across the way. The name above it was long and Finnish. It was identical to the name on Kaiser’s paper. This was definitely the place they were looking for.
A burly man stood behind the counter. He did not look happy. He was wearing an oversized apron, the kind a butcher might wear to attack a cow. It was streaked with blood and guts and all kinds of filth. On his head, he wore a black knitted cap that covered half of his brow and the tops of his ears. His gnarled hands were hidden by thick rubber gloves that he tucked inside the sleeves of his waterproof jacket. A scowl was etched on his face.
Payne approached him with caution. “We’re looking for Jarkko.”
“Who are you?” said the man. He was in his mid-forties and spoke with a Finnish accent.
“We’re friends of Kaiser.”
The man considered this response. “Then I am Jarkko.”
He smiled and extended his right hand across the countertop. His glove was dripping with fish parts. Payne didn’t want to offend him so early in their partnership, so he ignored the goo and shook his hand. Jarkko smiled even wider. “You’re American, no?”
Payne shook his head. “We’re Canadian.”
“Canadian, my perse! You are American. Do not lie to Jarkko.”
Payne wasn’t sure what perse meant but assumed it was profane. “For this particular trip, we are Canadian.”
Jarkko shrugged. “As you wish.”
Jones stood a few feet behind Payne, listening to their conversation. He would have stepped closer, but he didn’t feel like getting slimed. Instead, he simply nodded his head.
Jarkko nodded back. “So why are you here? You are day early.”
“No, we’re not,” Payne assured him. “Our trip is today.”
“Impossible! Russia is closed today. There is no getting through.”
“Closed? What do you mean it’s closed?”
“Do you not understand Jarkko? My English is good. Russia is closed.”
Payne had visited enough places around the world and had dealt with enough shady characters to recognize a shakedown when he saw one. Sometimes the problem was solved with a few dollars. Other times it required a little finesse. But in his experience, there was always a workable solution. It was just a matter of figuring out what that was.
Jarkko picked up a hose from behind the counter and began spraying the ground in a slow, sweeping motion. A thin layer of grime floated toward the closest drain.
Payne spoke over the sound of gushing water. “Obviously, you’re the expert here. If you say Russia is closed, then Russia is closed. Who am I to doubt you?”
Jarkko continued to work as he considered Payne’s words. Finally, he turned off the hose. “That is all? No bribes? No threats? No promises to Jarkko?”
Payne shook his head. “Of course not. I wouldn’t want to insult you.”
“But you did insult me. You lied to Jarkko, and Jarkko did not like. I am man of principle. A simple man. A fisherman. I work hard every day. I have no time for lies. Or men who tell them.”
“Really? So you expect me to believe that Russia is closed?”
“No! Russia is not closed. Do not be a molopää! How you close a country? Jarkko was lying to teach you lesson. You no lie to Jarkko, then Jarkko no lie to you!”
“Fine,” Payne said. “No more lies.”
“Good! Start with name. Not name on fake passport. Real name. It is my secret.”
Payne realized he didn’t have much of a choice. If he wanted a ride to Saint Petersburg, he had to get on Jarkko’s good side. “My name is Jon. That’s D.J.”
Jarkko studied Payne’s eyes. “Yes, I believe you. Our trip is not canceled.”
“Glad to hear it. We can’t wait to leave.”
“Soon,” Jarkko said as he peeled off his gloves. He laid them on the countertop and pulled out a large thermos from behind it. “First, we toast my new friends, Jon and D.J.”
Jones approached, no longer worried about being slimed. “What are we drinking?”
“It is drink I invent. I call it Kafka. I name it after famous writer.”
Jones grimaced, unsure why a Finnish fisherman would name a drink after Franz Kafka, a German-speaking author. “Are you a fan of his stories?”
Jarkko ignored the question, pouring the beverage into the top of his thermos. “Drink!”
Jones eyed the cup suspiciously, then took a small sip. He immediately scrunched his face in disgust. “Good Lord! My tongue went numb. What the hell is that stuff ?”
“I already tell you. It is Kafka.”
“But what’s in it?”
“You want recipe? It is coffee made with vodka. Cof-ka. Kafka!”