'Everything alright, Lou?' said the plump young girl behind the counter, her bulk shapeless under the large knitted sweater that would have kept two lumberjacks warm on a snow-driven night.
'Fine,' he said, nodding warmly back at her.
'Another coffee?'
'No. Time to go.'
'See ya, Lou.'
'See ya.'
He opened the door and stepped out into the night, the air bitter and cold, a minus 20 degree chill factor.
He looked towards Room 17, motel style with its door opening onto the wooden board-walk. There was no light, nor in Room 16 next to it. When he was satisfied that he wasn't being watched, he drew the master key he had stolen many years earlier and walked towards it.
He reached the door to Room 17 and listened, heard nothing. He knocked softly, waited until he was sure that no-one answered, that he had given ample time for a sleeping man to awaken, then put the master key in the lock and pushed the door open.
He was about to slide into the room when the stranger spoke.
'Excuse me?' said the man's voice.
Hans swung round, was surprised to see the tall man in the overcoat standing next to him, on the step of the now open door of Room 16.
'What d'ya want?' Hans asked, impatient, surprised, yet hushed so as not to attract any passing attention.
The man said nothing, simply held out a rolled up newspaper towards Hans.
'What d'ya want?' repeated Hans, made nervous by the man's surprise action.
'Have you read the news today?' came the muffled reply, East European in its dialect.
'What news?'
'Comrade, you made the news today. Hans Putiloff has passed away.'
Before Hans could react, the stranger pushed the rolled newspaper towards him, to within one foot of his nose, and jerked it sharply. There was a soft pop followed by the sound of tinkling, breaking glass.
Hans Putiloff, the conscientious spy, inhaled the deadly vapour of the Stashinksky gun and fell dead to the snow covered board-walk. Sharp and swift. No time to scream, no blood, no tell-tale mark of death.
His assassin, within a matter of seconds, had picked up his victim's now lifeless body and rolled it into Room 17. He closed the door and went to catch the airport bus at Royal Avenue in time for the Air Nova flight which would return him to Halifax, Nova Scotia. He threw the gun away. Who would concern themselves with a rolled up newspaper and a metal tube seven inches long?
It was just part of the everyday junk that filled the lives of the citizens of Happy Valley, Goose Bay.
Unaware of what had happened, some five thousand miles to the east, in Moscow, the Director of the KGB relaxed in the back of the Zil limousine that took him from his offices in Dzerzhinsky Square to his small home on the outskirts of Moscow.
The days when all top communist officials had country dachas was long gone, now that the Soviet Union was starving and the leadership struggling.
He looked forward to getting home. A few friends, old and trusted comrades, were coming to drink tea and vodka and play a game of vint. They met once a week, had done regularly for the last fifteen years, and it was the highlight of their joint friendship and shared lives.
He watched the slow line of Moscow traffic edge its way out of the city.
'Times are good,' he thought. 'Even if the enemy is now our friend.' He recalled his earlier meeting when he had been summoned to the Central Committee Security Plenary. It was a regular meeting and he was expected to say little, just listen to the committee members rambling on about how Russians must learn to work with the Americans, yet be watchful at all times. His American counterparts were probably having the same meeting.
The business of spying had crossed the borders into diplomacy. It made life difficult. Suddenly there were no obvious enemies, no loyal and trusted friends.
'Ah!' he sighed. 'Such is the way of the modern world.'
Little did he know, as he leant back and closed his eyes for the journey home, that the death of Hans Putiloff, all that distance away, was about to test the new spirit of co-operation between the Soviet Union and America.
Someone was trying to rock the boat, and there was little the KGB would be able to do about it in the coming days.
Ch. 4
Adam Nicholson couldn’t give a damn about the CIA or the KGB.
But he did care about the ineptitude of his superiors.
Twenty minutes after his face was splashed across the front page of the London Times, they pulled Adam Nicholson out of Northern Ireland.
The picture wasn't of Adam himself, but of a colleague and his family who had been the unintentional victims of a Belfast bombing. Adam, in military uniform and showing his rank as Captain, was clearly identifiable in the background. Which was just what an undercover member of the SAS 14th Intelligence Unit in Northern Ireland wanted.
After a short de-briefing, he was sent home on four weeks' leave to start immediately.
'We want you to stay out of sight.'
'I thought I was to take some leave.'
'We don't want you recognised. They'll be looking for you. Just because you're in London doesn't mean you're safe.'
'I wasn't intending walking up and down Kilburn High Street.' Kilburn was a haven for IRA members and supporters. 'London's a big place.'
'That's the way it is. Otherwise we'll transfer you to a safe house. I don't think you want that.'
Adam shrugged and got up to leave.
'I haven't finished yet!' barked the de-briefer.
Adam walked to the door before turning round. 'What else did you want to discuss?' he asked insolently.
The officer sighed. 'Understand one thing. Stay out of sight at all times.'
‘You’ve already said that. Do you think I’m deaf? Or just stupid.”
As Adam left the barracks in an armoured personnel carrier, the de-briefing officer heaved a sigh of relief. Even though Adam was one of the best covert operators the Army had, his attitude made him the most hated. The last thing his superiors wanted was that arrogant bastard wandering round the barracks with nothing to do, upsetting his colleagues, disregarding the officers, contemptuous of their tradition and discipline.
Lifted out by army helicopter, a small brown Maxfli sports holdall as his only luggage, Adam was back in his London apartment by three o' clock that same afternoon.
He was pleased to be home, although regretful because he knew he could never go back to Belfast again. He had been there for nearly three years, had enjoyed his tour of duty. The danger had always appealed to him and Northern Ireland had given him the best years of his life. Before that, there'd been the Gulf War, where his sojourn behind enemy lines had taught him that he could only rely on his own ability. It had been a lesson he learnt well, a lesson that was to save his life many times. Those had been good days, out there, on the edge of danger in the sands of the desert. Then there'd been a spell in Germany, undercover as a construction worker, on the lookout for IRA terrorists who were attacking servicemen and their families. It had not been a happy time; failure to root out a terrorist cell had left him frustrated and feeling useless. But he'd learnt to speak German, although that was of little use in the Irish provinces. It had been his introduction to army life.
At thirty-four, he now faced a future in uniform behind some desk. He knew it wouldn't last, that his service career was probably over. Adventure, his constant mistress, would have to be found in some other form.
Adam had recognised the disdain in the debriefer's eyes during their short meeting. He had relished that. He knew everybody hated him. It was the way he preferred it. It suited him, he owed no-one any debts, lived his life the way he wanted.