dangerous, for her in particular – a former KGB colonel and a defector on the KGB’s most wanted list – to go anywhere near the territory of Russia. But she’d insisted on it, threatening to resign and leave the employ of Burt’s intelligence company, Cougar. Burt didn’t want to lose her from this vast intelligence organisation – an empire that now challenged the CIA in its breadth and influence – and she’d banked on that. She knew Burt wouldn’t have dared to risk her leaving Cougar. He didn’t want another agency – the CIA itself had courted her regularly – to gain her talents, and so he’d reluctantly acquiesced.
But, in any case, Burt wasn’t here, in Odessa. She calculated the risks. She accepted at once that either they would follow her to the bus, or they already knew she would be taking it. They’d known she would be on the boat, that was for sure. If they knew, too, that she was heading for the bus, then there was unmistakably a leak, and she faced greater danger than she was in already. But if they’d known she was on the boat, there was probably a leak anyway.
Suddenly she felt an unwelcome memory returning. It was the first time she had been this close to Russia since her defection four years before. A memory of why she had left back then began to surface in her mind – of her father, the retired General Resnikov, and her hatred of him; of the spies with whom she’d once worked and who had now once again taken control of the country she loved; of the evil nexus of the spies and their mafia allies who sought to subjugate the Russian people under their jackboot. And then she thought of her grandmother who had died two years before, and of her mother who had finally left her father and was working for the Sakharov Foundation. Women – it was usually women – who seemed to be the good people. But then she repressed the memories that threatened to divert her from her task.
The bus station was situated at the side of the railway terminus where trains departed for Kiev to the north. A few dilapidated buses stood with their engines running, rain pouring down the windscreens. The rain was now cascading in rivers along the sloping gutters and there was a huge pool where a drain must have been blocked. She watched the ticket office, cast her eyes across the expanse of concrete, looked for the destination signs, and then saw the bus that would take her to Sevastopol. For a second time, she questioned the wisdom of going through with it now. Her arrival was blown, but was the pick-up in Sevastopol compromised also? Would she be able to evade her pursuers? Or did they know about the pick-up too? And then, decided, she walked across several lanes, past the waiting buses to the ticket office, and bought a return ticket.
The slow, ancient bus departed twenty minutes late for the twelve-hour journey and wound its way out of Odessa to the east. Low grey cloud hung over the mountains until the country was closed in by its embrace. Beneath the clouds a fine spray of mist came in off the sea. There was no view either of the sea or the land. Everything existed at close quarters. Her mind similarly ratcheted down to the immediate: a field outside Sevastopol, with coordinates provided and memorised, just beyond the edge of the town; a stone barn that stored root vegetables and perhaps the odd piece of agricultural equipment; and a courier she would never see, the agent’s cut-out who would make the drop.
She took a seat near the driver in order to be the first out, knowing that behind her was a watcher, and perhaps more than one. The bus’s heater wheezed, and pumped a mixture of engine oil and stifling air into the enclosed space. They wouldn’t make a move yet – her watchers – she knew that now. They would want to know why she was here in Ukraine. The real prize for them was certainly her. The KGB had been obsessed with finding her for more than four years. But first they would want to discover
But, in any case, Burt wasn’t here, in Odessa. She calculated the risks. She accepted at once that either they would follow her to the bus, or they already knew she would be taking it. They’d known she would be on the boat, that was for sure. If they knew, too, that she was heading for the bus, then there was unmistakably a leak, and she faced greater danger than she was in already. But if they’d known she was on the boat, there was probably a leak anyway.
Suddenly she felt an unwelcome memory returning. It was the first time she had been this close to Russia since her defection four years before. A memory of why she had left back then began to surface in her mind – of her father, the retired General Resnikov, and her hatred of him; of the spies with whom she’d once worked and who had now once again taken control of the country she loved; of the evil nexus of the spies and their mafia allies who sought to subjugate the Russian people under their jackboot. And then she thought of her grandmother who had died two years before, and of her mother who had finally left her father and was working for the Sakharov Foundation. Women – it was usually women – who seemed to be the good people. But then she repressed the memories that threatened to divert her from her task.
The bus station was situated at the side of the railway terminus where trains departed for Kiev to the north. A few dilapidated buses stood with their engines running, rain pouring down the windscreens. The rain was now cascading in rivers along the sloping gutters and there was a huge pool where a drain must have been blocked. She watched the ticket office, cast her eyes across the expanse of concrete, looked for the destination signs, and then saw the bus that would take her to Sevastopol. For a second time, she questioned the wisdom of going through with it now. Her arrival was blown, but was the pick-up in Sevastopol compromised also? Would she be able to evade her pursuers? Or did they know about the pick-up too? And then, decided, she walked across several lanes, past the waiting buses to the ticket office, and bought a return ticket.
The slow, ancient bus departed twenty minutes late for the twelve-hour journey and wound its way out of Odessa to the east. Low grey cloud hung over the mountains until the country was closed in by its embrace. Beneath the clouds a fine spray of mist came in off the sea. There was no view either of the sea or the land. Everything existed at close quarters. Her mind similarly ratcheted down to the immediate: a field outside Sevastopol, with coordinates provided and memorised, just beyond the edge of the town; a stone barn that stored root vegetables and perhaps the odd piece of agricultural equipment; and a courier she would never see, the agent’s cut-out who would make the drop.
She took a seat near the driver in order to be the first out, knowing that behind her was a watcher, and perhaps more than one. The bus’s heater wheezed, and pumped a mixture of engine oil and stifling air into the enclosed space. They wouldn’t make a move yet – her watchers – she knew that now. They would want to know why she was here in Ukraine. The real prize for them was certainly her. The KGB had been obsessed with finding her for more than four years. But first they would want to discover
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