THE MISFIT UNIT: 21) YABLONEY
My Saturday Evening Post: A Serial Novel of Intrigue & Lunacy
At Chez Bizarre, an Indian restaurant in St. James’s, introductions are made.
Igor Sokolov takes the couchette with Jeff Dalkin, back to the wall.
"I am sorry, it takes time," he whispers, one eye on the door. "I come long way." He chuckles. "I take full tour of London to find you."
The waiter arrives with two glass mugs of Indian beer; Sokolov asks for hot tea.
"Cheers." Richard Thornington raises his glass to the Russian.
"I recognize you." The Russian had been studying Dalkin. "You are famous actor, no?"
Dalkin shakes his head, smirking. "No. Bruce Willis looks like me. Name's Jeff Dalkin—hot-diggedy-dogaroonie."
Thornington studies the Russian, enjoying his reaction to Dalkin’s Touristic bursts.
Sokolov catches his eye. "You must have serious reason for meeting."
"Yes, ummmm," says the Brit. "Shall we look at the menu?"
"If it's like Chinese—midget-muthers," says Dalkin, "we just order a bunch of grub and share it round, right?"
"We can do that," says Thornington.
The waiter appears with Sokolov's hot tea and poises himself to take a food order.
"One Punjab Yabloney," says the Brit.
Or that's how it sounds to Dalkin.
As Thornington continues with a selection of dishes, including basmati rice and nana bread, Dalkin tries to distract himself, glancing around. But he can feel it coming, almost volcanic in nature, a Tourettic reaction to the names of ethnic dishes.
"I'm working with Jeff Dalkin now, in America," Thornington whispers to Sokolov after the waiter departs.
The Russian purses his lips, eyes studying Dalkin. "CIA?" he spits.
"No," Dalkin pipes up, shakes his head. "A special unit created by the F-F... farting-barf-bags of incontinence—FBI. Yabloney!"
This amuses the Russian. "Say again?"
"The B-B-B… butt-buggering bastards—Bureau. Yabloney!"
"Bless you!" a waiter calls from nearby.
"Actually, it's the FBI," says Thornington. "I've been working in America."
Sokolov folds his arms, leans forward. "Does CIA know your work?” he whispers. “CIA penetrated.”
"You seem to think everyone's penetrated," says Dalkin.
“Is true.” The Russian shrugs. "Everyone is penetrated." He looks around the restaurant. "Who else knows we meet?"
"No one," says Dalkin. "Very few people know our unit exists. And only one person—at the very top—knows what we're doing. And that one person knows nothing about you."
"Good," says Sokolov. “I like this way.”
"Richard tells me that you have access to good intelligence," says Dalkin.
The Russian nods. "I can get."
"And that you are prepared to share this information with us." Dalkin pauses. "Why?"
Sokolov sips his tea and sighs in appreciation of its warmth after dry-cleaning his tracks on cold streets. "Money."
"How much money? Blow me."
The Russian recoils.
"Tourette's," Thornington explains, a toothy grin. "It's actually quite amusing.” He turns to Dalkin. “No offense.”
"Actually, none taken." Dalkin smirks. "Lizard-licking limey twat." He turns to Sokolov. "I'll try again. How much money? Blow me."
"It depends what you ask."
"Let's be hypothetical," say Dalkin, "and say I want everything."
"No problem," says the Russian. "I have, how you say? Network."
"A spy-net?" says Dalkin.
Sokolov nods. “I get everything through spy-net. Mostly everything."
"Let's try to define that," says Dalkin.
"Richard can tell you everything I have gave him."
"I want to hear it from you."
"You ask if I can get, I tell you," says Sokolov.
"Can you get into old KGB archives?"
"Of course."
"And bring out files?"
Sokolov shakes his head. "No copiers in archives. My man takes notes of files."
"How much money?"
"One file, $10,000 US."
"And if there's no file on the person I request?"
"You do not pay," says Sokolov. "But you pay if file exists, if only six words."
"Usually," Thornington chirps, "an archival file report is two-to-three pages. No frosting, no analysis, just file entries."
"So what you're saying is," says Dalkin, "I can buy any file in the archives for ten grand?"
"You tell me name," says Sokolov. "I check."
The Russian looks at Thornington. "Does Jeff know rules?"
"Rules?" says Dalkin. "What rules?”
The waiter arrives with a platter of grub.
"We are talking about how information from Igor's spy-net can and cannot be used," says Thornington, after the waiter departs.
"And how is that?" asks Dalkin.
"Minimal circulation," Thornington replies while helping himself to butter chicken. "No sharing with other intelligence services. Not to be used as evidence in court. And definitely no media."
The Russian nods as he fills his own plate with lamb curry, rice and lentils.
Dalkin shrugs. "So what's this I hear about a mole in MI5?"
Sokolov glances at Thornington, and then looks at Dalkin, eyes-twinkling. "A mole in MI5," he says. "Very high."
"How high?" asks Dalkin.
Sokolov winks. "You have one million dollars US? I tell you."
"What could you possibly want with one million dollars?" asks Dalkin.
"Ah," Sokolov sighs. "Many things. But mostly..." he pauses. "I buy rest."
"What's your long-term plan?" Dalkin forks himself with buttered chicken and lentils. He looks at Thornington. "This is good."
"Punja..." the Brit begins.
"Don't tell me," Dalkin shakes his head. "Yabloney!"
"A simple plan," says Sokolov. "I retire."
"Where to?" asks Dalkin.
Sokolov shrugs. "I have idea."
"Let's suppose I write a whole shopping list of files I want. How much can you do before retirement?"
"Right now, window open," says Sokolov. "One day, window closes. Maybe next week, maybe two years." He shrugs.
"What is the turn-around time on anything I order?"
"Two weeks. Sometimes I make faster."
"How do you like payment?"
"Cash," says Sokolov. "Any currency." The Russian grins, displaying teeth that would keep a dentist busy for years. "But no rubles."
"Can you give a free sample?" asks Dalkin. "To prove you and your spy-net are genuine."
"But I already prove," Sokolov protests.
"To him." Dalkin glances at Thornington. "Not to me."
Sokolov considers this. "I'm tired to prove. But maybe I make you special price for sample. I call Richard tomorrow."
The Russian wipes his plate clean with nana bread and departs into the damp, dark night.
"Satisfied?" asks Thornington.
"I'm a long way from satisfaction," says Dalkin. "Yabloney!"
"And what about our Monaco situation?"
"Yeah, that." Dalkin swigs Singh beer. "Working on it."