clay. It hurts to talk. He never noticed before just how much a person uses their ribs when speaking.
"Yes, you're hurt, or yes, you're okay?"
"Hurt."
"Where?" They are repeating the scene from the airport bombing, he realizes, with roles now reversed.
"Everywhere!" he growls, though it sounds more like "evweh." When Maksim enters, Clay points his finger and says, "Dis bast'd jumped me!"
"Yes, I'm sorry about that," says Jenna. "Maksim is sorry, too. You startled him."
"T'uh!" Clay scoffs, glaring at his attacker. "Dudn't look sorry, but he will be as soon as I…." Clay struggles to rise, only to grimace in pain and collapse back into his chair. "I tink my ribs… and jaw… are boken," he says. "Tried to tell Bear, but he dudn't peak English."
"Bear?" she asks, having difficulty understanding him. Clay explains how he came up with that name, Jenna nods, and again apologizes. "I need to explain a few things," she says and hands him a bottle of water.
Clay can see she is concerned, but it feels more like the professional concern of a doctor or nurse, not a daughter. She is deadly serious. What the hell happened to her?
To lighten the mood, as is his wont, staring at the water bottle's label, Clay says, "I prefer 'still', not sparkling."
"First of all," she ignores the attempt at humor, "I was never kidnapped. That ransom call you got was Maksim's idea of a joke."
Clay's jaw would have dropped if it was not so swollen. He had already guessed it was Maksim, but had no idea it was a joke. Sick bastard.
The sick bastard smirks.
"He hung up before I could take the phone from him," she continues. "I wanted to call you back. I really did. But I wasn't ready to talk yet. Kinda ironic, though, that you were the one who ended up kidnapped?"
If she laughs, Clay thinks, I will strangle her.
She doesn't. "Second of all," she continues, "things have changed. I've changed."
"Ya think?!"
She does not appreciate the interruption. "Back at the orphanage…" she pauses to find the right words "...it's like a switch was flipped. I met my mother, my Russian mother, my real mother."
"Your real mother," Clay says angrily, "is back in Saint Louis worried sick about you!" He can only assume Pamela is worried sick. Where the hell is she?
"No," Jenna shakes her head sadly. "My Russian mother's name was Svetlana. I saw her at the orphanage." She smiles at the memory.
"She works at the orphanage?"
"No!" she shouts impatiently before more calmly adding, "She visited me. Her spirit visited me. She is no longer with us."
"What are you talking about?" Clay asks. He knows perfectly well what she is saying. The woman's ghost came to visit. He simply doesn't want to hear it. It dons on him then that, ever since she entered the room, she never once called him "Dad" or "Papa." She has changed, and not for the better. It's just a phase, he tells himself. She will snap out of it soon enough, like she did back at the airport.
Jenna explains that it feels like nothing has changed except she is now finally free to drop the facade she has been keeping up all these years. She feels reunited with her true self.
"Oh my God," Clay says, exasperated. "And you think I get too 'New Age-y'? Can you hear yourself? 'Reunited with your true self?'"
Again, Clay understands what she is trying to say but is not going to encourage this train of thought. "You are being completely selfish!" he shouts. "Do you know what you've put me through?! God only knows what your mother is going through."
She eyes him coldly, unmoved. A middle-aged man then enters the room. Clay can see at a glance that he is a thug – just one more angry thick-necked middle-aged punk – dressed entirely in black.
In life, people will occasionally meet someone who instantly inspires a certain enmity for no apparent reason. For Clay, this is one of those moments. "You people are like cartoon characters," he says to the man, not knowing or caring if he understands English.
The man looks askance at Clay as if at a chained dog. He then barks in Russian at Maksim, "Davai!" (Let's go!)
Like a chained dog, Clay feels like biting anyone who might come within reach. Maksim and the "cartoon character" leave the room, but remain just outside the doorway, waiting for Jenna.
"I have to leave," she says to Clay. "Sorry, but we have to keep you here for a while. There should be water and beer in the fridge. Help yourself."
"What do you mean you have to leave?!" Clay asks. "Where are you going? Who are these people? What the hell is going on?!"
Jenna then delivers – again, coldly and matter-of-fact – the most devastating news Clay has ever received.
"I am staying with Maksim and his father, Dmitry Shepkin, the man you called a cartoon character. You probably don't want to piss him off. He pretty much runs this town. Anyway, I have changed my name back to Eugenia Luganskaya, my birth name. And… uh… sorry, but I have renounced you and Mom as my parents. I am now an emancipated minor."
She dumps all of this on him in a matter of seconds before the door closes behind her.
"Wait, what?!" says Clay. He is in too much pain to get out of his chair fast enough to keep the door from closing. By the time he gets to it, it is locked shut.
Easing back into his chair, he realizes she must have planned all this before they ever left Saint Louis. The "emancipated minor" thing alone would require dealing with Russian officials, and absolutely nothing official here is done quickly. Were her "altered state" episodes just an act, too? he wonders.
With nothing else to occupy his time, he makes another attempt at finding his belongings amid the clutter. He especially wants to find his burner phone but again comes up empty.
If he felt stronger, he would launch himself at the door to knock it down, but that is out of the question in his condition. The memory of Jenna as a toddler squeezing through the pet door back home comes to mind now, but this one has no pet door. Even if it did, Clay would never fit through.
He is stuck here, and Jenna… well, Jenna is not his little girl anymore. She said so herself.
Tears are in his eyes as he stands in front of the refrigerator, trying to wrap his head around it all. A beer sounds good right about now, he thinks. Might as well get drunk.
In the fridge, he finds bottles of Stella Artois and a couple domestic brands, Baltika and Zhigulevskoye, he has never heard of. In no mood for anything Russian, he opts for the Belgium-made Stella. Very quickly he is mentally a million miles away, remembering an old soccer mate, Etienne, from Belgium. He barely remembers drinking his beer, but soon notices it is empty. Pamela has arrived in Astrakhan. She finds Clay's hotel easily enough and introduces herself to the pretty girl behind the counter. She remembers how Russian hotels only seem to hire the prettiest girls to work the front desk. Forcing a smile, she explains that her name should be on the reservation. The girl says her name is on the reservation, but they have her down as having already arrived.
"Well, I am obviously just now arriving," Pamela says as sweetly as she can. "See my passport? That's me! Now, would you please give me the key?"
"I am sorry," the girl says in very good English, "but I cannot. We have you marked as already checked-in."
"So you've said," says Pamela, with pursed lips. "I think I know what the problem is here." She pulls out two 1,000 ruble notes – $30-$80, depending on exchange rates – and hands it to the girl. Careful to see that no one is watching, the girl smiles, takes the bribe, and hands Pamela the requested key card.
Pamela gathers up her bags and hurries to the elevator. Riding the incredibly small, cramped car to the fourth floor, she is mentally taken back to when they first adopted Jenna all those years ago. After the judge approved the adoption petition, they had spent the next ten days in this hotel with their young daughter, awaiting their paperwork to be finalized.
Jenna had absolutely loved this elevator. At the age of two, having no experience with elevators, it must have been like magic to her. You get into this little room on one floor, press a button, feel the sensation of going up or down, and the next thing you know you are on another floor! Amazing!
With such memories stirred up, the thought of her beautiful daughter now kidnapped in this most foreign of countries is just too much to bear. Alone in the lift, Pamela starts bawling. Huge, agonizing sobs wrack her entire body as the incredibly slow car chugs its way upward. When the door finally opens at her floor, she barely notices. It is only after it begins to close again that she sticks her leg out to keep it open.
Back home, that would have tripped a sensor and instantly reopened the door for her. Not here. It closes on her leg and stays there. A moment of panic hits before she presses the button – the one with the vertical line separating opposite arrows pointing outward – which is the international symbol for "open the damned door!"
It reopens, crisis averted, but that moment of panic does serve to snap her out of her crying jag. As she labors down the hall with her luggage, still wiping away tears, she eventually finds Clay's room. She enters and throws her coat on the couch and bags on the floor. She wants to collapse onto the couch but forces herself to remain standing.
The room overlooks the Volga River, and she is drawn to the window. Leaning on the sill, she is looking down at the river, lost in thought, when someone enters from behind. She smiles hopefully and spins around, hoping it is her darling Jenna.
It's not. It is a fashionably-trashy, thirty-something, hazel-eyed brunette woman in tight pants and spike heels. Sofia.
"You've got the wrong room," Pamela says more angrily than she meant to.
"I am with Clay," Sofia explains.
"He's not here," Pamela is now unapologetically rude. She cannot help but notice Sofia's garish attire. Jenna had texted about this woman, and Pamela now agrees Sofia might have been quite attractive if she were not such an obvious slut.
"You'd best run along now, honey," says Pamela. "I saw your pimp looking for you in the lobby."
Sofia curses in Russian but forces a smile and asks, "Where is Clay, please?"
"I said he's not here. I was hoping you could tell me where he is."
Vika Karimova at that moment then knocks on the door frame and squeezes into the room past Sofia. Pamela smiles with relief. Their former translator and unofficial hand-holder throughout the adoption process is a sight for sore eyes. She has visibly aged – it has been fifteen years – but her big, dark eyes have grown even friendlier.
That's a good sign, Pamela thinks. Crying as they hug each other, she says, "It's so good to see you! What have you been up to?"
"Oh, this and that," says Vika. "Just life, you know. And you?"
"Same-ol', same-ol'," Pamela lies. Then, as if it should have been expected, she adds, "Clay and I are divorced, of course."
"I am so sorry!" Vika sounds sincere. "That is too bad." Nodding in Sofia's direction, she asks, "Who is this?"
"Call girl, by the look of her," Pamela says purposely loud enough for Sofia to hear.
"I am Clay's translator and guide," Sofia explains, with pursed lips. "Who are you?!"
"I am his wife!" Pamela growls.
"Ah, yes, 'the ex-bitch,' he calls you."
"That's right, I am the ex-bitch."
"And I am the ex-bitch's translator and guide," Vika announces happily, joining in the fun.
"Vika!" Pamela objects.
"Sorry," Vika apologizes. She knows perfectly well who Sofia is, having tracked her from the moment she approached Clay in Moscow. She is simply playing the part of the blissfully ignorant civilian translator, until she breaks character and barks, almost shouting, in Russian at Sofia. "Where is Mr. Desno?"
Given Vika's tone, Sofia infers that she is more than she pretends to be. So many people, she sighs, are not what they pretend to be. "I do not know," she answers in English, raising her eyebrows to convey her innocence. With a wicked smile at Pamela, however, she adds, "We were having an intimate, candle-lit dinner when Clay saw Maksim on the other side of the street. He chased after him. You know how men like to chase each other, like children. That is when I lost track of him."
"So, you were the last person to see Clay alive," says Pamela.
"Yes," Sofia admits before correcting herself. "No, I suppose Maksim was the last. I stayed behind."
"You're so brave," Pamela is sarcastic, sure that Sofia is guilty of so much more than having candle-lit dinners with her husband.
"When he did not return," Sofia continues, "I came here to find him."
An indeterminate amount of time and several beers later, Clay is feeling much better about his predicament. Or, rather, his senses have by that point been dulled enough that he no longer acknowledges that a predicament even exists. He is starting to wonder what became of Sofia, though. Maybe she called the police, he hopes, and they're on their way right now to rescue me!
Another several beers after that, with no one crashing through the door to save the day, he begins to lose hope. None of his visualization exercises ever predicted this particular scenario.
His negativity does not last long, though. I am Clay Desno! he reminds himself. Minor League Coach of the Year nominee last year! Hope springs eternal! There's a solution to every problem. For every attack, there's a tried and true counter-attack!
He manages to convince himself Jenna does not hate him. No. She is simply sowing her wild oats. It's just that her "oats" are wilder than most. A lot wilder. She, like most teenagers, wants her freedom and doesn't want to wait one minute longer for it. Being in a foreign country and conveniently able to speak the language has provided that opportunity. She is merely taking advantage of the cards she's been dealt. Looking at it that way, Clay is proud of her resourcefulness.
That's right, proud!
Then it hits him. He's been drinking all this beer but is locked in here with no bathroom. Now that is a predicament.
"You insist on speaking English," Vika says to Sofia. "You are Russian, are you not?"
Sofia nods, yes. But there is no time to elaborate before an incoming text from Clay to Pamela interrupts them. "Well, speak of the devil…" says Pamela.
"Held by Maksim," the cryptic text reads. "Found Jenna. Insane."
"He's found Jenna!" says Pamela. "But, this has to be a sick joke. He says he's being 'held.' Held hostage? And this is the second time I've heard of this 'Maksim' person. Who is he? And which one of them is 'insane?'"
"Maksim is the boy Jenna wants to be her boyfriend, poor thing," Sofia tries to make it sound like Jenna is lucky to have a boyfriend at all.
Pamela thinks Sofia is making it much too easy to hate her.
Vika reads the text and shakes her head. She has known all along where Jenna and Clay are. And, given that their coordinates have been actively moving, she can deduce they are both still alive. Not necessarily doing well, but alive.
"Let me see!" says Sofia.
"Never you mind," says Pamela, putting the phone back into her purse.
Sofia pouts.
Vika advises Pamela to text Clay back and have him use his phone's GPS app to tell them his coordinates. "Good idea!" Pamela gushes as she pulls the phone back out of her purse. "You should be a detective!"
Vika smiles. When there is no response from Clay, however, she frowns. There is the possibility, of course, Clay's GPS tracker is alive but not Clay himself. That text could have been sent from his phone by anyone. "Do you think Clay sent that text?" she asks Pamela.
"Yes, don't you?"
"Does it sound like him," Vika clarifies, "like something he would say?"
"Hard to say with so few words," says Pamela, "but if I had to guess I would say yes."
Clay is still very much alive. He finally found his burner phone in an interior pocket of his jacket. The jacket itself was in the fridge. Maksim, you sick bastard.
He is trying to find the GPS function on the phone, as instructed, when Maksim and a couple other goons show up. Maksim snatches the phone out of his hand while the others go straight for the few beers remaining in the fridge.
Maksim reads the Americans' text exchange. He compliments the clever GPS idea as he tucks the phone into his back pocket. "Nice phone," he says. "I will keep it."
"I don't know, Maxi Pad," Clay comes up with a new nickname. "It's in English. Can you read English?"
"I will sell it online," Maksim smiles, "with all of your personal data still on it! I hope you do not use it for online banking!"
"There's nothing personal on it, dumb-ass," Clay scoffs. "It's a burner phone."
Ignoring the insults, Maksim sniffs the air. "It smells like piss in here!"
"Well…" Clay tries not to smile. He glances at the men by the refrigerator, each now popping open a beer. "You locked me in here with all that beer, but no bathroom, so…"
The men think nothing of how easily the caps come off the beer bottles. When they each take a swig, only to immediately spit it out in disgust, Clay laughs out loud. It hurts too much to laugh like this, and he tries to stop, but it is difficult.
"Someone pissed in our beer!" one of the goons exclaims. Clay had finally managed to stop laughing, but this makes him crack up all over again. He does not know what they said, but the look on the man's face says it all. The smarter one of the two points at Clay and says, "I will kill you!"
Maksim wants to laugh at his associates' misfortune, but knows they might kill him, as well. He steps aside and lets them take their anger out on Clay.
They proceed to beat Clay mercilessly until the "cartoon character" Dmitry Shepkin returns. "Stop!" he orders. "We need him alive!"
His henchmen explain what Clay had done to them, but that only makes the elder Shepkin laugh uproariously, almost as much as Clay had. Slapping his knee, he says, "Good one!"
Wagging a finger at Clay, he says in Russian, "I have not laughed that hard in years! Just for that, I might let you live!" Clay barely understands a word of it. To his men, Shepkin shouts, "Davai! I have someone I actually want dead!"
They leave Clay battered and bloody on the floor.
Vika's bosses had given her the go-ahead to organize a team to pay the Shepkins a visit the next morning. She has a warrant for his arrest based on Jenna's abduction. If it turns out Jenna was not abducted and has been hanging out with the Shepkin gang voluntarily, there is not much Vika can do about it. She hopes the latter is not the case, for she would dearly love to place handcuffs on both Shepkins.
Contrary to popular belief, Russia's FSB and organized crime truly are sworn enemies… most of the time. Nothing is absolute in Russia, but the Kremlin knows all too well it was organized crime – in the form of corrupt officials conspiring with oligarchs, each with his own army of lawyers, bookkeepers and hit men – who plundered and nearly tore Russia apart after the fall of the Soviet Union.
Vika's assembled team consists of several semi-retired intelligence, military and police officers. Along with those, she has included a couple members of the most-dreaded of all Russians – bureaucrats. Her right-hand man, Gennady – who followed Clay and Jenna from Moscow – has invited a trusted acquaintance of his own to join them. Vika is unaware of this third party, but trusts Gennady implicitly.
Normally, a "visit" to a known gang lord's compound would involve a SWAT team, but Vika has carefully selected her team based on personal experience with the Shepkins. She trusts each one of them with her life, even the bureaucrats. She just hopes it doesn't come down to that.
Thanks to the tracking devices, Gennady and Vika know exactly where to look for Jenna. On their way to the Shepkin compound, Gennady will drive the lead car while Vika rides with Pamela in the backseat of the second car.
Pamela is having an argument with Clay in her head at the moment. She wishes it would stop, but this sort of thing has been going on ever since they broke up. She consoles herself now feeling a bit superior to him. After all, she was smart enough to call for help, while he apparently tried to go it alone and rescue their daughter. She used to admire that about him.
Now, she decides, his method is not much different from men refusing to stop and ask directions when they get lost. Her "cavalry charge," as it were, is using minivans and bureaucrats instead of soldiers on horseback, but with Vika's team supporting her, Pamela is confident she will soon have Jenna safely back in her arms.
It is a beautiful morning. Not too hot, not too cold. Perfect weather for a cavalry charge. Pamela removes her wind-breaker, folds it neatly, and places it beside her. The front door windows of both vans are rolled down to let the fresh air in. A catchy, upbeat tune comes on the radio. Pamela's driver cranks up the volume.
Being silly, he is moving the steering wheel back and forth to the beat of the music. Pamela normally would have smiled at this but, under the circumstances, wishes he was taking things more seriously.
Within view of Shepkin's compound, Gennady stops the lead car and gets out. He puts up a hand for Pamela's driver to stop. From the backseat, she wonders what is going on. Is Gennady going to scold his counterpart for being too silly?
He casually walks up to their car, now stopped, as her driver sticks his elbow out the window. Also in back, on the opposite side of the car, Vika watches closely. Why is he approaching the driver instead of her? This is not part of the plan.
Gennady lithely slips a gun from out of nowhere and shoots the other driver, point-blank. Pamela screams as blood spatters onto her. The driver slumps to his right onto the front passenger who reflexively pushes him back over to his side. Pamela tries to lock her door, but there are no visible locks.
This model of minivan has sliding passenger doors on both sides of the vehicle. Vika is able to escape out her side, and is quickly on one knee with her gun out and in position to fire.
With the dead driver's foot no longer pressing the brake, the car lurches into the lead car. The occupants of that vehicle roll up their windows and lock their doors. It's an instinctive response but won't do much good. The windows are not bullet-proof.
Pamela tries to escape out Vika's door, but Gennady is too quick. He slides her door open behind her. She turns toward him in stark terror with her hands up in surrender. He is calm and smiling as if about to have a pleasant conversation.
A pedestrian then steps out of the shadows nearby. Pamela catches the movement in the corner of her eye and looks over. Gennady does not bother to turn. He knows who it is.
Two gunshots ring out, and a look of shock crosses Gennady's face. He loses his grip on Pamela's door as he turns to see who has just shot him in the back. He drops his gun and collapses to the ground.
With Gennady no longer obstructing her view, Pamela gets a good look at her savior. She cannot believe her eyes.
It's Jenna.
Jenna feels as if she is floating, in a dream, a crazy dream. In her mind, she is now at a carnival in an elaborate shooting gallery. The targets are not ducks but are cardboard cut-outs made to look like bad guys, monsters and cartoon characters.
Dmitry Shepkin is in her dream, standing behind her, encouraging and complimenting her skills. "You can do it," he says. "Kill the bad guys. You will win that big stuffed-toy on the shelf!"
She is past the age of caring about stuffed-toys but plays along because that is the game. It's fun. Shoot the targets, win a prize! She has quickly grown to love and admire the elder Shepkin, strangely, more than her adoptive-father, Clay. They have a sort of connection that she cannot quite comprehend. He has become a father-figure, so she does as he asked and shoots Vika's partner Gennady in the back.
Seeing him fall to the ground, however, gives her pause. Something is not right. This is too real. In her head, Dmitry then becomes a cartoon character. She wonders why that phrase is so familiar.
She walks slowly, calmly up to Gennady now sprawled on the ground, face-up, eyes blinking, still alive. He gives her a look of disgust but is unable to move. Standing over him, not looking at Pamela, Jenna recognizes Gennady from the Moscow airport. He was the one who gave them that bottled water.
She purses her lips as if contemplating her next move, but there is no question what needs to be done. She needs to finish him off. Those are the rules. With a grim resolve, aiming her gun at his head, she says, "It's too bad. He was nice to me at the airport."
Her mother then ruins everything by speaking. Jenna had forgotten she was there, just a few feet away. "Jenna!" Pamela snaps at her daughter. "What are you doing?!"
"Aw, mom!" says Jenna. "Just let me finish the job! Those are the rules!"
"Those are not the rules." Pamela has no idea what might be going through her daughter's head but continues, thinking on her feet. "You've already shot the man. He is wounded and can't hurt us now. You've done your job!"
Vika pops up on the other side of the van, gun in hand, silent. The van is low-profile for its type, and Jenna is tall enough to see across its roof. She now zeroes in on Vika, her new target. From inside the vehicle, Pamela turns to see what Jenna is looking at. Vika's torso is pressed up against the other side of the van. Pamela guesses she is standing on the running board, but cannot see the gun she is pointing at her daughter.
Tense seconds pass before a look of recognition finally crosses Jenna's face. She vaguely remembers "Miss Vika" from childhood. Jenna smiles. Vika forces a return smile. All the while, they keep their guns pointed at each other.
Jenna's smile then disappears and she is now angry at Miss Vika. She is the one who, she now remembers, physically carried her away from the relative safety and comfort of the orphanage all those years ago – away from all she knew – into the arms of those two foreigners, the ones she now calls Mom and Dad.
Jenna now feels dizzy, same as back at the orphanage. Her birth-mother Svetlana comes into view. She is holding up a hand, saying Nyet, nyet, nyet! Jenna cannot hear the words, but understands.
So much has happened in just these few moments. Conflicting thoughts, strong emotions and violence have taken their toll on her. Jenna can feel the energy draining from her body. Her vision is getting blurred. She lowers her gun.
Vika is controlling her own barely-perceptible breathing. She can see that Jenna is struggling with something internally, but remains calm and professional with her gun trained on her target. Jenna shakes her head as if trying to clear her thoughts. She lifts up her gun and Vika does not hesitate.
From inside the car, all that Pamela hears and sees is a gunshot followed by her darling Jenna collapsing to the ground. "My God, no!" she shrieks and jumps out of the car. She rushes to her daughter's side and, there in the middle of the street, props her into a sitting position.
Jenna has landed on something uncomfortable. She rises up a few inches to see what it is. It's her gun. Pamela spots it, too, and snatches it before Jenna can. She sets it on the ground behind herself, as if hiding a toy from a misbehaving child.
It takes a moment before she sees her daughter's wound. The bullet only grazed her, but it is still a horrifying sight for a mother to see. She picks up the gun, runs back to the van, tears a sleeve off her wind-breaker, and drops the gun into her purse. Turning the wind-breaker sleeve inside out to better soak up the blood, she returns to wrap Jenna's wound with it.
Vika circles around the back of the vehicle. She had purposely shot the gun out of Jenna's hand. What she had not intended was for the bullet to ricochet into the girl's shoulder, sending her crashing to the pavement. Vika is as relieved as anyone to see that Jenna is okay. It's just a nasty scrape. She can only guess her target fell to the ground more from shock than from the impact of the bullet. She has learned from personal experience that, no matter how tough or street-wise a person thinks they are, a real live gunfight has a profound and lasting effect on them.
But what the hell got into Gennady? Vika now wonders. For that, she has no answer.
Dmitry is watching it all from his upstairs window as the scene plays out on the street below. He shakes his head at Gennady's failure, but is impressed with Jenna's performance. She shot the wrong person… unless she was aiming at Gennady, in which case it was a good shot. One has to give credit where it is due.
She had been instructed to shoot everyone other than Gennady and his friend, the other mole, but she is too strong-willed. He could see that she had broken his spell. He knew he could not expect to gain complete control over her in the short time he has had her. He is very good at what he does, but no one is that good. She shows great potential, though. If she survives what he can see coming next, she might go far in his organization, given time.
Vika is not the only one who has spent some time in the KGB/FSB. Dmitry was there with a specialty in psychotronics: controlling human behavior through a combination of drugs, hypnosis and electronic gadgetry emitting various microwave and electromagnetic radiation.
A bit of a wunderkind once upon a time, he and his fellow students used prostitutes as their "field" test subjects. When he got into the habit of sampling those drugs and prostitutes himself, however, Dmitry was kicked out of the program. Still, it was not until he was discovered practicing his current criminal work that he was kicked out of the FSB entirely.
~
Jenna leads Pamela, Vika and their surviving crew to Dmitry's compound to get Clay. Two from Vika's party are tasked with staying behind to deal with Gennady and the dead driver. The remaining two follow Pamela and Vika.
Jenna suddenly forgets where Dmitry's compound is. Her mind is playing tricks on her but, after a moment of confusion, she remembers and leads them to Clay's storage room. She swipes her keycard across the reader and breathes a sigh of relief when it works. Pamela follows her into the small room while Vika and her team stand guard outside the door.
Pamela and Jenna both gasp upon seeing Clay's swollen, bruised face. He is curled into the fetal position in his favorite chair, unaware that he is being rescued.
He is dreaming he is back home in Saint Louis. His old hound dog Goober is still alive. They are taking a nap together on the back porch. Clay is on the porch couch, with Goober on the porch itself, close enough so that Clay can scratch behind his ears. Such a great porch. Such a great dog.
When he hears someone enter the room, he is surprised Goober hasn't barked to warn him. He is usually so good at that. Too good, sometimes. Clay opens his eyes and, with a groan, remembers where (and when) he is. Not bothering to see who's there – he assumes it is his captors returning to pummel him some more – Clay mumbles defiantly, "Han't learnt yer lesson yet?!"
Once he does turn toward the door, he is shocked to see Pamela come into view, followed by Jenna. He would smile if it didn't hurt so much.
"You weren't kidding," Pamela refers to his text about being held captive.
"Nunt," he tries to say "nope." He has never in his life been so happy to see her. He grabs hold of her arm like a drowning man to a lifeline.
"Dad!" Jenna cries, inserting herself between him and Pamela. "Are you alright?"
Clay eyes her warily. "Depends who's asking, the American Jenna or the Russian Eugenia? I can't tell anymore."
"It's me, Dad. Jenna! I'm so sorry. I feel pretty weird right now, actually," she giggles, "but it's me." She is on her knees at his side. "I want to hug you but I'm afraid I'll hurt you."
You've hurt me worse than you'll ever know! he thinks as he shoots her a glance. He wants to say, "Nobody told me my own daughter would be the biggest asshole I have ever known!" But, despite everything, he can't talk to her like that.
As much as he loves her – and he loves her as much as life itself, or did until this latest stunt – she sometimes inspires a level of anger in him no one else comes close to. This is one of those times. It requires every ounce of restraint to control himself, but he holds his tongue
She's his precious child. He needs to be the grown-up here. Choosing the same words he used last time she snapped out of one of her spells, he says, "There's my American girl!"
He moves to pat her on the head, but his hand is killing him. Holding it now with his other hand, he says with a wince and a grin, "I think I broke my hand on someone's face."
He finally notices the crude bandage around Jenna's shoulder. A spot of blood is seeping through. "What happened?!"
"Long story," says Pamela. "I'll tell you later." She is not ready to talk about it. "I think she'll be okay once we can put something on it and wrap it better."
"Never mind me," Jenna says with a smile. "We need to get Dad cleaned up!" She gets up off her knees to go find a clean towel. Finding one, she soaks it in a bucket of hot water from the faucet next to the refrigerator. She hands it to Pamela for Clay and returns to the fridge.
"Don't drink the beer!" Clay warns.
"Wasn't gonna," says Jenna. "I was looking for a bottle of water. But, what's wrong with the beer?"
He explains what he had done. Everyone has a good laugh… until realizing it was this prank that got him so thoroughly beaten.
"I told you," Pamela scolds him softly, "your sense of humor would get you killed!"
"You should see the other guy," he jokes. Having been unconscious, he is oblivious to the shootout that transpired out on the street.
"Jenna, honey," says Pamela, "please find a second towel and soak it in hot water for yourself?"
With Clay and Jenna both now cleaned up a bit, they head out. Pamela and Jenna prop Clay up from either side until both women cringe, stop, and quickly take his arms off their necks.
"Sorry, Mud Man," Pamela explains, "but you smell awful, like you've been rolling around in the mud, literally, if not worse."
"Sorry!" says Clay. "There were no showers in my luxury suite! So, don't hold me up then. But, if you could just stay close and make sure I don't fall over, that'd be great."
Entering the alley, he sees Vika. "So that was you!" he says. She nods and smiles. To Pamela and Jenna, he says, "Don't take this the wrong way, but it's embarrassing that I had to be rescued by a bunch of women. Don't tell the guys back home, okay?"
Jenna nods in agreement, pauses, and asks, "What guys?"
"Any guy you meet!" he says, and they all laugh.
Vika and her associates follow the Americans down the narrow alleyway to an adjacent building. Pamela absently notices that this is probably the cleanest alleyway she has ever been in.
There is a doorway and awning with an elevator leading to Dmitry Shepkin's residence. They are stopped by one of Dmitry's guards. Vika is surprised Jenna is the one leading them here. This was where she planned to go… on her own.
Clay notices that this guard is young and surprisingly unthuggishly-dressed, wearing jeans, sneakers, and a striped collared shirt. He looks fresh out of high school, though he does have a scar on his face. The scar, he now notices, is in the same spot as Maksim's… and everyone else who took a swing at him lately. It must be a gang marking, he decides. Gangsters are so stupid.
From a phone on the wall beside the elevator, the kid calls up to his boss for instructions. To Jenna in Russian he says, "Boss says you are cordially invited up, but only the Americans. He says you can translate?"
"'Cordially invited,' Vika smirks out the side of her mouth. "What's to stop him from taking them all hostage," she asks the young guard, "or shooting them as they get off the elevator?"
The guard relays this into the phone, but Dmitry cuts him off. "I heard the bitch. Put me on speaker."
"My team and I are coming with them…" Vika insists, "...armed."
"Why are we visiting Dmitry at all?" Jenna asks.
"I was wondering the same thing," says Clay, "but you're the one who led us here."
"I did?" Jenna asks, confused. She now remembers that she did, but has no idea why.
Always the practical one, Pamela moves closer to Jenna, puts an arm around her shoulders, and offers, "If you were staying there, honey, you probably have to go up and get your things."
Jenna nods. That makes sense, but there is more to it than that. On one level, she feels a strong pull toward Dmitry but there is an equally strong revulsion. Her reaction to the conflict is to vomit. She barely misses Clay's shoes.
Pamela rushes to Jenna's aid, looking for something to wipe her mouth with. "She can use her sleeve," Clay offers, seriously.
"Don't…" Jenna puts up a hand. "I'm fine."
"We go up there," Vika returns everyone's attention to the business at hand, "get Jenna's things, and come right back down."
"I'm not going up there," Clay interjects. "You and your people go visit that low-life, keep him distracted, while the rest of us get the hell out of town!"
"Jenna has to get her things," Pamela argues.
"Forget her things!" says Clay. "We can buy new things! I can't believe you want to pay this guy a visit like he's some kinda friendly neighbor. He's a mob boss! He kills people. He's the one who had me beaten up! Twice!"
"Actually, no, Dad," Jenna disagrees. "The first time, it was Maksim. The second time, it was the guys whose beer you peed in. And, Dmitry is the one who saved you from them. Remember?"
"Besides," says Pamela, "we've got Vika and her people with us, all heavily armed. We'll be fine! Y'all are heavily armed, right?"
Nodding at Pamela, Vika says, "It's up to you, but I do have some very interesting information to share with everyone… especially the senior Mr. Shepkin."
"Let them all come up, then!" Dmitry barks through the phone in Russian. "As long as they keep their guns in their holsters, I promise not to shoot anyone. I just had the place remodeled. Bullet holes would not match the décor!"
Vika translates with a professional chuckle, pretending that she does not despise everything about the man. She fully expects him to try something stupid.
Jenna nods. "He did just have it remodeled."
"A mob boss with style and a sense of humor?" Pamela asks.
"Those are the worst kind," says Vika. "They fool themselves into thinking they are civilized."
Clay is still shaking his head. "This has got to be the stupidest thing I've ever done, but I guess you're gonna do this, no matter what I say. And, I can't let you all go up there alone, so let's go. Davai, as they say." As they get off the elevator at the second floor, there is no one there to greet them. The lift door opens directly into the living room. There is no elevator lobby. Clay looks around nervously, expecting someone to jump out at them. To Jenna, he says, "Okay, go get your stuff and let's go." He wants to get in and out. Quick.
"No," she says, "I want to hear what Vika has to say!"
"She can email us," he insists. "Come on, let's go!"
"I'm not going anywhere until I hear what Vika has to say!"
Clay sighs deeply, finds a seat, and hopes for the best.
As everyone takes a seat on their choice of several couches and chairs throughout the spacious living room, Clay stage-whispers to Vika, "This better be good."
She smiles reassuringly.
The angry exchange between Jenna and Clay a moment ago does not affect Jenna in the slightest. They have been doing that her entire adopted life. What she is concerned with now is the hold Dmitry still has over her. He has her hooked like a fish on a line and, try as she might, she cannot quite remove the hook.
Clay also questions whether Jenna has truly snapped out of whatever spell she has been under. Will she ever come back to him mind, body and spirit? This is another reason he didn't want to come up to Dmitry's lair, but he didn't want to say so in front of her. She claims to be her old self again, but he finds it difficult trusting anything she says anymore. That, alone, makes him sad.
Pamela is wondering about some of the same things that Jenna and Clay are, but, in an effort to maintain her sanity, has chosen to suppress such concerns. She studies the décor, instead.
There is a lot of white. The walls, archways, railing along sections of raised flooring, and pillars are all white. Those pillars are thicker than normal, made that way, perhaps, to better hide behind in a shootout. There are black and red accents with gold trim throughout Dmitry's residence. If she had to guess at a name for this style he has chosen – other than garish – she would call it Russian/Egyptian hybrid.
Maksim and several of Dmitry's henchmen enter next, including the "beer" drinkers who are now glaring at Clay. Maksim makes it a point – with a smirk at Clay – to take a seat next to Jenna on the couch. When he sees her badly-wrapped wound, he summons their "battlefield" medic, Vladimir, over to tend to her.
The rest of the henchmen remain standing, spread out across the room. They are not here to socialize.
Astrakhan's self-professed Number One gang leader, Dmitry Shepkin, then makes a grand entrance. At least, he clearly hopes it is a grand entrance. Wearing a black tracksuit and smug grin, taking long, slow strides, his back is ramrod-straight as he peers down upon his now-seated guests. He always has guests seated prior to his entering the room. It forces them to look up to him. It seems silly, he knows, but it is amazing what can be accomplished with such "silly" manipulation tactics.
From her chair closest to the elevator, on Shepkin's left, Vika smirks. She is unimpressed with the man before her. She is all too familiar with Dmitry and his ilk. He might have made a better impression, she thinks, if he had worn proper clothing instead of this 1980s New York gang banger-style tracksuit. Emperor's New Clothes comes to mind.
Across the room, now standing next to the bar, Dmitry drapes one leg over a bar stool, half on, half off it. Pamela notices, despite Dmitry's somewhat cartoonish attire, he does have a certain presence. He is very much a "there, in-the-moment" sort of person who seems able to soak in every molecule of his immediate surroundings.
"Love what you've done with the place!" says Pamela. Her corporate instincts are kicking in. When you find yourself in an adversarial boardroom, it is wise to quickly determine who is in charge and immediately get on their good side, usually with compliments. Works like a charm, especially with men like Dmitry. If there is no one clearly in charge, she will take charge, but Dmitry is clearly in charge. These simple rules have gotten her where she is today in her career… assuming she has a career when she gets home.
Dmitry is pleasantly surprised, hearing Vika's translation. "Thank you! You are not being sarcastic, are you? I despise sarcasm."
"I'm completely serious," says Pamela. "I would love the nickel tour."
Vika has to ask her to clarify "nickel tour."
Clay is impressed with Pamela's aplomb. His own aplomb fell out and shattered into a million pieces a while back somewhere on the streets of Astrakhan.
"Maybe later," Dmitry says with a dismissive wave, though he is intrigued by this American woman. He has had very little experience with American civilians and, so far, has been impressed with the females. The male, Clay, not so much.
With a smile, he adds, "You are Jenna's adoptive mother, yes?"
"Da!" says Pamela, using one of the few Russian words in her vocabulary. She finds herself reluctantly drawn to him.
"You must be very proud," he says, through Vika. "She is so beautiful, and smart! And," he adds with a wink and another smile, "I can see where she gets her style and charm!"
"Get a room!" Jenna says in Russian.
"Not a bad idea," Dmitry laughs, now eyeing Pamela like a piece of meat. No translation necessary.
Everywhere I go, Clay thinks, men are hitting on my wife! Pamela smiles at Clay as if overhearing his thoughts.
Dmitry has been keeping a close eye on his man, Vladimir, diligently tending to Jenna's wound. To Jenna, in Russian, he asks softly, "What is going on there?"
"Not sure, actually," she replies in Russian. "Got shot somehow." She shrugs it off as if this is a common occurrence. Dmitry nods. It is a common occurrence in his world.
"What does that plaque on the wall say?" Pamela asks Dmitry, pointing at an ornately-framed quote.
Before Vika can translate, Jenna speaks up. "'Violence, when done properly, is a work of art' – Dmitry Shepkin."
Dmitry smiles upon translation. Pamela's jaw drops.
With both Clay and Dmitry watching the "medic" treat and wrap Jenna's wound, their eyes inevitably make contact. The two of them then begin a strange little competition in which the objective seems to be: whoever watches Jenna the closest – whoever appears to be the most concerned – wins. Clay would get up and sit next to his daughter, but it hurts too much to move.
Dmitry doesn't need to move. As Pamela has intuited, he is so in tune with his surroundings that he can let his eyes do the walking. When he does this, it is as if he is physically standing in that spot. It can be quite disconcerting to those around him. He is fully aware of that, and enjoys it tremendously. One drawback from his perspective is that, early on, he could never sneak up on anyone. They always felt him coming. Through practice, however, he has mastered it to the point that sneaking up on people is now one of his favorite things.
He and the last true friend he ever had – before he killed him – used to have staring contests. These were not the usual kind, however. They would pick an attractive woman across the room, preferably not facing them. They would then go to opposite corners of the room, and commence staring at her, typically undressing her with their eyes, imagining all sorts of kinky activities, until she inevitably turned to look. Whoever she looked at first was the winner. Bonus points were given according to the level of "creeped-out" look on her face.
It was a strange thing to do but that, in a nutshell, summed up Dmitry.
Jenna has been doing her best to hold still throughout the treatment of her wound, but she finally cannot take it one moment longer. "Okay, you're done!" she shouts at Vladimir. "Go away!" Her outburst startles both Clay and the medic.
She immediately apologizes in Russian. "I'm sorry, Vladimir. You're only trying to help. Do you have any painkillers? I might get irritable without them."
He smiles and starts looking for said medication.
"I have painkillers," Dmitry offers from across the room.
"Uh, no thanks," says Jenna. She no longer trusts anything coming from him. Looking at Clay while addressing Vladimir, she says, "Whatever drugs you've got, give some to my Dad."
Vladimir looks to Dmitry for approval. Dmitry shakes his head, no. He is deeply offended that Jenna has rejected his own offer. To someone unseen in the shadows, he barks, "Put some finger food and drinks out for everyone! What am I paying you for?"
An attractive woman in a skimpy outfit then appears. Pamela recognizes the uniform from last time she visited Luxor Hotel in Las Vegas. She also recognizes the woman now wearing it. It is Sofia.
"Quickly!" Dmitry snaps. "I need you as my translator, too!" Pointing at Vika, he adds, "I do not trust this bitch."
Vika smiles and gets up from her chair.
No one translated any of that, but Clay is dumbfounded by the sight of Sofia. The woman is clearly humiliated. Jenna smirks and leans toward Clay to say, "Oh yeah, I meant to tell you."
Dmitry stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets impatiently, raises his eyebrows, and says to Vika, "It is very unusual for you to visit me like this. What is this 'interesting' news you claim to have?"
Vika nods and begins her presentation, now standing behind her chair, as if for protection. "First of all, if our American friends have not yet figured it out, Dmitry Shepkin is a local crime boss." After translation, Dmitry smiles proudly. "As to Maksim, he is of course Dmitry's son. He met Jenna online. The boy spends most of his worthless life recruiting women online to work as 'actors' in Dmitry's porno films, or as prostitutes, or both. His title in his father's organization," she adds with a laugh, "is VP of Talent Acquisition."
Pamela cannot help but laugh out loud. That is her corporate colleague Richard's title back home. She covers her mouth. "Sorry, go on."
"Orphans and the less-fortunate are a prime resource for these people," Vika continues, almost spitting in disgust. "And, that is why I have been working so many years to get as many orphans adopted as possible." She smiles at Clay and Pamela. "Maksim promises them acting and modeling careers. And the Shepkins do have a small number of legitimate clients, for appearances' sake but, as I said, most of their 'clients' are porn stars and prostitutes." To Clay, she adds, "That is what Sofia was doing in the back of Maksim's car at the orphanage. She was 'auditioning' for a part in a film."
"She's still auditioning, apparently," says Clay, gesturing in his former crush's direction. His jaw is loosening up, which allows him to speak more clearly now. "But that is how they do it in Hollywood, by the way. I played for an L.A. soccer team in my twenties and, in the off-season, got somewhat familiar with the inner workings of Hollywood. Let's just say the 'casting couch' applies to men and women. And that might be the only reason I'm not a movie star today."
Everyone but Pamela and Dmitry laughs. Pamela knows humor is Clay's way of dealing with stress. So, when he starts cracking jokes, her polite smile often changes into a cringe. Dmitry's reason for not laughing is that he does not laugh at jokes from people he dislikes.
Clay asks Vika, "But how did you know about Sofia and Maksim in the backseat?"
"We have been following you and everyone associated with you from the moment you arrived in Russia. Closely. Maksim was going to shoot you that day for interrupting that 'audition,' by the way. My man, Gennady, disarmed him and drove you back to the hotel. He saved your life."
At the mention of Gennady's name, she looks down, again wondering what happened to him. She has to assume Dmitry got to him somehow. "Sofia followed you to the hotel, which is when your party started. I suppose she was determined to party with someone. I didn't know until this moment she was working for Dmitry."
Dmitry smiles at the disgusted look on Vika's face.
"I told you she was playing you!" Jenna says to Clay.
"Oh, honey," Pamela chimes in with a smile, "women have been 'playing' your father his entire life."
Clay shakes his head, but knows she is probably right.
"Also," Vika says to Clay, "sorry, but I had Gennady slip you a Rohypnol – the 'date rape' drug? – at the hotel bar that night so you would not have any recollection of him. I'm sure you understand."
"Not really, no," Clay shakes his head. "But at least now I know why I couldn't remember anything. I drank, too, but have never had memory loss like that."
Standing behind her chair and placing her hands on its shoulders, Vika continues. "As I said, Maksim ran into Jenna online while she was at home, making inquiries into her birth parents. He took a special interest in her and convinced her to come to Russia. I learned this through a genealogist friend…."
"This is all very boring!" Dmitry bellows. "You promised something interesting!"
"I'm getting to that," Vika smiles. Turning toward the Americans, she asks, "Whose deep, dark secret would you like to learn first: Maksim's or Dmitry's?"
Clay votes for Maksim. Pamela chooses Dmitry. Looking to Jenna, Vika says, "You are the tiebreaker."
"Maksim," Jenna says without hesitation.
Vika continues. "Okay then. Maksim…" she pauses to give Jenna an apologetic look, "is your brother. Half-brother, to be precise, and has known this since before you got here."
Clay and Pamela cringe. Jenna's mouth drops and her eyes go wide. Dmitry keeps his usual poker-face thin smile.
"You do not know," Maksim defends himself, "what I knew or when I knew it!"
"You admitted to it," Vika counters, "to one of your online friends. You should know by now nothing you say online is truly private. As my American friends would say, young Shepkin, you are one sick puppy."
Maksim laughs nervously.
"You mean I have been…" Jenna exclaims with a shudder. She consciously edits out the worst part. "...with my own brother?!"
"Half-brother!" Clay interjects. He thinks he is helping.
Jenna does not hear him. Silently, she thinks, So Dmitry's my father? She then turns and abruptly vomits on Maksim before retreating to a different couch farther away from him.
Maksim pulls off his vomit-soaked shirt and throws it on the floor.
"Is that where that belongs?!" Dmitry scolds him like a typical parent dealing with a slovenly child.
Clay snorts, "He sounds like me and Pamela talking to Jenna!" He is eager to change the subject away from his daughter's sex life. That she even has a sex life is bad enough. He feels like a complete failure as both a father and human being right now.
Dmitry barks at Sofia to clean up the vomit. She is appalled, but dutifully complies.
Maksim picks up his shirt, as instructed. Looking around with an impish grin, he takes the opportunity to flex his muscles "for the ladies" before taking a seat on the arm of Jenna's couch, still shirtless.
She glares at him.
"What?" he asks, clueless as usual.
She then surprises everyone when she angrily pushes him to the floor, pounces on him, and starts punching wildly. He laughs at first, but she does not punch like a typical girl as she vents the full fury of her own confusion, frustration and disgust upon him.
No one moves to stop it. It is too entertaining to see him get his butt kicked by a girl. Clay is happy to see her Krav Maga training is working for her, unlike his own karate training. He shadowboxes – all that he can manage – along with her. It should bother him, he thinks, that a teenage girl is able to beat up someone he could not, but it doesn't. He is quite proud of his daughter… on this score, at least.
Once Jenna climbs off Maksim, leaving him on the floor, whimpering, Clay gets up and slowly hobbles over to help the boy back onto his feet. Everyone is impressed with his kind gesture… until he summons every last ounce of strength to kick the teenager in the ribs. Maksim squeals and flops back down to the floor.
"Now we're even," says Clay, "mudak!"
Oblivious to this, Jenna is staring at Dmitry so intensely that even he – with his impregnable veneer – grows uncomfortable. She is trying to wrap her head around the fact that she has been living in his house this whole time without knowing he is her birth-father. She has felt a connection to him from the moment she first lay eyes on him, but she attributed that to his magnetic personality. He is a natural leader, and she has always been drawn to that type. She had also almost immediately figured out he is a liar, manipulator and hardened criminal, but her feeling of kinship was always there. Now she knows why.
Coming up here, she fully intended to do as Clay asked: get her things, hear what Vika had to say, and leave… forever. But now, everything has changed. Her mind is made up.
She will stay in Russia. She will endure her adoptive parents' wailing, gnashing of teeth, and accusations. It won't matter. Dmitry, flaws and all, is her birth-father. There is no denying that now, and that means something.
She does not approve of his line of work – though his power is enticing – but if he will allow it (and is not thrown in prison) she will ignore his livelihood and learn to live in Astrakhan as a Russian girl.
She needs to see this thing through. In the short time she has been here, it has become a second home surprisingly quickly and easily. She is meant to be here, she can feel it.
If Maksim tries to resume their previous relationship, of course, she will knock the crap out of him as she did a moment ago. The thought of him touching her now sends a shiver through her entire body, but she forces such thoughts from her mind. She has inherited Dmitry's strong will and his ability to marshal her thoughts.
Vika has been keeping an eye on Dmitry the entire time. She expected him to intervene when Clay attacked Maksim, but was surprised when he remained focused solely on Jenna.
After a moment, she asks, "Is everyone ready to hear Dmitry's deep dark secret?" Dmitry shifts in his chair but seems otherwise unconcerned. She feels a bit like the host of one of those American talk shows in which the guests attack each other.
"In the time that Dmitry has known Jenna," she continues, "he has become genuinely fond of her. He might even have plans for her in his organization. Am I right, Dmitry?"
"You and I are not on a first name basis, Miss Karimova," he shrugs, "but, please continue."
"I am sure you have already guessed," she says to the Americans, "Dmitry is Jenna's birth-father."
Clay audibly moans. He was holding out hope that Maksim and Jenna were half-siblings through the mother, not the father. He has never met and, therefore, cannot hate the birth-mother as much as he hates Dmitry. "This is like Star Wars," he says, "where Darth Vader tells Luke, 'I am your father.'"
"Would you stop with the jokes?" Pamela snaps at him.
"I'm not joking," he says. "It really does remind me of that."
She shakes her head and turns away.
Vika steps out from behind her protective chair and gestures for her team to stand up. Dmitry and his men perk up and arise as well. "The show is over, folks," Vika says to the Americans. "Time to go, please." She gestures toward the elevator.
"That's it?" Jenna stands in disbelief. "We get an 'Oh by the way, Dmitry is your father,' and that's it? Time to go? There has to be something you're not telling us."
Vika shrugs, playing dumb.
"Now I know there's something!" Jenna smiles. "You're not a good liar, Miss Vika."
"Please, Jenna, take your parents downstairs. One of my people is waiting for you. Dmitry and I have business to discuss."
Dmitry smiles, able to translate those last words himself. In his line of work, "business to discuss" is code for money changing hands, agreements made, business as usual.
Jenna crosses her arms and sits back down. "I'm not leaving." She is adamant. "Dad, Mom, you go ahead. I'll meet up with you in a minute."
The Americans are shaking their heads. "If you're staying," Clay speaks for both of them, "we're staying." And they sit back down, completely unaware of Jenna's decision to stay in Russia. "Just go ahead and get this over with," he instructs Vika. "When Jenna gets like this, there's no talking her out of it."
"All right," Vika sighs, "if you insist, but please do not interfere." She pauses to ensure that she and her team are ready to respond with deadly force if necessary. She wishes the Americans were out of the room, but that is apparently not going to happen.
"We have irrefutable evidence," she continues after a moment, with another apologetic look at Jenna, "that Dmitry Ilyovich Shepkin murdered Jenna's birth-mother, Svetlana Nadezhda Luganskaya."
Pamela gasps. Clay shakes his head. Even Sofia puts her hand to her mouth in surprise, for the first time feeling sorry for Jenna.
Jenna shrieks like a banshee and launches herself out of her chair toward Dmitry. Sofia laughs out loud, she is so surprised. Attacking Dmitry is something she has wanted to do from the moment she met him.
Like Maksim before him, Dmitry's initial reaction to Jenna's attack is to laugh. Unlike with his son, however, Dmitry's men intervene and Jenna is quickly subdued.
"Why!?" she asks through her tears. "How could you do that!?"
Dmitry does not answer.
Vika is pleasantly surprised by the opportunity Jenna has inadvertently created. With a nod of the head, she and her people use the distraction to handcuff Dmitry's men before they can react, without much of a fight.
That was easy, Vika thinks, and makes a mental note to remember that tactic for the future. In the meantime, she and her people, including the bureaucrats – all well-versed in hand-to-hand combat and a myriad of weaponry – keep their guns trained on Dmitry and his people.
A moment later, four heavily-armed uniformed soldiers pour out of the elevator. Clay eyes them warily, wondering who they belong to.
"I invite you into my home," Dmitry shakes his head at Vika, "and this is how you repay me!?"
She shrugs and smiles. The uniformed soldiers belong to her.
Sounding disappointed Pamela says, "That was almost too easy."
"Don't jinx it!" says Clay.
Vika suddenly feels weak and disoriented. She looks around to see that everyone else now feels the same way. What is going on?
She notices Dmitry's hands are in his pockets, and he seems immune to these effects. "Put your hands where I can see them!" she points her gun at him.
The moment his hands are in the air, her weakness and disorientation quickly fades. How odd. "Check his pockets!" she orders one of her soldiers.
The soldier pulls out what looks like an extra-thick smart phone. Vika snatches it out of his hand and tucks it into an interior pocket before anyone can get a good look at it.
"What was that?" Pamela asks.
Vika only shakes her head. She does not know what it is, but instinctively hides it from American eyes. She loves Pamela and Jenna, but, if this device is some sort of exotic secret weapon – as Dmitry has been known to acquire through his old contacts in the Russian military – Vika feels it is her duty to conceal it from American eyes.
Dmitry sneers and shakes his head at her. She is such a good girl, he thinks, which, for him, is not a compliment.
Now that the show is truly over, Jenna and Sofia retreat to their respective rooms in Dmitry's house to grab their things. Jenna had, just moments ago, resolved to stay in Astrakhan with Dmitry. Now, as she gathers up her things, everything has changed again. Her entire world flipped once more with the revelation that he murdered her birth-mother. She has no choice now but to rejoin her adoptive parents and return to the States.
This emotional roller coaster makes her feel like vomiting again, but there is nothing left to throw up.
As Clay and Pamela stand in the living room waiting for Jenna to come out, they hear her shout from inside the bedroom, "Let go of me! Dad!"
Sofia was coming out of her own room, only to stop and slink back inside to safety.
Clay tries immediately to respond to his daughter's cry, but cannot move quickly. He has taken only a few steps before Jenna reappears in the living room, held by a man – presumably one of Dmitry's – with a gun to her head.
"Let Mr. Shepkin go," the man addresses Vika, "or I kill the girl!"
"No!" Pamela shouts involuntarily.
With her own gun in hand, Sofia comes from behind the man. "You shoot her," she says coolly, "and I shoot you!"
A look of surprise then disgust crosses the man's face. He looks to Dmitry for instructions. Dmitry seizes the opportunity to look like the hero. "None of this is necessary, Pavel," he shakes his head, as if surprised and disappointed by all of this. "Put down the gun before Jenna gets hurt. I will be out of jail and back in my own bed by tonight, I promise."
Pavel lets Jenna go, as ordered.
After a moment, Pamela says to Dmitry, "Thank you."
"She is my daughter, too," Dmitry says with a smile. "Come back tonight for a drink, and we will have a nice conversation." He looks to Sofia to translate, but she refuses. Vika reluctantly translates.
Pamela's initial smile devolves into a cringe and a shake of her head. "No, thanks." Vika's soldiers push the now-handcuffed Dmitry, Maksim, and their henchmen into the cramped elevator. Everyone else follows after it returns a moment later.
The elevator walls and ceiling are lined with mirrors, giving its occupants nowhere to hide, exactly as Dmitry wanted. Seeing her own reflection now, Sofia realizes with disgust that she is still wearing the God-awful Luxor outfit. In front of everyone, she strips down to her underwear, reaches into her bag, and changes into something else. The men in attendance appreciate the show.
"Thank you," Jenna says to Sofia.
"Yes," Clay agrees, "thank you!"
"What are you thanking her for," Pamela asks with a smile, "the striptease, or for saving Jenna back there?"
Clay rolls his eyes and changes the subject. "Hey, Vika, what about the bombing back in the Moscow airport? Ever find out who did that?" He watches Sofia for a reaction, unconvinced that she was not involved, but she appears to be as clueless as everyone else.
Vika shakes her head. "We don't know. I was hoping Dmitry was behind it, but it looks like it was Chechen terrorists."
"What is their problem, anyway?" Clay spits in disgust. "How does terrorism help their cause? I never understood their way of thinking."
"Their goal is to have their own homeland, separate from Russia," Vika says simply. "They think terrorism is their only weapon. If we don't give them their own country, they will keep terrorizing innocent civilians. Your CIA helps them, by the way."
"They're not my CIA," says Clay. "But I already knew what the terrorists were thinking. What I'm saying is they'll never get what they want through terrorism. All it does is piss people off."
"I know," she agrees, but is in no mood this. It has been a long day. With her adrenaline now wearing off, she would like nothing better than to wander off somewhere and take a nap, but there is still much work to do.
Downstairs in the alley, Vika makes sure Dmitry and his gang are safely ensconced in the "avtozak" – the Russian version of the paddy wagon. With that out of the way, she selects one of her crew, Sergei, to take the Americans back to their hotel.
Standing in front of the minivan's sliding door, Pamela is finding it difficult to get back inside. There is nothing physically stopping her. The problem is that it was not so long ago she thought Gennady was going to kill her inside one of these.
When Clay asks what is going on, she explains all of the above. "Forget it, then," he says. "Let's walk! I've been doing a lot of walking lately, anyway." With his trek across the city in search of Jenna still fresh in his mind, he gives his daughter a glance. "I've gotten to where I sort of enjoy it."
"Are you sure?" Pamela asks. "That was before you were beaten up… twice. And this is you we're talking about," she laughs. "You could talk yourself into 'sort of enjoying' standing in line at the DMV."
"I'm sure, I'm sure," he says.
They start walking, but Clay has no idea which way leads back to the hotel. As they emerge from the alleyway onto the sidewalk of the main street, he looks in both directions. Most of the streets within view have sidewalks, but not further down.
His ribs start to hurt again, and he reluctantly admits, "I won't be able to walk more than a few blocks."
Their driver, Sergei, following along slowly as if anticipating this, honks his horn and waves them over with a smile. A moment later, the Americans are once again piling into the minivan.
Pamela goes last. Holding onto the sides of the open door, she launches herself inside to join her husband and daughter. As she lands between the two of them, she has an epiphany. This is a microcosm of their relationship: Father and daughter happily together (when not arguing) while Pamela feels almost like an outsider forcibly inserting herself into the mix. That was why she insisted she and Jenna be the ones who lived together during the trial separation while Clay found new accommodations. As much as Jenna needed to reconnect with her birth-mother here in Russia, back home Pamela felt the need to reconnect with Jenna… without Clay.
She tries to convince herself now that, with this one small act accomplished – getting into the van – maybe she can do the same on a larger scale and be a more integral part of Jenna's (and Clay's?) life once again? That's the hope, anyway.
"What are you smiling at?" Clay asks.
"Just happy to have the three of us together again," she says and grabs his hand. He takes this as his cue to drape his arm across her shoulder.
"Unh!" she cringes. "Arms down! Arms down! You still reek!"
"Right," Clay apologizes. "I forgot."
Their driver laughs as he watches through the rear-view mirror.
On the way back to the hotel, Jenna tries to explain to Clay that his captivity was for his own good. She was keeping him safe and out of the way, "And, yes, it was a bit of payback for that time you locked me in my room all day with no phone or computer!"
"I told you that would come back to bite you!" Pamela chimes in with a laugh.
"I never said 'no computer,'" Clay corrects her. "I said 'no Internet.' Besides, you weren't locked in. The lock is on the inside."
Ignoring this last point, Jenna exclaims, "Well, what good is a computer without the Internet?"
Clay can remember a time when people connected to the Internet through their phone line using something called a "modem," complete with that iconic squawking sound. A personal computer was still considered useful back then even without an Internet connection. None of this is verbalized, however, for fear that words like "shenanigans" and "ah, to be young again" might slip out.
"So, you were holding me in that storage room," he seeks clarification, "as a sort of preemptive witness protection program?"
"Hey," Jenna adds, "at least I let you have your phone. I knew you'd text mom, but I am truly sorry for the beatings. I had no idea until it was too late."
You should have guessed that would happen, he wants to say. Instead, he says, "Forget about it. I'm just glad to hear you refer to her as 'mom' again. Maybe our Russian nightmare is over."
They are almost to the hotel. Strangely, next to this nice, modern hotel sits a couple rows of run-down, two-story public tenement housing blocks. They are separated by a sidewalk down the middle, with dirt on either side where grass should be. They are completely out of place and probably not long for this world before being torn down to make room for something new, given all the renovation going on around town. For now, at least, they are still inhabited.
It is to one of these tenements that their driver has been instructed to take the Americans. His orders – texted to him while Clay and company were trying to walk back to the hotel – are to drop Clay and Pamela off at one of these residences, forcibly if necessary, return "the girl" to Dmitry's compound, and await further instructions.
He drives slowly to one of the more out-of-the-way units, and stops. His contact inside sneaks a peek out the window between the curtains. Sergei has never met this man but recognizes his slow nod of the head as his signal.
Sergei is supposed to salute back to indicate that everything is still a "go," but he is having second thoughts. He just stares at the man in the window. He does not know what might become of Clay and Pamela, but can guess the worst.
He hopes he is wrong but he has learned when it comes to Shepkin, one should always assume the worst. Sergei is the one who Gennady – the one shot by Jenna – had brought along with him. He is Dmitry's other mole, and this is a test to see if he has what it takes to be a full-fledged member of the Shepkin gang.
This is no way to live, he thinks. So much killing, so much death. He is sick of it. He has already repaid any favors owed to Gennady. Besides, with Gennady shot and possibly not surviving, what is the point? To hell with Gennady and Dmitry!
Sergei decides he needs to swallow his pride, go back to the oil rig, and ask for his old job back. Anything, even that job and that boss, is better than being an accessory to murder.
"Is something wrong?" Clay asks. "Why are we stopping here?"
Sergei does not speak English, so Jenna asks in Russian. He shakes his head, nyet. He has made up his mind. He puts the car back in gear and takes them the rest of the way to the hotel and drops them at the curb.
Luckily for the Americans, he does not have what it takes to be a member of the Shepkin gang. He is not that desperate or depraved.
Pamela gives him a quizzical look and a smile, but says nothing as she climbs out of the van. She soon forgets about it, having no clue how close she and Clay just came to being killed.
Walking through the hotel lobby, a security guard's gaze lingers at the sight of Clay's battered appearance. Clay nods, hoping to be ignored. Directly in front of the Americans is a Russian family: a man roughly Clay's age accompanied by his daughter, wife, and the girl's presumed grandmother (babushka). They are coming out of one of the hotel's interior restaurants when the little girl, not paying attention, walks right into Clay's path. Seeing his beaten face, her parents, with worried looks, quickly coax the girl back in line.
Clay smiles. Oblivious to their reaction to him, he feels a connection to this Russian family, as if seeing his own family in them. None of them physically resemble anyone in his own family, but in the greater scheme of things, he decides, they are very much alike.
The recent horrific experiences have brought out the philosopher in him. One might think he would hate all Russians by now, but he does not. Yes, they can be harsh – sometimes brutal – like their weather, but underneath the gruff exterior is a warmth and sense of decency. They have a cultural identity and a certain resilience, too, that he admires.
Is this Stockholm Syndrome? he wonders. No, he still hates the Shepkin gang with every fiber of his being. The simple answer is that he is merely happy to be alive. Anything normal or mundane – like this Russian family – is a beautiful sight right now. Being back in the hotel, his second home lately, is a definite bonus.
Upstairs in their suite, Clay and Pamela take turns asking Jenna to explain what has been going on these past few days. Vika had explained a few things at Dmitry's, but the biggest question – why? – remains unanswered.
"So what was all that," Pamela asks gently, "with you being in Dmitry's gang? That is so unlike you. You hated gangs back home. And, that was not you who shot that Gennady person. It was like an evil spirit took over your body or something."
Jenna gives a disapproving look. "It wasn't quite that cray-cray, Mom," she shakes her head. "I'm pretty sure I was just drugged and hypnotized."
"'Just' drugged and hypnotized?" says Pamela. "By Dmitry?"
Jenna nods.
"That doesn't explain why you freaked out at the orphanage before that, though," says Clay. "You insisted on spending the night, and you stabbed that doctor."
Pamela gasps. She had not heard about that.
"Or," Pamela adds, "how you were such a good shot out there on the street." She keeps coming back to the shooting, as if unable to accept that her daughter could do such a thing.
"I 'freaked out' at the orphanage," Jenna explains, "because I had just met my mother… my Russian mother… or at least her spirit." She smiles at Pamela. "I was emotional. I think that's normal. Anyone would have been. As for the doctor, Maksim actually did that. He snuck into my room that night, and we were… um… hanging out…"
Clay and Pamela do not like the sound of that.
"I know, I know," Jenna continues, putting up her hands. "God, do I know. I am scarred for life, thanks to him! Anyway, the doctor snuck into my room. He was probably going to rape me. I remember he made a lot of noise with the doorknob. Anyway, Maksim picked up a pair of scissors and stabbed him in the back. The doctor thinks I did it because he never saw Maksim."
"But you were speaking Russian again at the orphanage," Clay counters, "like you did after the bomb at the airport. Was the Russian-speaking real or fake?"
"Both," says Jenna. "Like I said, I had just met my birth-mother in a sorta dream. We 'spoke' Russian. After I woke up, or whatever you wanna call it, I just felt like speaking Russian. It felt natural. It will always be my first language."
"Okay," Clay tries to believe her. "But what about…" he pauses, not sure he wants to tug on this next thread.
"Being such a good shot?" Jenna asks. "I don't know. I've been wondering about that, myself. I have shot a gun before, you know, back home and then again after I hooked up with the Shepkins. I honestly have no recollection of shooting anyone, though. Everyone says I did, so I guess I did. But I don't remember it."
"You must've blocked it out," says Clay. "But what I was going to ask about was you declaring yourself an emancipated minor."
"What?!" Pamela shrieks. This is the worst thing she has heard all day in a day full of horrible revelations. Jenna being under 18 is one of the reasons Pamela agreed to let her go on this homeland tour at all. She thought her age would prevent her from saying upon arrival in Russia something like, "Hey, I'm 18. I can do whatever I want! See ya!" It never occurred to her she would be so conniving as to have herself declared an emancipated minor. She now feels almost as if she, Pamela, is the one who was shot.
"Something like that has to be planned way in advance," Clay continues. "Nothing official around here happens quickly."
"Oh that," Jenna giggles. "Actually, around here, when you're a crime boss like Dmitry, you can get anything done quickly, especially official things." Paraphrasing Dmitry, she says, "'Put a little money into the right hands and, voilà, mission accomplished.' The emancipated thing was Dmitry's idea, by the way. I only went along so I could join his organization."
"'Organization,'" Clay scoffs, "like it's a corporation or something."
"There's not a whole lot of difference between gangs and some corporations these days," Pamela has to agree. She then adopts a softer tone and asks Jenna cautiously, "What else did you have to do to join his organization?"
"Nothing sexual, mom," Jenna rolls her eyes. "He was actually very protective that way. He even forced me and Maksim to sleep in separate bedrooms with an armed guard at my door!"
"He must have already known you were his daughter," Pamela smiles.
"To be in the gang," Jenna continues, "I had to prove I could fire a gun. And I had to take a math test, if you can believe that. He wants his people to be quick with math if you suddenly find yourself in a negotiation. 'Everything is a negotiation,' he says."
"Yep, he is your father," Pamela observes. "You are all about the negotiation."
"He was a sperm donor!" Clay growls. "Not her real father! You can't inherit character traits from someone you've never met!"
"Sorry, honey," Pamela pats Clay's hand. "No offense."
"I just wanted you to know where I stand," he laughs at himself, embarrassed by his outburst, "for the next time we have an argument about 'nature versus nurture.'"
Pamela scoffs and shakes her head.
"I was on the 'accelerated' program," Jenna continues, "but have only been here a few days. Wow, it's only been a few days. Feels like weeks, doesn't it?"
"Tell me about it," Clay agrees.
"I don't know what else he is involved in," Jenna continues, "other than the 'entertainment' industry.' Possibly computer hacking, judging by how much time Maksim spends online."
"Maksim is too stupid to be a hacker," Clay disagrees. "He's probably just watching porn."
"You don't have to be smart to be a hacker," Jenna explains. "You can buy these kits that get you into all kind of things. Scary stuff, which reminds me, we need to keep a stash of cash at home for when, not if, your online bank account is broken into."
"After this trip," Clay jokes, "I won't have any money left in the bank, anyway."
After a moment of quiet, Pamela finally verbalizes what they are all thinking, "When's the next flight outta here?!"
There is a knock at the door. "That must be our ride to the airport!" Clay jokes. It's not, it's the police.
"Miss Eugenia Luganskaya, please," says the lead officer.
"I need to stop opening this door," Clay says. To the officers, he says, "There is no one here by that name."
Looking at Jenna now standing behind her father, the officer points his finger and says, "This one. She is…" he turns to his partner for translation, but none is forthcoming. He reluctantly asks Jenna in Russian, "How do you say emancipated minor?"
Jenna translates and now her mom has joined them at the door to see what is going on.
The cop states in stilted English, "Miss Eugenia Luganskaya, you are under arrest for the attempted murder of Gennady Lebedev. Mr. Lebedev was a federal officer."
"Who?" Clay feigns ignorance. His first thought is What about the orphanage doctor? Not that he cares, but why are they not mentioning his attempted murder by Maksim?
"How is he, anyway?" Jenna asks guiltily. "Gennady, I mean." She gets no answer.
"She was only defending me, her mother," Pamela exclaims as she latches onto Jenna's arm, "from that 'federal' officer!"
Jenna pushes her mom away. Pamela is surprised, but soon realizes what Jenna is up to as she reaches for the lead officer's gun. It is a feint, but when the man moves to protect his firearm, she kicks him hard in the crotch. Like father, like daughter. The man yelps as he reels backward into the hallway.
"You'd think they'd wear protective cups," Clay says with a wicked grin.
The cop's partner lunges forward to get Jenna's hands behind her back. Clay kicks this one's hands, allowing Jenna to retreat further inside the room. The lead officer – now recovered from Jenna's kick – and a previously unseen third officer now join the scrum. The three of them together eventually get Jenna handcuffed. The one who Clay had kicked in the hands is glaring at him. The look on his face makes it clear he wants to drag Clay along with them, but Jenna is their target. No room for anyone else.
Outside the hotel, at the curb, Clay sees Jenna smiling as they put her into the police vehicle. He is immediately suspicious. Is this another one of her scams? he cannot help but wonder.
Then he sees what she is smiling at. On the other side of the vehicle, just a few yards away, that dog "Carlton" is cautiously wagging its tail. Leave it to Jenna, he thinks with a laugh, to smile at a stray dog while being thrown into the back of a police car.
Vika and the two remaining members of her team return in time to see Jenna being put into the back of the police van. This van is not an avtozak, the paddy wagon type, but a simple passenger van also commonly used by the police.
As soon as she spots Vika, Pamela says, "I demand to see someone from the U.S. Embassy!"
"The nearest embassy is in Moscow," Vika replies absently, distracted. Something about these cops is not right.
"So, we go to Moscow!" says Pamela.
"Can't we just make a phone call?" Clay is the sensible one for a change.
"Your embassy is closed until further notice," says Vika, "due to recent tensions between our two countries. Nobody knows when it will open again."
"Closed because of recent tensions?" Clay asks. "Isn't that pretty much when we need an embassy the most?"
"One would think," Vika admits, "but these are politicians." She has not taken her eyes off the police van. Then it hits her. She grabs Pamela's hand as she runs back toward her own car, waving Clay over to join them. "Come with me! Now!"
"What, what is it?" Pamela asks, almost crying.
"That is not a police van," says Vika. "Get in!"
Climbing in last, Clay says in exasperation, "This trip wouldn't be complete without a car chase, right?" Back home, if someone had abducted his daughter right in front of him, he would not be making jokes. But now, after everything they have been through, no longer surprised by anything, it seems appropriate somehow. He does not realize it yet, but this is a very Russian attitude to take.
A couple miles down the road, the men in the impostor vehicle spot Sofia on the sidewalk. She is walking back to Clay's hotel. With Dmitry and Maksim now presumably behind bars, she has nowhere else to go. She would have joined the Americans for the ride back to the hotel earlier, but did not want to impose.
The fake police van screeches to a stop, the door slides open, two men jump out and drag Sofia, screaming, inside. She is thrown in next to Jenna, whose hands are bound with plastic zip-tie handcuffs.
There are three men: the driver, a passenger up front, and one in back with the women behind the metal mesh partition. Up to this point, they have not been traveling fast, still maintaining the charade as a legitimate, slow-moving police vehicle.
After openly kidnapping Sofia, however, they drop the façade. The driver tries to turn on his flashing lights and siren, but those are not working. He curses his bad luck.
Vika guesses that they are headed to the police station to retrieve Dmitry. She calls ahead to those accompanying the elder Shepkin.
There is no answer.
Jenna speaks quietly to their escort in back. She does not want anyone up front to overhear. "You're cute!" she says in English with a flirtatious grin. She hopes speaking English will keep those up front from understanding her, if they overheard. "Wanna get naked?" she says with a giggle, unable to keep a straight face.
When the man only looks at her in confusion, she knows he does not speak English. That is all she was trying to determine. Even a gay man would have had some kind of response.
Jenna turns to Sofia and whispers in English, "OK, here is the plan. I have my own Russian bank account. Set it up a year ago through Maksim, and have been making deposits ever since. There should be a few thousand dollars in it by now. I won't be able to access it from back home because of all the regulations, though, so I might as well give it to you.
"There is a Russian saying," she waxes poetic. "'When the last tree is cut down, and the last fish is caught, only then will we realize we cannot eat money.'"
"I know the saying," Sofia is unimpressed, in no mood for poetry. With a condescending smile, she adds, "But if you set up the bank account through Maksim, I am sorry, honey, but the account is now empty."
"No, the money is in there," Jenna continues. "I verified it first thing after leaving the orphanage. Anyway, dye your hair blonde, use the fake ID that Dmitry gave me, and it is all yours… if you do this one last thing for me."
"So," Sofia remains incredulous, but plays along, "what is your brilliant plan?"
They have finished discussing most of the details when their captor intervenes. "Hey, hey," he says in Russian. "You must disperse! There is no talking allowed between prisoners!"
The prisoners dutifully comply. Jenna moves and sits next to the sliding door, where she pretends to pout. Sofia takes a seat next to their jailer. After a moment, she smiles, introduces herself, and strikes up a conversation. Learning that his name is Piotr, she continues to flirt, talking about nothing, as charming as can be, suggestively touching him in all the right places like she did with Clay.
She then complains about how hot it is in this "stuffy old van" and unbuttons the top few buttons of her blouse. This gets Piotr's full attention.
There is no time for a slow seduction, so she climbs onto his lap. Piotr is smart enough to know she is manipulating him, but he is perfectly okay with that. The men up front are not paying him enough, anyway. This will be a nice fringe benefit.
The distraction allows Jenna – hands still bound in front of her – to open the sliding door and jump out. The vehicle is still moving, but she has been keeping a close eye through the front windshield. She times her jump for when they slow down for a turn, and the side of the road is clear enough to avoid landing in or on anything painful or disgusting.
She scrapes one of her palms and an elbow upon impact, but otherwise lands well – tucking and rolling as she was taught in her Krav Maga training. She then quickly blends into the crowd on the street… as well as someone in handcuffs jumping out of a moving vehicle can blend, anyway.
The kidnappers slam on the brakes. This sends Sofia flying off Piotr's lap into the metal screen partition. The impact knocks her unconscious. Piotr leaves her there in order to jump out capture Jenna.
Vika's van is too far behind and around the corner for anyone to have seen Jenna jump out. They do see the kidnappers' van stopped, however. Piotr is outside looking for something.
Vika's driver slows down as they approach. As it slowly passes by, Pamela catches a glimpse of a girl's golden locks. That is all she sees, but in that moment her motherly instincts tell her it is Jenna. She just knows it. "Jenna!" she shouts at the top of her lungs.
Their driver stops the car. Clay spins around to get a better look. When he sees Jenna, he also shouts her name.
Jenna stops and turns. Several people turn and look, out of curiosity. Within moments, Jenna is inside the good guys' van and into her parents' loving arms. Vika pulls out a knife and slices through Jenna's zip-tie handcuffs. This allows Jenna to reciprocate her parents' hugs.
"Okay!" says Clay after a moment, "Now can we go to the airport?!"
Vika shakes her head, no. "After kidnapping Jenna and Sofia," she explains, "although Sofia was probably an afterthought, I don't think it is safe for you at the airport. Dmitry has obviously mobilized his people with some of them probably at the airport. I have a better idea. You might not like it, but it is more likely to get you safely out of town."
"'More likely?'" Clay asks. "That's the best assurance you can give?" He says it with a nervous laugh as if joking, but he is deadly serious.
Pamela gives him a dirty look. "Give the woman a break, Clay. She's in the middle of saving our lives."
"I cannot make any promises," Vika shakes her head, "but, for now, we must pretend we are still chasing Dmitry's men." She nods in the direction of that van.
The impostors see Jenna getting into Vika's van. Piotr quickly climbs back into his own vehicle, and the chase is back on. Vika's driver keeps pace as both vans speed through town.
"Hey, Jenna," Clay observes after a while, "we're finally getting that cultural tour of Astrakhan I promised! Look, there's that museum. And there, between those buildings, that's the opera house!"
Pamela shakes her head, adding, "Don't blink, you'll miss it."
Vika whispers something into her driver's ear. He nods. They are now just a few car lengths behind the impostors. Both vehicles speed through the intersection. Luckily for pedestrians, it is on a green light. Vika's driver makes a quick right turn. Too quick. Their van is briefly up on two wheels.
Vika shouts and points at the elevated side of the van, "Everyone to that side!"
Everyone does as ordered and they are soon back on all fours and speeding down another street.
Vika checks her watch, again asking the driver something in Russian. Jenna overhears "train schedule," "Sochi" and "Baku." The driver is shrugging his shoulders and mumbling in return about schedules.
Baku? Jenna wonders. Baku, Azerbaijan?
A moment later, they are in front of the train station, where the Americans are dropped off with instructions to take the next train out. They are told it is unlikely Dmitry will be expecting this. Hey, just trying to make a living. · Heartbreak
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Entanglements
Hostage
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Rescue
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Dmitry's Compound
Arrested
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To see how it ends, buy the book here... or here... or here... or here.
Temporary Insanity · Lottery President · Operation Detour · Last Train Out · Another Way · The Lazy Pug Café · Dub's Dilemma · · · · · ·