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He double-clicks on the icon, goes into the program, sees who’s calling him, and starts typing.
TOM:Hey, how’s it going?
YURI:Trying to survive. You?
TOM:In NYC, living the dream. Where are you?
Tom waits with a smile, knowing his correspondent would never, ever tell him where he was.
But Tom does enjoy playing the game.
YURI:Out in the field again. You should try it sometime.
TOM:I like a warm office. Comfortable. Food. Drink. No IEDs on the road.
YURI:Coward.
TOM:Realist. What’s going on?
Tom had met Yuri four years ago, when he was on assignment in northern Syria’s grinding, six-sided civil war, embedded with a Kurdish peshmerga fighting force. Yuri—Tom wasn’t sure if that was the man’s real name—claimed to be a Ukrainian journalist working for the Qatar-based Al Jazeera network, which wasn’t a popular group among the Kurds.
But Tom, remembering his childhood of always being picked last in the schoolyard for soccer or touch football, had befriended him, sharing some of his water and rations even though he was pretty sure Yuri was working for the intelligence service of Russia or Ukraine.
YURI:Something heavy. Interested?
He quickly types back.
Very. Go on.
Back in Syria, when it came time for the two of them to return to their respective countries, Yuri had pulled him aside and said, “Look. Thanks for your help. I know I’m not working for theTimes,like you do, but it’s the best I can do. I am a good reporter, a good journalist…and sometimes, when I find stories my editors won’t let me touch, I pass on to you. Okay?”
Tom had said, “Sure,” and now here he was. Even now he still isn’t sure if Yuri is passing along news tips out of whatever journalist ethics he possesses or because he’s using Tom for Yuri’s paymasters. But each time Yuri has sent Tom something, it has been of value.
He waits, staring at the iMessage screen.
Has the screen frozen?
Did Yuri change his mind?
Then the message pops up.
YURI:You know I got sources with FSB. Hate them but we take care of each other.
Tom thinks,FSB.The Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation, the bastard offspring of the KGB, which was begotten from the MVD, which in turn was begotten from the NKVD, and from there Lenin’s Cheka, which even had its roots in the czar’s Okhrana. A legacy of spying, spreading disinformation and fake news, and sometimes shooting their enemies in the back of their head.
TOM:I know. Go.
Pause.
Pause.
YURI:There is something stirring. Something big. Something aimed at you.
TOM:Me?
YURI:You, meaning Europe. Or US of A.
TOM:What is it?
