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Somewhere Over The English Channel May 13, 2008, 2032 hours Lima Time The flight had not been unpleasant; the pilot had managed to avoid any patches of turbulence and kept the plane moving smoothly towards its destination. He had slept for most of the first half of the flight, which was not in any rush, and had woken in time for a light meal severed by the male flight attendant. Was he RGZS? Nikolai wondered, then realised he didn't really care. Of more importance to him were his feelings as he drew ever closer to England. He found his that his apprehension was inversely proportional to the distance from his objective, a deduction that wasn't as welcome as he might have hoped. He tried to remember the country of his birth, what it had been like just before he left, and though it was only two years ago he found that his memories weren't as clear as they should have been. Maybe all this time living as a Russian has made me forget, he thought to himself from the comfort of the plush seat. It was beginning to unnerve him, these thoughts, and so he instead concentrated on the clouds and they shifted in the air currents, moving with a grace and beauty that captivated him, and for the first time since getting on the plane he felt relaxed. The aeronautical ballet he was witnessing gave the whole atmosphere inside the pressurised cabin a serene quality, and it was in this state that he was finally able to let go, forgetting about the task ahead of him for a few brief minutes. London/Luton Airport May 13, 2008, 2120 hours Lima Time The plane came to a gradual stop after two hours flight. Nikolai collected his hand luggage and made his way to the door where the attendant was already standing, controlling the decent of the stairs. He nodded politely as Nikolai disembarked, retracting the stairs as soon as the man had stepped of the bottom step. Nikolai made his way over to the car that was waiting for him; his luggage had already been placed in the boot. He got in the back and instructed the driver to take him to the nearest hotel. The journey was like going back in time; he noticed many of the roads and landmarks, although they did look somewhat different, and he couldn't decide whether that was due to his memory or improvements since he had left. As the ride continued he found himself turning away from the window, not wishing to look at the sights (or what passed for sights) anymore. He was not a tourist, and even though he was not on an official mission he was on a mission nonetheless, and it wouldn't do for him to wonder around, taking in the scenery. That would only lead to him losing focus, concentration, and so he put on his game face, no longer staring out at what had once been familiar territory. It was no longer his home: it was his hunting ground. Return |
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