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

The Christmas Party.

The Christmas Party.

By Sis Unsworth

The Christmas party I recall, way back through the years,

 Started with a knees-up, laughter, and some tears,

It was early Christmas eve that the family did arrive,

There was Mary Joe and Uncle Sid, who came with his mate Clive,

My cousins all in Sunday best stood around the Christmas tree,

Then sang by the piano, the beer it did run free.

We children played our Christmas games, the adults all drank more, 
No one noticed uncle Joe had passed out on the floor,

Then Sid's mate Clive and Mary were gone for quite a while,

They came back sometime later, Clive had a sheepish smile.

Uncle Joe still on the floor knew nothing of the talk,

ln fact we all avoided him, as we did the Lambeth Walk.

To our delight at 9 o'clock we saw that it was snowing,

The adults took no stock of this as the beer was still flowing,

The snow had settled all around when it was time for bed,

We children noticed footprints leading to the shed.

Clive and Auntie Mary were nowhere to been seen,

And old drunken Uncle Joe had turned a shade of green.

No one thought it strange, as far as I remember,

When Mary had a baby the following September,

But what I couldn't understand, and never could derive,

How a baby that was uncle Joe's, looked just like Sid's mate Clive.

Copyright Sis Unsworth

WRITE ME A LOVE STORY Ch 2

WRITE ME A LOVE STORY

By Janet Baldey

CHAPTER TWO        

The day he left, I forced myself to give him a peck on the cheek and then turned and bolted upstairs.  From out of the bedroom window I watched as Frank marched down the hill and out of my life, without once looking back.   How could he have done that when once we’d been so close?   It was then that I broke down and sobbed until my pillow was soaked as I realised that, slowly and with stealth, he’d turned into a different person.

         The next day it seemed as though summer was over.  During the night the wind had veered northerly and when I woke, it was blowing a gale that ripped the still green leaves off the trees.  Fallen apples lay in drifts, like blood amongst the grass.   Most of them would be bruised and only be fit for pigswill but perhaps if I were quick I could save some.  As I opened the door, I heard the cows bellowing.  I’d forgotten the clock but they hadn’t, it was past milking time and their udders were swollen.  I put down the bucket:  the apples would have to wait.

  Leaving the farmhouse, a fine mist settled on my face.  The wind had dropped and a thick layer of cloud drifted towards the ground veiling the surrounding hills.  As I crossed the yard the drizzle changed to a downpour that drenched the manure spattered yard and turned it into a stinking sea of mud.  Listening to the rain drumming against the roof, I walked through the milking shed and pulled open the heavy doors on the far side, letting in the cows that were already jostling for position, their big brown eyes filmy with longing.  

When we’d first started to farm, large herds of Red Devons already grazed the surrounding hills so Frank had opted for Guernseys, delicate animals with pretty metallic grey-blue markings, saying, ‘we can’t compete with the big boys. They’ve cornered the market.  We’ll go for quality.’   

We had six now, all named after flowers, Daisy, Bluebell, Rose, Pansy, Cowslip and Clover.  Their yield wasn’t high but it was ideal for butter, cream and cheese.   One by one, I herded them into the barn and tied them to rings set in the walls before pouring a generous quantity of maize and sugar beet nuts into a manger. As the cows bent their heads and began to munch, I pulled a three-legged stool towards me and turned to the first in line, reaching underneath for her teats.   Squeezing and pulling, I sat listening to the sound of the creamy milk squirting into the bucket, staring at the raindrops sliding down the windows.   It was still pouring with rain when I’d finished and within minutes I was soaked as I walked the heavy churns out into the yard before wrestling them onto the flat bedded float.   Although I’d often watched Frank do this, I hadn’t realised how much effort it took and was exhausted by the time I’d finished.   Breathing heavily, I stopped for a moment, then, wiping my rain-soaked face with a wet hand, trudged through the mire to the stable where Barley, our sturdy little cob, was waiting.   As soon as she saw me, Barley’s ears pricked and her soft muzzle reached forward and nudged my hand, searching for her usual morning apple, cut into half.    I ran my fingers through the coarse hair of her mane, the heat of her body warming my hands.   Then, with a brisk slap on her rump, once more I braved the deluge and led the pony into the yard to shut her into the float.   Scrambling aboard and taking up the reins, I suddenly realised from now on this would be my regular morning and evening ritual, day in day out, rain or shine, with no time off for good behaviour.   Tears diluted by the rain, slid down my face as I sat hunched up against the weather, listening to the muffled sound of Barley’s hooves struggling through the soggy ground as she plodded down the hill towards the morning milk train.

Once back home, I stood shivering in the hallway stripping off my dripping clothes.   I caught a sudden glimpse of my face in the hall mirror; dark hair plastered to my head, I was as pale as a celluloid doll.   I turned away my eyes staring into nothing as I slotted together the rest of the day.    There’d be no time for breakfast.  My first job would be to sluice down the milking shed, then I had to feed and muck out the animals, before starting on the one thousand and one other jobs the farm demanded.  That night even my screaming muscles couldn’t stop me from plummeting into a deep pit, where all thoughts of cows, pigs and waterlogged fields were snuffed out by the spiralling darkness.

From then on my body fought a losing battle against fatigue.   Often I went to bed hungry, too tired to eat.   Even when Frank had been around, running the smallholding had been hard.  He’d done most of the heavy work while I’d looked after the cows, milking them twice a day and churning any left-over milk into cream, butter and cheese to take to market.    I also took care of the books.   Each evening I would sit down at the kitchen table, switch on the radio and begin the job of smoothing and deciphering the crumpled bits of paper that had spent the day in Frank’s pockets.   Soothed by the music and flickering firelight, I’d blank out the chaos of the outside world, comforted by the sight of my cosy kitchen, neatly kept ledger and pile of spiked bills.   When I looked back, those evenings seem idyllic.  Without Frank, my work suddenly doubled.   I became whip-thin and had to punch new holes in the leather belt that held up my slacks.  By the time night came, I was exhausted and went to bed as soon as it got dark, not bothering to draw the curtains.  And all the time an accumulation of bills hid the table and the spike stood empty.

But it wasn’t just the bone draining weariness that sapped my spirits.  Against my will, I pined for Frank.   Both of us were strong-willed and over the years we’d had our differences but in spite of that I missed the feeling that we were two fused into one, soul mates tuned into each others’ dreams.   I missed the shared glances when in company and the warm bulk of him in bed beside me.    In the evenings when darkness drowned the fields and the night wind rustled the leaves, I would sit in his chair and burrow my head into its worn fabric, searching for a trace of him.  

Copyright Janet Baldey 

Game gone wrong

GAME GONE WRONG                         

By Richard Banks

It should have been the best booze-up ever and on the Friday before the wedding we were determined to give John a send-off that, alcohol permitting, he would remember for the rest of his life.

         There were four of us, the Fab Four we called ourselves. Before that it had been the Three Musketeers, then Paul joined us at Salfleet Comprehensive, halfway through the second year. As no one knew much about the Musketeers our transition to the Fab Four was definitely an improvement, especially as we already had a John, and Joey’s second name was George. All we needed was a Ringo but short of me changing my name by deed poll there was no way that was going to happen; nevertheless, I did the next best thing and acquired a signet ring from Ratner's that cost me most of the cash I earned from my Saturday job at Woolworths.

         As mates went, we were the best, the closest, and nothing and no one was going to come between us. Did we believe that after the break-up of the Beatles? Probably not. By then we had left school and were a year or two into our first jobs. We were still pretty naive but the reality was beginning to take root; if Yoko Ono could tear apart the greatest rock band in history it was only a matter of time before some other Yoko did the same to us.

         Cynthia Parker was the first to try. To give her her due she was a better-looking bird than Yoko but when she suggested to Joey that they go to the cinema one Saturday instead of to the football he at last, came to his senses and brought a season ticket. After Cynthia there was Debby whose attraction disappeared the day she covered her long legs with a maxi skirt and Paul’s attention shifted to a face he didn’t much like. Then there was Rose who smelled of Woodbines and Bridget whose mad brother threatened to duff up John for some indiscretion committed in the back row of the Rialto. By the time temptation came to me I was well warned and when Sonya made me buy her a vodka and Pernod in the august surroundings of the country club I cut my losses and abandoned her mid-date for the public bar of the Nags Head.

         Having repelled the initial onslaught we closed ranks and dedicated our lives to football and the excessive consumption of alcohol. While we did not explicitly exclude women from our midst only those who passed the six-pint test and supported the Rovers had any chance with us. But of course, there is always someone who won’t abide by the rules and on a fateful day in April when the Rovers were relegated to Division Four, our very own Yoko arrived in the person of Tamsin.

         Having set her sights on John – who else – she took advantage of his despair by convincing him that a better life was to be had in the town’s shopping mall and the Arts Club coffee bar. When he was seen in the High Street wearing a cravat we knew he was lost forever and that nothing short of an exorcism was going to bring him back to us. Three months later he was engaged and six after that an envelope dropped through my letterbox containing an invitation to the wedding. In truth I was surprised to be sent one but when I met up with Joey and Paul and found that they also had been invited we resolved, as previously stated, to give John a stag night second to none.

         Tamsin was bound to try and stop us but when we put it to John he needed little persuading. Indeed in his confused, besotted state of mind, the stag night took on a significance almost equal to that of the wedding, a rite of passage comparable to the condemned prisoner’s last meal. Quite what he said about this to Tamsin I don’t know. What she said to him was audible to everyone within a half-mile radius and John was dismissed from her presence with an ultimatum that it was either her or us. As John wasn’t planning on marrying any of us he couldn’t quite see what the problem was but on surmising that it might have something to do with Tamsin’s aversion to pubs, beer and drunkenness he reopened negotiations by promising to drink no more than six pints and to be in his bed by half-past eleven. When Tamsin added the proviso that her brother Crispin come along, a deal was struck that gave the go-ahead for both stag do and wedding.

        

         So, we make a plan and on the night itself the four of us, plus Crispin, meet up at the Nags and commence operations with a pint of bitter and a whisky chaser. Crispin pulls out a notebook and when we ask him what he’s up to he says that he’s counting John’s drinks which he says are two and that he’s only allowed another four. This we tell him is not so because John’s agreement with Tamsin only refers to pints so therefore spirits don’t count. This he says isn’t fair but next round we lace the half-pint he’s drinking with a double Grappa and his conception of fair is lost in a confusion of brain that defeats his ability to stay upright. We leave him face down on the sawdust floor of the Nags and move on to the George when the stripper-gram we ordered arrives in the character of Little Bo Beep who having previously lost her sheep compounds her misfortune by losing her crook and everything she is wearing. The landlady’s none too amused and tells us to leave, which we were going to do anyway, so we pile into Paul’s car and drive out to the Wheatsheaf which is in the country and keeps open to three or four in the morning. When we tell John this he reminds us, somewhat pathetically, that he’s supposed to be home by 11.30 and we assure him that by 11.30 the next morning he will be.

         At 4am we stagger out and John thanks us for the best night out he’s ever had, but it’s not over yet and halfway back to town we stop the car, strip him down to his boxers and leave him to walk the four miles back to town. However, we’re only kidding so half a mile on we pull over to the side of the road and wait for him to catch up. When he doesn’t, we drive back. We find him lying face down, battered lifeless by the car that hit him.

         It isn’t our fault we tell ourselves but Tamsin doesn’t see it that way. To her, we are as guilty as the hit and run driver that scythed him down. Other people think the same, and deep down so do we. Paul takes it worse than any of us and a month later his body is found at the bottom of a cliff only a hundred yards from where John died. It was no accident, but the Coroner takes pity on John’s mother and returns the open verdict that triggers payment of the assurance policy she took out on him when he first started school.

         The stupid, sunshine days of our youth had turned tonight. We were cursed. When Joey stumbled off a crowded platform in front of an incoming train it was clear that I would be the next to die. It’s fate. There’s nothing to be done but seek the absolution that only one person can provide.

         And so it was that I went unannounced to Tamsin’s flat to say sorry and throw myself on her mercy. I feared she would slam the door in my face but she allows me in and lets me rattle on with my wild talk of fate and punishment. And as I talk her face reveals the emotion welling up inside. There is, she snaps, no such thing as fate, only the helping hands of those who see what must be done and make it happen. Her hands, not fate had pushed Paul and Joey to their deaths; her hands had sent them to a place she hoped was hell.

         She gets up from the settee where she had been sitting and walks resolutely to the kitchen. I should be running but by the time she returns I am no more than on my feet and turning for the door. I didn’t see the knife that sliced me, that sent me crashing to my knees but as I reach out for the handle the door opens as if my thoughts had made it happen. A woman screams, a man roars and a blow is struck that sends Tamsin thudding to the floor. I am safe; saved by the arrival of Tamsin’s flatmate and her boyfriend.

         But life can never be the same. My body heals, but fear still rules, and so does guilt. Familiar sights and faces only make it worse. I cut and run to a job and lodgings far from home and the asylum where Tamsin still plots my death. Her life, like mine, is a game gone wrong, no length of time will make it right.

Copyright Richard Banks

Haiku published 2017

Haiku first published in “A Haze of Infinity” - The London Haiku Group Anthology 2017.

By Robert Kingston

    

afternoon sun

an oarsman breaks

another cloud

the blackbird 

his mouth already full

going in for more

empty platform

the train light

in all corners

after sun

the spread of her fingers

stopped in their tracks

between jobs

the lapse moments

of a rooster

Copyright Robert Kingston

THE SPIDER’S WEB Ch 3

CHAPTER THREE – MOSCOW, RUSSIA

By Bob French

Bramavitch, a cypher clerk in the SVR, The Russian Foreign Intelligence Service, stood, then read the message pad again.  “Tell Nikoli I have an urgent message for the Comrade Director,” and with that, he left the basement of the Kremlin and hurried upstairs.

            Nikki, the PA to the Director of the Cyber Intelligence Unit, smiled at him as he hurried into her office.

            “I must speak to Comrade Director straight away.”  

            Nikki looked up at him.  “And what is so important that it will interrupt Comrade Director’s first cup of coffee of the day?” 

            “Intercepted telex from the CIA.”  Seeing the seriousness on his face, she stood, straightened her skirt and moved towards the Director’s solid oak door.  Bramavitch felt his heart pound as his eye followed the curves of her skirt as she vanished through the door. Seconds later the door eased open and he heard the gruff voice of the Director.  “Come”

            “Sorry to bother you Sir, but we intercepted an exchange of messages from the CIA cell in Beijing to Langley.”  The Director put out his hand and snatched them away from Bramavitch.

            “Mmm.  You have done well.  If you have any other messages relating to this in future, please let me have them immediately.  On the way out tell Nikki I want to see her.”

            An hour later Nikki had convened a meeting in the conference room next door between the Economics unit, the men from Odinstovo, the Military Chemical Research unit, west of Moscow, the Director of the State Medical Authorities, the Deputy Director of the SVR and the Section Chief of Section 7, the liquidators.

            As the Director sat down, Bramavitch hurried into the conference room and handed his Director a couple more messages.  He spent a minute reading them out, then looked up.

            “These comrades.”  He waived the handful of messages in his hand.  “Could be just the thing we have been waiting for to bring down the West for good. The first message is from the CIA in Beijing informing Langley that they are aware of a new virus that look like it is out of control.  It would seem that the Chinese have failed to clean up after themselves again. The second, is from our operative in Beijing explaining that they have traced the source of this virus.”  He paused to re-read the telex.  “It would appear that a Triad War Lord claims that during the transportation of the contaminated ‘wet meats’, his men took control of it.  It goes onto say that, using scientists he has created a virus that will wipe out half the world.”  The room was filled with laughter until the Director held up his hand.  “And, that his scientists have also created a vaccine for it.”  The room fell silent as he took out the last message.

             “Lastly, an intercepted message passed to us from Bern.  A French agent of the DGSE states that he attended a covert meeting of the Climate Change Initiative, a gathering of well-doers trying to save the world from destruction.  At this meeting, he witnessed the Chinese and Korean delegates negotiating something.  He followed them to a restaurant in the evening and taped their conversation.  During this meeting, the restaurant was attacked and an assassin killed the Chinese delegate and stole the tape machine.”  The Director glanced at the Section Chief of Section 7.

            “No Director, it was not one of our missions.”  The Director nodded and glanced back at the telex.

            “It goes on that the French agent chased down the assassin, killed her and recovered the tape.   Copies of it are probable in every European Intelligence Headquarters by now.”

            The Section Chief caught the Director’s eye.  “Does it say anything about the assassin’s nationality, description, any form of ID?”

            The Director shook his head in silence, then stood.  “I want you all to work together on this.  I want to know what that meeting was about, what was discussed at this restaurant, who these Triad scum are and where their scientists are working from.  I want to know if there are any weaknesses of the west that we can use this virus to bring them down, politically, militarily or economically… everything, and more importantly I want to know the effectiveness of this virus and can it be controlled.  I want a coordinated brief on my desk by one o’clock on Friday.”  He paused.  “Gentlemen, this is a once in a lifetime opportunity to destroy the west, so do not let me down.”  As he went to leave, the man from the Economics Unit stood and discretely moved towards him.

            “Sir.  The meeting at Le Richemond Hotel in Geneva which the French agent talks about.  It was the first gathering of those countries who asked us to ensure that their parties got into power by fixing their voting system.”  The Director stopped and stared down at the man.

            “Go on.”

            As far as I can understand Sir, nearly all the delegates were from nations that have a bent towards CCI, Climate Change Initiative; France, the Europe Ecology, Germany the Alliance 90 Party, Greece the Ecologist Green Party….”

            “Yes, I get it. But what does it mean?”

            “Well Sir, If I was attending this CCI convention, and I wanted to balance the power between nature and mankind in a bid to save the world, this virus would be the perfect weapon.”  The Director stood staring down at the man from the Economics Unit for a silent minute, then nodded slowly.  “Come with me.”

            As the Director moved towards his office, he turned to the Deputy Director of the SVR and invited him to join them.  Nikki had already prepared coffee and vodka for them as they came through the door.

            Before they touched their coffee the Deputy Director of the SVR spoke.  “This is good news, Petrovich.”  He had known Petrovich Malenkov since they were fledgeling KGB officers in East Berlin back in the old days. “If you can use this virus to bring down the west, it will give us an advantage we badly need.”  The three men talked for over an hour, then parted.  The man from the Economic Units was left in no doubt that if he got this right, he would gain promotion.

            Director Petrovich Malenkov studied the coordinated brief for several hours, then asked Nikki to arrange a meeting with the Comrade Director of the SVR.

            He was met by a short, serious-looking grey-haired woman, and told to sit in the chair and wait until the Director of the SVR was ready for him.  She reminded him of Colonel Clegg, a KGB operative in a western spy film a long time ago, and smiled.

            The buzzer on Colonel Clegg’s desk shattered the silence and he was ushered into a huge office.  The Director nodded him to the conference table.

            “So Petrovich, what brings you to the top floor this late hour on a Friday night?”

            Malenkov went through his brief, passing the various messages to the Director as he spoke.

            “It is my considered opinion that if we can take control of this latest virus and control its release Comrade Director, we can bring down all aspects of the west.”

            He watched as the Director’s mind started to analyse what he’d just heard, then nodded. 

            “Explain.”

            “If we can take control of this virus and its vaccine we can hold any nation to ransom.  Those who do not show an interest will suffer.  There will be mass unemployment, the economy of these countries will spiral out of control as governments try to keep control, all imports and exports throughout the world will cease, compounding the hardship. Travel by ship and aircraft will stop in an attempt to stop the spread, causing these large companies to crumble, and, more importantly, when the world’s stock markets tumble and sellers unload their worthless stock, we shall buy them up.”  He paused to take a sip of his coffee.

            “Most importantly Comrade, our oil pipelines to Europe must remain open whilst those of America and Saudi Arabian oil producers will either stop or if they can’t, then they will want to store their oil.  We must be prepared to offer our oil, through a third party, or to store it for them.  This will give us more power over their economies and manufacturing capabilities in the future.”

            The Director looked at Petrovich Malenkov and smiled.  Have you set in motion any plans yet?

            “As we speak, a senior operative from Section 7, is on her way to Beijing to join a small team already in place.  They will let us know exactly the state of things there and who this Triad War Lord is and secure the vaccine.  My Economics Unit is already setting up ghost buyers in the Caribbean who will start to buy up stocks that have bottomed out.”

            “How do you plan to control these nations once we have control over the virus and the vaccine?”

            “The expected plan is that those nations who purchased our Cyber Unit’s services during their 2019 and 20 election season now form part of this new Climate Change Initiative.  We will, through our contacts in the WHO and the UN, bring it to their attention that they can actually control the population of the world, thus seeking a balance between nature and mankind on certain conditions.”

            “And these conditions?”

            “That will be up to Stephan and the members of the Politburo.”

            The Director of the SVR grinned.  “Then let it begin.”

Copyright Bob French

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

How we used to be

Dancing in the rain

 By Robert Kingston

Come see in the rain as high streets bustle whilst reflections move and disappear underfoot. Once mirrored images lost forever as people scurry, looking, searching, lurching, for items in sales for what they need or just have not got

Come see in the rain where dust is forced to settle, fresh air returning as rain drops in forms of stair rods cleanse from bottom through top, water draining away in gulley’s, gutters or slots

Come see in the rain as distant noise from public houses turns to laughter as wine flows, people now oblivious to the rain created pictures disappearing outside, muted, misted windows. A shame they care a little and not a lot.

Come see in the rain as bright colours appear and change like a kaleidoscope   moving to and fro against plate glass windows, glistening of reflective hues, as images move past, content their own image will not last, will be forgot

Come see in the rain where bright coloured wellie boots filled with mischievous young minds smiling, create explosions of puddle filled flagstones, water ebbing to and fro, laughter and glee belching out as quiet mill pools are blasted to extinction, water displaced, magic released, a child’s face a glow

Come see in the rain as poetic pictures are generated from parading umbrellas and mackintosh’s, pictures filled with bright colour, faces of mood, shapes devoid of body form, well some will conclude

Come see in the rain as clouds above change and create vast art pieces rarely copied in true form. With bright and dull colours, none uniform as they constantly rotate, disperse, reform

Come dance in the rain for life is far from dull when the sun does not shine but instead casts a rainbow for all smiles to follow

© Robert Kingston 30.8.14