To Russia With Fonko: Jake Fonko, #8

By B. Hesse Pflingger

MOSCOW, 1993. When an old friend calls former Army Ranger Jake Fonko with a desperate plea for help in retrieving stolen millions, Jake soon finds himself in the middle of post-communist Russia.

But the shattered empire teeters on the brink of total collapse. And with trillions in wealth lying in wait for those intrepid—or crooked—enough to seize it, death lurks everywhere in the misery haunted streets.

Which means that Jake must use all his training and wits if he wants to come out of Russia in one piece...

• Language: English
• Publisher: B. Hesse Pflingger
• Release date: Aug 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386312321

Book preview

Chapter One

Russia is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.

Winston Churchill only scratched the surface when he made that observation. Peel your way through the onion-like layers surrounding the heart of Mother Russia and you’ll find that way down deep the world’s largest country is really, really…complicated. Not to mention dumbfounding and shit-scary. Not since my tour in Nam as a Ranger had I been in such a jungle. Steel, bricks, asphalt and concrete, yes, but nevertheless a jungle teeming with danger and threats coming from every different direction. Fortunately I escaped with my hide intact so am here to relate to Professor Pflingger the whole terrifying tale.

On the other hand my friends and I made a humongous bundle of money on the deal as well.

That’s the way it was in Russia in 1993.

Like so many of my misadventures this one kicked off with an unexpected phone call.

I’d been out for one of my routine three-mile runs pounding through the Malibu surf line on a glorious California morning in early August. My TV script-writer neighbor, Ethan, splashed along beside me for the exercise. He was in his late 20s and an avid tennis player, and he was working off some frustrations, so I didn’t have to slow down too much for him to keep the pace. We happened upon a Malibu neighbor, comedian Buddy Hackett, standing in the shallows letting the incoming water and backwash slosh around his calves. I’ve always loved that Chinese waiter routine of his, but he was getting along in years and looked a little weary there in a robe and big straw hat. We chatted with him for a few minutes and resumed our run. A few yards down the beach Ethan commented, He’d be just the man for a role in the script I’m working on.

This something in the works at your studio? I asked.

"No, it’s movie script on spec, something I plug away at in my spare time. It’ll be an extravaganza comedy—a Mutiny on the Bounty meets It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World kind of deal."

Your movie is about boats?

"Here’s the setup. A bunch of Hollywood gazillionaires with egos as big as the Ritz belong to this yacht club, and they’re getting soused one night, talking up their sailing yachts. One of them—I see Chevy Chase here—says he named his boat after a phrase in a Japanese haiku—Emergent Sea. Another one, Dan Aykroyd maybe, says his wife Ida refused to let him buy the boat, but he went ahead and got it anyhow and now she loves it, so he named it Ida No. The next guy—Rodney Dangerfield?—says how he made his first fortune from a couple oil companies, so he named his yacht after them, Esso Hess. The fourth guy, Martin Short would be perfect, says his wife told him he was in a rut, and his three-year-old daughter piped up, ‘Daddy’s in a wut.’ So he bought the boat and named it Wut, so he’d be in a Wut, get it? And the Buddy Hackett character, a nebbishy guy, says he named his boat after his wife, Diana—My Di.

"Okay, so they get drunker and drunker, and it gets to be a real pissing contest, and finally they decide to do a yacht race from L.A. to Hawaii, see who’s the best sailor. The thing is, none of them actually knows jack about sailing. They got their yachts because that’s what you’re supposed to do when you’re rich in L.A. Mostly they use them for dockside parties and hanky-panky. They manage to arrive in Hawaii pretty much all together—L.A. to Hawaii is an easy run—so in Honolulu they get to drinking again and now they’re going to race from there to Sidney, Australia, to settle it once and for all. For them it’s just an extended party time, so there’ll be babes and bimbos galore—Pamela Anderson and the Baywatch crew, Marisa Tomei, Janeane Garofalo, those types. How about Joan Rivers for Dan Aykroyd’s wife, Ida? There’s a million sailing gags—men overboard, misunderstood commands, mistaking dolphins for sharks and vice versa, problems with the marine heads, squabbles on board, hassles with island natives—and then they get into this big fog bank. When it clears up Buddy Hackett’s boat has vanished, so the others decide to press on without him.

"Here’s the climax. Despite themselves the four boats manage to arrive at the Great Barrier Reef all at the same time, and by now their rivalry has turned nasty. There’s one gap in the reef and they all rush for it, full sails up. They have this humongous four-boat collision and they’re all sinking. So they get on their radios. Martin Short starts it: ‘Sea-Air Rescue? Coast Guard? Come in! Come in! We’ve had a collision! We’re sinking out on the Barrier Reef. We need help!’

‘Coast Guard here. What’s the name of your boat?’

‘That’s right.’

‘What’s right?’

‘Yes. How did you know? Are you tracking us on GPS or something?’

‘Sir, I need to know the name of your boat.’

‘Wut.’

‘I said, what’s the name of your boat?’

‘Yes, it is.’

"This goes on for a while and then Chevy Chase chimes in. ‘Coast Guard, listen to me. This is Emergent Sea. We have a real problem here.’

‘I understand, sir. The name of your boat, please?’

‘Emergent Sea! Emergent Sea!’

‘Calm down, sir, just tell me the name of your boat.’

"And so forth. Then Dan Aykroyd takes it up. ‘You’ve got to send help immediately! Four boats are sinking! Dozens of lives are at stake! The water’s up to my knees already!’

‘As soon as we can, sir. We have a rescue team standing by. What’s the name of your boat?’

‘No, that’s a different boat.’

‘Please, just tell me the name of your boat.’

‘Ida No.’

‘You don’t know the name of your boat?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘What is it, then?’

‘Ida No.’

‘Tell me this. Is the name of your boat painted on the stern?’

‘Yes, it is, but we’re wasting time.’

‘Please humor me, sir. Go back there and see what it says.’

"So he sloshes back, looks and returns to the radio. ‘Okay, I did that.’

‘And what was painted on the stern?’

‘Ida No.’

"So about this time Rodney Dangerfield butts in. ‘Listen,’ he says, ‘This is Esso Hess. We’ve got four yachts sinking here. We need help, fast. Give us some respect!’

‘We have rescue teams standing by, sir. I need the name of your boat, please.’

‘Esso Hess! Esso Hess! Stop wasting time!’

‘I understand you are in distress, sir. But I need the name of your boat.’

"So this goes on for a while, and then we cut to the Sidney Yacht Harbor, and we see Buddy Hackett steering his boat toward the entrance. After he got separated from the others he sailed along just fine. He wants to find out where to moor the boat, so he gets on the radio. ‘Calling Sidney Harbormaster. This is My Di. Come in.’

"The staff in the harbormaster’s office freezes. ‘Crikey!’ says one. ‘It’s a May Day (My Di) alert.’ On the radio he says, ‘My Di, come in. I need your position.’

‘This is My Di. We’ve just entered the marina. Over.’

"The harbormaster freaks out. ‘Hold tight! Help is on the way!’ Then he gets on the horn. ‘Get everything you have out there! Everything! A May Day in the Sidney yacht harbor! This could be a real catastrophe! We don’t want to take any chances!’

"So the next scene shows a squad of fireboats surrounding My Di, rescue choppers hovering overhead, a team of scuba divers, ambulances on shore, the whole works. Then we cut to the Barrier Reef, where all these obnoxious jerks are floating around in rubber rafts with their panicky bimbos, yelling and throwing stuff at each other, watching their yachts sink out of sight."

It’s got possibilities, I said. Some good gags there. So when are you going into production?

As soon as I do four things, Ethan said. First, I have to get the cast on board. Second, I need to get the financing secured. Third, I’ve got to line up the production and distribution deals.

And the fourth thing?

That’s the easy part. After I do the first three things, I’m going to flap my arms and fly to the moon. No, it’ll probably never get produced. I’ll shop it around, but the odds against a spec movie script are pretty long, what with every TV writer flogging them. It’s just for fun, something to take my mind off the dreck I churn out at the studio.

By then we’d finished our run, a good workout. Ethan was winded from telling me his film treatment while running along. He took a raincheck on my offer of a cup of coffee and trudged off down the beach to his place. I rinsed the sand from my shins at the downstairs shower stall, dried off, slipped into my deck shoes and went up to the main floor. The contractor had done a bang-up job on the rehab after last year’s storm, and everything was spiffy new and sparkly neat. Sunlight slanted down through the picture window and caught the beige leather sectional, making the place look like a photo in Sunset Magazine.

There was hot coffee in the Krups. I poured a half mug and took a few sips. Dana sat engrossed at her desk in the office room, catching up on some work. I came up behind her, slipped my fingers through her draping blonde hair and gave her some massage squeezes at the base of her pretty neck. Yes, after the move-in we’d settled into a routine of domestic bliss, with no misgivings on my part this time.

Hey, Jake, she said. I needed that. Dig in a little harder. Have a good run?

Yeah. Ethan told me about a script he’s working on. We stopped and chatted with Buddy Hackett. Nice old guy, but not looking so good. Why is it that comedians are always so dour?

While you were out you got a phone call from your Russian friend.

Emil Grotesqcu? What did he want?

He wouldn’t tell me. He said he’d call back. I told him you’d be back home about now… As if on cue the phone rang. I took it in the front room.

Fonko here, I said.

Jake old friend. This is Emil. Do you have a minute to talk? I’m not interrupting anything?

Fire away. What’s up?

I can’t give details, but something big. Have you ever fancied a visit to Russia? His voice, urbane as always, nevertheless hinted at desperation.

Frankly, no. No offense, but it’s never sounded like my idea of a good time.

No one else’s either, but I’m not talking vacation holidays. This would be more in the line of business. You’re still for hire?

For this and that. What kind of business are you talking about?

Retrieving missing money.

Missing where, in Russia? I don’t know anything about Russia.

I don’t know where it’s missing. Maybe Russia, maybe Switzerland, maybe…who knows?

And how much went missing?

Millions.

Missing from whom?

Me. It was my money.

Emil, you’re a crack intelligence agent. Can’t you find it yourself?

It’s not that simple, Jake. My own agency may have stolen it from me. That’s one possibility. There are many other possibilities.

"But why me? I don’t know the language, I don’t know the situation, I don’t know the layout, I don’t know the politics. I tried to read Crime and Punishment in college and the first ten pages put me to sleep—not much of a whodunit. I saw Doctor Zhivago and Warren Beatty’s Reds but I think the Revolution must be pretty irrelevant by now. I can’t imagine anything I could do for you over there in Russia."

Jake, I need help and you are the only man in the entire world I can trust and rely on. Here’s the proposition. All expenses, guaranteed. And a chance to get richer than you ever imagined.

And the downside?

There was a pause. Well, I’ve seen you get out of worse spots.

So this compares favorably with the Khmer Rouge killing fields in Cambodia? But you won’t lay out the situation?

Not over the phone. Oh well…look, in truth I haven’t figured it out myself, except that it promises to be nasty. And complicated. But I know you well enough. I’m sure the two of us can handle it.

And when would this gig commence? And how a long a duration do you estimate?

To get started, the sooner the better—the day before yesterday. How long it would take, I don’t know, a month maybe, depends on how it goes. Look, I can’t tell you anything over the phone. I hope I haven’t said too much already. Think it over for a day and get back to me. He gave me a number to call and I wrote it down. Okay, got it, I said. I’ll get back to you no later than…" and then I heard a series of soft clicks on the line.

Woops, gotta run, Emil blurted. Change of plans. Do not call that number. I’ll call you. Ciao. And he hung up.

Up until that phone call things had been going pretty good. After we returned from Serbia Dana and I settled comfortably into my refurbished Malibu beach pad. Her Serbia project gave her career a solid boost, and thanks to her cameraman’s recounting of how she handled it, her colleagues had dubbed her Sheena, Queen of the Jungle, or Sheens for short. She passed it off with my standard deflection, that she was just doing her job, but I think she got a kick out of the nickname. So she was busier than ever and earning good money. My own career as a freelance whatever stayed steady, reaping more than enough bread to float our lifestyle. The quarter-mill Emil Grotesqcu shared with me from ripping off the Russian mafia in Serbia left us sitting pretty. In summary, the Life of Fonko flowed copacetic right then.

So why on earth would I go to Russia to help Emil find his missing money? It sounded like difficult and dangerous work, and getting paid for it was a longshot gamble. I’d have to forego several months of easy assignments and exorbitant income from my own clients.

Long pause.

Because…Emil had come through for me a number of times in the past. And we were family, very distant cousins anyhow. And…contented as I was in my beach pad with lovely Dana Wehrli, copacetic gets boring after a while, and I was suffering an adrenaline deficit. He said I might get richer than I’d ever imagined. I let my imagination run wild…

Dana came out of the office. What’s up in Russia? she asked.

Emil wants me to go over there, says he needs some help.

What kind of help?

Not clear. Something about finding missing millions of dollars.

A treasure hunt, huh? You going to go?

Don’t rush me. I’m thinking…

The phone rang again, mid-afternoon, but this time not from Emil Grotesqcu. Fonko here, I answered.

Jake old buddy, a cheerful voice boomed. It’s Todd.

Oh shit. A haunt dating back to my ill-founded stint with the CIA in 1975. I was momentarily struck speechless.

Todd, he repeated. Todd Sonarr. You remember. Come on, Jake, answer up. I know you’re there.

Hello, Todd. This is a surprise, I must say. What can I do for you?

I heard you might be contemplating a trip to Russia. I need to talk to you about that.

What makes you think I’m going to Russia?

Ahhh, the Great Carnac knows all, sees all. It might be we could work together on that, is what I’m thinking.

You’re still with the CIA?

Same old, same old.

Well, don’t you have people over there already?

Of course, and as usual they’re under embassy cover, so the Russkies know who they are. And as usual they’re analysts and paper shufflers, not field agents, so they don’t know squat about what’s going down on the street. I was thinking that if you’re going over there, probably you’ll be freelancing and out mixing it up with the indigs, so maybe if you came across anything interesting you could, you know, pass it on to me.

You’re asking me to snoop for the CIA? Last I heard, they take a dim view of spies in Russia. Pass along anything interesting, such as what?

There’d be a stipend, of course, and expense money, he continued. Whether you found anything or not. Think of it as a retainer, just in case you happened across anything.

This another of your hare-brained schemes? I asked.

Jake, I admit the Cambodia caper got a little flaky, but you came out just fine. The Philippines, what’s to complain about? You made a bundle and got another jockstrap award for a cushy assignment. (Note: That’s a CIA commendation so top secret that you can wear it only on your jockstrap.) You know what your problem is? You’ve always seen our relationship in the wrong light. We’re a winning team, always have been, right from the start. For the time being just think about coming to the aid of your country in Moscow, that’s all I ask.

I haven’t yet even decided whether to go or not.

Understood. I’ll get back to you in a couple days. Bye.

And just like that the plot of my life had a new twist, or maybe more. I wasn’t surprised that Sonarr got wind of Emil’s call, as he’d routinely kept tabs on me, but except for the Philippine assignment he’d been leaving me be. Well…there were a couple times when I tapped him as a reference to get me out of a tight spot. So…okay, despite that Cambodia fiasco and my misgivings about the CIA, he wasn’t entirely a blight on my existence. His call put a new ingredient in the mix. I’d be drawing a paycheck in addition to Emil’s promise at a chance at a boodle. Still—Russia?

Emil followed up his call two days later. I had to change phones, he said. Surveillance is pretty thick these days. This line’s secure for now. So. Have you had time to think over my proposal?

There’s too much I still don’t know, I said. How did your money go missing? Who took it? What do you think I can do, given that I don’t know the terrain, the language or the situation? I’d be coming in clueless. What about backup? Protection?

I can’t tell you the whole story on the phone, but here’s the basics. Parties unknown stripped my Swiss bank account. Could be a mafia gang. Could be an oligarch. Could be a government ministry. Could be somebody outside the country, in which case I’m up the creek. But I’m pretty sure it’s an internal operation, in which case we can straighten it out. I’ve got some protection and allies, but none I can 100% rely on. So, what could you do? You’d have my back, and if it comes to a rumble in a dark alley there’s no one I’d rather have beside me.

You said you’d cover expenses?

I’ll transfer ten thousand dollars into your Swiss bank account as soon as we get off the phone. So, are you in?

Oh hell, sure. When should I come?

Arrange a flight as soon as you can. Then call and let me know. Here’s the number to call (I jotted it down). Don’t say anything over the phone but the flight number and date of arrival, and I’ll meet you at the airport. Don’t worry about visas or anything, I’ll take care of that at this end. Banking is spotty here, so carry a stash of American greenbacks. Oh, and pack your pistol, the one with the silencer.

What with rearranging my schedule, securing flights and tying up loose ends, I was on my way to Moscow eight days later. Seven days later the phone rang, and Todd Sonarr was at the other end. Jake, he said. We’ve got to talk.

Fire away, I said.

No, I mean really talk, face to face. I’m on the ground at LAX. I’m heading for your place. Give me, say, about 30 minutes. See you.

The hell? He flew out because of the scheme he proposed, based on the scheme