The elite chopper pilot swore, “I fucking hate amateurs… Your guy, the Indian guy you put on the boat, is ready to work for you.”
“Ahh. Finally. So when can I have him back?”
“The next extraction point is 2 hours away. A chopper ride from there to Dudinka is 3 hours. A jet back to Krasnoyarsk another 4 hours. Give or take, ten hours.”
“Fine, bring him in.”
Jim Borland knew he had fucked up big. The list of people wanting his ass was so eclectic that it would have made guys like Imad Mugs blush. For starters there was the CIA his future-former employer, the State Department whose trust he had used to fund the Havana op. Then of course there was that large sandwich chain and finally some producer from NCIS: Havana.
With so many people after his wrinkly ass, he decided to do the honorable thing and abscond. Abscond to someplace where extradition treaties were frowned upon. But pop history suggested that every decade could have only one traitor. There was Ames for the 90s, Hanssen for the 00s and now Snowden for the 10s. That albino at the Peruvian embassy didn’t help either. Even without shopping around, he knew that the market for a new traitor was nonexistent.
Nevertheless, Jim got to work and created a shortlist of places by meticulously balancing the pros and cons with tequila and Adderall.
Andalusia had been
Just south of Andalusia lay Western Sahara. Western Sahara with its exquisite Atlantic coast was a first-rate hideout… if one had an entourage of Uzi toting guards, a phalanx of bitches and a gold cache. Jim Borland crossed it off his list.
Venezuela? Dick countries couldn’t be trusted. Period. Especially not after Libya and Cuba.
Svalbard — North of Norway. Former Soviet coal town. Russians abandoned because it was too cold. Has cool new TV show … police procedural… raincheck? Wait… Too cold for Russians?
Liberland — A slick Swede, not the sex act, had walked into a forgotten crack of former Yugoslavia and claimed his own nation. It had everything from flags to passports and stamps… everything that could be made with Photoshop. Population 30. Crazy Ayn Rand types?
After thinking long and hard, Jim Borland disappeared.
“Well hows it coming along?” asked Primakov walking into the work floor.
“Hey, hey man… we are trying to work here,” faked Pulikesi.
“Well?”
“Well, it’s pretty much ready. There are a few bugs. But tomorrow morning you can take it out for a test.”
“You sure buddy? Because if you and your Ukrainian friends fuck up, it will be the end.”
“Oh yeah? What you gonna do?” taunted Pulikesi. He was friends with fucking Snowden.
“Well, we have a bunch of expired ICBMs rusting away on the base. I could stick one up your asses and aim at Mars…”
“Please don’t…” pleaded Ilya, who knew the Russian ways a little better.
“Oooh why Mars?” exclaimed Pulikesi. Fergana Valley, Siberia, Snowden and now Mars. The intricacies of Russian pranks…
“Coz Mars needs Morons.”
Ilya couldn’t take it anymore, “Oh please. Please stop, Comrade Primakov. There is no need for Mars. The software is ready… trust me.”
Pulikesi wouldn’t let go, “Hey man, can you tweak your missiles to hit Saturn instead. Damon’s been to Mars… Mila Kunis has done Jupiter… Clooney…”
Jim Borland sat on his filthy couch flipping channels. After researching thoroughly, he had found the one place on earth which scared the pants off Uncle Sammy. The place was a certified hellhole. It held a -12 % freshness at
Amnesty International had lasted three years before packing up. Médecins Sans Frontières had lasted two. Even the Mormons had been like, “Yo Church, can I repeat Haiti?”
Jim’s research suggested that the key to survival in this anal hole was to out weird the weirdos. Hence he got super weird. Or at least tried to. The first week he had been a hippie. Someone had shot him. Then he had tried a yuppie. Police thugs had accused him of being a tranny. Only a treaty involving Ben Franklin had saved the night. Eventually he had settled onto a look, inspired by Walter form the Big Lebowski. Somehow, holding a tire iron and a bag of dirty undies at the same time was just too darn weird for these wannabes.
“Madam Undersecretary, this is Snoop Team Six. We have located our target.”
“Great. Whats he doing?” asked Undersecretary Sarah McAllister.
“He is in the house. Alone. Curtains drawn. Watching TV. Football.”
