Prologue - 12 February 1981
The four-ton, canvas covered truck skidded around the corner. The driver struggled with the wheel. “I’m sorry. We are too overloaded this trip. There’s at least five tons of burn bags back there,” he apologized to the United States Navy officer sitting beside him.
Her teeth chattering from the cold in the cab of the truck, Lieutenant Elda Ainsworth replied, “No worries, but can we stop at this address to pick up some blankets before we leave this area? Also I’d like to use the phone to call ahead and see if we can get the heat and defrost repaired in Cardiff.” The wind was blowing snow in through the windows, which were slightly open to keep the front windshield from fogging up.
The shivering driver agreed. “I’d like to check the load when we stop too. Our careers will be over if we lose one of these burn bags.”
Elda reached down and touched her pistol in the holster by her side. She knew that it was loaded and resisted the temptation to check again. She gazed out at the accumulating snow and hoped that it was just a passing storm without much depth. She feared the ice they would encounter with an empty truck on the way back.
The driver pulled the truck up and pumped his brakes to stop in front of the address Elda had given him. Elda noticed that his knuckles were white on the wheel. She jumped down out of the truck and dashed into the warm house. In a few seconds, she returned with an armload of wool blankets. The driver gratefully took two and wrapped them around his torso. She handed him a pair of gloves. “They are Al’s, so we have to remember to return them.” She jogged around the truck and pulled herself back up into the cab. “Do you want the good news or the bad news?”
“The good news,” he replied, blowing on his fingers, then slipping them into the warm gloves.
“There is none.”
He shrugged fatalistically. “Okay, the bad news.”
“The repair facility is closed. And the storm is expected to go all night, so we will hit icy roads when we return to Wales from London.”
“Shit. Oh, excuse me, ma’am.”
Elda took her cover off and carefully placed it on her lap and pulled a blanket around her shoulders and over her head before responding, “That’s okay. It sucks.”
They both laughed sadly. With the driver now focused more on steering than the cold, the trip towards London was uneventful. As they headed into the outskirts of town, Elda glanced at her watch and noted that it was 09:00; they were right on schedule for the incinerator. She glanced over to a pub they were passing and saw a man stagger out, heading in their direction. She nudged the driver. “Look—it’s the guy who is going to be burning these highly classified documents for us.” He chuckled. Their mood fell when they arrived at the facility and shortly after, the same man walked through the yard and opened the door for them. Elda wondered if this mission could get any worse.
While the bags were being tossed into the incinerator under Elda’s watchful eyes, the driver left to call in their status. Elda was sweeping up the ashes when he returned.
“Do you want the good news or the bad news?”
“The good news.”
“There is none.”
“Okay, the bad news.”
“We have to pick up a passenger for the ride home and then head into the United States Embassy in London to pick up some stamps.”
“Did you say, stamps?” Elda asked incredulously.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Shortly after this conversation, a tall, slender teen, dressed impeccably in black with a grey greatcoat and leather gloves strolled into the facility. “Are you my ride?” he asked Elda, his voice cracking.
“Apparently. And you are?”
“Let’s just call me your passenger.”
Elda sighed and thought, Perfect. Now I’m babysitting. Out loud she stated, “All right. We have to stop for stamps at the Embassy and then we’ll be heading back to the cookie factory.”
“Good.”
The three crammed into the cab with Elda in the middle. Elda was relieved to have some body heat for the ride home, though she thought she’d still never feel her fingers or toes again. Even the heat of the incinerator had seemed insufficient.
There was no place to park the truck by the embassy, so the driver hopped out while Elda slid over to take the wheel. In a tired daze she circled the block.
Crash. The rear impact woke Elda up. Cursing, she stopped the truck and climbed down to survey the damage. A battered farm truck had rammed the United States vehicle from behind. Elda groaned at the thought of all the paperwork she would have to fill out. Still, the truck was so old and beat up that there was no obvious sign that it had been in an accident. The farmhand pulled over his truck and walked over to chat with Elda.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “My foot slipped and caught the accelerator instead of the brakes. There’s really no damage to my truck and it was all my fault. Do you have to report it?”
Elda glanced at the traffic that was having difficulty getting by and theorized that the police would soon be there. She really did not want to go through all the red tape, nor did she want to stay up any longer, since they had already worked the day shift before leaving, packed the truck, and traveled for over eight hours. “I’m alright with turning a blind eye to this, if you’re okay with us just getting out of here quickly. The traffic is starting to pile up.”
Before Elda had even finished her sentence, the other driver sprinted away. Elda jumped up into her truck and carefully pulled away from the curb to circle the block again. Her passenger looked at her with interest. He handed her a card with a number on it. “If you ever decide to leave the military, you might find that you fit in with some other like-minded people better than going to some civilian job. So if that happens, call this number and ask for Ed.”
“Are you Ed?”
“I’m just an unknown guy going for a ride.”
The driver appeared holding a locked bag. Elda took the bag from him and slid over so he could hop up to take the controls. She looked to her right, and the stranger was leaning against his window with his eyes closed. Noting the bluish tint of his lips, she took her lap blanket and put half of it on his lap. She glanced again at the card she was holding in her hand and placed it carefully in her inside jacket pocket.
The rest of the trip was a sleepy blur as the empty truck slid sideways down the Welsh hills.
***
26 November, 1990
Anatoly Petrov crept through some woods in northeast of Moscow, Russia. A ground fog lifted off the snow-covered leaves as he slowly and soundlessly moved along. The final rays of sun thinly streamed through the tall trees. He breathed the dry, cold air through his nose to limit the sound and any sign of his breath. He breathed evenly as he tracked his prey.
Anatoly heard a short, sharp sound to his left and watched as a rabbit hopped toward him. He noted the location and then veered left, ensuring each footstep landed silently as he crept along hunched over to keep from being sighted. He drew closer to the origin of the sound and dropped to the ground to listen for signs. There! A slight rustle just to the right of him. He peered through the underbrush and saw a shadowy figure heading in his general direction.
Khorosho. He will be here soon. Anatoly calculated the distance between the two of them, factoring in his own reaction time. Though a large, muscular teenager, Anatoly could move much faster than a smaller man. He sank farther into the freezing leaves and stilled his breath to become one with the forest floor.
A foot came down within his reach, and Anatoly grabbed it and brought the other man to the ground as he leaped on top of him, shoving his head into the underbrush with one hand and snaking a noose around his neck with the other. He held the man down with his body weight, feeling him struggle as Anatoly cut off his breath. He relished the sensation of the death throes beneath him.
Anatoly checked the other man’s pulse and rolled off him. Aga! My mission is accomplished. Now I can go to the KGB school. He glanced down at the body of his fellow cadet. The trainers had warned all the cadets at the indoctrination that only one-third would graduate from pre-cadet training. At the time they hadn’t realized that the other two-thirds would be brought out in body bags. It is good. They guarantee our training is kept secret. Only the strong make it through.
***
Moscow, 1997
The taxi ride to the hotel was frightening, as the car slid on bald tires across the snow-packed roads. Aurelio sank into the backseat, hoping he would make it to the hotel in one piece. This was his first trip overseas. It would stink to die in a taxi. What if the driver kidnapped him? He had heard that they did a lot of kidnapping over here. He felt like he would throw up from the stale cigarette smell in the cab.
He was shaking by the time the taxi dropped him off at the hotel, and he headed right to the bar after checking in and sending his luggage up to his room. He had never been in a nice hotel before. The bar off the lobby had a steady supply of vodka in shot glasses. After a few drinks, he observed a number of women up on the balcony surrounding the lobby. Are they prostitutes? He checked his wallet and counted his money. He wandered out to the middle of the lobby and leered drunkenly at a pretty brunette. She pointed to the glass elevators across the way and gestured for him to come up. He weaved his way to the elevators and punched the button for the balcony floor.
When he stepped off, the brunette waved at him. He advanced timidly. She held out her hand for money.
“Dollarov, pozhaluysta.”
“How much?” He pulled out a few ten-dollar bills and handed them to her.
“More.”
He kept placing bills in her hand until she nodded and closed her fist around them.
She then handed him a room key. He returned to the elevator and pressed the button for the eighth floor.
As he waited in the room, he wondered if he’d had too much liquor to get it up. He tried to calm his nerves with a shot of vodka from the minibar. He was innocent about sex. His wife had been the first and only girl he had fucked. Suddenly, he wondered if he was being set up. With shaking hands, he poured another drink.
The door opened, and a tall, slender, blonde prostitute sauntered in. He was disappointed. He had always been more attracted to brunettes resembling his mother. The blonde noticed his hesitation and quickly took control. She pushed him back onto the bed and unzipped his pants and went to work. It didn’t take long for him to come. Although the prostitute didn’t understand English, and he didn’t comprehend Russian, it was clear she could communicate. She slowly slipped off her clothes and watched as his penis stiffened again. After a short while, he lay on the bed, exhausted, a big smile on his face. He vowed to get more sales calls in Russia.
