“The soldier?” Jane asked.
Nia nodded.
“When and where did you meet him?” Jane continued.
“On the flight from Canada and he’s no longer a soldier,” Nia answered. “He’s a great guy, sweet, generous, funny.”
“English lad?”
Nia nodded.
“And good looking?” Jane asked.
“Yes, ruggedly handsome.”
“English guy diffident?”
Nia didn’t grasp the question, “What?”
“You know, cool — but not trendy cool,” Jane extrapolated. “Like E.M. Forster said, it’s not that Englishmen can’t feel, it’s just that they are afraid to. They think it’s bad form, or something.”
“No, not Tom. He was so authentic, full of feelings. In fact, he made me feel…” Nia stopped and looked down. Jane noticed Nia’s eyes welling. “He made me feel.”
“Nia, darling,” Jane sighed knowingly. “It’s you who is frightened of feelings. I have known you for twenty years. You do this all the time, you meet a chap, shag them, and before you know it, you shut yourself away or you walk out. I know it’s your self-defence mechanism, so why is it different this time?”
“I don’t know,” Nia attempted to fool herself, gave up, looked directly at Jane and said:
“He was so different. He made it different this time. He made me laugh and he brought me…” Nia’s voice broke, “joy.”
Jane was stunned.
“Fuck Nia, seriously? You haven’t felt like this since…”
“I know and it scared me. I just don’t know what to do. I can never trust these guys so… so all I could think about was running away.”
Jane who usually eschewed physical contact reached across the table and held Nia’s hand.
“If you want some advice from an old broad,” Jane said, and Nia nodded looking down into her coffee. “As much as you want to, as much as anyone wants to, we can’t control the future. You’re the toughest woman I know but you’re a coward, Nia. You don’t need to shut yourself down or lock yourself away. You deserve some… what did you call it, joy. Have you broken it beyond all recognition?”
Nia looked up through her fringe, “I don’t think so.”
“Then, kiddo, I’d suggest you go get him back,” Jane stated. “Maybe you should give him a chance to earn your trust.”
Nia said nothing.
“Now,” Jane continued. “What did you think about our lesbian matron?”
***
Nia walked aimlessly back from the cafe. The afternoon chill bit at her cheeks and she wound her scarf to just below her eyes, pulled down her hat, and thrust her hands deep into her coat’s pockets. She shivered still. She popped into a bookstore to get warm. Nia liked books, really liked them and often joked that she liked them more than people. She began browsing shelves; starting on the new releases, autobiographies and biographies, checking to see if they were about anyone she knew. Then she moved on to history shelves then through to the travel shelves. She ran her fingers across the spines of books along the length of a shelf, and then stopped. She pulled the book her fingers hovered over off the shelf, A Weekender Guide to the Canals of North Wales, it sounded like the guides Tom mentioned he wrote but the author’s name was different. She flipped the book over to find a picture of the author; it was Tom. Why was he writing under an assumed name? Military thing she thought. There he was, rugged, hand on tiller at the stern of a narrowboat, slightly embarrassed smile, Jack Russell at his feet. Okay, she told herself, I really do like this guy. It’s time for me to take a chance.
Outside, a light snow blew around through the soupy dark evening. Nia sat in her favourite comfy chair with her knees up underneath her. The fire warmed the room but still she nestled under a hip blanket. Billie Holiday played on her stereo. Nia placed her cup of tea on a side table she’d once picked up in Petticoat Lane. She had earlier arranged a number of canal guidebooks on the beloved table’s worn surface. She had been surprised at the amount and variety of canal guides. Who knew there could be so many, she wondered? She took a sip of her tea and watched the snow gently falling outside, lovely she thought, and hoped, there would be enough accumulation to build a snowman, or a snow-woman. She wondered how cold a canal boat would be in this weather. She thought about Tom on his boat. Nia picked up the first thin brightly coloured book.
Nia enjoyed books, and she read voraciously and well. She read Tom’s book greedily. She enjoyed his eye for detail and his prose. She was aware that he wrote easily with the same sense of self-deprecating humour he displayed in person. An anecdote about a pompous boat owner made her laugh out loud. She liked the way he wrote. Nia ran her finger over Tom’s picture. She held the book and smiled. I just spent an incredible weekend with this guy, she thought. Incredible enough for him to be her lover? That didn’t feel right, my fella, she determined sounded better. She smiled, but her smile faded quickly as she wondered whether Tom would be receptive. She hoped he would be. Nia pulled out her phone. She had deleted her earlier composition and although confident that her bridge to Tom could be repaired, she was, nevertheless, a little nervous as she simply typed. “I’m so sorry. Had a wobble. I really do want to see you again… I’d love to see you again. Friday? I’ll explain. Please write to me.” She read her text and added an ‘X before she hit send.
***
Llangollen Canal and London
Tom’s phone chimed with a text alert. ‘Nia’ the phone read. An icy sensation gripped at his stomach. His desire for her had only been heightened by the sense of her sudden unattainability. He held the phone for a moment knowing that this was one of those moments, a crossroads in life, that could spell happiness or sadness. Tom opened the text, read her words, read them again and smiled to himself as all concern melted away. He was thrilled that she had signed off with an ‘X’.
***
On the canal the snow turned to rain and the temperature climbed. The rain and miserable weather limited Tom’s boating, keeping him in the marina. Tom went through his daily routines with Jack and the Periwinkle with a new lightness after receiving Nia’s text. He caught up with some of his writing but found himself frequently distracted with thoughts of Nia and memories of their two nights together. He found himself smiling as thoughts of her entered his mind unbidden. He now knew she was mercurial and unpredictable. She was a risk he was willing to take. He rationed his Nia DVDs and it became part of a new nightly routine. Dinner done, cabin warm, Tom would settle in with Jack nestled next to him to watch a TV series, special, or an episode where Nia made an appearance. He looked at his phone, often, to see the picture he took of Nia in the snow outside the Pret. He uncharacteristically checked his phone frequently for any texts and the ping of his phone alerting him to an incoming text made his heart race.
In London, Nia went through her week on autopilot. Her work on the audiobook, a rather stilted historical fantasy about the Romans in Wales, was good. Nia was always professional and quite liked audiobook work. She worked hard prepping her reading, she read through the book multiple times, she developed the accents for the different characters, made sure she pronounced town names correctly, but it was a tiring experience. The narrating itself was exhausting. She would leave the studio with a sore throat, and sore back, and tired of the sound of her own voice. However, she didn’t share some of her fellow narrators’ complaints that it was a lonely business; just you and a mike and an engineer, Nia actually liked the solitude of the studio. After one long session, she went straight from the studio to meet up with her one close, small circle of friends for drinks. They asked her about the location shoot and how she looked different somehow. They asked her had she lost weight, changed her hair, using a different foundation? When someone joked it must be a new guy, they all laughed. Nia smiled but kept quiet.
Tom followed up on Nia’s request for him to write to her. He wrote naturalistically about a day on the canal with Jack. His words painted pictures of the countrysid
e and the flora and fauna that passed by the journeying narrowboat. How the sun looked through morning fog. How a full moon looked from the Periwinkle’s bow moored on a woody cut, quiet and alone. And then he subtly switched to his recent memories of London and Nia. He had counted the miles that separated them and the hours that stretched before them until they would see each other again.
Nia waited until she was comfortably on her favourite chair before she opened Tom’s email letter to read it. She was moved by it. It made her want to spend some time with him and his dog on the Periwinkle. She smiled with the knowledge that he felt as she did. After reading and re-reading the email, Nia couldn’t wait until Friday to see Tom, she Face-Timed him. She was pleased when Tom took her call.
“Tom,” she began, her eyes down. “I just want to tell you I’m so, so sorry for how I was on Sunday morning. All of a sudden,” Nia looked directly into her laptop’s camera. “I felt that we had… had suddenly become serious and, to be honest, I was not ready for it. As you know, I’m not good with relationships. I’m sorry for what I said and for what I didn’t say.”
Tom was so relieved and smiled broadly. “That’s okay. We can take it slowly if you’d like.” But he really didn’t mean it.
“I really like you, Tom, but let’s take it how it is. Whatever happens, yeah?” Nia said.
“Okay, whatever happens,” Tom agreed. “But what were you sorry for… not saying?”
Nia was quiet for a moment although she continued to stare through the screen into Tom’s face.
“That, that I really like you Tom,” she said. “But, Tom, you must promise never, ever to lie to me.”
“Absolutely,” Tom said quickly. “No lies ever.”
Nia smiled, “I would really like to see you again. Can you pop into London on Friday?” she asked.
Tom said he could, and Nia said she’d make some arrangements. Both Nia and Tom felt liberated and happy, and the conversation moved to their respective days, the weather, the news, and, surprisingly, football teams. She recommended some of her work to watch, but only when he asked. They talked of books and music. Through all the disparate subjects they touched on they were really discussing the connection that they had made. It took them ten minutes after saying goodbye to finally end the call.
Chapter Eight
Washington DC, December 1st
The road that snaked up the low hills on the outskirts of the smart Washington DC suburb felt like a country lane. It was a dark night and the road’s verges were heavily wooded; although, here and there, DC’s lights could be glimpsed twinkling through the trees. Konstantin Vukovic always enjoyed this stretch of his commute. It always reminded him of childhood and family holidays on the Crimean coast. It was only nostalgia; a longing for his Russian homeland had long since ceased. Not that he didn’t love Russia, he did, a point he had always made clear to his CIA handlers. His love for Mother Russia was the very reason why the former GRU major had offered his services to the Americans. He despised Putin. The American money, the fancy house and car, the interesting job, and the new identity were simply fringe benefits. The CIA had been good to him and, after he had finally defected, they had secured a role for him as a Russia analyst for the NSA. Vukovic found the work satisfying. He enjoyed the job and, as usual, had worked late and was commuting home in the dark.
He hadn’t seen the police car behind him until its flashing red and blue lights brightly appearing in his rear-view mirror startled him. He looked down at his speedometer, thirty-five miles per hour in a thirty zone. “Blyad,” he thought in his native Russian, “fuck,” and slowed down immediately and pulled onto the road’s grassy verge. He reached into his jacket pocket for his NSA ID and hoped his tale of working late for national security would inspire enough empathy for the cop to dismiss him with a warning but no ticket.
He watched the police officer get out of the police cruiser. The cop was so small she had to be a woman, he thought, and a petite one at that. He dropped his car’s window as she approached and watched her in his wing mirror. She’s confident, Vukovic thought. The cop leant against the driver-side door and lowered her head to look at Vukovic through the open window. Pretty too, thought Vukovic, as the cop held him in her gaze. He noticed wisps of red hair that hadn’t been fully tucked away under her hat. The cop smiled and the Russian saw her small, straight, white teeth before he saw the suppressed pistol pointing through the open window. The assassin shot Vukovic in the chest. The impact forced him back and to his right. He hung in his seat belt, moaning, with his chin on his chest. The assassin placed the end of the suppressor close to his left temple and shot him in the head. She knew from the blood and viscera that splattered over the passenger seat and window that Vukovic was dead.
The assassin calmly opened the driver’s side door and raised the window. She placed the gun in Vukovic’s hand with his finger on the trigger, pointed the gun through the open driver’s door and pushed Vukovic’s trigger finger so the gun discharged for a third time. Vukovic’s hand would now be covered in gunshot residue and his finger prints would be clearly on the pistol’s grip and trigger. She knew any decent forensics team would determine the death wasn’t suicide, but it would create further confusion and possibly stall the investigation.
The assassin returned to the police cruiser and drove into the city. She parked the car on a dark street away from any traffic or CCTV cameras. She turned her police jacket inside out, so it became a red bomber jacket. She placed the police utility belt and hat in a garbage bag and exited the car and walked a couple of blocks. The assassin dumped the garbage bags in the grease bin outside of a fast-food shop and took off her latex gloves. Inside the store she ordered a Coke and fries and then signalled for a prearranged Uber. The Uber’s driver was an unsmiling Russian. An émigré coerced from time to time to assist the SVR when they required additional support around the metro DC area.
The assassin entered the car and the driver nodded to a backpack and small spinner bag placed on the car’s rear seats. The assassin opened the bag and took out a blouse and jacket and changed clothes. From a toilet bag she took out a hand mirror and bright red lipstick. The driver would later burn the assassin’s gloves, police shirt, and jacket.
The Uber patron who got out at Dulles airport wearing black combat-like jeans, white shirt, blue college sweatshirt and a thin, black North Face quilted jacket looked nothing like a DC police officer. She shouldered the rugged looking traveller’s backpack, put on a broad peaked baseball cap, wore large, tinted glasses, and tucked her hair up under the cap. If a passer-by were to notice anything about her it would be only, perhaps, the fiery red lipstick she wore. She approached the Delta check-in desk, showed the gate agent her Irish passport and collected her ticket in plenty of time for the eight forty-five p.m. flight to Dublin.
After going through security, she retrieved a pay-as-you-go phone from the backpack and texted Kamenev that the job was completed successfully. Kamenev replied, offered his congratulations on the successful conclusion of her business meeting and noted that he would be in contact about a business meeting in London. In a stall in an airport toilet, the assassin snapped the phone and, after, she distributed the broken bits across several of the airport’s rubbish bins. She kept her head down whenever she was aware of a camera or even the possibility of one.
***
London, Russian Embassy, Two p.m.
In his office, Kamenev finished the encrypted message updating Moscow Centre on the progress of the DC mission. He was pleased with the outcome and continued to be impressed with the competency of his team, especially the little Irish assassin. He thrilled with the knowledge that Moscow’s reach had penetrated deep into the heart of the enemy. He hated traitors and was pleased to play a part in hunting them down and bringing them the justice they deserved. Of course, he understood that it was an FBI traitor who had sold information to the SVR that resulted in the identification and tracking of Vukovic. An American traitor was useful, but a traitor, nev
ertheless. Kamenev secretly hoped that when the FBI traitor’s utility was done, that they would receive whatever justice the Americans could mete out. In his book, traitors working out of a sense of shared ideology were one thing, those turn-coats who operated for money were the lowest of the low, but he was happy there were such people.
Kamenev’s tummy rumbled. He looked up at his office clock, time for a late lunch. He grabbed his coat and headed out. He had grown fond of a little local pub’s lunch of beef and ale pie. He walked with a lighter step; a pub lunch, a nice pint, and the death of a traitor, it was a good day.
Chapter Nine
London, December 2nd, Six p.m.
Nia had booked a hotel room. She wasn’t quite ready to bring Tom into her home just yet, but she was close. She packed an overnight bag with care. She had planned an entertaining weekend. Tom drove in, parked, and caught a Tube train at the, now familiar, Watford Junction. He liked the first part of the train journey, above ground, watching London go about its life and business from the comfort of the train seat before the life of the city was replaced by the blackened Victorian brick of the Tube. Tom changed to the Central Line at Harrow and Wealdstone listening to his music for a further forty minutes before the train pulled into Convent Garden and his date with Nia.
Nia had asked Tom to meet her in the Duke of Wellington pub just east of the old market. He was early but she had been even earlier. Tom could see her waiting in the pub through its broad, street facing windows. He stopped on the street and watched her for a moment. He was so relieved. He knew that he had never felt the depth of emotion that he now held for Nia. He was anxious to see her again, to hear her voice, to make her laugh, to touch her body. He watched her a little longer as she sipped a red wine, she was self-possessed and self-contained exuding a confidence, some would say diffidence, that he suspected was a self-defence mechanism.
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