It had been during one of his personal cabinet meetings that the story had broken. After initially nearly falling off his chair, Kirkov had ordered a television to be brought into his office so they could witness their careers, lives, ambitions, and fifteen years of careful planning come crashing down around them.
The obvious recriminations and finger-pointing had begun almost immediately, to be quickly followed by physical assault.
Kirkov took a heavy slug to the side of the face that sent him sprawling sideways over a couch. The pain served to bring him back to his senses, and the sharp realization that he had to get out of the office instantly if he was to stay alive.
He knew that there was already a summons from the president to come upstairs immediately and explain himself, before undoubtedly being handed over to the police.
At the same time, more worryingly, Aleksey Kekushev, the supreme head of Russian Intelligence, would be calling Demetchev back into the fold and immediately dispatching his most powerful subordinate to get Kirkov and bring him back in chains to the security service interrogation rooms, thus bypassing the traditional justice system entirely.
Demetchev would be like a hound of hell loosed on a mission of patriotism and revenge.
Both these threats however, were the last thing on Kirkov’s mind.
What spurred him to push through the pain and get to his feet and out of the building as soon as he could, was the overhanging phantom of the clandestine organisation he was a member of.
They would hold him personally responsible for the failure of their greatest plan.
In the past, Kirkov himself had been an enforcer of punishment for failure in the organisation. He knew that he must escape the building unseen in the next few minutes – or he was as good as dead.
Pushing off the floor and staggering to his feet, he kicked one of his aides out of the way to get to the outer door of the office. The melee continued behind him as he grasped the bronze door handle, twisted it forcefully, and wrenched the door open to dive out.
He was stopped dead in his tracks. On the other side of the door was a man in a black suit with neatly trimmed hair and rimless glasses. He looked like a young McKinsey consultant, except that he had a gun with a silencer, which was pointed at Kirkov’s face.
‘Wait ...’ was all Kirkov could say before his brains exited the back of his head and covered some of the combatants behind him. They just had time to look up as the black-suited man took one step forward and rapidly fired a bullet into each of their heads. The man took one step backward, the door swung shut under its own weight, and it was as though the black-suited man had never existed.
56
Dordogne, France
The old diesel train swayed with the motion of slowing down, and finally shuddered to a halt.
Jonathan Marshall stepped off the carriage, to survey the small railway station that served the provincial town of Bordeilles.
After looking at a map by the station door, he set off down the main road on foot, as though taking a Sunday stroll. The main road soon ended and he was quickly walking through minor country roads that led up to farms and vineyards nestled behind the roadside foliage.
A young boy of about fifteen years of age was coming the other way and Jonathan asked him a simple question with the word ‘quinze’. The teenager smiled at his halting French, and in reply pointed behind him and to the right. Jonathan thanked him as they passed each other. Another five minutes of walking, and he found what he was looking for: a small wooden letter box hanging at an angle, with a black number fifteen painted on it.
Going up the driveway, Jonathan found himself following a winding track, rutted by cars, which led to a farmhouse on the rise. He could see as he walked higher that fields of grapes stretched out from behind the farmhouse for many acres. In the distance, at the far end of the fields, a tractor was churning up a cloud of dust as it ploughed a section of brown soil.
Ascending the wooden steps to the front porch, Jonathan knocked politely on the white door. After a moment he knocked again, more loudly. He gently turned the door and found it unlocked. It offended his English sensibilities to enter a house uninvited.
Skipping back down the front steps, he moved around the side of the house. He rounded the last corner to bring the back veranda into view, and stopped short as his breath was taken away.
She was sitting on a white wicker chair with her long legs stretched out and her feet resting on a white stool. A straw hat covered most of her jet-black hair and shielded her face from the sun as she sat reading a book in the golden light.
The afternoon was just beginning to fade and turn the colours around into richer tones of oranges and greens. The light reflected off the white blouse and her long white skirt to give the effect of a slight aura as she reposed, overlooking the vineyard scene as it was gradually turning to dusk.
After taking in the image for a few moments he quietly stepped closer and leaned against the wall.
‘You know,’ he said casually. ‘You want to be careful where you go – you never know when you might bump into someone from work that you secretly like.’
Julie looked up with a startled expression that quickly changed to joy. She let out a shriek as she leapt from the chair and tore the straw hat off her head, releasing a wave of ebony hair. He moved forward onto the veranda as she came bounding towards him and into his arms. Their bodies met and they spun round and round, holding each other close. Both were laughing, but on the verge of tears. Their reunion signified they end of all the trouble and danger they had survived.
Eventually the top halves of their bodies parted but each kept their arms locked around the other’s torso. Their faces were close and smiling as they looked deep into each other’s eyes.
‘I saw the papers,’ Julie said, eventually breaking the moment. ‘No mention of you as the hero who uncovered this global plot.’
‘I wouldn’t have it any other way,’ he laughed. ‘I can’t think of anything worse than being harassed by the papers. I’d much rather be free to go where I want.’ He paused, and locked eyes with her. ‘With who I want.’
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