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

the dress and it slipped over her hips and down to the floor. Nia stepped elegantly out of it. She remained with her front to the fireplace, her light olive skin glowing in the reflection of the fire’s light and heat.

Tom ran his hands over her exposed buttock cheeks and back over her hips and then up her back moving slowly to her front and up to her breasts. He unlatched her bra and cupped her breasts from behind. Her nipples were hard under his palms. He removed his pants and then moved his hands gently down her body to her hips until his fingers slipped inside the thong’s waistband. He gently pulled the thong down. Nia stepped out of the thong as it lay on the floor. Tom moved close in behind her and embraced her. He rested his linked hands on her tummy, and she reached down and pulled a hand up to her mouth. She kissed his hand and gently bit his fingers. Tom’s other hand gently stroked her. Nia felt his erection against her buttocks. She held Tom’s hands as she knelt down, and he followed behind her. She let go of his hands and leant forward allowing Tom to enter her.

Across the city, Kamenev sat at his desk in his embassy office running through the SVR, FSB, and GRU’s picture libraries of Western intelligence and military personnel. He stared at pictures of face after face, “Just who the hell are you?” he said to himself.

***

Afghanistan, Bagram. Nine Years Earlier

The RAF Merlin helicopter’s cargo bay was full of a variety of service men and women. Captain Tom Price felt like a sardine jammed into the cargo hold alongside twenty other personnel most of whom wore or carried full equipment. Like Price, most of the personnel were on their way to Bagram Air Base and, like Price, most were not fond of the older Merlin’s lack of ballistic armour. Price didn’t like helicopters. He was heading to Bagram for a series of intelligence briefings. His experience and insight were being sought for he had been in the country for a hell of a tour; encountering IEDs, suicide bombers, Taliban night attacks, al-Qaeda day attacks, vice versa, even hand to hand fighting where he had ordered his men to fix bayonets.

The Merlin flew low and fast over the surrounding mountains and approached the massive, former Soviet military base in a sharp arc. Bagram was now home to nearly sixty thousand allied service personnel including, at one time, Prince Harry. Price looked down at the sprawling base of hangers, control towers, an ugly mass of concrete walls and barriers, temporary huts, shipping containers, sandbags, and razor wire along with the usual detritus of large military establishments. The Merlin landed in a sandstorm of its own making and Price stepped off the helicopter’s rear ramp into searing dry heat. The airbase was a hive of activity; fast jets were taking off the runway, Hercules and Globemaster transport aircraft were lined up like buses, and helicopters; Chinooks, Blackhawks, and evil looking Apache gunships, constantly buzzed through the airspace. Although in an active war zone, the base itself was relatively safe but Price kept his helmet close in case of enemy mortar or rocket attacks. Price was greeted by a coterie of British and American staff officers for an informal lunch at the base’s Pizza Hut. The incongruity of the situation appeared to strike only Price.

Price attended an afternoon briefing on the increase in IED activity. The brief, led by a Brit intelligence staff officer, strongly suggested that the increase in the amount and quality of explosives was sourced from Russia. The Russian state intelligence agency, FSB, and military intelligence, GRU, still had contacts in Afghanistan and liked nothing more than to tie a whole series of NATO armies down in a war that was unwinnable. The Russians, as the Soviets, had experienced their own long and bitter struggles in Afghanistan and still had an intimate understanding of how to conduct operations there. They still maintained contacts and influence.

The briefing continued and the intelligence office projected an image of a face on to the room’s small screen; GRU major, full uniform, left breast full of medals. The GRU was run, like the FSB, on a volatile mixture of ideology and paranoia.

“This,” the briefing officer stated, “is Feodor Zalkind, currently attached to the Embassy of the Russian Federation, Kabul. Some of you who have spent time in Kabul may have encountered him; charming man, speaks English perfectly, he’s cultured and witty but a complete bastard. It is strongly suggested that he is playing a significant role in the northern arms trade and supporting AQ and Taliban insurgents. It’s rumoured that he pays a bounty for dead coalition forces.”

Price stared into the face on the screen, bastard, he thought. The briefing officer continued.

“If any of you have lost men or women to IEDs made with Soviet era RGO grenade or MON-50 mine components, this is probably the supplier. As most of you know, we can’t touch him in Kabul or anywhere else when he’s on official embassy duties. But chaps, if you ever encounter him in country, do us all a favour and simply slot the bastard.”

The audience laughed politely. Price stared at the slide, committing the facial features he saw there to memory, determined never to forget that face.

Chapter Fourteen

Periwinkle, Christmas

The Periwinkle was moored up in the Llangollen narrowboat basin. Tom and Nia arrived at the boat around dinner time on Christmas Eve. They had driven up from London in the Land Rover only making a quick stop at the farm to pick up Jack and confirm Boxing Day arrangements with Rachel. Tom and Nia were both tired. Upon entering the Periwinkle, Tom turned on the lights of a small Christmas tree in the front cabin and lit the Morso stove while Nia unpacked groceries. Jack