Checkmate

Rachel settled back on the sun-lounger, her skimpy bikini loosely tied and her raven hair splayed out on the pillow behind her head. The white-washed walls of the villa in front of her were dazzling to her eyes despite her sun glasses, and the mountains beyond shimmered a smoky blue-grey. She sipped her ouzo and lemonade through a straw, basking in the intense dry heat, so much more bearable than the muggy heat of Moscow, and watched as Dmitri performed his callisthenics by the pool side, dived into the refreshingly cold water, and swam up and down in a blue as deep as the sky.

He had a fabulous body, which no doubt she would enjoy again later. Surprisingly, she suddenly thought of Jak. That useless piece of shit would get all that he deserved; Tanya was poison!

She still felt guilty about Peter and was sorry for Tanya, though she shouldn’t have meddled in things she knew nothing about.

As the Iron Curtain tightened again, and bodies piled up in Ukraine, Rachel was lucky to have escaped, when the GRU raided her flat. But after all, she did miss her life in Moscow, and she was sorry that things had gone awry with Jak. He did play a good game of chess.

– x –

So Rachel Jones has escaped to Greece and is now free from the duplicity of governments and lovers, or so she thinks.  I hope all my followers have enjoyed the story and I thank them for all their likes and encouragement.  So if you would like to recap and read the story in one go, which is perhaps more satisfying, I have published “The Raven” and it is available in a Kindle version on Amazon.

It is available in the USA here, and in the UK here.  In other countries, just search the local Amazon site.

I would appreciate any comments on the story and reviews or ratings on the Amazon site would be most welcome.

 

End Game

Months later, one Sunday, Jak went for a bike ride around his favourite parks and cycleways; out past the Krylatskoe Sports Palace and across to Romashkovskiy Park, then down to Suvorovskiy Park and back past Pollonnaya Hill, with its impressive monuments. He decided to stop at a local hostelry for some light refreshment.

By sheer coincidence, Rachel was there too, with the Greek and some of his drinking mates. Jak settled in a corner on a scrubbed pine bench behind a bare wooden table, with a pint of dark beer and some khachapuri, that delicious Georgian feast bread, in front of him, and observed them cautiously. He wasn’t sure if she had seen him, or would even acknowledge him, given the present company. He recognised Dmitri with his brash, rugged face and untidy black hair curling over his ears. He seemed to be ignoring Rachel and treating her with disdain, as he chatted and joked with his friends. Rachel bravely tried to be blasé about the conversation and joined in, laughing and grinning inanely, but Jak could sense, and almost feel, her beautiful, elegant body tense and recoil at some of the bawdier jokes.

He left the pub without approaching her, shaking his head in dismay and regret for his missed opportunities, and his lack of understanding and sensitivity.

She came to the Film Club at the Institute on the following Tuesday, but only gave him a brief smile. It was the end of their affair.

– o –

But next Wednesday, Jak’s phone rang again. It was Tanya Lewinski. She sounded very upset and she asked if he could come over. Of course, he dashed across town at high speed; in five minutes he was knocking at her door, in a polite, boring suburb on the outskirts of Moscow. She answered it, a tiny baby cradled in her arms.

“Meet Ruby!” she said, smiling, though she had obviously been crying.

“Whatever’s wrong?” he asked. “You look a bit upset. Can I help?”

They went into the living room and sat down side by side on the sofa.

“Peter’s gone!” she sobbed. “I don’t know what I am going to do.”

“What? Why? Where has he gone?”

“I don’t know. He’s been arrested. He had moved in with that vixen, Rachel. The bastard’s been seeing her for months! He said he couldn’t cope with another baby. More likely, he couldn’t cope with not getting a regular fuck with me!”

“Oh dear,” he said, his heart twisting inside of him. “When did you find out?”

“Only last week. Rachel’s gone too. She left with that Greek bloke.”

“But what will you do?”

“Stay here, I guess. I’m not bailing him out!”

At that moment, Ruby began to cry and Tanya unbuttoned her cream silk blouse, exposing her lovely swollen breasts swaying with milky momentum, and began to suckle the baby, who latched on immediately and contentedly. They were all silent. Jak watched them in awe, his heart melting, and a lump rising to his throat.

“A rouble for your thoughts!” said Tanya, a wan smile on her gorgeous lips.

“I just love you so much,” he burbled. “I don’t understand why Peter can’t love you too.”

A tear began to roll down her cheek, but she leaned forward, cradling Ruby beneath her, and kissed him on the mouth. “I love you, too.”

– o –

 

More Sacrifices

Rachel made no contact with Jak at Friday’s film, “Belle de Jour”. Perhaps, he thought, she was thinking of her own mixed-up sexual fantasies. Or perhaps he was the one living in a fantasy world, thinking fatuously that there would ever again be any closer connection to her.

On Tuesday, however, he was immersed in another world. The smoky, beery atmosphere of Club B2 soon made him forget his worries. Tanya Lewinski had come with him, as he had promised to take her sometime at the dinner party a few weeks ago. He didn’t really think that she would come, and was surprised when she had phoned to remind him. He was, as usual, overawed by her lovely smiling face, her tall, slim body, and her great sense of humour. She flirted with him quite openly and he could hardly conceal his delight, as they watched the resident folkies and listened to the Simon and Garfunkel covers that they were renowned for. The whole audience joined in with the “swoosh” in “The Boxer”. Glasses tinkled, people laughed, and Jak became quite drunk on many tipples of vodka.

In the car park, as they left, Jak held Tanya tightly and kissed her fully on her mouth. She responded, melting in his arms and closing her eyes. As he took her home in his car, going the slow, back way through the outer suburbs, he told her how much he cared for her, but she just smiled secretively. He dropped her off outside her house and she kissed him, briefly, on the cheek. He didn’t even realise that she was four and a half months pregnant, or that she had been hoping for rather more from him.

– o –

Rachel was panicking slightly; unusual for her, normally so calm and serene. Zim’s heart attack had upset and unnerved her. She needed help. She tried to phone Jak, but he was not answering his phone or mobile. It was too dangerous to expose Dmitri, even if she knew where he was. So she resorted to Peter, whom she had seen not a week ago, when he had expressed his undying love for her. He was always professing to be against Putin and his nefarious plots; she would test his steel.

She rang his mobile. She never rang his home number, of course, in case Tanya answered. She was about to give up when a sleepy voice answered, “Hello. Rachel? Is that you?”

“Come on, you sleepy bugger! Get out of bed, wherever you are. I need you to come with me!” she hissed. “I’ll meet you at the Grossbeer in thirty minutes.”

“OK. OK! Keep your shirt on! Or on second thoughts, don’t wear a shirt at all, or anything else!” he quipped.

Thirty minutes later, Rachel was sitting near the entrance, a cigarette in hand, puffing smoke circles at the door. An unkempt figure dashed in and looked around, still bleary-eyed.

“Oh. Hi! What’s this all about?” gushed Peter.

“We’re going to the British Embassy. I just need you to look like a doting, love-sick swain. And look out for anyone following us!”

“What is a “swain”?” he asked puzzled.

They left the Grossbeer, arm-in-arm, and began to walk north over the bridge and towards the Embassy, in the misty dark of the night. Halfway across the bridge, Rachel turned round to look behind her. Sure enough, there was someone following them. She pushed Peter against the stone balustrading and kissed him fiercely on the mouth, waiting to see if the dark figure would pass them by. But he stopped too, to light a cigarette and peer into the dark waters below. She told Peter to run, and they rushed to the other side of the river. The man on the bridge didn’t move, but as they began to walk hurriedly through the gardens, she saw two more approaching them in front. She didn’t know what to do, but suddenly feeling guilty about exposing Peter to this danger, she told him to run west, away from the Kremlin, while she raced in the opposite direction. She heard a shot, and saw Peter stumble behind her. Damn! Damn! She had to get to the Embassy and raced as fast as she could. No-one seemed to be following her.

– o –

When Rachel finally returned to her flat, exhausted, dishevelled, and worried about Peter, she flopped down at her kitchen table and began to cry.

“Are you worried about me?” came a voice from the bedroom doorway.

“Oh! You escaped! Thank God!” she cried.

“Don’t thank him,” said Peter, “Thank those bungling fools from the GRU. But I am a bit stuck now. I can’t go back home; it’s too dangerous.”

“You must stay with me for a while, until things cool down a bit,” she suggested.

“Well, I was rather hoping things would hot up a lot!” he joked, nervously.

Without speaking, Rachel took his hand and led him to the bedroom. They both needed to relieve their built-up tensions and have a good rest.

– o –

On Friday night, Jak was back in Moscow again and went with Rachel, at her suggestion, to see “Leaping Ginger”, an English musical by Trevor Peacock, at the Central Institute Theatre. She said she was feeling homesick. But it was a good laugh and he enjoyed it immensely, though he probably missed most of the jokes.

Going home he finally blew it for good when he suggested that she might come back with him to his flat. She was withdrawn and unresponsive. She said she had to go home and sort something out. He couldn’t make out what was wrong with her. Did she know that he had taken Tanya Lewinski to the Folk Club? Had Peter said anything to her?

– o –

 

 

 

A Sacrificed Pawn

In the huge yellow and pink building that once housed the KGB, Officer Fyodor Cherminski of Russia’s military intelligence agency, the GRU, was telling his superior about a strange telephone call he had just received from an apparently hysterical woman, Tanya Lewinski.

“She says her husband is having an affair with an English teacher, who she suspects is a spy!”

“Ah, yes!” said the fat General, laconically. “The delightful Miss Jones. We know all about her, but she is useful to us. We can feed her with misinformation that goes straight to MI6, via that doting Professor of hers. But Peter Lewinski is a traitor. He is a well-known dissident and has been photographed at all the anti-Putin demonstrations. If he should get in our way, he may find he is not so helpful in our efforts to restore the Union.”

– o –

At that very moment, Rachel was discussing her discoveries with Professor Zimmerofski. Events were hotting up in the Ukraine, Rachel’s special mission and area of interest. After the riots in the main square of Kiev, and the shooting of some of the rioters – ostensibly by the Police, though Alan Boychevski had hinted that some of his men were involved – the Ukrainian President had been forced to flee back to Moscow. He was no use to anyone now. Fearing for the immediate security of his Navy and fleet in the Black Sea, Putin had engineered a coup-de-tat and taken over the Crimea, lock, stock, barrel and gunship. Rachel passed on the information she had gleaned from Boychevski to Professor Zimmerofski, then she told him about the men in the forest, dressed in white suits and anti-glare goggles.

“You think they were anti-radiation suits?” asked the Professor.

“No doubt about it. And Boychevski hinted that the official line was that they were preparing for a nuclear attack by NATO!” said Rachel.

“That’s ridiculous!” exclaimed Zimmerofski. “They wouldn’t do such a thing. It is more likely that Putin and his Generals, not content with the downing of a civilian aircraft, are planning a small nuclear attack on somewhere like Donetsk or Luhansk, then blaming it on the Ukrainian government and their NATO allies, after rushing in to decontaminate it.”

“Would they do that to their own supporters?” She was shocked.

Professor Zimmerofski began to get very excited, and he struggled to rise out of the deep armchair. “We must get word to the British Embassy at once! Help me to get up!”

Rachel jumped up and held the Professor’s arm. But his face reddened and he began to shake uncontrollably. He collapsed to the floor. To her shock and dismay he had suffered a heart attack. She rang for an ambulance and waited until it arrived, its siren screaming and blue lights flashing. The paramedic and driver carried the inert body out on a stretcher. She was suddenly alone, and had to get to the Embassy herself as soon as possible.

– o –

 

Animus-Anima

Rachel really was a dilemma. There were some things about her that Jak longed for; her beauty, her intelligence, her compassion, and her independence. But there were other things he was not so keen on, and, truth be told, there was probably a lot she didn’t like about him. He wished she didn’t smoke; she should get more exercise and fresh air. She should relax a bit more with people; develop her sense of humour, and lose some of that cynicism and those paranoid expressions of sexist propaganda that feminists put out. She would perhaps be more sexually satisfied if she didn’t think of herself as some great prize that can only be given to the “right” man; the one that “turns her on”. After all, she has to turn the other person on too. Perhaps she thought she was hard and frigid, and was so afraid of it, that sex was a trial to her rather than a joy. She didn’t want anyone to assume rights over her.

Perhaps, he thought, thoughtlessly, that’s why she had reacted badly to him. Perhaps he had taken advantage of her experimental love-making and assumed too much. On the other hand, she must have been puzzled that he hadn’t stayed with her after such a lovely experience that other weekend, and didn’t contact her straight away when he “returned” to Moscow. Yes, really it was his own fault, and he had been a fool!

– o –

The film that Friday was “Aguirre, the Wrath of God”; it seemed very appropriate. Was Klaus Kinski the sort of man Rachel really liked, despite her protestations of independence and her feminist ideals? He looked very much like the rugged Greek who had admired her in the Grossbeer. Jak was beginning to think that the real problem was that they were too much alike.

He had been reading Jung and had worked out in his amateurish way that his “Anima” was wild and passionate; dark and sensuous. “She” was really a primitive who felt life, rather than thought about it. A feminine spirit who knew about nature, the earth, animals, and the Gods. “She” was loyal and submissive to the one she loved; a man who would protect her and explain things to her. Giving him fruit and meat, but asking for security in return. It struck him that one of Gaugin’s two “Tahitian Women” on his living room wall could be his subconscious ideal. Not like Rachel at all really, but perhaps what she wanted was someone like that – her “Animus” – a wild man, in tune with the elements, but helping her to get close to the earth as well. No! She was far too intellectual and independent!

On the other hand he felt that his “Shadow” was vain and arrogant. A conceited man prone to sentimentality and decadence. “He” was wilful, selfish and self-indulgent. His positive attributes were emphasised in his self-respect, self-confidence, and strong ethics. Perhaps, that was Rachel’s “Shadow” too?

But who Jak was himself, was still a mystery to him!

Perhaps, he thought, she felt that she had “given” herself too freely, and that he had assumed rights over her. Obviously, she wanted to be free and not feel pressurised into doing things, but if she gave any sign of love, it would be a sign that she had given in to someone else’s desires.

At last Jak thought he understood about Rachel! They were in fact very similar people, both looking for the same thing. They had very similar tastes and intellect; the same sort of apartment and furniture; the same records, plants, books, even hobbies.

They also had the same “Anima/Animus”; someone wild and sensuous who would free their emotions and help them to express their feelings. She looked the right type for him – dark, wild, independent. He looked the right type for her – wild hair, ugly-nice features, an “outdoor” type. But neither of them actually were that person – they were both intellectuals, introverts, always thinking rather than feeling, and both afraid to show their emotions in public. So they were both disappointed in each other and then projected their similar “Shadows” onto each other. They both thought the other conceited, arrogant, sentimental and self-centred. He had even criticised her for smoking and secretly condemned her for drinking and drugs, though she probably had not smoked pot more than a few times, and then only in a desperate attempt to free herself. What she thought of him, God only knew!

He thought now he could understand her taste in men – rugged, anti-intellectual, sensuous types, who nevertheless were loyal and submissive, and dependent on her. He hoped she would find someone to fit the bill; and he too.

Also, of course, at the same time as their own awkward sexual and emotional manoeuvring, there was Peter! Jak thought she did care a lot for him; she had said she had “fallen” for him. Maybe she felt sympathy with his unhappiness, the work problems, the demands of his wife and children, but that was nothing to do with Jak; he couldn’t interfere. He wished she could talk to him about it without thinking he would somehow take advantage of her. She had said some strange things to him during their brief exchanges: “I want you”; “I’m no push-over”; “Then I fell for him”; “It’s not you, but something in me that I can’t tell you about”; and “Can anybody really help anyone else?”

Maybe it was about time he accepted that it was just not to be – that any special, loving, exclusive relationship with her was doomed from the start. He should forget about it. The most that he could hope for was that she remained a friend.

– o –

 

  Klombard

Infinity Goes On Trial

But a week later Rachel rang to ask Jak if he would like to go walking in the forests and mountains near the Ukrainian border. Bemused, he agreed to take her in his battered Mercedes. On the long, twisting drive down to the forest near the River Derkul she didn’t do much talking and he was completely unaware of her true purpose. They stayed overnight at an old timber hunting lodge in the forest, but nothing happened; she seemed distracted and a little confused. She didn’t usually do much walking either, though she did have a pair of stout walking boots, a waterproof jacket and thick trousers.

When they finally arrived at their mountain walk, she looked slightly out of her depth, with her pink complexion, wispy black hair, and petulant lips. Jak was more in his element and strode purposefully along.

As they came to a plantation of fir trees they looked along the endless rows and Jak said, half-jokingly, “Infinity goes on trial!”

“What the hell does that mean?” she murmured, puzzled.

“Oh. It’s just a line from a Bob Dylan song.”

“Hmm. Him again.” She was not impressed. “I think he was talking about museums.”

At a waterfall under the slope of a jagged rock they stopped for a drink.

“I just want to say, Jak, that I like you a lot and we have lots in common, but . . . it has to be said . . . I can’t become your girl-friend. Not like that. I want to be free of any commitment, and I don’t want you to think that you own me or anything, just because we fucked once!”

“OK,” he said, mystified, counting on his fingers. “But I want to keep seeing you. I like you more than a lot.”

“Ah, that’s the trouble. That’s what men always say. They want to make women feel obliged to respond; to become theirs.”

“Honestly, it’s not like that. I love your independence, your competence, the way you have made your own life for yourself. It can’t be easy moving from your home country to a strange place and teaching mathematics to a class of unruly kids.”

“There you go again! It’s no harder for a woman than a man. Why do you think we are so helpless and weak?”

His protestations were to no avail and they lapsed into silence rather sourly and regretfully, especially when he told her that his ex-wife was coming at the weekend to discuss their impending divorce.

– o –

They came to the edge of a clearing and Rachel whispered to Jak to get down quick. They could see a convoy of white lorries and men milling about in white coveralls and face masks.

“Why are they wearing snow suits? It’s all melted down here,” whispered Jak, surprised at the sudden appearance of binoculars in her gloved hands. He was even more surprised when she started taking photographs with a tiny Japanese camera.

“They’re not snow suits,” she hissed. “It’s a nuclear decontamination team getting ready to rush across the border when the time comes!”

“What time? What’s this all about?” said Jak.

“Those trucks you saw, the Russians said they were taking relief supplies to the rebels, but I think that’s just a cover. You saw yourself that they are practically empty except for a few barrels of something looking very suspicious.” She carried on talking excitedly under her breath. “They are probably setting up a fake provocation with some nuclear waste to look like a dirty bomb, so that they have an excuse to invade Ukraine militarily, rather than just support the rebels.”

“That’s insane!” whispered Jak.

She had to get back to Moscow quickly to inform Dmitri, but first she pulled down the zip of her walking trousers and guided Jak’s hand inside, where it was warm, soft and moist. She was not wearing any knickers! They lay for a few moments in the bracken, until her excitement and pent-up energy was released.

“We must rush back!” she whispered.

Jak fell for it, thinking that she wanted more of him back at his flat in Moscow, and they crawled away backwards on their stomachs into the undergrowth, where they cautiously rose, then raced back to his car the way they had come.

– o –

 

 

Avellana Consort

The next weekend, Jak invited Rachel, Tanya and Peter to join him for dinner. Although Rachel had a cold, she had a double reason for accepting the invitation. She seemed to spend more time talking about school with Peter, but Jak and Tanya talked amongst themselves and jokingly regarded the two teachers in their common-room mode. Little did they know!

Jak’s life was complicated. Apart from his ex-wife and two sons, whom he saw regularly, he had many friends and acquaintances. Not many lovers though, and those he did have were usually separated by time. He hated cheating on anyone. He was looking for that special person who would love him, stay with him, and be his constant companion. When he did, he would love her for the rest of his life.

He went round to Rachel’s the next day to see how she was. He took her some flowers, just to cheer her up. But despite her Beecham’s and commiserations from him, she wasn’t up to letting him in or talking with anyone; in fact, she stood in the doorway, holding it like a shield. She had gone to bed with a “very sore head” the night before, or so she said.

– o –

A few days later, Jak and Rachel drifted amongst the visitors in a surreal world of yellowed pine beams and white plaster, carved and twisted into wild scrolls and curlicues, and through courtyards and corridors full of Revolutionary art and sculpture, until they settled down on uncomfortable high-backed chairs in one of the larger rooms on the ground floor. It was to be a chamber music concert, played on antique Medieval instruments in super-serious style.

Everyone clapped politely and coughed into their hands between pieces, until, thankfully, it was over. Just as they were leaving an older man came over and said hello to Rachel. She introduced him to Jak as Alan Boychevski. Later, behind her hand, she explained that he was just some old General whose daughter was at the Academy.

“I didn’t know you were into this sort of stuff, Rachel,” Boychevski said disarmingly.

“Oh, I do quite like it. It’s very mathematically precise.” She laughed. “Jak’s an Architect. That’s probably why he likes it too,” she said, nudging him.

“What? Oh, yes,” Jak agreed. “Very precise. Very particular.”

“Listen,” said Alan, “Why don’t you two come round for dinner some time? I’m sure Suzi would like to meet you.”

Jak wanted to sink into the floor as Rachel looked at him askance. He brightened up, however, when she suddenly agreed and said, “That’s very kind of you, Alan. We’d love to come!”

But his heart fell again when he realised this might be just some sort of social climbing exercise. Or did she just want to keep Alan guessing, hinting to him that she was more involved with Jak than she actually was? But of course he agreed, still hoping that they could get back together. As they left, promising to get in touch, Jak asked Rachel to come back to his house. But she declined, saying, “I don’t think that would be a very good idea, at the moment.”

– o –

The dinner party on Saturday with Rachel, Alan Boychevski and his wife, Suzi, was a strange affair. Their house was a rambling Gothic pile on the outskirts of Moscow, with extensive, rather overgrown grounds. Alan proudly showed them around the billiards room, the lounge, dining room and kitchen, and then absent-mindedly introduced his wife. At the meal, Rachel and Alan discussed problems at the Academy and showed little interest in Jak or Suzi, though the General’s wife was pleasant, in a distracted kind of way. Jak toughed it out, helping where he could, pleased that Rachel could use him in this way, but confused when they left separately for home without much of a thank you or kind word from her.

The Film Club Selection meeting at the pub in the Bolshoi Parade on the Tuesday was cancelled. Maria Chokeminski had resigned from the Committee. Jak didn’t know why, but he found out later that she had decided to move back to her parents in the suburbs. Jak regretted not taking advantage of the cancellation to join Rachel for drinks. He noticed, however, that Dmitri the Greek had got in first, and they were laughing and joking with Peter in the corner, probably comparing notes on Alan Boychevski and his self-centred ego. Rachel looked over at Jak a couple of times, but not in a very friendly way.

In fact, he thought he had blown it completely when Rachel and Peter got up to leave together. What was going on there? He knew Peter was a bit of lecher, despite his high-minded condemnation of the Government and professed liberalism.

– o –

 

Assignment

Rachel visited Professor Zimmerofski that evening. She always liked seeing the old dear and perhaps he would cheer her up, after today’s disappointment.

“Good evening, my dear Rachel!” he enthused on his door step. “Come in! Come in! You look cold and worried.”

She went through to his comfortable, over-furnished study and sank into one of his deeply cushioned armchairs. The Professor poured out two small glasses of vodka, and handed her one, which she sipped appreciatively. They exchanged pleasantries, and the old man slumped into another armchair opposite her.

“So, things are getting worse in the Ukraine,” said the Professor, his face now stern and serious. “Putin is determined to seize the Crimea and he has sent his commandos into Eastern Ukraine to stir up more trouble.”

“What do you want me to do?” asked Rachel.

“You must try to find out more from General Boychevski. I believe he is a keen movie enthusiast and frequents the Film Club at the Institute?” replied the Professor.

“Oh, yes! That portly chap with his thin wife. I’ve caught him making eyes at me already!” laughed Rachel.

“Well, exploit it. But keep safe and keep him hanging on. I’m sure you know how to do that!” the Professor chuckled in turn. “Also, you will be approached by another of our agents, probably at the Grossbeer. I’m getting too old for this sort of thing and you may need help getting messages back to our friends in London.”

He reached over for a folding chessboard and opened it out on the low table before them. Rachel began to take out the pieces from a wooden box and set them out on the board. They settled down in quiet peace for their customary game.

– o –

Rachel did go round for dinner with Jak on Saturday, the next day, but to his disappointment she left after listening to a few records. Perhaps it was his guitar playing and the shaky rendition of Dylan’s “Just Like A Woman” that turned her off. On reflection, it was a bit misogynistic, though a lovely ballad, and he loved playing it; he could just about sing all the notes. But tension was beginning to mount between them. Had she sensed anything at his apartment; in the bathroom or bedroom? She told him a girl-friend was staying at her flat and they couldn’t go there at the moment.

Rachel hardly spoke to him when Jak went to the Film Club on Friday evening; the film was “Le Secret”. At the Institute, Rachel was equally cold. She gave him an embarrassed nod of recognition after the film, which he had to project that evening, but there was no other response, despite the fact that they still had a date to see the Avellana Consort at Little Molotov Hall the following week. It was to be a posh affair, though, as it turned out, a little weird and unworldly. The Hall was a famous old Communist Party dacha a few miles away that he had visited several times before, though not for an event such as this.

He walked with her to the Grossbeer, where everyone was meeting afterwards, and as they strolled, he nervously tried to take her hand in a friendly manner.

“No holding hands!” she hissed. “I’m not your possession!”

He fell back, flabbergasted, but tried to keep a straight face as they entered the bar, to join in with the merry throng. There was another fellow there, who Jak hadn’t seen before, a Greek who apparently was in Moscow sight-seeing and on some sabbatical visit to the Institute. He seemed nice enough, in a rugged sort of way, but he was definitely interested in Rachel, Jak could see.

Rachel also noticed him and went over to share a joke with him and Peter Lewinski. She looked appreciatively at his rugged features and their eyes met. A thrill of anticipation shivered through her body. She asked Peter to get another round of drinks, on her.

The Greek, Dmitri, was indeed Rachel’s new contact with MI6. He told her that there were some very worrying developments on the Ukrainian Border. Not content with ferrying Commandos and armaments across, Putin was now planning something big and she must investigate. She needed to get down to the border, but he couldn’t come, as it would risk blowing his cover. Somewhat reluctantly, she decided to enlist Jak’s help.

– o –

 

Under Cover

On Thursday morning, Rachel put on her fur coat, hat, and her most comfortable boots. She walked out into a slight flurry of snow, but there were pink and blue streaks in the eastern sky, presaging better weather. Determinedly, she set off south, through Zorsky Square and over the bridge. The streets were yellowish grey with slushy snow, and the grey and white buildings closed in around her. A few people hurried by, lost in their own preoccupations. She came to the intersection opposite Jak’s apartment block and waited.

She was beginning to feel cold and stamped her feet in irritation and impatience. Then she saw two people leave the swing doors at the entrance to the apartment block, and walk, laughing and joking, arm in arm, through the slush, back the way she had come. It was Jak alright; she couldn’t mistake that wild hair and droopy moustache. But who was the girl on his arm? A slight figure, heavily disguised with her long dark grey coat, red woollen gloves, scarf and hat, under which a pointy nose and a wide grin shone in the cold. A little gamin, not Russian, nor English; perhaps French or German? Rachel followed them at a discrete distance as they recrossed the bridge, over the slatey grey, unhurried waters of the river.

– o –

Jak had taken another day’s leave and he and Cleo were off to look around Bolotnya Place, the Kremlin and St Basil’s cathedral again. Cleo gasped in amazement at the multi-coloured domes, towers and pinnacles. Oblivious of the shadowy figure following them, they walked through the square to the park on the west. It was magical in amongst the bare trees; hardly anyone around, the snow deep and quiet, branches and leaves covered in undisturbed white outlines. Cleo was dressed for the cold in her trousers, boots, long coat, thick white jumper and red gloves. She still looked thin as she pointed to the trees. Her sun-glasses were blue against the glare of the snow. She smiled her slightly lopsided toothy grin as he took a silly tilted picture of her. They carefully crossed a snow-covered bridge of logs and sat on some rocks as he balanced his camera on another pile to take a photo of them together on the self-timer. He was so pleased to be with her! Snow started falling again and they headed back for home.

They had all afternoon, but it was their last. They went upstairs to the bedroom again and played with each other as if they had always been together and always would be. As she knelt on the bed, he took her from behind her surprisingly plump bottom, reaching around to glide his fingers over their melting flesh. She came at the same time as he did and fell forward with a gasp, still holding him inside her.

“My God!” she said. “You can even do that!”

But that Thursday night really was their last, and they made love tenderly for the last time. Her high-speed train to St. Petersburg was at nine-o’clock next morning and they had to leave early. At Leningradsky railway station, she quickly made her way through the concourse, smiling at him coyly and sadly, blowing him a kiss. He went up to the gallery looking over the milling crowds, took a photo, and watched the sleek silver and red train she was boarding for an eternity, until it eventually hissed off down the tracks. He wondered if she felt the same heart-rending emptiness that he did. He turned away as the train disappeared around a bend, tears streaming down his face, wishing that destiny did not play such dastardly tricks on him.

– o –

 

Double Cross

The next few days were pretty hectic for Jak and most unexpected. They made such an impression on him, he wrote about it later in his diary, just to remind himself it wasn’t all a dream:

“Saturday morning; feeling great! I’ve just made love, night and morning, with the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met. I’m not quite sure what she feels about it – a little worried perhaps that it was so good and that she might show dependence on me, and thus be subject to some compromise or be taken advantage of. She shouldn’t worry; I love her for her independence (or her wish for it). Anyway, after playing (her) Joni Mitchell’s “Hissing of Summer Lawns”, eating half a grapefruit, hurriedly gobbling some muesli, and visiting the loo, I bombed down to the station to meet Cleo.

“I arrived early at Bellorusky Station, of course, and hung around feeling a little nervous. I checked out the train arrivals, platforms, etc., and went for a bite to eat at Ye Olde Kentucky Chicken Eat-house – salad and mayonnaise hamburger with coffee. These places are weird bubbles of surreal space in the dusty urban infrastructure, where everything inside turns to plastic – even the people! Well, I tolerated it as long as I could and then went back to the station. The train had arrived! I wandered cautiously down the platform, hoping I hadn’t missed her. She wasn’t there! She’d decided not to come! It was the wrong train!

“ ‘Evenin’ Dearie!’ – she had nearly walked past me – I didn’t recognise her long dark grey overcoat and bushy mop of short hair. She laughed; we kissed; I took her baggage trolley. At ease immediately, we talked about her journey. She was shattered. She looked tired and worn out. The slight wrinkles on her face told of worry and pain. I felt sorry for her. But still the old optimistic, interested voice. Still the uncomplaining, tolerant attitude. I loved her!

“Cleo and I decided to go back to my home after tea. Her train to St. Petersburg went from Leningradsky Railway Station at the end of the week. On the way back home, we were so engrossed in our chatter that we drove straight past the intersection and nearly found ourselves stuck in the Kremlin square on the wrong side of the river! I was annoyed with myself because it was late and she was tired. But we made light of it – again, Cleo’s tolerant attitude smoothed over all the bumps.

“Now we had to decide! I always feel good about showing people back to my present home. It’s so obviously the nicest little flat in the whole of Moscow. Inside, my furniture still gives a few problems, but the potential is there. It will be beautifully cosy soon. I think Cleo had already made up her mind to sleep with me, but I wasn’t going to push it. I honestly didn’t mind what she decided, I was so close to her, and we had become such good friends. She agreed to sleep in the same double bed – it was more convenient, and probably more comfortable than the settee. She put on a nightie and borrowed a pair of my socks; I put on pyjamas. We cuddled together spoon-fashion under the thick duvet and I kissed her goodnight.

“ ‘You’re not going to sleep, are you!’ she said, amazed.

“ ‘Of course!’ I replied. ‘If that’s what you want.’

“But with the warmth of our bodies, we couldn’t resist stroking each other. She slipped over me and my fingers slipped into the fluid folds between her legs. We were going to make love and be damned!”

– o –

Jak took leave on the Monday, and he and Cleo looked around Moscow. Later they visited some of his favourite places in the countryside, though it was cold and still snowy. At night they cuddled up together and again made love, with even more abandon.

It was the same after he returned from the Film Club Committee on Tuesday, when he learned that Peter and Maria had gone to the N.F.C. Sessions together again. Rachel was surprised to see Jak back in Moscow.

“I thought you were away all week!” she said.

“So did I,” he explained, a little red-faced. “But I came home earlier than expected. Why don’t you come round for dinner on Saturday. I’ll definitely be free by then.”

She looked at him with a slightly hurt and puzzled expression, but said, “Yes, OK. See you then.”

On the Wednesday there was a real Site Meeting at one of his local developments. He showed Cleo around in afternoon. It was now well under way, the orange yellow brickwork and concrete blocks rising out of a sea of frozen mud.

“I’m amazed at how you fit it in amongst all the other apartment blocks,” she said. “In France, they would just flatten the lot and build afresh.”

“Well, it’s important to keep what communities you can,” he explained. “That’s why I’ve mixed up flats and houses, so that older people can live near their relatives, and younger couples can have the top floors.”

She looked at him with new respect, and took his arm as they walked back down into the centre. They went to the Grossbeer for a drink in the evening, then it was back home for more love-making. They were insatiable. It was as if a dam had burst. She seemed more relaxed and those lines of worry were dropping from her face.

– o –

 

The Rules

Jak spent the Easter holidays walking in the hills south of Moscow with his friend Malekov, but Rachel came to his apartment the next Tuesday for dinner – and yes, she was very tasty! – also for a return match of chess. He had been reading up his text books and managed to win a game; he was very smug!

But he wasn’t going to spoil things by letting her see that. He was beginning to feel very attracted to her in a more serious way. She was very beautiful; dark and sultry, with fine, thin features and an expressive, soft mouth. She was the most intelligent girl he had ever met, very clear-minded and careful, although he wasn’t too convinced about the feminism bit. But she was independent and seemed self-reliant. Her taste in music and the comfortable feeling of her flat was similar to his own. Most of all, he liked her gentleness and kindness, flattered that she should bother to get to know him.

He found out quite a bit more about her. She was twenty-seven years old and had been born and grew up south of the Lake District, in England. She had left school at eighteen, but had worked for two years and visited Russia before resuming her academic career and getting a degree at Durham University in Mathematics, then finishing her Ph.D. in Moscow a few years ago. He knew she now taught at the Academy and that she was very conscientious and hard-working. It was probably her first real job. She wasn’t married, but she had once lived with a guy who had helped her buy and improve a cottage in England, which she now owned outright. She didn’t explain the complications of that, but Jak sensed a lot of pain. She even told him about her two brothers and the fact that she had got on better with her mother than her father, though Jak could see that she admired him, and had probably wanted his approval more than anything.

After listening to “The Eagles”, on his rather superior Hi-Fi equipment, she looked around his flat. She was enchanted by the small kitchen, with its handmade pine cupboards and worktops covered in dark, varnished cork. He had to admit that he hadn’t made them; it had all been there when he moved in, but was one of the things that had delighted him when he first saw the apartment. She was impressed by the large bathroom, but rather less so when she saw his Waterhouse Nymphs on the wall. The bedroom was a mess, but she admired his bookcases and large library, half hidden by the bicycle parked in front; the only place he could safely keep it.

“You seem very comfortable here,” she said.

“I was lucky to find it,” he replied. “The neighbours are nice too.”

“Don’t you get disturbed by the traffic?” she asked.

“Not at all. You get used to it. It’s rather comforting actually. And practically every vehicle stops at the junction, even the buses, so they tend to be going quite slowly over the bridge.”

“Well, I think it’s all delightful, but really, I must dash. It’s been a lovely evening. You’re very sweet.”

She said goodbye at his door with another kiss, somewhat longer this time, and, after pooh-poohing his suggestion that he should accompany her back home, she clattered down in the lift, and walked off into the night.

– o –

After a weekend in St Petersburg at the National Film Club Viewing Sessions, Jak was more than looking forward to dinner with Rachel again, this time at her flat. She told him the rules!

“I like you very much, Jak” she said. “And I want to carry on seeing you. We seem to get on well together. In fact, I’d like to take it further, but not tonight.”

“Well, I like you too,” he said. “Very much. But I wouldn’t try anything that you weren’t happy with.”

“The thing is,” she continued, “I’ve been hurt before. In Ravenscar – I worked there for a time – there was a guy I fell for, but he wasn’t quite what I thought. I don’t want to get involved like that again.”

“I’d never do anything to hurt you, you know,” he assured her. “I respect you far too much. I hope I wouldn’t hurt anyone. I’ve been hurt enough myself to know how it feels.”

“Well, just so you know, I don’t want us to commit to anything, yet. I just want to find out if we are, you know, compatible!” she trailed off, slightly embarrassed. “Let’s eat. We can think about it and see.”

He left later in a thoughtful mood, but not before giving her another kiss, which, encouragingly, she reciprocated enthusiastically.

– o –

On Friday, Jak and Rachel went to Taras Bulba’s for a meal. Neutral ground; he didn’t know which way this was going to go. In the end, after a very pleasant evening, and not a little wine, she invited him back to her place again, and they walked over hand in hand.

She led him upstairs, and with hardly a word, she left him in the small, crowded bedroom while she went to the bathroom. He undressed and sat on the bed waiting for her, in somewhat heightened anticipation. She came back completely naked, her body thin and white. He was completely overwhelmed, but she slipped under the covers, without much of a glance at him.

“You can use my toothbrush,” she said, smiling to herself. He realised she couldn’t see much without her contact lenses.

When he got back in bed, she rolled over on top of him, her long dark hair falling in his face. He stroked her head as she kissed his chest and spread her legs a little wider, pressing against his belly with a squeal of delight. She pulled up on his shoulders until her soft mouth was on his, kissing his lips and probing with her tongue.

His hands slid down her back and over her smooth, skinny bottom. She was liquid, hot and slippery. She pushed back, gasping as he entered her. Rocking back and forth, her breasts tickled his chest with their pointy hard nipples. It was too much; he came too quickly and began to subside before she had managed to get there.

“Sorry!” he said.

“Take it more slowly next time,” she said. “Let me feel you. You’re skinnier than me!”

He was amused to see, as she reached over to turn off the bedside lamp, that her wrists were thin, but her arms were quite shapely with curious pointed elbows that made them look like chicken thighs; goose-bumps further heightened his impression of a plucked chicken, but a very gorgeous one. He lay back, drifting into his little sleep as she stroked him. It had been so long since anyone had shown any interest in him, let alone be so intimate.

In a few moments he began to get hard again and he rolled her over onto her back. She spread her legs and held him as he once again penetrated her. He did go more slowly this time, feeling every swell and fold of her, until she came, sucking and palpitating around him. They melted together in a bliss of exquisite hot pain.

In the morning, waking a little bleary eyed and aware of an intense ache in his scrotum and another straining erection, he slipped inside her again. She was hardly awake herself, but cried out dreamily for him to carry on, to never stop!

Thank God it was Saturday; they could stay here forever. Then he suddenly remembered that he had to go down to the railway station today to meet Cleo, his oldest friend, on her way from Paris to St Petersburg, via Moscow. Still there was time yet, and he wanted to savour this moment as long as possible. Rachel wriggled up, and said she was bursting for a pee. He was too, and he went into the bathroom as she went downstairs to make a cup of tea. They sat up together side by side in bed drinking out of china teacups, naked, except for Rachel’s dark-framed glasses.

“You are marvellous, you know!” he said.

“Well, you’re pretty sexy yourself!” she giggled.

Inevitably, he started to rise again and he pushed back the sheets to show her.

“You’re incorrigible!” she exclaimed, putting her cup down on the bedside table. “Let me do it this time!”

She knelt over him and sank onto him as he slipped softly between her silky-smooth and wetly swollen lips. Her body glistened before him, white and shining, nipples pink, and pubic hair black. She moved gently up and down, relishing the feel of him just inside her. Then dropping deeper, and rubbing herself on his pubic bone, their hair twining in one soft mat, she began to gasp, then cry out as she experienced an intense orgasm. She fell forwards, her hands around his neck, kissing him as he came too, jerking up under her.

As he dozed he suddenly thought again about his appointment this Saturday morning. He knew he was playing close to the bone, but what could he do? He had promised to help Cleo, and she would be stuck at the station if he didn’t. He gave a dumb excuse about having to travel to a building site in Vladivostok. Rachel let him go, reluctantly, staying in bed and dreaming to herself, oblivious of his double-dealing.

– o –

 

The Chess Players

Jakovitch Simovitch, an Architect working for the local council, was exchanging a few ribald jokes with Tanya Lewinski at a Film Club party held early in February, with snow swirling in the streets and squares outside. He liked her very much, but didn’t want to get involved, as she and her husband, Peter, had both been very kind and helpful when his marriage broke up a year ago. He knew that she was fuming dangerously about her husband, who was rather obviously dallying with Maria Chokeminski, that frumpy divorcee who had previously tried to get Jak interested in her. Peter did not realise that his wife knew all about it.

Later, Jak noticed a new face amongst the revellers. She was a tall, elegant woman, with long black hair framing a very beautiful, thin face. She smiled in a superior way when he offered to get her a drink, and introduced herself as Rachel Jones. He was instantly attracted to the young English beauty by her intellectual conversation about films and music. He was not quite so attracted by the cigarette in her hand, but she looked very sophisticated and self-assured.

“Are you enjoying the party?” he asked, smiling broadly.

“I don’t usually enjoy parties,” she quipped, “But this seems reasonably entertaining. Do you know everybody?”

“Everybody, but you!” he said.

She smiled again, more genuinely that time, he thought.

– o –

The Film Club A.G.M, held after “The Poachers” was shown at the Central Institute on Zorsky Square, coincided with his birthday in February. His new flat was not far away, just south of the Moskva River, and close to the metro station. To Jak’s surprise, Rachel volunteered to fill the vacant treasurer’s post that Maria Chokeminski had just given up. He had discovered that the young English woman was a Maths teacher at the Academy, the same one that his friend, Peter, sort of taught Art at. So, that was the connection, and probably how she had found out about the Film Club.

Jak’s 34th birthday otherwise passed by very uneventfully, apart from his annual phone call from Cleo in Paris. She wanted to come and see him in Moscow on her way to St. Petersburg for a few months holiday. She didn’t say why she was having such a long break. He thought it might have something to do with her always tempestuous relationship with Kurt, her German husband, which had recently seemed to be on shaky ground. Also there was Marcel, that guy she had been cycling with – perhaps even sleeping with. Jak didn’t quiz her too much about it; it was just so great that she wanted to come and see him again after so long.

– o –

The film in March was “The Caretaker”, and it was about that time that a certain little girl was conceived who would play a small part in Jak’s future, though, of course, he had no idea of it at the time. Tanya and Peter were still together, despite Peter’s dalliances with Maria Chokeminski after the Film Club meetings, that Jak and others had observed once or twice. He wondered if Tanya knew? Were her renewed efforts to excite Peter a way to fend Maria off and keep her husband close? Perhaps, Peter should have taken more care, in more ways than one.

After the film, they all convened, as usual, to the Grossbeer pub on the Bolshoi Parade. Peter and Maria giggled in a corner, oblivious of the chatter in the crowded, smoky room. Jak made sure that he sat next to Rachel and she smiled encouragingly. They chatted about their various interests, and he saw that she was pleasantly surprised when he told her that he liked chess and had been trying to get to grips with it lately – from a mathematical point of view. She invited him round to her flat for a game the following day, He was rather bowled over by that, and that she had actually suggested it.

She lived in a small flat, in the maze of crumbling nineteenth century apartments on the north side of Zorsky Square. The front room of her flat opened directly onto a lift vestibule, as did his own, and it was comfortably, if rather scruffily, furnished with old second hand furniture. He guessed she didn’t have that much money. He noticed an ancient record player and a large stack of LPs. She had very similar tastes to his own; American music, such as Joni Mitchell, the Doobie Brothers, Dylan, and a lot of classical stuff, some of which was new to him.

“I am very impressed that you have all this old vinyl,” he said. “I collect records too, from the Izmailovsky flea-market, near the old wooden Kremlin. I must take you there sometime.”

“They were my father’s,” she explained, rather falteringly. “It’s all I have left of him now.”

Littered around the room were piles of paper, unmarked homework, textbooks, and other books on art. There were magazines too, some copies of “Spare Rib”, an English rag that he guessed had something to do with female emancipation. They lay on the side table by the settee. He leafed through one, smiling wryly, but didn’t make any comment.

She looked at him strangely as she got out the chess board and started to set out the pieces. Of course, she beat him twice! He wasn’t that good. Later, he showed her some diagrams he had drawn and coloured in with felt-tip pens, illustrating each chess piece’s available moves from any position on the board, and which squares they could actually occupy in one, two, or more moves. It was easy to see which pieces were more or less powerful, and how the strategy was centred in the middle of the board, if you added all the moves up.

She put on a pair of dark rimmed glasses and studied his diagrams. Her rather sharp features at once took on a school mistress’s air. As a mathematician, she was fascinated by his analysis and asked if she could keep the diagrams to show her pupils. He was flattered by her delight that someone else was interested in her hobby, and was able to analyse things in an intelligent, mathematical way. She smiled at him and kissed him briefly as he left. He smelt and tasted the slight whiff of tobacco on her mouth.

– o –

 

Have You Met Miss Jones . . .

Rachel Jones was a raven-haired beauty from Ravenglass, where she grew up in the forests, tarns and fells south of the Lakes. She was a bright young girl, who learnt independence from her mother, played chess with her father, and enjoyed rather more entertaining games with her few boyfriends. One particular incident, with the rugged lad she had thought she would one day marry, confirmed her progress to feminism. She had come across him and her best friend very energetically engaged in farmyard sports in the old barn at the back of her house.

She was interested in mathematics and languages, and yearned to escape the brooding countryside, to travel the world, and find her destiny. Her chance came when she won a scholarship to Durham University. Her Ph.D. took her to Russia, where she discussed theorems with professors by day – when she wasn’t strolling around the bizarre coloured domes of the Kremlin in Moscow – and drank vodka with laughing suitors by night. Returning to England she spent a few years teaching in a failing secondary school in an obscure northern town, breaking hearts, but never finding satisfaction. That was when she received the strange telephone call from an elderly gentleman in London, requesting her to attend an interview in Whitehall. Her career as a master spy had begun.

– o –

Rachel entered the white Portland stone faced building through a bronze and glass revolving door. She looked up suspiciously at the air vents overhead; nobody would ever get out of here again, if they didn’t want them to. Inside, the lobby was surprisingly bare. Just magnolia walls, two heavy wooden doors, a security camera, and a leather topped mahogany desk, behind which sat a very pretty young blonde, wearing glasses, a dark woollen full-length dress, and a bright scarlet smile. Rachel introduced herself, but as she was not a minute too early, she was immediately ushered into a lift behind one of the doors. After jerking slowly upwards for two minutes, she was led along a linoleum covered corridor, past many other doors, some panelled and painted, some with obscure glazing, some reinforced steel, and finally to an imposing collection of baroque scrolled woodwork. The young girl knocked on a wooden panel and, after a short delay, the door clicked open.

The large room was sumptuously carpeted, panelled in dark wood and glass-faced bookshelves. It was dimly lit, though sunlight glared through a crack between red velvet drapes. There was very little furniture, but behind another mahogany desk sat an enormous toad, on a revolving polished oak and leather armchair. The toad was wearing a mustard and green check tweed jacket and a red bow-tie. Silver hair fringed its bald pink pate, and pendulous jowls scowled as it perused an open file in front of it on the otherwise empty desk, by means of a monocle clenched in its right eye. The toad did not look up, smile, or show any signs of civility, but merely grunted, “Sit!”, motioning to the chair in front of the desk with pudgy fingers. Rachel sat, demurely, not in the slightest bit intimidated, and in fact rather amused at this display of mock masculine ferocity.

“Ah! Miss Jones. I see that you have many of the attributes that we seek,” harrumphed the toad, staring at her intently, as the monocle fell out of his eye on a gold ribbon, to his chest. “You have been to Moscow before, speak Russian, and have friends and contacts there, including our friend, Professor Zimmerofski?”

Ah, dear Zim. He had been her mathematics tutor in Moscow and was a kindly soul, always interested in her welfare, but quite old even then, and never in a million years would she have thought he could be a mole.

“Yes,” the toad continued, “He is getting well past any usefulness – in the field, as it were. But you have a logical mind, you are fit and healthy, I think, and you were never tempted by the advances of those Russian lechers, many of whom were, shall we say, looking for other openings.”

At this, Rachel was a little shocked, and felt herself blushing slightly. Who did he mean? she wondered, thinking of her many contacts and midnight brushes with the heady swirl of crazed opportunists.

But the toad rumbled on, “Of course, you were being watched and well-guarded, and with sensitivity too, I believe, where your own desires were concerned.”

Rachel was nearly on the point of getting up to leave, when the toad actually smiled, saying, “Would you like to return, settle old scores, and perhaps help our current obsessions with the worrisome Bear’s current obsessions?” He harrumphed again, “You will be well paid, of course, and even more closely protected.”

“Of course,” said Rachel, trying to appear unhesitating, “When do I go?”

“Oh, there will be a few weeks training, but the matter is urgent. The fleas are itching, and the Bear is beginning to scratch!”

– o –

After a hectic month at a stately home in Cambridgeshire, Rachel was sent back to Moscow, where she had old friends and plenty of contacts. Ostensibly, she would be teaching Mathematics and English to the sons and daughters of rich diplomats at the Moscow Academy – a big step up for her – but her real mission was to find out more about Putin’s intentions in Ukraine and his desire to reconstitute his beloved Republic.

At the Academy she met Peter Lewinski, a charming and debonair young man teaching art, but also spreading rebellion and stirring up anti-Putin sentiments amongst his friends. She thought he may be a useful contact later, but steered clear for the present, as it was pretty clear he was having some sort of an affair with Maria Chokeminski, the Russian Language teacher. She found out later that he was also married with two young children. She thought he must be having some difficulties at home.

Peter persuaded Rachel to join the Film Club at the Central Institute. She knew other teachers and many of the parents of the bright young students at the Academy frequented the intellectually elite gathering. There was a weird hankering to know more of western culture in this culturally rich city. One parent in particular, Alan Boychevski, a General held in high regard by Putin, was one of her future targets. He and his air-head wife, Suzi, were the proud parents of a pretty daughter who was in one of her classes studying Maths. Rachel would wait for an opportunity to get closer to them.

– o –