The Russians are Coming: My Great Escape

By: Elizabeth Redhead Kriston

photo by Alan Fisher

The tires of our SUV crunched the gravel of the short driveway. We stopped beside the beautiful brick and stucco house that was to be our home away from home for the next week. We admired the pretty flowering shrubs and trees as we excitedly searched for the things we came for, the in-ground pool and the view of the creek below the sloping bank that was our backyard.

We stepped onto the floating dock and admired the water fowl and homes that lined the creek. We strained to catch a glimpse of the Chester River and Chesapeake Bay that were just a short paddle away. I could not wait to explore this little area both by bike and kayak.

Photo Credit: Alan Fisher

To make things more intriguing, our research had taught us that not too far down the creek where it intersected the Chester River, a peninsula jutted out. This outcrop of land was called Pioneer Point and atop this pretty wooded cliff sat a 45 acre estate owned by the Russians. Rumor had it that the diplomats from the nearby Russian Embassy in Washington DC used this as a vacation home.

The Compound

The neighborhood we were staying was accessed by well-marked private roads. Alan, the owner of the home, provided detailed maps of the area including street names and landmarks like the Russian estate. When we arrived and started traversing the roads that were lined with large farms and then long stretches of woods, we noticed that just one street lacked a sign. It was a gravel road that, at first, I thought was a long driveway, but I supposed it led to someplace interesting.

Early the next morning I set out to explore on my bike before the heat and humidity set in. I biked to the end of our road and pulled out the map. I wanted to find this elusive Russian estate. I enjoy architecture and I am a bit nosy too. So, I scanned all the roads that intersected one another.

According to the map, the unmarked gravel road appeared to be the one I wanted. I pedaled down the road past a large house, then a barn, and then a garage. Not long before I headed down the road, a Mercedes sedan had gone ahead of me and the dust its tires kicked up coated my eyes, nose and mouth.

As I blinked the dust from eyes, I continued to ride along the bumpy and pitted drive. The further I ventured the more my heart began to race. I asked myself, “Why wasn’t the road marked with a sign? The map gave the road a name. Where did that sedan disappear to? What if I made it down the road only to find out that it’s private and the owners take it upon themselves to shoot trespassers?” I worked myself up into a nervous sweat and I chickened out.

I stopped my forward motion and swung the front tire of my mountain bike around and headed in the opposite direction as fast as the loose gravel and my quivering muscles allowed. Once I exited that narrow road, I headed out onto the paved public road and biked several miles exploring less nefarious places.

Eventually, I reversed my path and headed home. As soon as I turned the corner and passed the farm that marked the end of public roads and beginning of private roads, I spied a white, early model, panel van idling on the side of the road. Immediately, I became suspicious and a bit paranoid. I imagined that the occupants of the van were Russian operatives.  I decided that because I entered their private road, they were spying on me. I conjured the image of Russians with binoculars, guns, and wireless earpieces relaying information about my movements to headquarters. Clearly, I have seen too many spy movies and I was making something out of nothing. I pedaled past the van. Immediately, the van started following me, but driver kept a good distance away. Maybe I really was under surveillance.

I started to pump the pedals of my bike hard trying to out run the coasting van. Out of breath and panicking, I finally found the branch of private road that led to my rental house. Unfortunately, that road was two miles of nothing but trees, the perfect place for a kidnapping (insert scary music here). In an effort to seem oblivious to my tail, I resisted looking over my shoulder. I wrestled my mobile phone out of the sack on my handlebars while maintaining my speed. Ignoring the fact that I was in a cellular dead zone, I dialed 9-1, waiting to press the second 1 until I felt I had no other choice.

I raced my bike forward wishing for some signs of life. After what felt like forever, I saw the first glimpse of a house. I made it to safety. The Russians did not capture me!

Once safely back with my family, I breathlessly regaled them with the story of my adventure.  I thought they would look at me with skepticism and would say I was crazy. Instead, then they told me a story of their own.

My sister had been out for a walk. Towards the end of her two mile trek, a tree unexpectedly fell a few feet behind narrowly missing her. It covered the private road and scared the crap out of her. With a racing heart, she made it back to the house within a few minutes and told the family what happened. My husband jumped on the remaining bike and pedaled to the site of the fallen tree.

When he got to the spot, there was nothing. Somehow, within a matter of minutes, the tree had been removed. Why is this odd? Alan had shared with us the trouble he has with living on a private road. The homeowners are responsible for the condition of the road in all types of weather and in all circumstances. This, he said, means most of the time nothing gets done quickly.

He told of his hard fought campaign to collect funds to repave the potholed road. He shared stories of being stranded for days after a small snowfall because no one would clear the road. The fact that a tree was immediately cleared and no trace left was a mystery that could, in our minds, only be explained by the presence of the Russians (cue the sinister music).

As we spent more time in the community we met locals and inquired about the Russian complex. Alan told us the history of the complex. The house we were staying in was part of the original estate as were several of the neighbor’s houses.

John Jakob Raskob

The tycoon, John Jakob Raskob, built a complex of homes and stables as a country respite for his family. He built houses for his staff. We stayed in what used to be the painters house. Though the complex was not meant to be a full-time home, the owner moved his large family into the main house (the Russians current estate) temporarily when the Lindbergh baby had been kidnapped. He feared that his family would be targeted next. He hired many guards to protect his family.

Speaking with a local crab monger taught us that years prior to our visit a fire broke out at the Russian estate. He, being a volunteer fireman, joined his fellow heroes and raced to the scene to extinguish the fire. They were disheartened to discover that the Russians refused to allow them past the main gate. They all sat, powerless, watching the fire consume one of the many outbuildings.

Another local, when we told him of our plan to kayak to the peninsula to get a look of the estate, wished us “good luck.” When we gave him quizzical looks, he told us that when fisherman navigate too close to the shores of Pioneer Point,  the Russians send out boats occupied by armed guards to chase away the errant vessels.

Why am I telling you this story? Well, recent headlines reported the sanctions President Obama imposed on Russia in response to their hand in disrupting our free election process with hacking. Along with deporting 35 diplomats from our country, he ordered the closing of two suspected Russian spy bases. One base was a 45 acre estate on the shores of the Chester River in Centreville, MD.

Click Here to Read About the Compound's Closure

While I feel exonerated and  exhilarated to know that my suspicions of being tracked by Russian spies are real, I have to face the reality (warning, glaring stereotypes follow) that a Russian named Yakov sports a fur hat and mink lined coat while he sits in a dark cold room in front of a desktop computer sipping vodka watching my daily comings and goings through my TV and computer screens. He laughs to himself as he remembers watching me pedal frantically to escape the clutches of his comrades on that hot July day.

My Personal Spy, I Hope

We can all take solace in the fact that if I can escape nefarious Russians then the rest of America has a pretty good chance too.

Хорошего дня

Harosheva dnya

Have a good day

More info on the compound:

http://washingtonlife.com/issues/summer-2007/EMBASSY-ROW/index.php

The rental house link:
https://www.homeaway.com/vacation-rental/p3917327