In the best tradition of Northern California’s December, that year’s winter came gently. The rains would come soon, but for now, the last month of the year felt sunny, vibrant, and warm. Everyone loved the beautiful holiday season.

That Sunday afternoon, Alex and his dad walked their usual route at Stanford. The same route they had walked since Alex was a child. He always enjoyed these strolls with his dad. Walking side by side with the sun on their faces, one could easily see their resemblance. They shared the same height and hair coloring, and his dad’s hazel eyes gleamed like Alex’s.

They parked on El Camino Real and strolled along Churchill Mall Street between the soccer fields on the left and Masters Grove on the right. The winter sun bathed Stanford’s red-tiled rooftops in a warm glow, casting long shadows on the lawns. The hum of traffic from El Camino faded slightly as they neared the familiar woodsy aroma from the eucalyptus and redwood trees.

They saw the pickup games in full swing. It was so inviting. Alex decided he must find time to play a couple of soccer games while at home.

“For quite a while now, I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” Alex’s dad said.

“What’s that?”

“With all this travel around the world, do you miss your home, Palo Alto?”

“I do, Papa.”

In both Russian and Swedish, Papa and Mama meant dad and mom, so that’s what Alex and his sister called them since childhood.

“It’s good to miss one’s home,” his dad said. “It grounds a man.”

As they walked, they passed the place where his dad had first let go of Alex’s bicycle, and Alex eventually realized he had been pedaling by himself. He had been terrified but very proud to accomplish this feat. “I just thought of the day you let go of my bicycle here.”

His dad chuckled, a deep, familiar sound. “I knew you could do it. You just didn’t believe in yourself yet.” That had always been his father’s way – gentle encouragement, quietly believing in his son’s strength before Alex could see it for himself.

“I’m glad you and Mama don’t worry about my assignments anymore, as you did during my tours in the service.”

“The State Department isn’t the Green Berets in Afghanistan. Plus, your sister ensures we now always have something to worry about.”

“Katherine will settle down. It’s time,” Alex said.

Alex’s phone buzzed, a subtle reminder of the world waiting for him. He stopped to check the message. It came from Matias Heikkinen on his Helsinki team. Heikkinen wrote, ‘There is a new message from Rider. Please connect.’ Heikkinen classified the message as ‘low urgency.’ For a fleeting moment, he considered responding, but the rare comfort of walking with his father held him back.

“Work?”

“Yeah.” Alex waved it off. “It’ll wait.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s okay. I’ll handle it later.”

They resumed their walk, and Alex changed the subject. “I know you came to the States as a twenty-five-year-old and probably feel more American than most people born here, but do you ever miss the place of your childhood in Ukraine?”

“Odesa?”

“Yes, that beautiful city by the Black Sea.”

“Miss – no, remember – yes.”

“Tell me.”

“Alright. What I remember?”

“Yes.”

“Odesa was a city of contradictions,” his father began, his voice softening with memory. “A place where history clung to every stone – Renaissance architecture, the grandeur of the old port – yet always changing, always moving forward. Even under Soviet rule, the spirit in Odesa couldn’t be crushed.” His eyes sparkled. “It had remained a city that never quite let go of its independence.”

He continued, “Now, I mostly remember my teens as a sequence of summers. The rest of the seasons at first shrunk and then vanished from memory. Every day felt bright and full of things happening around me.”

His dad paused and then asked, “Do you recall that Renaissance-style building on Gogol Street I showed you when I took you guys there for a visit?”

“I was in my teens and more interested in the beach in those days, but yeah, I remember. The street that runs to the edge of the two-hundred-foot drop with the view of the sea and the port below.”

“Yes, that’s the one. Being too young to remember our previous place across town, that’s the place I remember as my childhood home.”

“What was it like?”

“The apartment?”

“Yeah.”

“In the 1800s, Italian architects designed palatial buildings in the city’s center. In the Soviet times, the authorities divided every floor of those buildings into several apartments. Our second-floor communal apartment was in one of those three-story buildings. We shared it with another family – a doctor, her mother, her husband, and her daughter, who also became a doctor. We shared a huge kitchen and a large bathroom with them. From what I remember, with twelve-foot-tall, elaborately crowned ceilings and late 19th-century marble fireplaces, our three rooms had large French windows. As kids, we would sit on the windowsills of the open windows and gaze at and smell the sea.”

“So, my grandparents, two of my aunts, and you lived together in those three rooms.”

“Yeah, but in three gorgeous rooms!” Alex’s dad laughed.

“Originally, the whole building probably belonged to a single wealthy family,” Alex surmised.

“You’re right. It did. You understand that compared to what many others had, our place was a privilege. As a decorated WWII non-commissioned officer, my dad somehow managed to get this beautiful place. He must have known one or two important people in the city.”

“Yeah, I remember seeing those medals you showed me.”

Alex’s dad continued in a melancholic manner, “As kids, we loved that street. Part of the street and the buildings’ courtyards had fruit trees where we could just climb up and gobble the fruit until our bellies hurt. They probably planted those trees when the original owners lived in the buildings. The trees survived, and some other trees people planted much later.”

“Fruit trees on the streets?”

“Yes. I remember apples, pears, apricots, cherries, and something we seldom eat here called sweet mulberries. We also loved it because of the proximity to the port and local ferries, which took us to the beaches.”

“But I recall beaches close to the city’s center.”

“Yeah, there were a couple: Lanzheron and Arcadia. But they were nothing like the ones we could get to on a ferry in thirty minutes.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Yes, it was.”

As they walked around Stanford, Alex pointed to several new buildings around them. “But, here at Stanford, they have put up more and more buildings where the grass fields used to be. Pretty soon, there will be no room for students to play frisbee or soccer anymore.”

“The Bill Gates types keep donating money, so they keep building. You still have a good few left here to play soccer on.” Alex’s dad smiled.

“Papa, Odesa was quite a large city even when you were there, but what about outside the city?

“Yeah, we were city kids, and we mostly had two opportunities to see and feel the countryside.”

“What were they?”

“The first one was when we traveled by train, bus, or on one of our friends’ mopeds to places like Karolino-Buhaz.”

“Mama told me about her trip there with you. The miles-long beach between the Dniester River estuary and the Black Sea?”

“Yes, where the river flows into the sea. To get there, we had to pass through miles and miles of fields, through the corn, watermelons, vineyards, and, of course, sunflower fields. You know, when your mother and I spent time in Andalucía, in Spain, we saw gorgeous sunflower fields. There, they grew on the rolling hills. The Ukrainian Steppe is flat, and sunflower fields look like a yellow sea flowing into the horizon. It’s something to behold. If you can, you should see it when you’re there.”

“‘A sunflower sea!?’ I’ll make sure to see that.” Alex pictured the image of his favorite flower. “But you mentioned two opportunities?”

“The second was very Soviet.”

“How is that?”

“Every fall, university students had to spend several weeks working on collective or state farms called ‘kolkhoz’ and ‘sovkhoz.’ We lived in awful dormitories and worked the fields. Everybody hated it. But, looking back, this is where we all ‘touched’ the earth, and I learned to tend the vineyards – I loved that. I guess, in my next life, I would want to grow grapes and make wine.”

Alex laughed. “You think it’s better than starting and building companies in Silicon Valley, as you did?”

“I don’t know about better, but it’s something I’ve always wanted to do. Remember how the wine country here looks and smells during the harvest in the fall?” Alex’s dad asked, a voice full of wistfulness. “I love the intoxicating aroma of the grapes and the oak barrels.”

“Yeah, Napa and Sonoma. I remember it very well. This reminds me, on the way back, let’s stop by the store. I want you guys to try one of the Napa winery’s wines I’ve come to like.”

“That would pair well with Mama’s dinner tonight.” Alex’s father stopped abruptly. “Oh yeah, almost forgot to tell you.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m not positive. Do you remember my childhood friend Dima Shevchenko?”

“I do.”

“Remember his son, about your age? We met them in Odesa. Remember?”

“Yes. Sergey was his name. Right?”

“Yes, that’s right. So, Sergey is now leading, I think, a company-sized military drone unit. He often comes to Kyiv. Would you like to see him?”

“If my schedule allows, of course.”

“I’ll let Dima know.”

They returned home just in time to help with dinner. Alex joined his mother and Katherine in preparing the meal as he always did when home.

Their large kitchen in Old Palo Alto often teamed with people enjoying his mother’s delicious food and good conversation.

Alex’s mother liked to cook and instilled in her children a love of good food and cooking. Alex and his sister often wondered how this beautiful, tall, reddish-blond woman who spoke four languages, got an MBA, and had a successful career in the Valley while raising two children with Alex’s dad, prepared such great food. They playfully attributed it to her solid Swedish Viking roots.

They didn’t have to do much. They just helped with the Greek salad and assembled a three-cheese lasagna before it landed in the oven.

“Have you met any beautiful girls over there? Some Ukrainian girls are gorgeous,” Alex’s mother said, a gleam in her eye.

“Mama, he doesn’t have time for any of that. Right, Alex?” Katherine teased. She added a grimace.

Alex chuckled. “No, you’re right. No time for that. But there are many attractive girls there.”

“Shame,” his mother chimed in, her eyes twinkling. “I had hoped for a charming Ukrainian daughter-in-law one of these days.”

“Mama!” Alex groaned, though a smile tugged at his lips. “You’ll have to wait a little longer.”

His dad just grinned.

At the table Alex asked, “What do you guys think of this Merlot? Sterling calls it ‘Vintner’s Collection.’ Not as excellent as the one they make with only Napa grapes, but pretty damn good for just fourteen bucks, in my opinion.”

Everyone around the table agreed.

“And how’s the wine in Kyiv?” Alex’s dad asked. He took a sip of the Merlot.

​

Alex swallowed a mouthful of lasagna and said, “Pretty good, actually. The Kyivans tell me that the wines from Crimea before the Russian occupation were very good, but we don’t see them anymore. We do get some good wine from Odesa’s wineries. Then, there is the cherry wine from Lviv.”

“Cherry wine!” Katherine exclaimed, giggling. “Sounds wonderful.”

​

“It is,” Alex agreed. “And also, despite the war, several wine bars are still open. I visited one and talked to the owner. He said four in ten Ukrainians now opt for Ukrainian wines, up from 2 in 10 before the war. The war seems to have boosted people’s demand for local wines – a show of national pride.”

​

“Interesting that the wine bars are continuing to operate. What about restaurants?” asked Alex’s mom.

​

“Ahh, you would be surprised how much dining out continues. It seems it has become an act of defiance and patriotism for the Ukrainians. I discovered that Kyiv has just as many restaurants open now as before the Russian invasion. Everyone wants a sense of normalcy. I used to visit a restaurant that took a direct hit one day. Thankfully, since it was early morning, no one was hurt. They reopened in a different location.”

More questions about the current state of Ukraine ensued while everyone enjoyed their meal. The wine’s warmth and his family’s laughter wrapped around Alex like a blanket. For a moment, everything felt right. But as the conversation shifted and he remembered Heikkinen’s message, Alex couldn’t ignore the pull of the world beyond their table – the world that waited for him across the Atlantic. The peacefulness he felt in his hometown was fragile, like the calm before the next storm.

✧         ✧         ✧

Later, Brad called his friend about Ukraine’s hardware.

To take the call, Alex stepped over to a quiet side of the backyard where his dad had installed a small fountain and a bench. Preparing for the winter, his mom had trimmed all the roses. He loved that his parents took such good care of the house.

“They all agreed the plan is good, and if possible, they do want the US acquiescence, as you put it.”

“Good deal, Brad. I’ll be in DC in a few days. I’ll talk to some people and see if they agree to help with this project.”

“Oh, yeah, and your ‘Pedro’ is actually Sebastián Diaz from Argentina. He calls himself Seb. A very good guy. I’ll send you his detailed info.”

“Great. Meanwhile, let’s think about any other details that need attention,” Alex said. “I’ll let you know if there is anything else I can come up with. Of course, you’ll do the same.”

“Will do. If I haven’t talked to you before then, enjoy Christmas with your family. Tell your mom I still remember her Lussebullar – am I saying it right? You know, those Swedish saffron buns she makes in December.”

“Yes, December 13th. That’s for the Lucia festival. When Swedish kids walk in a row with candles in their hair, it’s quite a sight.”

“Yeah, those buns were fabulous.”

“She’ll be happy to hear that,” Alex said, glancing back toward the house, where warm light spilled from the windows. “Happy Holidays to you and your family as well, Brad.”

✧         ✧         ✧

At night, around eleven, Alex sat alone in his room when the evening wound down at the Curtners. The dim light from his desk lamp cast long shadows on the walls.

He clicked his secure app and messaged one of the officers at his Station in Helsinki. ‘Good morning, Matias.’

Back came. ‘Well, good evening to you.’

‘How’s the snow? Falling?’ Alex’s smile was almost audible through the message.

‘Don’t tease me, you Californian you.’

Alex ran a well-oiled CIA operation in Finland. He had built it from the ground up, and every piece had to fit perfectly. His Station dealt with political, military, and economic HUMINT (human intelligence).

A few years ago, he recruited one of his most valuable assets – Russian colonel Gregory Panchev, code name Rider, who served in the General Staff of the Russian Armed Forces. Alex built a small team to handle this critical asset. They gave the Russian General Staff the code name the Club.

He had set up the Helsinki Medical Trading Company, providing Russia with Western medical equipment and pharmaceuticals. The company had an office in Moscow staffed with locals. This completely legit operation made a small profit. Of course, the Helsinki employees and the Moscow office didn’t know about the CIA connection. The CIA officer on his team, Matias Heikkinen, worked in the Helsinki Medical Trading Co. A local support asset at the Medical Trading Company’s Moscow office, Sergey Nestov, code name Mover, helped the team run the colonel.

Rider had two comm methods with Alex’s team in Helsinki: a SecureDrop and a dead drop. SecureDrop, a software suite that allowed placing and retrieving encrypted files to/from several secure servers and sites, provided the primary form of communication. Rider used a special phone via VPN (Virtual Private Network) and public WiFi. He rarely used a dead drop in a secret location to pass an encrypted file on a micro flash memory card. Mover handled these drops with Rider and frequently traveled on business from Moscow to Finland.

‘What’s the message, Matias?’

‘Russian Defense Minister, read Putin, will appoint Valery Gerasimov (Chief of the General Staff of the Russian military) in place of Sergey Surovikin as overall commander of the war against Ukraine. Surovikin will serve as Gerasimov's deputy.’

‘Hasn’t Czar heard the English idiom ‘Don’t change horses in midstream?’

‘He doesn’t speak English.’ Back came a smiling emoji. ‘But they’re getting serious.’

‘Yeah, Gerasimov is the best they have, that’s for sure.’

‘Thanks, Matias. I’ll pass that to the Association (Alex’s team’s codename for the Ukrainian General Staff).’

This time – no earthquake.