Boris and Svetlana 

Over the seasons of the many new years and past decades, Marco and the coastal islands of Collier County have been a winter destination for travelers and tourists from everywhere. As with most seasonal destinations, different years produce different trends in visitors. Depending on the year, anyone can be from anywhere, but when some tourists arrive for the New Year and the winter season, the past, present, and future can blend into something from another world…almost. 

When Dave pulled into the arrival waiting line at the airport he had no idea his next passengers would be an adventure in the unusual. Driving the big SUV and being a shuttle driver in Southwest Florida was always an interesting way to subsidize a retirement in paradise, but when Dave stood on the curb holding the mysterious name, he remembered his supervisor’s warning: “Most of the passengers will fit into a simple category -couples, families, or business travelers. Once in a while, however, an odd or strange couple will appear. These people are not tourists. These are the oddball passengers who are running from something, hiding from something, or are here to meet someone - like a spy on the sly - and do a shady deal.” 

When Dave saw the odd couple approach, he knew it was going to be an unusual afternoon. His greeting sign read Boris/Svetlana, and as the distinctive man and woman began to shuffle closer, he began to think of an old Soviet spy movie, a vampire story, or a tale of undertakers in a snowy war zone. 

The woman led the way. She was heavyset, bulky, and dressed for anywhere other than the tropics. Her dark hair was wild and trying to escape from a headscarf in several different directions, and like the very thin and frail man beside her, she was very pale and wearing black winter clothing. 

“I am Svetlana, and this one is Boris.” The woman’s accent was heavy. She was chewing on her syllables as if she was ready to spit. “You drive us to Marco Island, but first you make stops. We pay cash.” 

“What about luggage?” Dave asked as the woman ducked into the back of the SUV. 

“No luggage,” the man offered in equally broken English. “We pay cash.” 

After the door closed and the woman was installed in the back seat, Boris caught his driver’s eye before he opened the passenger-side front door. “Try not to say anything,” his whisper was coarse, “And do not look at her face. We pay cash.” 

When Dave pulled away from the curb, Svetlana leaned forward with a scrap of an airline boarding pass. On the back was an address. “First stop. Bus station.” 

Dave nodded but he could not help looking in the rearview mirror as the woman sat back. She instantly caught his eyes in the mirror, but not before she saw him looking at the large mole on her chin. Growing out of the mole were several long black hairs. 

“It will be better for you if you look to the road while you drive. We pay cash.” 

The address on the paper was indeed the bus station, and when the SUV pulled into the busy terminal next to a cluster of buses, Boris jumped out and ran into the station. When Dave happened to chance a look in the rearview, Svetlana was watching. “You think I look like a witch? Don’t worry. We pay cash.” 

Before any response was possible, Boris was back out of the station and carrying a large briefcase that was obviously heavy. For a middle-aged man with a frail figure, Boris was fast. 

Before Dave could jump out of the car, the strange little man was alongside the open lift gate and the bag and Boris were both inside. “Next stop, bank. This address.” Svetlana was once again speaking to her driver. She produced a scrap of paper with another address crudely written in pencil. 

“Let me tell you a story,” Svetlana offered as she sat back and locked her eyes in the rearview. “During the space race, when Russia and America were having Star Wars fight in space and a competition over who would get to the moon first, the Americans spent about a million dollars to make a pen with ink that would write without gravity. Imagine all that money for an ink-pen that could function and write in outer space. Meanwhile, the Soviets spent no money. They write in space with pencil.” After her story, Svetlana laughed and caught Dave once again turning away from watching her mole and witch hairs in the mirror. 

When Dave pulled up outside the bank, Svetlana leaned forward as Boris flew out of the car. “Keep the engine running.” She whispered. “Don’t worry. We pay cash.” 

Panic began to set in as a police cruiser pulled up across the street. Dave suddenly realized he might be the unwilling and unknowing getaway driver at a bank heist, but once again, Boris was fast and reappeared carrying a small box. 

After he opened the door and jumped inside, there was a brief exchange in a language that sounded very out of place in the sunny skies of southwest Florida. After a moment of obvious contemplation, the witch-like woman leaned forward and spoke again. “Next stop. Marriott Hotel on Marco Island.” 

With Collier Boulevard speeding by, Svetlana looked up from her phone. “We stop at surf shop before hotel.” 

With Dave sitting in the car and waiting with the brooding heavyset and Soviet-style Svetlana, Boris finally emerged with yet another package. 

When the package was open, Dave chanced another look in the rearview mirror. Svetlana was holding up a very small red bikini. She then caught Dave again in the rearview. “I live at hotel for three months in bikini. We pay cash.”