“How do you feel about that?”
“It’s part of the commitment the KGB officer makes.”
Barishsky wouldn’t leave it alone. “Are you still able to be the soldier you were in Budapest?”
“Could I kill again?”
Barishsky shrugged. “Yes?”
“I will do my job. I am sworn to do my job. Yes, I will do what is required.”
The general flipped to the back of Nikolai’s file. He appeared thoughtful for several minutes. “After the Hungarian Revolution warfare, you were then assigned to KGB School 1010, where you have been teaching small arms and close combat.”
“Yes, General.”
“How has that been?”
“I have done my very best. I wanted my students to have the best possible chance of success.”
General Barishsky checked his watch. Then he made notations on the outside of Nikolai’s file. He finally tossed the file aside and put his arms flat on the table.
“Was there anything else?” he asked.
“No, sir.”
“I believe we’ll stop here for the day.”
Nikolai was immediately frustrated. With all the impatience of youth, he wanted an answer now. Was he fit for a foreign posting? Had he passed the interview for foreign?
“Did I pass? Will I get my foreign posting later?”
“You passed. I am recommending a posting to London after the first of the year.”
His heart soared as he left the Lubyanka Building. It was time to run and tell Yulia. All the training, the difficult coursework, the deployment to a war he’d hated—it was all coming together with a deployment to the West!
He had never been happier.
2
Nikolai and Yulia arrived in London from Moscow. It was 1959, a cold, overcast day in January with a mix of rain and sleet coming down.
The young couple jogged across the tarmac, holding newspapers overhead, into Heathrow Airport. He watched faces while she looked around at the colors and sunny smiles and heard the laughter. It all stunned Yulia. Nikolai had been out of Soviet Russia before. He knew how it was elsewhere.
He had been dreading the plane touching down for the last hour. Coming into the airport, sweeping the faces with his eyes, he reminded himself that the world was a free-fire zone from now on. Whether he was ready to confront the Soviet Union's enemies or not, they were certainly ready to face him. To kill him, if possible. But the dread he felt wasn't about dying, wasn't about killing. Now that he had escaped the Soviet Union by securing a KGB posting to London, and now that his feet were firmly planted on British concrete and tile, he knew that he wanted to stay. He knew he wasn’t going to want to leave. His dread was that he might be made to.
He watched Yulia moving ahead of him. She was slender, blond, and feline in her movements. Her skirt was wool, and her blouse was silk. Her prized leather coat lay draped across her shoulders. He watched as her wide eyes devoured the airport and the people. It was her first time out of the Soviet Union.
Nikolai didn't see the shops or the glitz and glamour of a cosmopolitan Western airport. He saw only faces and matched those to the pictures he'd been told to memorize, the faces of assassins haunting London. Then his sweep stopped. He recognized the man at the bar. Franz Rákosi, Budapest. He immediately needed Yulia elsewhere.
"Look!" he exclaimed, pointing at a gift shop. "A Big Ben mug for your father, Jana Valerov!"
She turned in the direction of the shop. "I need to go in there! Will you wait?"
He looked again at the man's face. The man was acting like he hadn't seen Nikolai. Nikolai knew better; there were no coincidences.
"I'll catch up in the gift shop," Nikolai said. "I'll be back for you."
Nikolai, all eyes, stepped into the airport bar. It opened onto the concourse where skylights lit the walkway. But it was darker inside, so there was a split second when his eyes had to adjust. The man did nothing. Opportunity lost for him.
Up to the bar. "Vodka martini."
Said the man beside him, "I'm only passing through. It's nothing to do with you."
"Will you never be over the war?"
"Done and forgotten, I promise. Just two guys bumping into each other at the airport. It can happen."
"Flight manifest? Is that how you found me?"
"Passing through. Budapest was a thousand years ago."
"Budapest was two years ago."
"If you say so. I'm here to meet my wife's family."
"Who would that be?"
"Anna Maria Rákosi. London born and bred."
Nikolai's drink came. "You sound convinced. You can have five minutes."
The man looked around. Nikolai knew, at that moment, the man wasn't alone. The next steps unwound quickly in his head.
"I'm off to the restroom. Finish your drink and be gone by the time I return. Tell the bartender I'm coming back. Tell him to leave my drink."
"I’ll have them leave your drink.” The man finally raised his gaze from his glass and looked Nikolai in the eye. “Thank you."
Nikolai turned away and stepped into the concourse. It was crowded with passengers lugging suitcases, pushing carts loaded down with bags, the old staggering along under the weight of their baggage, the young darting through the crowd like pinballs. He joined the foot traffic and made his way down to the blue restroom sign. He went inside and counted urinals. Four occupied. Two stalls occupied. "I'm airport security," he announced in his command voice. "They have reported a bomb in the airport. Please leave immediately and seek the nearest exit!"
Staccato sounds of toilet paper rolls spinning, pants zipping, commodes flushing. The restroom instantly cleared out.
He swallowed hard and went to the far wall, minimizing his exposure. There was no cover, but there was a door to the supply room. He raised a foot and kicked the doorknob, breaking the lock. He pulled open the door and stood to the side in the doorway. Then he waited. Come on, come on, come on.
They entered the restroom together, Franz Rákosi, the Hungarian from the bar, and a shorter Asian. Rákosi approached first, coiling his body and raising his hands in an aggressive Wushu posture. Nikolai waited, his breath coming in short bursts. In a blink, the man gathered himself and made his attack. Nikolai countered with a sweeping kick, catching the man on the outer knee. "Aiii!" Rákosi cried and stumbled just enough that Nikolai caught the back of his neck with a blurring chop. The bone snapped, and the man fell to the floor. He didn't move again.
Nikolai studied the Asian. He looked unsure for a moment, just enough that Nikolai stood upright and said, "I'm going to allow you to turn around and leave. It's a good choice for you."
The Chinese man smiled, moved as if to turn and leave, but suddenly drew a silver pistol from his waist and aimed it directly at Nikolai. He squeezed off a shot, just as Nikolai threw himself behind the door of the supply closet. He brought around his silenced Makarov 9x18 mm, aiming for the man's torso. He caught a quick glimpse and fired one round.
"Yiiiii!" the man cried as Nikolai came fully exposed from behind the door, aiming his Makarov at the man, who had crumpled to the floor, holding up one hand defensively. The man threw his gun to the floor, and it skittered across the tile toward Nikolai. "No!" he cried." You don't have to do this."