The Russian intelligence officer drove his vehicle off the Moscow highway onto a minor road and headed north. Normally the journey to his home would take only thirty minutes, but it was dark and the snow was heavy. He hoped his wife wouldn’t be angry with his delay. Tonight they were hosting a dinner party with friends and were allowing their young children to stay up and eat with them. Nikita and Ivan had been so excited at the prospect and had promised not to fall asleep before the meal.
Soon there were no streetlamps on the road; woods were either side of him. He increased the speed of the car’s windshield wipers and squinted to try to focus through the snow. The car’s heater was noisy and turned up high but barely seemed to be producing any heat. He recalled his wife nagging him to get a new car. She was right; this one was falling to pieces, and he doubted it would last through the winter.
A vehicle came toward him with its headlights on high. The officer swore as its glare nearly blinded him, and he slowed down until the car had passed. The road before him was now empty. He increased his speed, wondering if his wife would be preparing his favorite dish of kholodets. She had her own special recipe that eschewed veal in favor of pork legs and ears and beef tails.
He thought about the last few days. His work had been risky, and he was glad he’d completed his task successfully. Tonight he could relax, and he would uncork a few bottles of Pinot Noir. None of the guests knew what he did for a living, and even though his wife did know, she wasn’t privy to the details. And she certainly didn’t know his big secret. That didn’t matter. He’d simply tell them all that tonight he was celebrating getting through a tough week of work.
With every mile he drove, his mood lightened. He pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and inhaled deeply. Picturing the dinner, he smiled. Maybe, when the evening was over and the children were asleep, his wife would make love to him.
Lowering his window a few inches, he moved the cigarette to the gap to tap ash outside of the car. A sudden gust of wind through the gap blew the cigarette out of his fingers and onto his chest. Cursing his stupidity, he looked down, searching for the glow of the cigarette’s embers before it burned a hole in his clothes. He found it in his lap, grabbed it, and looked up.
As he did so a car rammed his vehicle from behind.
The officer lurched forward until the seat belt tightened and forced air out of his lungs. He moaned, heard tires screeching and metal grinding against metal, and felt the steering wheel shuddering in his grip. Lifting his head, he saw headlights in the rear mirror, urgently looked ahead, and realized that his car was being pushed diagonally across the road toward the dense forest. He yanked hard down on the steering wheel; his car went into a spin.
What was happening?
Drunk driver?
The car spun 360 degrees. The officer saw that it was still heading toward the forest, where upon impact it was sure to be squashed. There were no air bags in this heap of crap.
He was just a few feet from the trees.
Barely three seconds away.
No chance of regaining control of his car.
Releasing the seat belt, he pushed open the door and dived onto the road, a moment before he heard the vehicle smash against the large wooden trunks. His elbows and kneecaps screamed in pain. Breathing deeply, he looked to his right. The car that had rammed him was 150 feet away, stationary, its headlights pointing at him. A tall man was walking toward him, only his silhouette visible.
Coming to help?
No, not with a long knife in one hand.
He pushed himself off the ground, wincing as his legs nearly buckled.
Fear and adrenaline.
Limping away from the scene, he moved along the center of the road. His home was only a couple of miles away. That’s all that mattered.
Two miles.
Home.
Lock the doors.
Get his gun.
He tried to run but could barely manage a jog; one of his legs was limping badly. Glancing urgently over his shoulder, he saw that the big man was still walking after him. He looked ahead. All was now in near darkness; snow was falling fast. The forest was on either side of him.
Go in there and hide?
And maybe freeze to death?
Or stay on the road in case help comes?
Just after the man easily caught up and murdered him?
He’d no idea what to do, so he kept moving along the road. His breathing was fast and shallow. Too many cigarettes. Too much rich food and wine. But he kept moving, even though every step sent shots of pain up his legs.
Get home.
Cuddle Nikita and Ivan.
Tell them he loved them.
Stay with them forever.
Don’t die.
The blow to his back sent him flying forward. Lying on the ground, he tried to crawl forward, his fingers digging through the snow.
Something hard smacked onto the nape of his neck and held him still.
A boot.
No adrenaline now.
Only absolute terror.
The boot lifted. A hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him onto his back. Then two hands grabbed him by the throat and lifted him to his feet. The man’s face was inches from his. There was just enough light to see that he looked calm.
That he was Taras Khmelnytsky.
The officer’s legs kicked out, but it made no difference. Khmelnytsky held him firm, a smile now on his face.
Rapid movement.
Immense pain in his gut.
Of course.
The knife.
No chance now of cuddles with excited children, of consuming kholodets and Pinot Noir, of making love to his wife.
Khmelnytsky wrenched the knife up and dropped the officer.
He lay on the road, his whole body violently shaking. But his mind was still alive.
Khmelnytsky towered over him for a moment.
The officer thought about the secret that had made his week risky and tense. He wondered how his wife would’ve reacted if he’d told her about his work as an MI6 double agent.
He’d never know.
Khmelnytsky knelt down and thrust the knife into Borzaya’s face.