Moscow Machination (22 page)

Washington DC

Jim
Borland knew he had fucked up big. The list of people wanting his ass was so
eclectic that it would have made guys like Imad Mugs blush. For starters there
was the CIA his future-former employer, the State Department whose trust he had
used to fund the Havana op. Then of course there was that large sandwich chain
and finally some producer from NCIS: Havana.

With so
many people after his wrinkly ass, he decided to do the honorable thing and abscond.
Abscond to someplace where extradition treaties were frowned upon. But pop
history suggested that every decade could have only one traitor. There was Ames
for the 90s, Hanssen for the 00s and now Snowden for the 10s. That albino at
the Peruvian embassy didn’t help either. Even without shopping around, he knew
that the market for a new traitor was nonexistent.

Nevertheless,
Jim got to work and created a shortlist of places by meticulously balancing the
pros and cons with tequila and Adderall.

Andalusia
had been
the
spot
during the era of cool heists and train
robberies. Perhaps, if Dillinger had been euro trash, he would have picked a stylish
Mediterranean villa instead of that termite lodge in Wisconsin. Despite its
history, the emergence of nefarious outfits like Ryanair and Interpol had tarnished
Andalusia’s status as a favored destination. These days it ranked lower than Key
West. Yikes.

Just south
of Andalusia lay Western Sahara. Western Sahara with its exquisite Atlantic
coast was a first-rate hideout… if one had an entourage of Uzi toting guards, a
phalanx of bitches and a gold cache. Jim Borland crossed it off his list.

Venezuela?
Dick countries couldn’t be trusted. Period. Especially not after Libya and Cuba.

Svalbard –
North of Norway. Former Soviet coal town. Russians abandoned because it was too
cold. Has cool new TV show … police procedural… raincheck? Wait…
Too
cold for Russians?

Liberland
– A slick Swede, not the sex act, had walked into a forgotten crack of former
Yugoslavia and claimed his own nation. It had everything from flags to passports
and stamps… everything that could be made with Photoshop. Population 30. Crazy
Ayn Rand types?

After
thinking long and hard, Jim Borland disappeared.

Krasnoyarsk, Siberia

“Well hows
it coming along?” asked Primakov walking into the work floor.

“Hey, hey
man… we are trying to work here,” faked Pulikesi.

“Well?”

“Well,
it’s pretty much ready. There are a few bugs. But tomorrow morning you can take
it out for a test.”

“You sure
buddy? Because if you and your Ukrainian friends fuck up, it will be the end.”

“Oh yeah?
What you gonna do?” taunted Pulikesi. He was friends with fucking Snowden.

 “Well, we
have a bunch of expired ICBMs rusting away on the base. I could stick one up
your asses and aim at Mars…”

“Please
don’t…” pleaded Ilya, who knew the Russian ways a little better.

“Oooh why Mars?”
exclaimed Pulikesi. Fergana Valley, Siberia, Snowden and now Mars. The
intricacies of Russian pranks...

“Coz Mars
needs Morons.”

Ilya
couldn’t take it anymore, “Oh please. Please stop, Comrade Primakov. There is
no need for Mars. The software is ready… trust me.”

Pulikesi
wouldn’t let go, “Hey man, can you tweak your missiles to hit Saturn instead.
Damon’s been to Mars… Mila Kunis has done Jupiter… Clooney….”

Undisclosed Location

Jim
Borland sat on his filthy couch flipping channels. After researching
thoroughly, he had found the one place on earth which scared the pants off Uncle
Sammy. The place was a certified hellhole. It held a -12% freshness at
RottenHellholes.gov
.
Even dumpster diving celebrity chef, Gary Pono had circumvented the hellhole
despite accusations of being elitist.

Amnesty
International had lasted three years before packing up. Médecins Sans
Frontières had lasted two. Even the Mormons had been like, “Yo Church, can I
repeat Haiti?”

Jim’s
research suggested that the key to survival in this anal hole was to out weird
the weirdos. Hence he got super weird. Or at least tried to. The first week he
had been a hippie. Someone had shot him. Then he had tried a yuppie. Police
thugs had accused him of being a tranny. Only a treaty involving Ben Franklin
had saved the night. Eventually he had settled onto a look, inspired by Walter form
the Big Lebowski. Somehow, holding a tire iron and a bag of dirty undies at the
same time was just too darn weird for these wannabes.

“Madam
Undersecretary, this is Snoop Team Six. We have located our target.”

“Great.
Whats he doing?” asked Undersecretary Sarah McAllister.

 “He is in
the house. Alone. Curtains drawn. Watching TV. Football.”

“Snoop
Team, can you turn on that camera on your helmet? I want to see how this plays
out…,” said the Undersecretary. She gestured an intern to take a selfie of her
watching the big screen.

Snoop team
leader responded, “Madam Undersecretary, our cameras are on. It’s just so darn
dark out here. Brown outs.”

“Well
don’t you have that green light thing?”

“You mean
IR?”

“Yep.”

“Night
vision is only for the elite Seal Teams Madam. Sorry about that.”

“Fine, I
guess we will just listen in.” Despite her arguments about national security, her
boss, the Secretary of State had vetoed against the use of better teams. She
had mumbled, “Low priority”.

“Roger
that Madam Undersecretary.”

Snoop Team
Six surrounded the single storey house. Two guys went to the back while a
couple took the sides. The rest took a battering ram to the front door.

Suddenly
the feed from the Snoop Team’s helmet brightened. They were inside the house.

The team
surrounded a guy sitting on a couch. His back was turned towards them.

He was
holding a beverage in his left hand and doing the most natural thing with the
other.

“Hold your
fire! Hold your fire!”

“Hands up
in the air!”

The guy slowly
raised his beverage.

“Both
hands Mr. Borland.”

“Man, come
on man… at least let me finish.”

The Snoop
Team’s leader hesitated. The Undersecretary spoke quietly, “Let him finish...”

In the
background some commentator was praising the tenacity of the football team.

“John, the
Detroit Lions are back… a team that went 0 and 16 just a few years ago…
absolutely, tonight the entire country hears the Lions roar… Damn straight
Matt, it’s time to restore this once proud city…”

Jim
Borland finished.

“Sir, turn
around slowly. Slowly.”

The dude turned
around.

Sarah
shrieked as Doug Sanders dived under the desk.

Jim
Borland had a clown face painted on.

“So, what
took you so long?” asked the clown.

After securing
the house south of the 8 Mile Road, Snoop Team Six bundled the clown into their
armored carrier and sped away to the safe harbors of Ann Arbor, Michigan.

Ann Arbor, Michigan

They sat
the clown, still handcuffed, across Sarah and Doug.

The Snoop Team
Six saluted the Undersecretary, “Here you go Madam.”

“Thanks a
ton guys. I will see what I can do about those night vision goggles. Thanks.”

“What took
you so long?” repeated the clown.

“Jim,
enough. This isn’t the appropriate time…” protested Sarah, “…plus Russia is
about to boil over…”

“Or freeze
over… it’s getting cold out there you know…” supplied Doug.

“Thanks Doug,”
said Sarah sardonically.

Doug
Sanders thought he heard something odd. “Wait… did you just say ‘appropriate
time’?”

Jim
Borland, still bearing the clown paint, giggled uncontrollably.

“It’s… it’s…
this thing… it’s called
Clowning the CIA
…” offered Sarah apologetically.

Doug
didn’t catch it, “You sure he isn’t a Juggalo.”

“Despite
what Hollywood says, the straight male hooker industry is tiny… Plus I don’t
think Jim has the tenacity to make it out there.”

“Juggalo,
not gigolo… Juggalo, the fans of the awesome rock band, Insane Clown Posse -
ICP.”

“Oh…”
Sarah was stumped for a second. She turned to Jim and asked if he was a part of
this ICP’s posse. Jim shook his head violently. He seemed insulted. What a sad
clown.

“There are
no ICP’s posse… Juggalos are fans of the ICP… they paint and party…”

“Oh, a
modern day Kiss…?” Sarah wriggled her nose in distaste.

“NO…” began
Doug, before letting it go. “So what’s this, Clowning the Employer bullshit?”

“Right,
yes, it’s a privilege the CIA offers its tenured employees… the tenured employee…
after a screw up, can completely disappear... no consequences… it’s like a lifelong
paid holiday…”

“What…?”

“Working
for the CIA can be taxing.”

“So the
CIA doesn’t try to find you?”

“They may
or may not… but if caught the tenured employee get his/her old job back. No
consequences.”

Doug
pondered, “So this Jim is our Jim… again?”

“Yes
moron,” said the sad clown.

“You can
hide anywhere?” persisted Doug in disbelief.

“You need
to be tenured.”

Once the ruckus
related to
Clowning the CIA
had been settled, Jim repeated his question,
“What took you so long?”

“Oh… you
know the world’s a large place…and believe it or not Liberland is actually quite
big…” began Sarah.

“What… I
thought we just didn’t care,” said Doug in disbelief.

Sarah gave
him the, ‘Doood you were supposed to make him feel like he was wanted…’ look.

Reading
the exchange, Jim smiled, “Hahaha… classic… I still love you guys…”

“So we
good?” asked Sarah doubtfully. The
Clowning the CIA
program had a 90%
success rate. In the other 10%, clowns became trolls. The whole Abbottabad
thing had been a text book case of clowns gone trolling.
If only that
asshole had turned around… everyone would have seen his painted clown face.

During secret
congressional hearings, the CIA had vehemently defended its
Clowning
program by suggesting that the program had produced more good than bad for the
country.

“Absolutely,
totally good. And don’t worry, I will do my psych eval tomorrow.”

“Well okay
Jim… welcome back…”

“Hit me with
Russia...”

“The Russians
just ordered a million barrels of
Beat-It
from a South African company.”

“
Beat-It,
the second best mosquito repellant?”

“Yep.”

“Well, EU
trade embargoes ban the sale of the German
Himm’s
…”

“That’s
not the point… Russia has never had a mosquito problem. This ain’t Wisconsin…”

Jim
snapped his fingers, “Siberian mosquitoes. Global warming. Hotter climate. Every
day more and more mosquitos are migrating to Moscow. Bet they latch onto the
Trans-Siberian trains… I know I would.”

Perhaps
they should have waited till the psych eval.

“Ok, what
about the Russo-African summit in Kaliningrad?”

“Konigsberg,
the Russian exclave? Pretty obvious isn’t it. It’s like what, 10 miles from
Berlin? Rankles the EU. Plays the whole bear at your doorstep card…”

“Ok… what
about the Tu-420s? They have scheduled a test flight in two weeks... that
secret ICBM plane…”

“You sure?”

“Yep… my
esteemed NATO counterpart from Lithuania…” began Doug.

“Flight
path?”

“Nothing
specific. It says it will fly from Komsomolsk to Moscow.”

“Don’t worry
about it. If it’s supersonic it won’t get beyond Moscow. If it does, our ICBMs
go off.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. We
have silos in Vilnius, Riga and Tallinn on top of the traditional ones in
Berlin, Gibraltar and Malta… and that’s just our first line.”

“We have
ICBMs in the Baltics?”

“Oh yeah.
Funny thing is the missiles, silos, etc. are all Soviet. We just sent in a few
mainframe programmers and tweaked their destination coordinates.”

“And the
Russians know all this?”

“Oooh yeah…
the programmers were Russian… lolz.”