Fit For Purpose

by Julian D. Parrott

  Tom agreed and hung up. Gagnon put down his phone, opened a laptop and began searching for flights to Heathrow.

  Tom felt lighter when he returned to the event room and its bar. It was Gagnon’s problem now. Nia was finishing up with the interview. She called Tom over and held his hand again. The reporter asked who the handsome man was, Nia answered simply, “My fella.” Tom liked the sound of it.

  Nia whispered to Tom that she wanted to get her handsome fella home. Their sense of urgency to get coats and car service was only obvious to themselves. They dropped coats as soon as they entered Nia’s house. Tom undid his bow tie and took off his jacket. He expected an almost feverish climb up the stairs to the bedroom. Instead, Nia led him up to the second floor and into the study. He took off his cummerbund as she closed the curtains. Nia lit the fireplace, dimmed lights, and poured two glasses of port. They clinked glasses. She took a gulp of her port then put down her glass and turned her back to him. She ran her hands through her hair, pulling it up as if in a makeshift bun. She lowered her head coquettishly. Tom downed his port and put his glass down next to hers. He moved behind her and brushed her exposed neck gently with his lips. Her skin goose bumped to his touch. He nuzzled into her neck enjoying the scent of her perfume and desire.

  Tom began to unzip her dress. Slowly until there was enough slack to gently ease the dress off her shoulders. He kissed her shoulders from her neck to her arms. Kissing the ball of her shoulder he could see her face in profile, her eyes were closed, and her lips were slightly parted. He returned to her dress, zipping it down to her lower back. Nia moved her arms, so the dress slipped off and over her breasts. Tom kissed the hollow where Nia’s back ran down to the band of her lacy black thong. Nia pursed her lips and involuntarily moaned ever so slightly. Nia’s moan excited Tom and he pulled off his shirt and stepped out of his trousers. Nia began to breathe more quickly. He ran his hand softly down her spine and then out over her hips and around and down her buttocks. He unzipped the dress and it slipped over her hips and down to the floor. Nia stepped elegantly out of it. She remained with her front to the fireplace, her light olive skin glowing in the reflection of the fire’s light and heat.

  Tom ran his hands over her exposed buttock cheeks and back over her hips and then up her back moving slowly to her front and up to her breasts. He unlatched her bra and cupped her breasts from behind. Her nipples were hard under his palms. He removed his pants and then moved his hands gently down her body to her hips until his fingers slipped inside the thong’s waistband. He gently pulled the thong down. Nia stepped out of the thong as it lay on the floor. Tom moved close in behind her and embraced her. He rested his linked hands on her tummy, and she reached down and pulled a hand up to her mouth. She kissed his hand and gently bit his fingers. Tom’s other hand gently stroked her. Nia felt his erection against her buttocks. She held Tom’s hands as she knelt down, and he followed behind her. She let go of his hands and leant forward allowing Tom to enter her.

  Across the city, Kamenev sat at his desk in his embassy office running through the SVR, FSB, and GRU’s picture libraries of Western intelligence and military personnel. He stared at pictures of face after face, “Just who the hell are you?” he said to himself.

  ***

  Afghanistan, Bagram. Nine Years Earlier

  The RAF Merlin helicopter’s cargo bay was full of a variety of service men and women. Captain Tom Price felt like a sardine jammed into the cargo hold alongside twenty other personnel most of whom wore or carried full equipment. Like Price, most of the personnel were on their way to Bagram Air Base and, like Price, most were not fond of the older Merlin’s lack of ballistic armour. Price didn’t like helicopters. He was heading to Bagram for a series of intelligence briefings. His experience and insight were being sought for he had been in the country for a hell of a tour; encountering IEDs, suicide bombers, Taliban night attacks, al-Qaeda day attacks, vice versa, even hand to hand fighting where he had ordered his men to fix bayonets.

  The Merlin flew low and fast over the surrounding mountains and approached the massive, former Soviet military base in a sharp arc. Bagram was now home to nearly sixty thousand allied service personnel including, at one time, Prince Harry. Price looked down at the sprawling base of hangers, control towers, an ugly mass of concrete walls and barriers, temporary huts, shipping containers, sandbags, and razor wire along with the usual detritus of large military establishments. The Merlin landed in a sandstorm of its own making and Price stepped off the helicopter’s rear ramp into searing dry heat. The airbase was a hive of activity; fast jets were taking off the runway, Hercules and Globemaster transport aircraft were lined up like buses, and helicopters; Chinooks, Blackhawks, and evil looking Apache gunships, constantly buzzed through the airspace. Although in an active war zone, the base itself was relatively safe but Price kept his helmet close in case of enemy mortar or rocket attacks. Price was greeted by a coterie of British and American staff officers for an informal lunch at the base’s Pizza Hut. The incongruity of the situation appeared to strike only Price.

  Price attended an afternoon briefing on the increase in IED activity. The brief, led by a Brit intelligence staff officer, strongly suggested that the increase in the amount and quality of explosives was sourced from Russia. The Russian state intelligence agency, FSB, and military intelligence, GRU, still had contacts in Afghanistan and liked nothing more than to tie a whole series of NATO armies down in a war that was unwinnable. The Russians, as the Soviets, had experienced their own long and bitter struggles in Afghanistan and still had an intimate understanding of how to conduct operations there. They still maintained contacts and influence.

  The briefing continued and the intelligence office projected an image of a face on to the room’s small screen; GRU major, full uniform, left breast full of medals. The GRU was run, like the FSB, on a volatile mixture of ideology and paranoia.

  “This,” the briefing officer stated, “is Feodor Zalkind, currently attached to the Embassy of the Russian Federation, Kabul. Some of you who have spent time in Kabul may have encountered him; charming man, speaks English perfectly, he’s cultured and witty but a complete bastard. It is strongly suggested that he is playing a significant role in the northern arms trade and supporting AQ and Taliban insurgents. It’s rumoured that he pays a bounty for dead coalition forces.”

  Price stared into the face on the screen, bastard, he thought. The briefing officer continued.

  “If any of you have lost men or women to IEDs made with Soviet era RGO grenade or MON-50 mine components, this is probably the supplier. As most of you know, we can’t touch him in Kabul or anywhere else when he’s on official embassy duties. But chaps, if you ever encounter him in country, do us all a favour and simply slot the bastard.”

  The audience laughed politely. Price stared at the slide, committing the facial features he saw there to memory, determined never to forget that face.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Periwinkle, Christmas

  The Periwinkle was moored up in the Llangollen narrowboat basin. Tom and Nia arrived at the boat around dinner time on Christmas Eve. They had driven up from London in the Land Rover only making a quick stop at the farm to pick up Jack and confirm Boxing Day arrangements with Rachel. Tom and Nia were both tired. Upon entering the Periwinkle, Tom turned on the lights of a small Christmas tree in the front cabin and lit the Morso stove while Nia unpacked groceries. Jack curled up on a chair, watching.

  Nia brought Tom a glass of red wine and as he sat in the lounge’s other chair, she sat in his lap. She took a sip of her wine.

  “Thank you, Tom,” she said.

  “You’re welcome, but what for?”

  “For last night. It meant a lot to me that you came to the BFI event. I really had a good time and that was because of you. And for this.” Nia motioned to the little scene in the cabin.

  “Nia, there’s no need to thank me for anything. Really, I should be thanking you for the last five weeks,” Tom added. �
��They have been the happiest of my life.”

  Nia guffawed, then kissed Tom with wine wet lips, “Fuck, Tom,” she said. “It’s the bloody same for me.”

  The next morning, Christmas Day, was cold, wet, and windy. The Periwinkle rocked gently at its mooring.

  Nia made coffee as Tom scrambled eggs. They kept brushing against each other as they worked side by side in the small galley until Nia wrapped her arms around Tom from behind, “Hmmmm,” she said. “How do you always smell so…?”

  “Eggy?”

  “No, silly. So, warm and masculine.”

  “Because it’s Christmas,” Tom said.

  “And, I can’t imagine a nicer Christmas than with you here,” Nia laughed, but then became serious.

  “My Christmases growing up were usually pretty rubbish. So, I’ve never been one of those people who go nuts for Christmas. If I’m not working, I usually have a quiet day by myself with some good food, a good book, a bit of telly. Or, maybe dinner with Amanda and Penny or Ben. But it’s never felt special. Just dinner with friends really. But today, but today is… different, it really feels like… like Christmas.”

  Tom grinned. He faced Nia and held her face gently in his hands and kissed her.

  After breakfast, Tom and Nia walked into the village and attended Christmas Day services at the local parish church. Neither were regular church goers, usually only attending for weddings and funerals, but they both wanted a shared experience that was new for them as a couple. They sat, stood, and knelt when they were supposed to, they sang carols, chatted with some locals, and shook hands with the vicar at the end of the service. They held hands as they walked back to the boat through misty rain.

  The Periwinkle’s oven couldn’t handle a Christmas turkey, so Tom had prepared two plump chicken breasts with all the traditional trimmings. They ate heartily, Nia stating that church must have made her hungry. “Let’s have coffee in the lounge,” Nia said. “And open presents.”

  Six wrapped gifts nestled under the small Christmas tree. Two each and two for Jack. Nia’s gifts for Tom were wrapped exquisitely and expensively. She wanted him to open her presents first. Nia had commissioned a highly regarded watercolour artist to paint the Periwinkle crossing the Pontcysyllte aqueduct. She had paid a premium to have it ready and framed in time for Christmas. Tom was touched.

  “It’s beautiful,” he said. “It deserves to go in a gallery but I’m going to hang it here in the cabin.”

  “I’m so pleased you like it. I had the artist make a copy that’s going on my study wall, if that’s okay with you?”

  “Of course it is,” Tom answered. “I love that you enjoy the Periwinkle and the canals. There’s no way my gift can compare but, please, do go ahead and open your present.”

  Nia did so. Tom had bought her a Barbour waxed jacket. “Perfect for rainy days on the canal,” he announced with the subtext clear.

  They exchanged and unwrapped the books; a first edition of Ian Fleming’s ‘On Her Majesty’s Secret Service’ for Tom and Melvyn Bragg’s Richard Burton biography for Nia. They opened Jack’s presents for her.

  They took Jack for an early evening walk along the towpath and Nia wore her new Barbour. They were alone on their cold and dark walk but were welcomed back to the narrowboat basin by the warm lights of the Periwinkle. Back on the boat, they settled in with generous glasses of port to watch a Christmas film on the cabin’s small TV. Nia excused herself momentarily only to return to the lounge wearing her new coat.

  “I love it Tom,” She said. “It really is perfect.”

  “I’m glad you like it,” Tom said.

  Nia unzipped the coat, she was naked underneath it.

  “Wow,” Tom said. “Now, that’s a Christmas present.”

  In bed, in that moment just as sleep embraced them, Nia and Tom, independently, thought to themselves that it had been the best of Christmas days.

  ***

  Rachel’s Farm, Boxing Day

  Rachel had sent the boys to finish the washing up and she and Nia settled into the farm’s sitting room. She poured herself and Nia brandies as they sat down in front of the lounge’s wide log fire. Jack, as was usual, curled up on the fireplace rug. Nia asked Rachel about the farm. It had originally been Owain’s, Rachel told her, but she and Tom had bought additional land to make it a true family affair. Owain was a careful and proficient farmer so everyone’s investment was paying off.

  “So, Tom’s a landowner?” Nia joked.

  “In a way, yes,” Rachel noted. “He owns about half of the farm.”

  Rachel watched Nia for a moment.

  “Tom’s not landed gentry but he’s okay financially,” Rachel said. “His army salary was decent, and his separation pay, kind of a pension, is healthy. Plus,” she smiled, “he has hardly spent any money since his divorce, he’s got solid savings, and he gets some income from his writing. And, as you know, he lives rather frugally.”

  Nia nodded although she wasn’t sure what to feel… grateful for Rachel’s efforts to, what? Make it clear that Tom wasn’t a gold digger? She realised that some of her friends had hinted she needed to find out this exact information, but she was perturbed to think that Rachel thought Nia would be concerned about such financial issues. Nia swirled her brandy in its glass, contemplating what to say.

  “Rachel,” Nia began and looked into Rachel’s eyes. “Thanks for letting me know but please understand that I have no worries about Tom and money.”

  Rachel sensed Nia’s discomfort.

  “Look, Nia,” Rachel said with a smile. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up any difficult subjects. And I certainly didn’t mean to cast aspersions on you or Tom, far from it. It’s partly because for most of my working life I was an accountant. I always see things in terms of assets, profits, and losses. Forgive me.”

  Nia smiled, making it obvious that the issue was already forgotten. Both women took sips of their brandies.

  “Why did you leave your career?” Nia asked.

  “I met Owain and loved the idea of moving to the country. I was so tired of the big job, big city rat race. Tired of the bloody heels and hose, of being a smart woman in a male dominated field. It was wearing to always have to work twice as hard for half the respect.”

  Nia nodded sympathetically and Rachel asked Nia about her encounters with sexism in the media industry. Nia laughed and said the whole industry is based on sexism. She recounted a story of an early visit to Hollywood. She had made several appearances on TV programmes and had been in a couple of British films where she had generated some positive buzz and recognition for her work. A US agent had seen Vampire Moon, which had picked up a small cult audience in the US and had invited her to Los Angles for a business meeting. Nia had been young and excited, and the American agent was suave and smooth talking. He had welcomed Nia into his office with an incredible view of downtown Los Angeles through a panoramic window. The office was huge, and he showed Nia to a long and wide leather sofa next to two matching chairs around a low steel and glass coffee table. The agent got her a bottle of water and sat down, directly next to her.

  The agent was charming, Nia continued with her story. The agent made her comfortable; he asked about her family, her training, her plans and dreams for her career. The more the agent talked the more Nia relaxed. Nia told Rachel that she felt herself settling into the agent’s large sofa while he continued to ask her, about the roles she thought she would like to play. Then he asked her if she would continue to, as was obvious in Vampire Moon, feel comfortable with nude scenes. Nia said that with the right script, cast and crew that she didn’t have a problem with nudity. Then the agent leant over and squeezed both of her breasts with his two hands almost as if he was honking horns. They’re real, he had stated with evident surprise. Of course, they are Nia responded as she stood up and punched the agent in the nose. She flew home the next day.

  Rachel laughed. “Nia Williams, I really like you,” she said.

  “I bet you say tha
t to all Tom’s women,” Nia said with a cheeky grin. She felt that she and Rachel were really bonding.

  “No,” Rachel answered seriously. “No, not at all. I didn’t even like his wife. Tom couldn’t see her for what she was, bless him. Too nice again. It was a complete disaster. It was always going to be rubbish. I was so glad they didn’t have a child together.”

  The words, even in a context beyond her, cut Nia. Rachel noticed the change in Nia’s expression and the stiffening of her body language.

  “Oh Nia,” Rachel said. “I think I’ve said something hurtful.”

  “No,” Nia stammered. “No, not really, but… yes in a strange way.”

  Rachel leant over and held Nia’s hand, “Would you like to tell me about it?”

  Nia didn’t know why but she did want to tell Rachel.

  “When I was married, for the second time,” Nia began, “I became pregnant, accidently. I wasn’t exactly happy about it, it wasn’t a good time at all, but I decided to go ahead with it. My husband, the Goldenboy, was livid that I had let myself get pregnant. Like it was all my fault. He was worried that it would stymie our careers, especially his, and he was concerned about what it would do to my body, and so he gave me an ultimatum, the baby or him.”

  “What a wanker,” Rachel said as she tried to remember tabloid stories about Nia and Goldenboy. She thought she remembered, but asked, “What did you do?”

  Nia looked into the fire, “I tried to persuade him that we could make it work. I tried and tried and tried,” Rachel noticed a tear run down Nia’s cheek as she spoke, it shone in the firelight. “But he was adamant. I told him that I wanted to keep it, that we could be a family. He didn’t want a family. He gave me an ultimatum really. Then he just walked away from me, from our baby.”

  “Oh Nia, I’m so sorry.”

  “I was so scared. My childhood had been absolutely shit, and I was worried that bad parenting could be genetic or hereditary or something. But then something clicked. I was so happy. I planned a new life and then, and then…” Nia began crying. Rachel moved over and hugged her. “My baby died. I, I felt as if I’d lost everything. I felt it was my fault too.”