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

And now it looks like there’s an uptick in their international suppression campaigns; interfering with the domestic political elections of NATO countries, running fake news campaigns, and intimidating Russian nationals living in the UK and abroad. Do we think they have anyone in the crosshairs?”

Patel shook her head. “Nothing really, ma’am. Although the exiled journalist Daria Kirov is still very vocal and visible.”

The DD nodded, “Still refusing official protection?”

“Yes, says she knows how to look after herself.”

The DD snorted. “Typical arrogant Russian. Litvinenko and Skripal were experienced intelligence operatives and still Moscow Centre got to them rather easily, too easily I’m afraid.” She held up the pictures again. Russian heavies. “Let’s get a track on them; traffic cameras, CCTV, I want to know where they go, who they meet with, and why the bloody hell they are here? Grab a couple of analysts to help you and keep me informed. If they stop for a shit on the M6, I want to hear about it, understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Patel said, rather excited by the assignment and the prospect of heading up a team.

Good kid, the DD thought, as Patel left her office. But what the hell is going on; FSB, FSK, SVR, GRU, KGB, NKVD, SMERSH lots of changing initials but still the same bunch of brutal bastards.

“Not on my watch,” she said to herself.

The deputy director returned to her computer and refreshed the football result. There was another knock on her door, “what now,” she thought but switched the screen again and smiled as another analyst came into her room.

“Sorry to disturb, ma’am,” the analyst, male, middle aged, pushing retirement, announced. “Not a big issue, perhaps, but we just confirmed that a Canadian Military Intelligence officer named Jacques Gagnon entered Heathrow yesterday and is staying at a London hotel.”

“On official business?” the DD asked.

“No, ma’am, unauthorised and unreported as far as we can tell.”

The DD thought for a moment, “Call Ottawa. Let’s see if signals were crossed or if they know what the hell is going on with this Gagnon. And, get me all the info we and Six have on Gagnon. Especially, any Russian connection.”

The analyst nodded and quietly left the DD’s office. The DD sighed, “Russians and Canadians, what the hell is going on,” she said to herself. “Coincidence? I think not.”

Chapter Sixteen

Brighton, January 10th

Daria Kirov seldom took the same roads home. She alternated her routes and the times she travelled. She changed her home address frequently and no longer had a permanent office, preferring to work in coffee shops, pubs, and libraries with good Wi-Fi. She attempted to memorise the faces of strangers and car number plates, and was alert to persons or vehicles that appeared out of place. She wasn’t just a highly observant journalist; she was considered by the Kremlin as an enemy of the state. Her reporting on Chechnya, the Ukraine, and domestic suppression had led to threats and intimidation, at least one beating, numerous arrests, and what she considered to be an assassination attempt through poisoning. Even now as she took her Honda CB300R up to forty miles per hour along the almost empty road meandering through an industrial park on Brighton’s outskirts, she constantly scanned the road behind her through her motorbike’s handlebar mirrors.

She was anxious to get home, at least to her temporary home, a small rented cottage in the Sussex village of Ditchling, after a meeting with her agent. Her agent had good news; a major British newspaper and a French magazine had agreed to publish a new series of articles Daria was already preparing concerning the further revocation of press freedoms in Russia. An Irish daily was also expressing interest in publishing her work. The commissions would keep her solvent for the year but, more importantly, she thought, it would keep the issue of the Kremlin’s increased authoritarianism in the forefront of the world’s press. She felt rather pleased.

Daria stepped up a gear and took the 300cc bike up to fifty miles per hour as the road emerged into almost empty countryside. Although she was dressed warmly under her leathers she wanted to get back to her cottage and warm up in front of its small fireplace. The difficulty of motorcycle riding through a British winter was offset by the sense of personal security she felt on the bike. She felt more anonymous in leathers and helmet, liked the bike’s immediate speed and manoeuvrability that gave her confidence that, if needed, she could outrun any car. She was alone for most of her eight-mile journey. Daria swung right at a crossroads in the tiny village of Tovey moving away from Ditchling, checking no one was behind her. Then she noticed a grey Ford Fiesta appear in her mirrors. She knew it could have only pulled out of the dead-end lane she had passed on her left. She was suspicious and accelerated so the Fiesta quickly disappeared from her mirrors. Daria pulled a fast right, leaning expertly into the curve. She accelerated past sixty miles per hour on the country lane leaning into a sharp left-hand hairpin and hit seventy on a straight. The country lane emerged onto a larger B road. Daria crossed it, again moving away from Ditchling only slowing down as she hit the outskirts of the small town of Hassocks. She zigged and zagged through a few outlying streets ensuring that there was no Fiesta on her tail before finally turning right on the connecting road that ran into her home village.

The rest of her short trip was uneventful. She reached her home and parked the bike behind the cottage so that it would be unseen from the road. She went inside her cottage and immediately upstairs. She stood in her road-facing bedroom observing the quiet street from behind the room’s net curtains. No grey Ford Fiesta crawled past, just a tired-looking middle-aged man who didn’t