UnAlaska

31. Sow Discord

Aleksandr pulled in front of Net Shed #3 as the gate closed noisily behind him. The rain was driving sideways. It fought him as he opened the door to the old rusty van.

Inside, Oleg and Bogdan were seated at the rough wooden desk. They leaned forward expectantly as he walked in. Oleg arched his eyebrows. "What happened?"

Aleksandr stopped in front of them. "The FBI is on the docks. They have two teams there."

Oleg nodded. "Ah."

He continued. "One van has men in suits or windbreakers. The other has the men with guns and helmets."

"The SWAT team."

"Yes. They were driving in a circle around the docks, getting ready for something."

"Makes sense. We heard the ship is moving. They are planning to dock, and use the SWAT team on us."

"On Pavel and Dmitry first," grunted Bogdan. His arms were crossed, leaning back as much as he could in his folding chair.

Oleg walked over to the canvas bag that held the old rifle. Underneath it was a drab green canvas bag with a long strap. Like a messenger bag. He hefted both off the floor and carried them over. He flicked open the dusty leather strap on the messenger bag, opened it, and turned it around.

Inside were a few spare clips of ammunition for the old Mosin rifle. Next to them were four hand grenades. They looked like dark green, musty pineapples.

Oleg gestured toward the open chair. "Sit, Sasha. We have planning to do."

Aleksandr took the open chair. "What are you thinking, boss?"

Oleg leaned forward, with his elbows on the old wooden work bench. "The FBI thinks this is done. They expect things to be easy. We need to make it hard." He pushed his glasses up his nose. "There is an old military saying: 'give your enemies dilemmas, not problems.' Do you know the difference, Sasha?"

"No, boss." In the pause, they could hear the rain beat down hard on their metal roof above.

He signed heavily. "See? These are the things you need to learn."

"Yes, boss."

"A problem is something you can solve. There is a clear answer. A dilemma has two choices, but do you know what? Both are bad!" He laughed. Bogdan startled. They didn't hear him laugh often. "A dilemma is confusing. It is frustrating. It ruins their spirits."

—-------

In the dark cargo hold, Dmitry's phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket, and the glow lit up his face from below. He held the phone's glow up, and waved Pavel over. Pavel's footsteps were heavy on the metal floor. They leaned over the phone together.

The green bubble read:

The ship is docking. There is an FBI team waiting for you. We need to muddy the waters further. Here is the new plan.

They read the rest of the message. They looked at each other and nodded. The cargo hold was pitching and groaning as the sea tossed the large ship.

Dmitry opened their black canvas duffel and retrieved the two hand grenades. He slipped them into his pockets and began to walk down the hallway. His shoes echoed on the bare metal floor. After a moment, he pushed open the door to the laundry room. A line of industrial washing machines and dryers were now silent. He walked past them. To one side, a pressing station for dress shirts sat idle. On the other side of the long room, there was a motorized rack of garments along the wall. He found a button and the rack sprang to life. He remembered the rumble and the swish of the plastic covers from his childhood. His mother had dragged him to the dry cleaners every Monday. He would feed a quarter into the gumball machine while she picked up her office clothes. It always smelled sickly sweet.

He stopped the carousel at a room porter's suit. He held his arm against the suit's arm. Too short. The rack rumbled to life again. Another suit came into view. He held his arm out. It was close. It would have to do. He slipped off his chef's checked pants and dressed in a clean suit. His pockets were heavy with the two hand grenades. A handgun was snugged into his waistband.

He pulled his amulet out of the metal mesh pouch, and walked to the freight elevator. He left the elevator and got out on the fifth deck. He threaded quickly though the main hallway. It was the middle of the night. The ship felt unsteady. The hallway was tipping and he could hear the structure creaking. Nevertheless, people were milling around. Some had drinks in hand. Others were leaving a live music show of a mediocre Pink Floyd cover band.

He finally found himself at the mezzanine. The perfect place. An open view of the casino below. People were sitting at slot machines, idly pushing buttons. Some had cigarettes in hand. A low limit blackjack table on the open floor directly below him was in play.

He looked around to make sure he could see the cameras. He found a dark corner of the mezzanine railing. He fished a grenade from his pocket and pulled the pin, hiding it from view. He rolled the grenade over the railing, and it fell directly on top of the blackjack table with a soft thud.