The man crumpled, choking and gasping. The knife's blade protruding out of his neck. The hiss of liquid under pressure swiftly drowned out the sounds of his struggles, his last breath a drawn out sigh as if it were a balloon with a slow leak. David stepped back, his face impassive, and the blood spray settled into a fine red mist atop the refuse of the alleyway.
Once the struggles had stopped, he reached into the man's jacket, snapping the chord that reached up to the thin patch that was almost indistinguishable from his fair skin. Reaching further, he drew out a small patch from an inner pocket. the black bat on the blue globe stared back at him. "GRU," he spat. "You'd think SPETSNAZ would be more subtle." Stooping, he donned the man's blackout gloves, he removed the broken wire, the recording equipment, the minuscule camera, the long knife, the Markov, anything that could implicate Russia. When his search was complete, he pulled the knife blade from the man's artery, the sickly gasp of air that accompanied it shot a spurt of blood onto the stolen gloves. David cursed in disgust. Wiping the blood from the blade with a handkerchief, he reattached the blade to it's hilt.
One last chore to do. With a disheartened sigh, David pulled out several of his own forged documents he had been planning to switch to at a later date, and slipped them into the bloodstained jacket. The man was now Nicholas Ivanovitch, store clerk, 32, nondescript, no family, just bought an apartment on the east-side. Nobody would miss him. A few store coupons and a half empty diet-coke later, and he was just another mugging gone bad. Pocketing the $200, David walked away. Russia, the city authorities, nobody would ever know Nicholas was even born. The KGB would see to that. At least they had standards. Sending a kid, what were they thinking in GRU?
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Sunday, February 1, 2009
David cracked an eye open, blinking back the sleepy veil that hung over his sight. The room solidified, the nightstand thrown into sharp relief. With a moan, he lifted his tired arm, the hairs bristling as they came into contact with the chill air. He cursed fluently in Russian. On a day like today, the pipes would surely be frozen. Never had to worry about that in Stalingrad, where old comrades were payed to sit and watch the public's water pipes for just this reason. Stretching, David pulled off his sweat pants, followed by his boxers, before quickly replacing them, of course he'd put on clean ones the night before, Tupoumno. Donning faded jeans, a black leather jacket that had seen better days, a wool-lined cap, and his grandfather's trench coat, David stepped out of the apartment.
The snow on the stoop crunched loudly under his boots, giving easily under his weight. There would be accidents today, the road was covered in a thin sheet of ice that gleamed as the sun hit the asphalt and lit up the road like a stage. At this thought David glanced over at the Royal, he'd never liked the place. Too easy to be trapped underground, with no place to run.
With a quick sweep of his feet, he cleared the walkway of snow, the wet cement looked up resentfully at the sky, as if berating it for depositing its frozen excrement upon it. David quickly dismissed such thoughts. Cement could not emote. It could not resent or regret or even think. It was cement, and to think otherwise was foolish. He could not afford to be foolish. He glanced around, nobody. He quickly sprinted across the street, landing heavily on the opposite sidewalk as he leaped over the ice-patch in the road. Yes, there would be accidents today.
As David entered the coffee shop, he glanced around. The blind man who lived under the bookstore, the kid typing away at his laptop about godknowswhat. Nothing terribly suspicious. He felt no eyes on him as he approached the counter. The servers where chatting away, not a care in the world. A glance into the tip jar made David's eyes widen. Who the hell put a ten in a tip jar? A jingle announced the departure of the blind man and his dog, now accompanied by another man with a perturbed look. David glanced around, his pulse quickening. he slapped a five down onto the counter, making the display of muffins and bagels rattle, before dashing to the door and throwing it open. The two men and the dog had entered the tunnel. David sighed. He'd thought... no. He was being paranoid again. His hand left the coat, sliding away from his hip. He returned to the counter, nobody had noticed.
Sipping his coffee, David walked by the Liquor store. He had enough to keep him up for now, it wasn't as if he was a heavy drinker. Drinking dulled the wits, made you an easy target. At the thought , David pulled out a cigarette. These were better here. Real tobacco. Placing the end in his mouth, David walked on.
People, or shapes of people walked by, their forms bulky with padded clothes in faded pastels, blues, pinks and reds. The wind wiped his face, forcing him to pocket the unlit cigarette and cover his face. Beards do help with cold, but wind cuts right through them. He passed many people as he walked. The old bum who lived in the tunnel was sitting near the playground, women in long coats walked carefully towards the theater, a disgruntled man ambled past, grumbling about damn pakis or something like that.
Little Ireland flew by, green lights flashing, red hair blowing in the wind, a cheerful grin on many faces shown through picture windows as men sipped, gulped and chugged at tankards brimming with foamy amber liquid. The shadows disappeared, the glare vanished. Parked cars sent shocking bursts of white light arcing across the street as David walked, his mind racing with a thousand possibilities, all leading to his sudden inexplicable death. But already he knew. Today was not the day, nor tomorrow. "I will die next week." David decided. That in mind, he snatched up a copy of the Washington post and read back to his house, barely taking notice of the cars rusting on Bentley street, or the statue of Mary glimmering with icicles. They liked Sharashka's latest column. They would have in the New York Times, and his other one in the Wall Street Journal. Not that anyone here would care.
David wondered what sharashka was? Was he a rich man, the son of some lucky and clever stock-broker chased out by the Czars? Or was he middling professor? Old and unsatisfied, his classes small, his office bare, his suit in dire need of cleaning? What was Sharashka?
The snow on the stoop crunched loudly under his boots, giving easily under his weight. There would be accidents today, the road was covered in a thin sheet of ice that gleamed as the sun hit the asphalt and lit up the road like a stage. At this thought David glanced over at the Royal, he'd never liked the place. Too easy to be trapped underground, with no place to run.
With a quick sweep of his feet, he cleared the walkway of snow, the wet cement looked up resentfully at the sky, as if berating it for depositing its frozen excrement upon it. David quickly dismissed such thoughts. Cement could not emote. It could not resent or regret or even think. It was cement, and to think otherwise was foolish. He could not afford to be foolish. He glanced around, nobody. He quickly sprinted across the street, landing heavily on the opposite sidewalk as he leaped over the ice-patch in the road. Yes, there would be accidents today.
As David entered the coffee shop, he glanced around. The blind man who lived under the bookstore, the kid typing away at his laptop about godknowswhat. Nothing terribly suspicious. He felt no eyes on him as he approached the counter. The servers where chatting away, not a care in the world. A glance into the tip jar made David's eyes widen. Who the hell put a ten in a tip jar? A jingle announced the departure of the blind man and his dog, now accompanied by another man with a perturbed look. David glanced around, his pulse quickening. he slapped a five down onto the counter, making the display of muffins and bagels rattle, before dashing to the door and throwing it open. The two men and the dog had entered the tunnel. David sighed. He'd thought... no. He was being paranoid again. His hand left the coat, sliding away from his hip. He returned to the counter, nobody had noticed.
Sipping his coffee, David walked by the Liquor store. He had enough to keep him up for now, it wasn't as if he was a heavy drinker. Drinking dulled the wits, made you an easy target. At the thought , David pulled out a cigarette. These were better here. Real tobacco. Placing the end in his mouth, David walked on.
People, or shapes of people walked by, their forms bulky with padded clothes in faded pastels, blues, pinks and reds. The wind wiped his face, forcing him to pocket the unlit cigarette and cover his face. Beards do help with cold, but wind cuts right through them. He passed many people as he walked. The old bum who lived in the tunnel was sitting near the playground, women in long coats walked carefully towards the theater, a disgruntled man ambled past, grumbling about damn pakis or something like that.
Little Ireland flew by, green lights flashing, red hair blowing in the wind, a cheerful grin on many faces shown through picture windows as men sipped, gulped and chugged at tankards brimming with foamy amber liquid. The shadows disappeared, the glare vanished. Parked cars sent shocking bursts of white light arcing across the street as David walked, his mind racing with a thousand possibilities, all leading to his sudden inexplicable death. But already he knew. Today was not the day, nor tomorrow. "I will die next week." David decided. That in mind, he snatched up a copy of the Washington post and read back to his house, barely taking notice of the cars rusting on Bentley street, or the statue of Mary glimmering with icicles. They liked Sharashka's latest column. They would have in the New York Times, and his other one in the Wall Street Journal. Not that anyone here would care.
David wondered what sharashka was? Was he a rich man, the son of some lucky and clever stock-broker chased out by the Czars? Or was he middling professor? Old and unsatisfied, his classes small, his office bare, his suit in dire need of cleaning? What was Sharashka?
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