MISSING IT, NOT MISSING IT
Elizabeth sat at their little kitchen-nook table, not knowing if she should be steaming or not. On their previous deployment, neither she nor Philip had received instructions quite like the one she had just heard.
Then again, if Philip had been ordered so, maybe he would have been too embarrassed to tell her.
It was now January 1993, Elizabeth contemplated that coming up, this was now to be their second full year on this, their second deployment. The one she called, 'the dangerous one'(!). That's what Philip had called it, because to him there had been a number of benchmarks in 1992 which had to have been met, so that they knew they'd be safe.
All benchmarks. Met.
His worry had been that American technology had leapt forward since they fled for home in 1987. Simple human betrayal had sunk them that last time - this time, it was going to be some automated hidden, computerized 'something or other', something that neither the new Russian Federation nor it's SVR had even contemplated. Much less developed on their own.
Indeed, as soon as president-elect William Jefferson Clinton was to be sworn in later in the month, word was already out that first on his list was to meet with Philip and Elizabeth's equally new boss, Boris Yeltsin. The agenda for the new generation of younger American leaders was, indeed, the dazzling technology of the 1990s. Yeltsin knew he need a piece of it all for the new Russian Federation.
It was this new generation which would replace the old CIA & KGB men who in their old-days, worked in the trenches. Who wore out shoe leather, rather than sitting at computers. Who shot people in their Moscow apartments, shot their opposition from the other side, rather than 'doxxed' them online.
Elizabeth sat at the kitchen-nook stewing, also trying to put Gabriel out of her mind - which was of course impossible. Trying to forget her epic melt-down over Richard Patterson who'd once arranged the murder of her other father figure, General Zhukov - the feelings about Gabriel now swelled up unannounced from nowhere, always swelling up out of nowhere….
Her obsessive thoughts ended up being drawn on the pad of paper in front of her, on the pad of paper there at the nook. She'd remembered the words of cancer-ridden artist, Erica Haskard, which Elizabeth had also applied to her intrusive thoughts - "it's just light and dark, draw the dark." So there in front of her she drew out faces of General Zhukov as well as Gabriel. Faces in pain, faces blurred on the edge of recognition.
Philip never knew where such doodles came from. All he'd do was look at them and wonder if he ever really knew his wife.
As for Elizabeth, she wished she could forget. Drawing her thoughts were supposed to help. The caricatures never did.
As Elizabeth aged, she was now less able to compartmentalize things the way she had…. well, the way which had allowed her to survive the 60s and 70s in America like she had…. not so much like the 80s, it was now worse in the coming Clinton-Yeltsin 90s.
GRUNT WORK
It concerned her greatly that upon looking up from her doodle about Gabriel, that Philip, he was standing not three feet from her, him surveying silently her work. For his part, Philip was just looking at the pencil-blurs on the pad, wondering if he'd ever known his wife.
She was about to say, 'where'd you come from?', but she was not ready to admit such surveillance sloppiness to the partner who lived and died by her.
What he said brought her back from the pained-world of Gabriel, Zhukov, and her former cowardice with relation to Richard Patterson. She abhorred weakness, she was always ashamed of her own.
Philip put down the grocery bag he'd been holding, then sat opposite her at the nook. Elizabeth then shifted to a stern look, one aimed at him because he always expected her to put away groceries!
He said, "what's the drawing?"
She answered evenly, "I'm not going to do your work for you, Philip."
Not wanting a domestic tiff with her, he asked, "so what gives? On the phone you sounded peeved. What have I done now?"
"Jesus, Philip, get over yourself. It's not always about you." She paused, moderately thankful that he'd not taken the bait.
Switching to a more soft, strangely vulnerable tone she asked a question of her own. "Why did we come back, Philip. I miss Nadezhda, I miss Mischa. I miss Moscow. I miss the train to Smolensk."
"It's just five years, Elizabeth," he said, remembering that the 5 years they'd been promised in 1964 ended in 1987! He thought deeply about risking what he really thought, then went for it.
"Me, I miss Paige. I miss the way Henry couldn't play goal to save his life, not on the front drive."
She recovered enough to say, "you said he was 'burning up the ice' at St. Edwards!"
"Well, that's because right from the first, Coach Bowman wouldn't let him put on the pads. The coach said that if Henry'd been 6 inches taller, he'd be another Mario Lemieux. Me, when I saw him play, I thought of him as Vyacheslav Bykov. Captain material."
She said wryly, "didn't the Unified Team get their butts kicked in Albertville?"
He answered, "they're having another Olympics in two years…. then it will be Russia only."
After a long pause, he said, "okay, Elizabeth, enough. What the hell is going on?"
ERRAND GIRL
"I can't believe that Zotov would sign off on this, send a senior Directorate-S illegal on an errand."
Philip let out a sigh, then said, "so far, I don't know what you're talking about. There is no Directorate-S any more, there is no KGB. But no mind, we'll get to it, I suppose."
She put away her pad of paper, secured it in the lowest kitchen drawer, then sat back with her arms folded. "They're sending me to Vancouver, up in Canada. A mission? No. An assignment, an errand. I'm stocking a Canadian safety deposit box with essentials. Then stocking a nearby storage locker with a grab and go kit. I'm to assemble the kit once there."
Philip looked confused. "For us?"
Elizabeth unfolded her arms and leaned forward in a passive posture, "that's what I asked. Sometimes I hate this real-time communication with The Centre. They swore Zotov did not order this. I'm not sure what I would have asked him if he'd been available right at that moment."
Philip looked quizzical, "if not for us, then for whom? Rene? Who's in Canada?"
Elizabeth scowled, "you mean other than Irina Semenova?"
Philip spat back, "that's not remotely funny, Elizabeth."
Not missing a beat, she returned, "it wasn't mean to be."
He recovered, "who's in Canada…. more to the point, western Canada?"
"Well," she said, "The Centre says that Clinton's transition team is already talking about a summit with Yeltsin, to 'welcome in the 1990s', they're calling it."
Philip quipped, "they got rid of Bush, the Skull and Bones CIA man, but they're all CIA. Clinton's just a younger generation, more hip with technology. Like we're doing at the Travel Agency here."
Elizabeth said, returning to a tone of vulnerability. "But it's not us, that's the point. Who else is even west of Chicago? I don't know. The Centre is not talking." She let out a long breath, then finished, "and me, I'm the errand girl, I'm stocking shelves."
Philip asked, "you want me to come?"
That elicited a welcome laugh on her part. "What? Two of us doing a low level clerk's job? I wouldn't even have insulted Hans by asking him to do such a thing."
That was the first mention of Hans that she'd made since he'd been accidentally infected with Lassa, and had to be buried with William Crandall.
VANCOUVER
How many failsafe checks did Elizabeth and Philip need in this, their second tour of America?
In fact, colloquially speaking, 'Canada' didn't count as America. She'd been corrected a number of times while traveling north, by her Greyhound bus seat-mate, herself a Canadian returning home to Vancouver.
Customs into Canada north of Bellingham was seamless. Another failsafe documentation check passed. In another country, so once reported back to The Centre, everyone could breathe a little bit more easy. Elizabeth's seatmate asked her, 'why the laugh?'
The laugh? Elizabeth had just been thinking, 'imagine, me in a Canadian prison, Philip in an American one!'
In a gorgeous sunny-but-cold place called Stanley Park, Elizabeth connected with a low level functionary from the Russian consulate. How humiliating for such a gorgeous setting. She being a veteran, former Directorate-S illegal, she expected more professionalism from the guy she met.
All he did was complain. "The embassy in Ottawa, it doesn't fund us, now they're having me meet strangers in Stanley Park. It's freaking-cold out here."
He handed her a large packet, which on later inspection had smaller packets within. She knew her way around these things, as she and Philip had maintained their own such kits for over 25 years, renewing them once every three months in that span, renewing them like clockwork as if their lives depended upon them.
Which in 1987, unannounced, they had.
Her mission? To next assemble the necessities of a grab-and-go kit, comparable to the one that they'd had to maintain in Falls Church. The consulate guy had supplied large envelopes obviously containing cash. She was to find legitimate 'Beautiful BC license plates'. He gave her a safety deposit box key, for a box south of Vancouver, at the last Canadian city right at the US border.
So she set up shop in White Rock, B.C. She had to know.
She could feel which packets had the credit cards, and which had the passports. If she had not been such an obedient, loyal-to-The-Party-communist, a 'Party' which no longer existed, she would have peeked into one of the packets, just to see who they were for.
Maybe that's why she was chosen for this grunt work, Zotov knew Elizabeth would do her job.
From it all, Elizabeth surmised that, indeed, there was going to be a Canadian-placed Russian illegal, in Vancouver. Probably to do with Yeltsin and Clinton meeting in the city in a few months. But why was neither she nor Philip assigned such a thing? All she could figure about that other city nearer the US border, White Rock, it was that that would be where the asset would reside. It was a single city-transit ride from there to the city, about an hour away. Perfect. Access to the border, equally perfect. But why?
Whoever thought this through, had done a good, but unguessable job. A job she should have been the one to do, except that now she was just an errand girl. Probably the highest priced grunt that Russia had ever sent into danger.
The head-scratcher? Elizabeth was not to secure any weapons. Maybe that was because this was Canada.
That was the flaw in The Centre's instructions. The flaw was how her mind raced at the conundrum, if this had been the 60s, she would have obeyed like a good girl. Giving this menial task to an illegal-veteran now in her 50s, Elizabeth felt permission to improvise.
Elizabeth called Philip back in Seattle. She announced she was staying another week in Canada. When he asked why, her response was simply, "don't ask".
MA'AM, MA'AM? ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?
The White Rock minister had stopped at his favourite restaurant for a coffee, readying himself for the afternoon where four parishioners were in the local hospital. Even though he'd been at his church for only three years, his elderly congregation kept him busy - at the hospital and with funerals. So there he sat, gearing up for the challenge of 'being present with them all.'
When refilling his mug, the waitress said, "hey Rev, this is on the house. If." She then turned to face the tables by the big windows near the entrance.
"If?" the minister quipped, usually having a better bon mot than a single word.
"See that lady," the waitress continued. "She's come in all week. She sits at the same place, always with her back to the restaurant, staring out the window. I think she's expecting someone."
"Okay….." replied the minister, letting the 'kay' part of the word linger…..
"Today, she's not talking. She's been there for nearly two hours. Won't reply to anything I say. All she does is stare, to across the street, to the bank." She then picked up his bill and crumpled it, "you, go over there and see if I need to call the police…."
For free coffee, the minister thought of it as a good trade. Besides, he was not ready to face the hospital. So he picked up his mug and walked over.
When he got to her table, he instinctively leaned around into her field of vision, but at a bit of a distance. "Ma'am, ma'am. Please forgive me, I'm a local minister here in White Rock. I couldn't help but notice that you seem, what you might call, 'preoccupied'."
After an uncomfortably long pause, the woman finally turned toward him.
After another second she stared straight at him, then asked as if coming out of a slumber, "what?"
The minister turned to the waitress who mouthed-silently back at him, 'R-C-M-P-?'
To the waitress, he shook his head 'no', then sat on the window side of the table next to her.
"Look, I'll leave you alone if that's what you want," he said. "You just look like you need a friend. Me, I'm a minister…. that's kind-of my job."
Returning to stare blankly at the bank across the street, she said, "well, you can save yourself some time. I'm not religious."
He smiled, "neither am I."
"What!?" she said now looking at him with some returning situational awareness. "You're a pastor! Don't you sell God, the Ten Commandments, Jesus, and converting the heathen?"
"No. None of that matters."
She laughed, "what!? 'None of that matters'?"
"No," he concluded. "All that matters is how we treat each other."
She now was staring in recognition at him.