Flamingo Podnyalsya Ch 2

Flamingo Podnyalsya

Chapter 2

By Phil Miller

It was dark, cold and wet. No night to be wandering around the streets of London looking for his usual game. Pepe Brown sat in his soft worn leather wing-backed chair and stared into the soft flickering fire in his small cosy 2-bed town cottage. His face was flush and he sat relaxed as he supped from his large Stolichnaya Elit vodka bottle, compliments of Colonel Yassarevitch.

He sat for an hour before reaching forward and grabbing the poker to nudge the coals around, causing the flames to dance higher. He had always been fascinated by fire. This is how I will go he thought to himself, up in flames, like the Phoenix.  His eyes began to well up. He moved closer to the fire until his face almost glowed with the heat. Tears rolled down his face.

“Burn! Just fucking burn me,” he whimpered, before spitting a mouth full of vodka into the fireplace, causing the flames to lick up around the mantle as it searched for a way out. He threw the glass hard against the brick surround and yelped as a shard caught him in the face. He spat onto the floor and kicked over a nest of tables, swearing in Russian as he did so. Eventually, after emptying the bottle and falling to his knees on the hardwood floor, he slept. Very rarely did he sleep in bed; the chair or the floor, it didn’t matter, as long as he was out of it.

In the Russian Embassy in Dublin Ireland, sat Colonel Peter Yassarevitch  with two other men, Captain Kaspersky and Donyevsky;  special agents of the Federal Security Service.  They were discussing the next part of their operation to eliminate the radicals of the Okhrana when a young guard entered with a small sealed box and placed it on the table in front of Yassarevitch before saluting. The Colonel offered the item to Kaspersky who immediately began to open it. The guard did an about-turn and left.  Inside the box was a zipped bag. He peered inside and his first reflex was to pull back. Yassarevitch laughed out loud. After steadying himself, the Captain took a deep breath, reached in and pulled out the contents to lay upon the highly polished 17^th century walnut table.

“Well! It certainly looks like they had fun with him,” smiled the Colonel. “ You see the two toes missing from each foot and half the thumb missing from the left hand, hmm! He lost those in an archaeological dig in Northeast Siberia in the ’70s. His comrade, Mr Micheal Pitulko, another leading archaeologist from our wonderful Russian Academy of Sciences was not so lucky. He is still out there somewhere. Maybe someone will dig him up one day, eh! This is definitely Ruberov.  Fucking Pig!.” The Colonel stood up and walked over to the drinks cabinet and poured himself another Vodka.

“ Colonel, what is this?,” said Kaspersky as he prodded what looked like a piece of dried up fleshy pigskin. “Hmph!” shrugged Yasserevitch. “just another piece of my old friend I think.

“Who knows!  What matters is that an enemy of the Motherland is dead, that’s good. The British Government will probably keep the death of Ruberov under wraps for now. Don’t you just love the British sense of diplomacy and fair play? You are both going to London,” said the Colonel with a wry smile as he slid two files across the table. “Dismissed.”

Both officers knew what happened to the agents who screwed up the Novichok operation in a small cathedral town in southern England. Neither wanted to befall the same fate. Siberia was not the place to be at any time of year, especially on the wrong side of Yassaravitch.

BA flight 44062 was a relatively short flight at 1 hour 20 but it felt like a lifetime to Peter Donyevsky. After loyally serving nearly forty years in the Army, twelve of them in the KGB, he felt it was time to make a move;  freedom. During the flight, Micheal Kaspersky had not stopped talking. He talked about everything. About the op’s he had been on; the motherland; women he had played; men he had destroyed; his want for a higher ranking than Captain; the Colonel’s job; keep talking you fool, talk yourself into the grave he thought to himself. He knew Kaspersky very well. My time will come he thought. Peter had not engaged with Kaspersky throughout the entire journey. He just sat, listened and watched as the vodka’s slid down his comrade’s throat.

“ Why don’t you lighten up,” slurred Micheal, “have a drink,” he said as he clicked his fingers at the flight attendant.

Peter just stared straight ahead;  no acknowledgement, no reply.

“Oh! I forgot, you don’t  drink do you, pussy! “ he spluttered at Peter, nudging his arm hard with his elbow.

Still no response from Peter but a lot going through his mind. One day. One day I’ll have you. No way you’re going back alive, or I won’t!

“What’s up? What’s wrong?  I know! You’re not getting any snatch, are you? Don’t worry comrade. when we get to London I’ll sort some nice local sluts for us. Nice young sluts ay! Compliments of the Federation,” he whispered while putting his index finger to his lips, “shh, I won’t tell if you won’t.” He smacked Donyevsky hard on the knee which jolted him back to the here and now just as the sign lit up above their heads and the Captain began his landing speech. Peter was good at shutting down mentally. He was ex KGB, the best. Donyevsky slowly turned to Kaspersky and in his usual stoic manner pointed to the lit sign and said, “Belt up comrade, we are landing.”  Micheal Kaspersky belched, muttered a few insults under his breath and stared out the window at the perfectly quilted landscape that was England.

As soon as they were able to alight and collect their cases both men headed for Alexander House, a quaint but plush hotel 5 miles from the airport. They had separate rooms and after a relaxing shower, Kaspersky decided to call room service.

“Good afternoon, could I have Club Sandwich, some espresso and a bottle of your house vodka please.”

“Certainly Sir, Room 192, it will be approximately 15 minutes, thank you. Will there be anything else Sir?”

“Could you also send some to my business partner in room 194 with my compliments.  No, wait. Send him a bottle of pink champagne instead of vodka,” he laughed.

“ Sorry Sir, Mr Donyevsky  has checked out”

“What! When?”

“Erm, let me see. Ah!, he left at  12.32 Sir. Do you still require the Club sandw….”

He slammed down the hotel phone and searched frantically for his mobile, knocking his toes against the bed leg and cursing out loud, “bastard, fucking bastard,” before finding it on the floor by the small set of drawers at the side of his bed. There was also a note. He opened it and his eyes widened.  His mouth went dry as the realization hit home. He hit speed dial but then cut off almost immediately before wiping the shaving cream from his face, then dressed. As he left his room his phone rang.

“Don’t look for me Kas”

“If you think you can just disappear then you are making a big mistake my friend”

“I’m not making a mistake and I’m not your fucking friend you shit. If you come for me then you will go back to your secret penthouse apartment in a box. That’s right comrade, I know all about your little gem along the Kotelnicheskaya embankment. I don’t even think the Colonel could afford to live there.”

“ You’re a fool if you think we can’t track you, you are a dead man Donyevsky.”

“ We all die Kas, I just choose to live before I do.” He dropped the phone down a storm drain at his feet and hailed a black cab.

Copyright By Phil Miller