Under Covers

two | minsk

two | minsk

the humble potato is a staple in Belarusian cuisine; in Soviet times, Russians nicknamed Belarusians "bulbashi"after the Belarusian term for potato

RAYNA

May 5th, 10:07 (GMT +3)
10 days until it happens

MEN ARE SO goddamn easy.

Take this guy I'm tracking as an example. I'm sneaky, so the chances he'll even catch me tailing him are diminutive to start with. But if he does? Sweet, innocent little me? He'll mistake me for another bimbo American tourist snapping photos of quaint buildings. The I ♥ USA patch on my backpack does the trick every time. My curly blonde wig itches faintly. Oversized tortoiseshell glasses obscure my face.

My footsteps land in soft thuds on the wet sidewalk. It's been pouring since I arrived in Minsk, and I miss the sun. Tufts of grey clouds streak across the gloomy early-May sky. Fat, glistening droplets cling to my Gore-Tex sleeves as I check my watch. This is taking longer than I anticipated.

A hundred meters ahead of me, the gunrunner's red hat halts in front of a newspaper stand. My stride doesn't waiver. I'm just a regular gal enjoying a cheerful morning walk. I've traversed nearly half the distance between us, and my target is still loitering beside stacks of magazines. He digs into his pocket and flicks a cigarette alight beneath the white awning, smoke furling into his scraggly moustache. Damn it. Gonna be here for a while.

There's a draniki stall within eyeshot of him. The man behind the counter wears a misshapen salt-and-pepper beard and an oil-splattered apron. The potato fritters sizzle in the deep-fryer, crackling. "Ooh, pancakes." My southern twang is thick as butter on a biscuit. "These look scrumptious. What do you call these thangs in y'all's language?"

The old man's face spreads into a patronizing, indulgent smile. "Draniki," he explains, his Belurusian accent deep and heavy. Then, idiot-proof for simple country folk like me, "Po-ta-to. On-yon."

"Mm-mm-mm," I trill. "Love me some potaters. I'll have one order, please." Out of the corner of my eye, my mark is flipping through a porn-mag, his cigarette sandwiched between scrawny fingers. I spend a long time digging through my bag for my wallet, shooting the clerk a scatterbrained apology. Eventually, I pass him a crisp wad of roubles, "Sorry!" I giggle, "Just exchanged my dollars – don't have any small change!" and in return he hands me a grease-soaked paper boat of golden-brown perfection with a heaping pile of sour cream on the side. My stomach gurgles on cue. Ugh, fuck biology. Apparently my hunger isn't a ploy. You can't make this shit up sometimes.

As I wait for this manyak to start moving again, I munch on my snack, rifling through my mental copy of the case-file to make sure I'm not missing anything. Cassidy Dalton, eighteen year-old daughter of Canadian billionaire Elias Dalton and British diplomat Victoria Dalton, née Davis. Last seen outside her Vancouver Island vacation home four days ago. Four fucking days. Christ.

Four days is literally a lifetime in hostage situations, but Cassidy's devoted parents didn't even realize she was missing until thirty-six hours after the presumed kidnapping. Every minute is borrowed time, and right now I'm wasting too much of it crunching through the warm, crispy, gooey deliciousness of Belarusian street food.

The flash-drive. Once I get a hold of it, everything will start falling into place. This guy I'm following — Vladimir something-or-other — is a mid-level thug with the branch of the Russian mob we suspect is holding Cassidy captive. He's going to lead me to their hideout. I'm not one-hundred percent sure of my strategy for when I get there. I have some ideas, the bare-bones of a plan, and the rest of it is instinct and improv.