Fit For Purpose by Julian Parrott (scary books to read .TXT) 📗

At lunchtime, they moored opposite a field of sheep and one large, proud ancient oak tree. Nia made a quick lunch as Tom tied up the boat. They both liked these moments of routine domesticity. Nia had dressed warmly in boots, wool trousers, jumper, gilet, Tom’s beloved waxed jacket and her red hat, gloves, and scarf and took the tiller during the early afternoon trip as the canal meandered lazily around the slow gentle contours of the countryside. Tom was impressed with her ability. The logic behind steering a narrowboat was simple, move the tiller right to turn left, move it left to turn right and use the control lever to increase or decrease speed. The combination of tiller and throttle would turn a fifty-foot-long boat through sharp corners or through a tunnel or a bridge opening only six inches wider than the actual boat with surprising ease. It usually took some time to be a decent helmsman, but Nia was a quick study. They chatted companionably on the stern with Tom pointing to interesting landforms and the occasional glimpse of interesting wildlife. Nia, genuinely interested, asked about the history of canals and the people that used to work on them.

Tom took the tiller as they passed an informal marina of weathered and battered boats, live-aboards, owned by people at the margins of society. These were not the well-maintained luxuriously appointed narrowboats of the well to do, those occasional cruising bankers, lawyers and doctors. Nia thought the rusting, fading boats, in what she called the bargee town, looked like something dystopian like Mad Max on the canals. Good people, Tom noted, people just trying to get by.

Nia took the tiller again and pushed the throttle control to increase the engine’s revs and the Periwinkle sped up, but almost imperceptibly.

“Pedal to the metal, baby,” Nia said.

Tom laughed.

Nia enjoyed her turn at the tiller. She slowed down to pass a moored boat and shouted a hearty ‘hullo’ to the boaters along with a customary wave. As the Periwinkle rounded one sharp corner and moved under an ancient masonry bridge, they heard the soft and muffled sounds of boys playing some kind of sport from across a number of fields. In the middle distance they could see a rugby game being played at an independent school. Snobs, Nia thought dismissively, thinking about Goldenboy’s privileged and entitled background. She wanted to tell Tom more about her past with Goldenboy, about the lost baby, the lost years but she still held back.

The winter sun changed to the soft, enveloping grey that almost felt like shade. They had timed the trip well and moored up at a small town’s two-hundred-year-old canal wharf. They changed into running gear and, with Jack along, took off down the towpath for a jog. Tom had altered his running schedule with Nia aboard knowing that after a day’s cruise the engine would have warmed water enough for two showers, with Nia’s shower being noticeably longer. They ran back down the towpath and out into the countryside, Jack running ahead or taking off through the hedgerows only to join them from the rear with a crazy catch-up sprint. Nia was a fluid runner; again, it was another of her professional skills, this one utilised to keep herself in shape. As they ran, Nia noticed how pronounced Tom’s limp was and how he occasionally grimaced through some discomfort. They reached a turnaround point. Tom held her by her waist and they kissed.

“I’m having a lovely time,” she said. “This,” she nodded to the canal and the fields that stretched around it, “Is bloody enchanting. I never knew it existed like this. I now see why you love it.”

“It’s so peaceful it’s restoring,” Tom replied. “Now, race you back to the boat.”

After showering, Nia volunteered to cook dinner and Tom headed into the little town to purchase a few more essentials and a bottle of wine. The wharf was still and silent as he returned. The canal black and smooth as slate. The Periwinkle was one of the few moored narrowboats that were lit. As he approached, he could see Nia through a window busy in the boat’s galley. He stopped and watched her. Her being in his boat still took his breath away, she exuded a happiness as she moved from sink, to counter, to cook top. Tom noticed she was either talking to Jack, to a phone on speaker, or to herself. Or, he reconsidered, she was singing along to one of his playlists. He smiled. All that was important to him was here. At that moment, he was the happiest he had ever been.

Chapter Twelve

Russian Embassy, Kensington, December 20th

The Russian Embassy was quiet. Most employees were enjoying some extra flexibility around the Christmas festivities. Kamenev was almost alone as he worked late. He enjoyed the relative quiet of the embassy at night and it also enabled him to access the offices and computers of his embassy colleagues. Moscow Centre hadn’t

specifically ordered him to surveille his own compatriots, it was simply in his nature to do so. Aggressively personally and professionally ambitious, Kamenev was always attempting to find anything that could be used as leverage for himself or for the FSB in their struggle with the SVR for primacy. During especially quiet nights, he made sure a trusted FSB man monitored the embassy’s CCTV and internal security systems while another secured staircases or hallways allowing Kamenev to do his snooping. His few weeks in London had turned up little; an SVR surveillance specialist who had saved a stash of voyeur pornography acquired from the job, and some draft emails from the Rezident urging Moscow to cancel Kamenev’s mission. Both helpful pieces of information.

        Kamenev poured a hot cup of tea from his samovar. The FSB’s file on Daria Kirov was open on his desk in front of him. Another traitor,