| "Run, Rabbit, Run" | ||
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Tokyo, Japan June 14, 2008, 1520 hours Volkv was scared. He had never been scared in his life, but he was now. All of his boltholes had been seized upon by the Japanese intelligence officers; he had escaped from his secondary place by a scant two minutes before the door had been kicked down. He had watched with horror as each of his hiding places had fallen into enemy hands, not knowing what to do but gather information from a discreet distance. The men had been thorough. Within an hour everything had been taken out and placed in large anonymous vans which had sped off. An hour after that the same vans had turned up at the next place, repeating the procedure. Volkv had thought it a little excessive to have five places ready for his emergency use. Now he thought differently, realizing that he was now alone and without refuge in enemy territory. Eyes were now looking for him, searching the streets for his face, and attached to those eyes were people with guns. He had seen them at the last safe house, the glint of gunmetal that announced that the officers were prepared to end his life. It was something he had been told about during his initial training but, being young and confident in his abilities, he had dismissed the possibilities out of hand. He regretted that now. The sounds of the city were far away but that only heightened his fear. He was away from civilisation, away from everything that he knew about. It had been an impulsive move, one calculated to give him a better opportunity of escape. Despite his current mental state he still managed a quiet laugh at that. Escape, he thought. Now that is an entertaining thought. He had long since given up hope of a quick way out of the country. The opposition had just moved to speedily to give him any chance at all. If he had had an extra few hours he could have attempted to make it out of the country using one of the many legends he had hidden away in a secret compartment of his suitcase. He would have had an even chance, he reckoned, of making it out without being identified or approached. Not the best odds in the world, but a hell of a lot better than what he currently had. He wasn't even sure if Moscow understood what had happened. Things had definitely changed from the days of the Cold War, and he wasn't sure if they had changed for the better. It just didn't seem as if his country placed as great an importance on his work and that of others in the field. The battle had been fought. Everything after that had been less significant in the eyes of his country. Then again, he told himself, I could just be pissed off that I haven't been rescued as quickly as I would have before. A sound entered his ears; a low rumbling sound that was as ominous to him as a gunshot. He head jerked round as he tried to locate its origin, hoping against hope that it was not near to his current position. He knew this place was not a natural forest, that it had been planted for timber and that the noise could well have come from a truck or some other vehicle connected to the local mill but� but it could also be them, the ones hunting him. He had to move. Without looking back he made a run for it, angling further into the forest and away from the noise source. His left hand moved to his pocket, covering the hole and preventing the radio within from bouncing out. A set of keys jangled loudly in the other, announcing his presence to anyone nearby until his other hand grabbed them in a frightened grip. His fear was peaking now, causing him to stumble over objects on the ground that he would have seen had he not been so panicked. Despite all the years of experience he had running agents in the most demanding and inhospitable of places he had never taken his `soldier' training (that's how he thought of it) seriously, foolishly thinking as the years went on that a man of his age and vast knowledge would not need to use it. Misguided fool! He raged at himself as he slowed his pace, more because of fatigue than a desire to watch his footing. Within another minute he deemed himself to be far enough away from and road or dirt track as to be safe. It could have been a false alarm after all. His breathing slowed as he commanded himself to relax. You've got to keep your head, he told himself. Panic will only lead to mistakes, and mistakes lead to capture. Or� death, he realised. That was a truly frightening thought, one that been kept hidden from his conscious thoughts for decades. At most he'd thought he would be treated roughly, but not excessively, then sent back to Russia, maybe as part of an exchange for a Japanese officer being held. Now death was a distinct possibility. What would they tell his son? That his father had been killed in a training accident? Serving his country? What would they say to him? I can't die here! his mind raged. He had no wife to go home to; seven years earlier had been the last time he had seen her alive, shortly before leaving the country for another assignment. It had been two months after that that the truck had hit her as she walked along the street. The brakes had failed. At least that was what the report had said, passed to him whilst he was sat in his accommodation after a long day attempting to recruit agents. He had sat at the table in the small kitchen and wept uncontrollably. He had been deprived of his wife, and his son of a mother. His son had taken it better. He had been lucky to have been changing schools, and the disruption helped ease the pain of losing one of his parents. He was now old enough to handle losing the other. Why am I thinking like this? Volkv asked himself. I should be working out how to get out of here. He nearly had a heart attack when he heard the radio crackle. Return |
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