The Last Sunlight Station

1988. Red Line. My Russian was suspect.

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“Вы говорите по-русски?”

I looked up, startled that someone had asked if I spoke Russian.

White, early 50s, expensive suit. He had the look of DC power. Controlled. Stoic.

He had leaned in to examine my reaction.

“Da.” Then uncomfortable silence as we examined each other.

Finally, I succumbed to his presence. I was about to be .

“Well, not really. Just trying to keep up with it.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

He said something else in Russian. I was pretty sure he was asking me why, again.

To my side were several summonses to be delivered in NW. In my ink smudged hands was a recent copy of Pravda (Truth), that was anything but.

Our train slowed to a stop at the last sunlight station on the Red Line of the Washington, DC Metro. People came and went, unaware of our conversation.

I asked questions for a living: insurance fraud, missing money, cheaters. His questions, his demeanor, set my senses on alert. I felt the same hyper-awareness rise in me as when I would be cutting through an alley and see three twenty-year-olds walking toward me.

I was being evaluated in real time. He was seeking answers and watching my every reaction.

Turning the legal docs upside down, it was my turn to ask, “Why does it matter?” as we disappeared into the underground at thirty miles per hour.

He leaned forward and reached out for my Pravda. I handed it over.

He scanned the headlines then went deep into one of the stories. Then he gave a knowing smile. Sitting on the orangish, hard plastic of the Metro train, he folded the paper in half and then leaned toward me to hand it back.

He stood as the train slowed again. Four steps toward the door. When the train stopped, he looked back one more time to make eye contact. Then he stepped into the station.

I sat there for a minute before going back to my Pravda. A card fell out.

CIA logo and a Langley, VA address.

At Farragut North I finally tucked the card in my left pants pocket, picked up my summonses, and went to serve a few lawyers before they left for their lunches at Duke Zeibert’s. I left the Pravda on the train.

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Author’s Note

I can already hear people screaming “This didn’t happen.”

Frankly, I’m not sure I’d believe it either. But it did.

The Process Server Chronicles are the True(ish) stories of my nine years as a DC, Maryland and Virginia process server and private investigator. Why True(ish)? Because I knowingly change many names, dates and sometimes locations to retain confidentiality and reduce liability. Even all these decades later.

Plus, there is the fog of memory.

My Cal Brink Files? That is fiction. Sure, it’s fiction based on my experiences. But pure fiction, nonetheless. Consider it to be like when your brain is running wild and you just can’t seem to shut it down. Yes, like that. Only, I scribble a few things down and then write it out and then revise and revise again.

Mrs. Sanders, my real-life 8th grade English teacher, would cringe if she saw my sentence fragments, punctuation choices and run-on sentences. The truth about my fiction is, those are deliberate choices.

Well, most of the time.

© 2026 Chris Writes, LLC. All Rights Reserved

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Turns out I have had quite a few encounters with Soviet or Russian influences in my life. I shared some over at my Behavioral Detective HQ. Visit over there and ask to be let in, I’ll approve you.

You’ll especially like the bit about the Russian Embassy.