Southern Fried Spies

Chapter 1: Somewhere in Georgia “I can’t believe Mr. Alexander sent us to the Deep South.” Vincent stared morosely out the window of the car, sweeping his blond hair back with one hand. His bright blue eyes were hooded, as if he saw something other than the view. Nikoloz knew that his partner must have mixed feelings about returning to the place of his birth. Vincent pretended that his family was from Denver, and had worked hard to erase all traces of his accent. He guarded the truth as if it were a dragon’s hoard. And yet he had relatives somewhere in this Deep South—relatives that Nikoloz had yet to meet. The two T.H.R.U.S.T. agents drove along a two-lane highway somewhere near Savannah. Moss-draped trees shaded the road, and the afternoon sun sent shafts down between the branches. They passed the occasional small farm. Nikoloz whipped the car around yet another tractor puttering along at little better than walking speed. “I do not understand why you call it Deep. Nor what is so bad about the South, other than the heat.” “Just trust me, partner. If you’d grown up down here, you’d have done anything to get out, the same way I did.” “We have many agricultural areas in the Soviet Union. Farmers are respected, the people of the land.” Vincent heaved a sigh. “It’s not the farmers. It’s all the damn rednecks.” “I look forward to meeting a redneck, then.” Nikoloz turned onto a smaller road. “I believe our destination is just ahead.” “Yes, the thriving metropolis of Carroll’s Parrish. I think they actually have a traffic light.” “I will be happy if they have an air-conditioned building.” Nikoloz pulled his damp handkerchief out of his pocket and swiped at the back of his neck. “Should it be this hot at this time of year?” “It’s not the heat: it’s the humidity.” “I am afraid I do not understand the reference.” “Never mind. Just get used to hearing it. Damn, but I wish we were back in San Francisco.” “I, too, prefer city life, my friend. But Dr. Yarborough has chosen to reside in this small town, and it is Dr. Yarborough we have been sent to assist.” The renowned chemist had recently contacted the international organization employing the two agents. He’d come up with a new type of truth serum, and was worried that it might fall into the wrong hands. They’d be guarding the doctor while the man completed the final stages of his work. Nikoloz was looking forward to seeing the area where his partner grew up—though Vincent would sooner take a bullet than divulge the actual location of his birth. He and Vincent arrived at the town, and Nikoloz looked around with interest as they drove to the restaurant Dr. Yarborough had chosen for their initial meeting. One main street—it had three traffic lights—fronted with small businesses. There was a statue, presumably some local hero, at the courthouse. The majority of the vehicles parked along the street were the sort known as “pick-up” trucks. A row of overall-clad men standing on the sidewalk stared at them as they drove past the Feed-N-Seed. “Rednecks, I presume,” Nikoloz muttered, studying the men covertly. They were all well over average size—the smallest would easily meet Vincent’s height. Half of them wore no shirt beneath the overalls. They stared at the passing car with identical expressions of suspicion. The Parrish Plate sat at the corner of Main Street and Pine Boulevard. Nikoloz pulled into the small parking lot. “It does not appear that there are many patrons of this restaurant,” he noted. Four cars besides their own sat in front of the building, and one of those might belong to the doctor, though he and Vincent had arrived before their appointed time. “ Too late for lunch and too early for dinner.” They entered the restaurant, and Nikoloz paused for a moment to analyze the situation—and to enjoy the air conditioning. The place was a small neighborhood diner, with several booths by the windows and a few tables at the back. Three of the booths were occupied, but each contained more than one person, so were not likely to be Dr. Yarborough. A middle-aged woman approached them, holding several menus. A badge pinned to her dress read “Millie.” “Hey, y’all,” she said. “Y’aunt a booth ‘er table?” Nikoloz glanced at his partner. Vincent winced and pinched the bridge of his nose, but said nothing. Nikoloz took a guess at the woman’s meaning. “A table in the rear, please.” They sat with their backs to the wall, facing the door. Millie handed them the menus. “Y’all want tea or Coke?” Vincent elbowed Nikoloz. “Tea will be sweet. I’ll have a Coke, please, Millie.” “What is ‘y’all’?” Nikoloz requested coffee, and studied the menu. “And why are there no healthy choices?” “Welcome to the Deep South, partner. Everybody is ‘y’all’ or ‘honey,’ and everything’s deep fried or covered in sugar…or both.” Nikoloz raised an eyebrow. “Is anyone in the Deep South healthy?” Millie returned with their drinks. “That’s a cute accent,” she said, handing Nikoloz a small pitcher of cream “Where was you born, honey?” “In Georgia.” “Y’all are joshing me. That ain’t no Georgia accent.” “Not this Georgia. It is in the Ukraine.” She just stared blankly. “In the Soviet Union.” Millie took a step back. “Whoa. You’re a Commie?” Vincent held up a hand. “We work for an international charity organization, Millie. He’s a good guy.” The “international charity organization” was the agency’s cover. T.H.R.U.S.T., the Tactical Homeland Response Unit and Security Taskforce, worked behind the scenes to promote world peace and cooperation. They were billed publicly as The Humanitarian Rehabilitation Urban Support Team, which supposedly sponsored programs such as helping the homeless and reclaiming neighborhoods. Vincent and Nikoloz were only two of many such agents assigned to protect the innocent citizens of the earth. Vincent had been Nikoloz’s partner for several years now, though at first the idea of the American paired with a Soviet ex-KGB agent had raised Nikoloz’s eyebrows. They had meshed into one of the most effective teams in the organization, however. Vincent’s exuberant personality and “Damn the torpedoes” attitude was matched by Nikoloz’s reticence and logical analysis of a situation. Now, Nikoloz was having trouble analyzing their waitress. Millie gave him a skeptical look, but she took their orders. Nikoloz decided on a steak with what was described as a green salad. Vincent had a burger and fries, of course, Nikoloz didn’t understand how the man stayed healthy with as much junk food as he consumed. Once Millie had returned to the kitchen, Nikoloz leaned toward his partner. “What, exactly, is the connection between Communism and being a ‘good guy’?” “Again, you’re in the Deep South, Kolya. Communists are the bad guys, along with Republicans and hippies.” Only Vika was a good enough friend to use the diminutive of his name. “So I should lie?” “Just…withhold part of the truth, okay? You don’t have to go around telling everybody you’re a Russian.” “I am Soviet, and I would think it obvious from my accent.” “Trust me, partner. Most people down here won’t know where you’re from unless you tell them. And if you’re asked, just tell them you were born in Europe.” Nikoloz opened his mouth to reply, but the door swung inward and a middle-aged man walked in. He glanced around, spotted Vincent and Nikoloz, and approached somewhat hesitantly. “Cousin Vincent, is that you? I hardly recognized you without that mustache.” As this was the code phrase they’d agreed upon, Nikoloz rose to extend his hand. “Dr. Yarborough, I am Nikoloz Donauri, at your service.” The doctor joined them. Millie hurried over with a glass of tea. “The usual, doc?” “Thank you, Millie.” “Did I hear you say this is your cousin?” “From San Francisco, yes,” Dr. Yarborough said with a smile. Millie leaned over to whisper hoarsely in his ear. “The other fellow is a Rooskie. You’d better be careful.” “I am Soviet,” Nikoloz said. “Also, I was born in Europe.” Millie bustled away again. Dr. Yarborough fiddled with his napkin. He ran a hand through his thinning brown hair. He rearranged his silverware. He sipped his tea. “I suppose I should get to the point.”. “We’re at your disposal,” Vincent said. “Take your time.” “I’ve been contacted by what I think is your enemy organization. They’ve offered me a lot of money for my formula, even unfinished as it is.” “Our organization will match whatever the opposition offers, of course. And you will have the satisfaction of knowing you’re helping the world instead of helping F.I.S.T. overthrow it.” F.I.S.T., the acronym was purported to stand for Federation for the Instigation of Suspicion and Terrorism, opposed T.H.R.U.S.T. in all things, sometimes on general principle. Their agents caused and encouraged trouble, engaged in criminal activities of all sorts, and generally sowed chaos whenever and wherever they could. “These fellows didn’t exactly tell me which organization they were from. I just didn’t like the way they looked.” Dr. Yarborough studied them frankly. “A Russian and an American? At least I know you really are from an international group.” “F.I.S.T. is international as well,” Nikoloz told him. “Although they are broken into brigades that contain only locals from one area.” “How did you two come to be working together, if you don’t mind my asking?” “I was sent by the KGB to participate in the organization.” “You were sent to infiltrate us,” Vincent corrected. “The KGB can’t stand not having a finger in every pie.” Nikoloz shrugged. “They have left me alone so far, so the point is moot. Vincent is from your Navy.” “Really?” Dr. Yarborough leaned forward. “So T.H.R.U.S.T. hires from all walks of life. I can’t imagine that the other team can say as much.” “No,” Vincent replied. “From what we can tell, they prefer to work with criminals and outcasts.” “Which is why they have not been successful in their goal of world domination,” Nikoloz said. “It is hard to mold such people into an effective team.” Dr. Yarborough laughed. “I’d imagine so.” He waited until Millie had set their orders on the table. His “usual” turned out to be a club sandwich and fries. He took a bite of his sandwich and washed it down with tea. “As I said, I’ve been contacted by someone other than your organization. It made me nervous.” “We are competent bodyguards,” Nikoloz told him. “We will be happy to—” “It’s the kids.” Dr. Yarborough shoved his plate away and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “I want my kids out of this.” Dr. Yarborough was a widower with two children—one college age and the other a preteen. Vincent’s brow furrowed. “We were thinking more along the lines of watching all of you,” he said. “We can get another team down here within a few hours to watch the—” “You can guard me if you wish, but my goal is to keep my children safe. I’ve already lost their mother. I’m not willing to risk either of them.” “Understood.” Vincent polished off his burger. “The second team can—” “No, I want them out of this. As in you take them somewhere safe.” “We will need to consult with our superior,” Nikoloz said. “I see no reason why we would not be able to do this, however.” “I have cousins in Savannah—” “Nyet. If F.I.S.T. has located you, they can find your relatives as well. We will need to find a safe house in a neutral location.” “The best thing,” Vincent said, “would be for all three of you to relocate. T.H.R.U.S.T. can set you up with a laboratory, provide anything you may need for your work.” “If all of us disappear, they’re going to be suspicious.” Nikoloz finished his meal and pulled out his communicator. “I will step outside and contact Headquarters. They can give you some options in this situation.” Millie narrowed her eyes as he rose, and made no effort to pretend she hadn’t been watching him. He nodded to her and walked into the parking lot. The heat slammed into him like a fist and almost took his breath away. Punching the button to transmit, he contacted Headquarters and explained the situation. “Let us look into it, Donauri. We’ll get back to you.” He switched the receiver to vibrating mode so that it would not interrupt their conversation with the usual soft “beep” and returned to the restaurant. Millie was at the table, talking to Dr. Yarborough. She shot him a suspicious glare and returned to the front counter as he resumed his seat. “We’ve just been having quite an interesting discussion of you evil Russians,” Vincent said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Millie blames you fellows for the common cold.” “We did not invent the cold,” Nikoloz replied. “It is a capitalist plot to sell medication.” He turned to Dr. Yarborough. “Headquarters is investigating the possibilities. They will contact us shortly with some options for you and your family.” “I suppose we should drive out and meet the kids,” the doctor replied. They followed the doctor’s truck out into the countryside, passing more small farms and moss-draped trees. Dr. Yarborough turned down a dirt road, and Nikoloz followed. The rental car was not especially designed for such surfaces, and they skidded several times in the soft sand. Vincent clutched the door handle so tightly that his knuckles were white. “I am capable of holding the car on the road, Vika.” Nikoloz grinned at his partner. “You’ve never wiped out on a sandhill. This stuff is insidious.” “No more so than driving in heavy mud.” Nikoloz turned into a skid and sped up once more, staying on the doctor’s tail. Vincent sucked in a breath and tightened his hold on the door. Dr. Yarborough continued for several miles, then turned into a driveway that led off between the trees. After another half mile, they pulled up in front of an old farmhouse, well shaded by more trees. Two stories, painted a peeling white, with a wrap-around porch on three sides. There was a separate garage, into which Dr. Yarborough pulled his truck. A newer building behind the house must be Dr. Yarborough’s laboratory. It was nearly as large as the garage, but had no windows on the sides. “I’ll see if I can locate the children,” the doctor said as he mounted the steps to the porch. “Please, come inside and have a glass of tea or lemonade.” He held the front door open for them. The inside of the house was blessedly cool and dark. A window air conditioning unit billowed the sheer curtains in the front room. Nikoloz presumed it would be termed a parlor. It contained an ornate sofa and several matching chairs, along with the expected knick-knacks and family photos. Nikoloz studied the latter. Both children resembled their father, with brown hair and thin builds. The daughter was a beauty, with green eyes and long wavy hair. The son was an awkward-looking pre-teen who wore eyeglasses. “Let me see if I can find them,” Dr. Yarborough repeated, motioning for them to follow him to the back of the house. The large sitting room was empty, though the television set was playing softly. Nikoloz always felt a little ill at ease within someone’s home. Growing up in an orphanage left one with no experience in how to behave in such an intimate setting. How must it feel to grow up with parents, even for as short a time as these two children had? And they still had their father, who was looking increasingly irritated. “Billy? Margaret?” the doctor called loudly. He stuck his head into the next room, which proved to be the kitchen. No one was there, either. “Why don’t you gentlemen have a seat and relax while I locate my offspring?”