Fit For Purpose

by Julian D. Parrott

  Nia returned to bed with a slight shiver and gently got back under the covers. She snuggled up to Tom spooning him again from behind. She shut her eyes and considered herself to be entirely content for the first time in, how many years, then realised it was for the first time ever. She had a man whom she loved and who loved her back totally, her career was, incredibly, on the upswing, and she felt emotionally and physically healthy. She was feeling freed from the demons of her past; love had redeemed her. She hugged Tom hard to her body, as if she was trying to meld the two of them as one, he stirred, and Nia relaxed and they both slipped into a warm and comforting early morning slumber.

  They spent the day at the inn and took a long, chilly walk in the Black Mountains. Most of the cast and crew packed and left for the BBC Wales Cardiff studios while Nia and Tom were out hiking. After Nia had warmed up in front of the inn’s fireplace, Tom drove Nia to her hotel in Cardiff. The hotel, arranged by the film company, was of a trendy, eclectic boutique style. It smelt warm and chintzy with a hint of spice. Nia learnt via text that she would have an early morning call. Tom, tired of hotels, suggested he’d head back up to Rachel’s. Before Tom hit the road, they shared dinner at a decent Indian restaurant. Nia had found the unpretentious, somewhat authentic restaurant off the beaten tourist pathways. As they entered, they both inhaled deeply finding the redolent, rich odours of spices and cooking evocative of other times and other places. Nia, to a favourite Indian restaurant in her London neighbourhood, Tom to Afghanistan. After dinner, Tom made sure that Nia was safely ensconced in her hotel room before he headed out.

  Tom drove through Cardiff’s quiet streets and thought of Nia all the way through to the outskirts of Cwmbran. He had synched his iPhone with the Land Rover’s after-market entertainment system and as Cwmbran disappeared in the rear-view mirror he asked, via voice command, the system to call Gagnon.

  ***

  London

  Gagnon answered Tom’s call on the fourth ring. The tall Canadian was sitting in his hospital room’s lounge chair wearing a threadbare hospital dressing gown and a face like thunder. He was still in pain but in no medical danger and was more troubled about the afternoon’s meeting he had experienced with representatives from MI5. The meeting had been short and to the point; his personal vendetta against Zalkind/Kamenev was now over, permanently, as was his time in the UK. He was informed that as soon as he received medical clearance to travel, he was going to be quietly escorted to Heathrow and put on a plane for Canada. The rather pompous MI5 officer informed Gagnon that he was to consider himself fortunate that charges weren’t going to be held against him. And worse was to come; he was subsequently visited by a pale Canadian intelligence officer from the embassy who, after taking Gagnon’s report, informed Gagnon that Ottawa had made a decision to relieve him of duties. Gagnon had expected such news. He was disappointed, yet, he told himself, he was lucky to be alive.

  Gagnon told Tom about the meetings with the grey men from the intelligence agencies. Tom asked what Gagnon planned to do once he was back home in Canada. Gagnon had made a few calls to Canadian universities and colleges, some NGOs, and think tanks. An old commanding officer, Gagnon continued, who was now a small private college’s president, had been able to secure Gagnon an adjunct teaching gig. Gagnon told Tom that he would now put his PhD to work in higher education. Tom joked that the world of higher education was as cutthroat and political as the dark world of espionage. They laughed together as old friends. They talked through their experiences in London. It inspired them to talk about old times, being young officers, their shared experiences in Afghanistan, their adjustment back to civilian life. As the conversation slowed, Gagnon expressed thanks for Tom’s actions that had saved his life. Tom generously brushed it off; simply right place, right time, he told Gagnon.

  ***

  Rachel’s Farm

  Tom was dead tired when he pulled into the courtyard adjacent to Rachel and Owain’s farmhouse. Tom exited his Land Rover and inhaled the farm’s scent deeply; sweet hay and fresh cow manure was an oddly pleasant odour. The farm door opened, a crack of warm yellow light spread across the dark flagstones of the courtyard. Jack came bounding out to greet her owner. Tom knelt, allowing Jack to lick his face in her welcoming style. Rachel stood in the door with a small but warm smile. Tom decided to stay the night at the farm and head out to his narrowboat in the morning.

  Rachel made a quick round of bacon and egg sandwiches, Owain joined Tom for the late-night snack and Tom told them of his new book contract and his flying visit to Nia on location. He left out the rather juicy detail concerning the trouble with the Russian security services. His phone dinged with a text and he was disappointed that it wasn’t Nia but from the young MI5 officer who had been introduced as Patel.

  “Gagnon being sent home by week’s end,” Patel had written.

  “Is that wise?” Tom texted in response. He was surprised when Patel replied almost immediately, “Medically cleared. PNG-ed.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Above Montreal, January 20th

  Gagnon was tired, sore and depressed. The flight home had been long and uncomfortable. A six-foot five-inch man, bandaged and wearing a sling, was never going to be comfortably seated in economy. Gagnon closed his eyes and reflected on the past few days as the cabin crew informed the passengers that the big jet had started its descent into Montreal Trudeau.

  Gagnon felt the big Air Canada Airbus slide sideways, purposefully dropping altitude. The jet banked over the St Lawrence River on its final approach into the airport below, and Gagnon began to work through a mental checklist of the things he now needed to do. He was so distracted he almost didn’t realise the plane had landed and was taxiing to its assigned gate. Gagnon was still in some pain and discomfort as he moved gingerly up the skybridge. Once inside the main body of the terminal, he checked the departures board to double check the time and gate for his connecting flight home to Ottawa. As Gagnon turned away from the board his flight’s listing moved from ‘on time’ to ‘delayed’.

  Gagnon moved quickly past gates, restaurants, bars, and the strange assortment of tourist tchotchke and high-end shops that all international airports are populated with. He passed a men’s bespoke clothing shop and wondered what he would need to wear at college. He immediately thought tweed with elbow patches and smiled at the cliché. His smile faded when he saw the delayed sign at his gate. His face clouded as he approached the gate agent. The gate’s seating area was suspiciously empty, he expected the worse.

  Sarah Jones watched the bearded giant approach her customer service station. She thought he looked tired, sore and angry. Oh dear, she thought as he approached but never-the-less gave him a big smile and cocked her head slightly.

  “How can I help you, sir?” she asked.

  Gagnon was disarmed by the smile and the stunning green eyes. She was tall too, he liked tall women.

  “Err, my flight’s delayed, just want to know when we can expect to board.”

  Sarah’s fingers moved across her keyboard. “I’m sorry, sir,” she began. “It looks as if this flight’s going to be cancelled due to mechanical issues. The airplane is still on the ground in Ottawa.”

  Gagnon scowled. It’s an inconvenience, he thought, but at least he didn’t now have work pressures on him to get home or get to the office at a set time.

  “Are there any options for flights or should I just go ahead and rent a car?”

  Sarah checked her computer. She felt sorry for this guy, there was an air of dejection around him.

  “Yes,” she began. “I can get you on a flight in about four hours.”

  “Damn, a four-hour wait, and then a one-and-a-half-hour flight, I might as well rent a car.”

  “I don’t mean to be forward,” Sarah said with a shy smile, “but can you even drive with that sling?”

  Gagnon moved his left arm and pain shot through his chest and across his shoulder. He grimaced. “I’m not sure,” he answered.

  �
�Look sir, you look beat. I’ll get the ticket for you; we’ll comp for the cancelled flight. While I do that, why don’t you grab a comfy seat over there,” she nodded towards a celebrity chef’s diner. “I can give you a food voucher, full disclosure, it won’t cover the cost though but it’s actually a good place with good service. I occasionally eat there when I have the time.”

  Gagnon looked over to the diner. It was light, people sat around a bar smiling and laughing. It looked like a happy place and he did feel hungry.

  “Okay,” he said as he turned back to Sarah. “But, on one condition.”

  “What’s that?” Sarah replied.

  “That’ll you’ll join me,” he said. Sarah smiled, she already knew that she liked this tall, seemingly lost guy.

  “Well,” she began. “My shift’s just about over. Give me about fifteen minutes to wrap up here and I’ll join you.”

  “Would you like me to get you a drink?” Gagnon asked.

  “Please, a red wine, a Malbec,” she replied.

  Gagnon was drinking a beer, a Molson, when Sarah entered the diner, saw him, and slipped elegantly into his booth. She had removed her airline company scarf and jacket. Gagnon couldn’t help noticing that her blouse and tight pencil skirt outlined a nice, full figure. She smiled at him and reached for the wine glass. She took a big sip.

  “Thanks,” she said. “It’s been a long shift. So, do you come here often?”

  “No. But I’m seriously thinking about it,” Gagnon laughed and relaxed. More so when Sarah began the conversation which moved surprisingly easily for them both. They talked about travel and the places they had visited. Sarah realised that Gagnon’s travels in and out of the Middle East and South Asia must have been related to his having been in the military. She talked about her childhood service-brat life moving from base to base with her Canadian Air Force father. The conversation was light and natural and they both felt they were connecting. They talked of food and wine, of books, and movies. Four hours flew by and another gate agent announced the Ottawa flight.

  Gagnon left the diner with Sarah’s number in his phone and a date for Saturday night. All of a sudden, the dark clouds that had gathered around him in London appeared to be dissipating. As the Ottawa bound regional jet took off, Gagnon looked out of the plane’s window at the lights of Montreal spreading out below him. He smiled. At the gate, Sarah Jones watched the same jet take off. Jacques Gagnon, she thought, he was going to be fun to get to know. She smiled and turned away. It had been a long and interesting day and it was time for her to go home. She was looking forward to Saturday.

  ***

  London

  It was a still dawn and the Georgian square appeared almost devoid of life. The SVR watcher, loaned to Kamenev by the Rezident, was observing Nia’s house on a laptop screen at a desk jammed with surveillance equipment all crammed into the back of a small nondescript white van. Decals on the van’s side announced it was an emergency twenty-four-hour plumber and sewer unclogging specialist. Walkers passing the van would not see anything out of the ordinary and neighbours would be too embarrassed to ask each other which house the van was servicing. The watcher operated under the guise of an itinerant Polish tradesman, and he even had a rudimentary grasp of British plumbing if anyone ever questioned him. He was a highly experienced surveillance expert. He’d positioned the van perfectly so its hidden cameras could focus on the front of Nia’s house as well as the comings and goings up and down the street. He also knew how to get comfortable while maintaining the same position for hours at a time, never letting the object of his surveillance leave his sight lines. He had spent many a long hour outdoors in wet undergrowth with mud soaking his clothes and the cold etching into his bones but never leaving sight of his target, so this was a cushy assignment. He was warm, had a padded seat, a Thermos of coffee and sandwiches, and, to cap it all, the woman he was watching was cute.

  He liked observing women, less chance of violence and more chance of hitting the voyeurs’ jackpot; total unselfconscious, natural nudity. He recalled a recent assignment; posh London hotel, female member of the US House of Representatives. He wasn’t sure of her name, but he thought of her as Californian as she was blonde with incredible straight and white teeth and large, fake breasts. He smiled at the memory. Three simple, tiny cameras had provided him with hi-resolution quality images of her walking around the room naked and of her pleasuring herself. Sadly, he thought, rumours of her extramarital affair were not evidenced during surveillance for he would have been thrilled to see some boy-on-girl or girl-on-girl action. As it was, the SVR and FSB did now have some potentially embarrassing pictures and video to present to her at some key moment in her legislative career. Maybe embarrassing enough for her to vote the way the Kremlin would direct. The watcher had also saved some images to his own personal collection which was now quite extensive. It would fuel his fantasies for years.

  The SVR agent was snapped out of his reverie by the front door opening and Nia stepping out into the morning cold with a visible shiver. She was dressed for a run and the Russian grinned at her figure in her tight running clothes. Yes, he thought, he would like to get cameras into her bedroom and bathroom. He focused a camera on her as she stretched her calves, then moved into a lunge, and followed up with a quad stretch. He noticed her adjust something with her ear buds and watched as she moved off down the square at a good pace. He radioed her movement and direction to other members of the surveillance team.

  Nia liked the quiet, cold mornings when she was able to rouse herself out of bed and go for a run. Although she had become something of a gym rat, she enjoyed the freedom and simplicity of a road run. She felt she got a better workout than the gym’s treadmill could offer, in half the time of a gym trip, and she enjoyed being out and about in her neighbourhood. She had enjoyed her towpath runs with Tom and she felt close to him as she ran, even when apart. More so this morning as she had downloaded another playlist, he had sent her. The Verve’s ‘Bittersweet Symphony’ played quietly through her ear buds, she wanted to be aware of the noises that emanated from the roads, houses and parks along her running route.

  The opening chords of Bonnie Tyler’s ‘I Need a Hero’ began as Nia ran through a neighbouring Georgian square’s central beautifully kept park. She guffawed out loud, getting Tom’s habit to include a Welsh singer in every playlist. Still, Nia thought, the song had a good driving beat and she increased her pace. She ran through deserted streets, the city still slumbering, through another square and across another park accompanied now by XTC’s ‘Making Plans for Nigel’. She noticed another female runner across the park. Nia didn’t recognise her but couldn’t miss the young, petite woman’s flaming red hair and her blistering pace as she closed the distance between them. Nia noticed that the redhead’s face was set almost in a grimace. Nia raised her head to give the usual runners’ nod as the young woman passed. It was not necessarily unusual for a runner not to acknowledge the greeting, but the redhead appeared to diverge from her direct path, drop her shoulder, and her elbow caught Nia a glancing blow as they passed. Nia’s right bicep immediately ached.

  “Hey,” Nia shouted. She stopped and turned but the redhead was already sprinting away across the park, through its gate and was gone.

  “What the fuck was that?” Nia thought, as she rubbed her bicep. She shook her arm and then began to run again. “Bitch,” she said out loud.

  Nia continued her run turning onto pavements that bordered major streets, now filling with early commuter traffic. She ran down a few more streets before beginning to circle back closer to home. She ended the run with Elton John singing ‘I’m Still Standing’, enjoying another of Tom’s jokes. Once home and in the shower, she noticed the bruise on her bicep.

  Outside of Nia’s home, the Russian listened in to the surveillance team’s radio conversation, his English comprehension was excellent. He heard a woman’s voice, accented, implying that the actress was an easy mark and that they could take her out at any time. The
surveillance man recognised the deep voice that entered the conversation: Kamenev. The watcher heard Kamenev order the hit for the next time the actress took a solo early morning run. In his embassy office, Kamenev ended the call. He picked up the hard copy of the newspaper with Nia’s photo from the BFI Vampire Moon event. Lovely looking woman, he thought with a sigh, collateral damage in the ongoing dirty war. He had approved her removal via a Georgi Markov type hit. The redhead would run past the actress bump into her as she had today but, the next time, she would inject her with enough insulin to cause a massive heart attack. A sloppy pathologist would simply pass her death off as a coronary brought on by exercise, but a good pathologist would find the needle mark, the insulin, and it would be filed under a mysterious, pointless homicide. Any parallels between her death and the 1978 assassination of Bulgarian dissident, Markov, poisoned with ricin via a stab of a sharpened umbrella, were too few to draw any conclusions as to the murders. And, Kamenev reflected, the post Brexit Brits were so anxious to keep up trade treaty negotiations with Russia they probably wouldn’t even pursue any investigation that led to Moscow. The Russian smiled and took a sip of his hot tea.

  ***

  Ditchling, January 22nd

  The MI5 team was good, very professional and experienced. They had quietly infiltrated the village, unobserved. They established furtive observation posts across the village at strategic points. Anyone entering or leaving the village by road would be viewed and identified. Three members of the team had snuck unobserved by neighbours into Daria Kirov’s cottage under cover of darkness. From their observation positions, they continually monitored the quiet street in the front of the cottage and the meadow behind.