Taking the advice of a fellow writer, I am just going to bull ahead with this and worry about head-hopping and formatting later. I had fretted myself into a standstill and that’s worse than writing dreck.

So, this is very, very raw. Raw-er than usual. One of the things I do not like as how I shoehorned the demon’s cart into this installment. I know he crops up in about three or four installments, but I needed the foreshadowing. I’ll fix it later.

With Imaginarium coming up in less than a week, I’ll be busy packing, buying food and booze, completing my very rough outline for the panel I’m hosting (I noted several assistant panelists have been added; I hope one hour is enough time), so I’ve doubts about completing the MS. But, you never know… this Part is going to be moving very fast.

And, yes: I just made up “the Three R’s.” I’m proud of that.

Enjoy my content? Buy me a beer!

As the summer sun was setting, Gogol drove them west of Ottawa.  About an hour, the highway west then south to a road then west again on a tiny lane.  They passed a dog boarding kennel on their way up into the wooded hills on the southeast side of Mount Pakenham. 

Briefly, they passed what looked like a peddler’s cart.  The pony had been tied to a tree but there was no sign of its owner.  That seems familiar somehow…

From looking at maps, Konev knew the road ended at a guard post about…

“There it is,” Gogol said in a low tone.  Part of their brief from St. Petersburg indicated that they were expected and had enough papers, a mix a truth and lies, to get them in.  But both military men knew “getting in” was always the easy part.

“Looks like the snow here never melts,” Konev noted while Gogol slowed the sedan.  There were two guards they could see, both in the mottled gray paramilitary associated with the Canadian SIS.  They had machine pistols but were polite enough to not point them.  The Russians stopped and Gogol pushed the button to roll down his window.  Slowly, to not startle anyone, he announce who they were, true, and passed over papers as to why they were there.  Lies.

They waited while one of them went into the small shack and lifted a phone.  After less than a minute, he came back out, shrugged at the other and passed the papers back.  The chainlink fence with concertina atop, just beyond their post, rolled to the side.

Only with his officer’s window did Konev mutter, “Damn Chekists.”  Given the history of their Twentieth Century, Russians universally loathed secret police.

The narrow road, paved but cracked in many places, likely from the hard winters, made a few twists and turns.  Expecting a secondary defensive line, they were both surprised to come around a bend to a two story office building abutting a one story windowless building made of concrete. 

“This place is probably not a long-term prison,” Gogol mused.  “This close to their capital, I bet it’s for political prisoners to be interrogated and shot.  Yep.  See that tall smoke stack at the far northern end of the building?  A weeks wages it’s a crematorium.”

“No bet,” Konev said in the tone when on a mission.  I am surprised at the captain’s talkativeness.  Must be because his assignment in intel.

There were four other cars, several pickup trucks, and one military heavy truck in the lot.  With nothing saying Visitor Parking – no real surprise there – Gogol parked at a middling distance.  Not so far as to be insulting, but far enough to hopefully expedite their departure.

“The Three R’s,” Gogol said just before getting out.

“Yes,” Konev agreed.  Romanovs, Rodina, Reina.  They knew where their loyalty lay.

In contrast to their civilian clothes, another man, maybe all of twenty-five, came out of the office building wearing the same mottled gray uniform.  After taking a few steps, he waited for them.

“Captain Gogol and Sergeant Konev, Imperial Russian Army and in Ottawa in a diplomatic capacity,” Konev’s officer announced first, not extending a hand.  “In that capacity, as part of negotiations to prevent the complete destruction of your country from our space ships and fusion weapons, we are sent to investigate a rumor you are holding a Russian subject.”

Konev had been a bit surprised at the cover story their PM wanted them to use.  But the best lies were always grounded in truth.

“I am Captain Macarthy,” the other said with a nod.  “You will find that is not the case.  If you will follow me, our facility director has taken time from his busy schedule to see this matter concluded.”

Busy schedule, Konev thought dismissively.  How hard is it to be a secret policeman, besides the tortures and murders?  They followed.  Typical for a prison, none of the office doors were open.  Macarthy tapped at the one on the left at the end of the hall.  They heard, “Come.”

For just a moment, Konev’s heart fell a bit.  He had hoped to see some fat bastard spoiled Chekist, greasy fingers already drinking their shit whiskey.  No, this man was only a bit older than thirty, just as fit as the Russians, and wore a tailored business suit.  That meant he was dangerous.

“Director Van Atta,” he said, standing at the opposite, narrow side of an oval conference table.  “I am also a major in Army Intelligence.” 

Gogol again introduced the two of them and Van Atta waved them to a seat.  His captain produced some plastic water bottles.

“I believe you gentlemen are here due to either a misunderstanding or, worse, calumny,” Van Atta began.

He assumes the pose of the injured party.  This will escalate quickly.

“If there is one thing we Rus understand, Director,” Gogol replied, as it was his task to be the voice of reason, “is political prisons and secret police.  We have hard evidence that one of our subjects is in the facility just behind us.  That is unacceptable.”

“This rehabilitation facility,” Van Atta lied smoothly, “has a few residents, at the direction of the legitimate government of all Canada.  No Russians.”

“Not even an Eduard Pavel?” Gogol asked, pushing his unopened water bottle a bit further away.

That, also, was an order from On-High; use a name very close to why they were really there.  Confuse them while the real work was done somewhere else.  They should be on the prison’s roof, right now.