Chapter 1

1980 - 10 Downing Street, London, United Kingdom

 

They'd discussed it for months. It seemed like years really, and Simon was eager to get things underway. His sister had, as usual, told him he was useless, it was useless and bound to fail, exactly like all the other expeditions and projects in which he'd been involved. He just knew this would be different. Anyway, it was the first time that Danny would be with him. He was a great organiser and a fantastic driver as well. Anyway, his mother adored Danny and trusted him. However, they'd decided that Simon should ask his mother for permission and above all, money, for this, their newest and greatest project.

They stood outside her study at No. 10 Downing Street and listened, waiting for an opening. Simon had suggested that the best time to ask her was before she went into a cabinet meeting at nine o'clock. She always made quick decisions then and was usually in a good mood. They whispered conspiratorially, and Simon felt like a small boy asking for sweets, rather than a twenty-five year-old asking his mother if they could go on the Dakar rally. This as it turned out, wasn't in Dakar at all, but started in Argentina. Danny was his oldest friend; he nudged Simon and then pushed him forward, urging him on.

"Go on, now's the time. Ask her," Danny pushed his friend. "She's your mother. She'll do anything for you. You know that," there was little hesitation in his voice.

They listened at the open door to her study. Simon stood in the doorway waiting for the right moment, whilst Danny stood behind the door, like a frightened mouse.

"Charlotte, get me the farming file will you please," said Georgina Shelley, as she prepared for the Cabinet meeting. Charlotte, a years' long friend, rushed off into another office, past Simon without even seeing him.

"Harold, what are the major issues and what have you put out about them to the press?" she looked towards the brusque Yorkshireman, Director of Communications, faithful adviser and trusted aide. He frowned, looking down at her with steady, if tired, eyes. At the same time, he caught sight of Simon and glanced across at him, scowled and returned his gaze to the Prime Minister.

"Prime Minister, it seems to me, regardless of the advice your erstwhile cabinet colleagues have given you, there are only three. They are: Europe and pressure to join this common currency, the row over health and diseased lambs, and the meeting in London with the Soviet General Secretary in a month or so. I've put out a press release on Europe saying, 'The Pound Sterling is British, and we will not surrender to a common currency, run by the Germans.' Nothing released yet on the health issue and a neutral statement on the Soviet General Secretary, this chap Leonid Brezhnev."

"Ok, Harold. I'll take the broad-brush issues, because it's easy to get lost in the detail. I will not get bogged down in trivia about the miners, or a bunch of Irish terrorists either."

She skimmed through a file marked 'Cosmic Top Secret'.

"Harold, can I work with this man Leonid Brezhnev, do you think? He seems to be a simple party man and dyed in the wool communist to me. He came from working class origins, but didn't they all?" she remarked, still skimming the file, her finger showing her progress.

"He wants to discuss the Lance Theatre Missile System. Obviously, he wants us to remove it from West German soil. No, I won't agree to that. That would be suicide. Leave us exposed and suggest capitulation. He wants me to cancel my trip to Poland as well, especially to the shipyard in Gdansk. No, again."

She read in silence for a moment, sitting at her desk. "Harold, let's give the Soviets something."

"And the Foreign Secretary? Should we not seek his advice?"

"Yes, of course. I suppose Geoffrey will want to tread carefully. However, the Russians understand strength, Harold," she paused, reading down the page quickly. "Let's propose a visit to Buckingham Palace and a state banquet. But nothing substantial, right?"

"Right Georgina, but perhaps you could consider toning down the rhetoric during your visit to Gdansk. The grey men in the Politburo are getting nervous, and if they're nervous, so are the Russians," he didn't smile. He looked through his eyebrows, which seemed to hang over his eyes like a protective coat.

"I will say what I have to say Harold. It's a matter of principle, not politics," she said with steel in her voice.

Simon saw his sister, Susan, coming down the stairs, which were directly opposite the study, and made his move. He walked into his mother's study and stood next to Harold, a naughty schoolboy standing next to an oversized headmaster, who coincidentally, used to be Yorkshire's regional heavyweight boxing champion. Simon looked nervous and flinched when Harold rubbed his cauliflower ear. Georgina saw Simon out of the corner of her eye.

"Simon, your mother's busy at the moment. She's preparing for the Cabinet meeting in half an hour. Can it wait?" asked Harold, irritated.

"Not really, Harold. I need only a few minutes. Please," said Simon almost pleading.

Susan, his older sister by a few years, walked in and stood next to him, her arms folded. She looked angry.

"Simon, you are useless and a waste of space. You want to go off on some bloody rally again and you know you couldn't organise a dib, dib, dob, dob, in a Boy Scout hut. You're hopeless, Simon, get used to it," she looked towards her mother, one of the few people who could meet Mrs Georgina Shelley's gaze. "This rally is a waste of money, mummy."

She didn't even look at her younger, despised brother, "I suppose you're taking Danny with you? He's a freeloader, and you're useless. You two should be joined at the hip."

"Just a minute, Susan," said Georgina.

Susan wasn't to be calmed, "Say no to the little squirt. Buzz off Simon, mummy doesn't have the time for you now. Get lost, you looser, and take freeloader, weirdo with you."

"He's not a freeloader, and he's no weirdo. Danny is my friend. Watch it," warned Simon. Susan huffed.

Harold frowned, but the follow-on smile hinted to his shared sentiment.

"Now then Susan, be nice to your brother. What is it Simon, quickly, I'm going into the cabinet meeting in a few minutes? What is it?" she said, patiently.

"I need to go off to Argentina on the Dakar rally this summer. I can win, with the right support. You know how good I am at organising and planning and things."

"Dakar isn't in Argentina. That makes no sense. Why, why must you go?"

Simon tried to sound serious and well organised, but he suspected he sounded pleading. "It's a once in a lifetime chance. They change the venue each year. This year it's Argentina, Bolivia, and Chile. Danny will be going with me."

"Ok, that's better. But tell Danny, if he comes back without you, I shall be angry and bring the Wrath of Hades on him. How much, Simon?" asked Georgina.

"Too much," said Susan huffing, as she walked out of the room.

Simon knew his mother had little faith in his organising ability, but she would go along with the plan if Danny went with him as his co-driver. Simon often played the 'Susan card'. His mother thought that Susan was too hard on Simon, so he was quite happy to get her negative endorsement. He was sure that his mother could see his potential, and he felt her love, even if he was in his mid twenties and hadn't yet managed to hold down a proper job.

"It's really great value mother, and I can win. We can win. And when I win, I'll pay it all back."

"How much?" asked Georgina, again with no hint of impatience, but a cough from Harold reminded her that the Cabinet Meeting was in less than ten minutes.

"I'll need flights to Rosario in Argentina, RAF maybe? Then there's a car, support and spending money. I have money saved but a couple of hundred should do it, mother."

Georgina didn't blink. "Two hundred thousand pounds?" Georgina was slightly put aback but continued, "Right. Ok. Tell your father to fix the details."

She stood, looked into her beloved son's eyes, and stroked his cheek.

"You can do it Simon. Don't listen to your sister. You go and make me proud," she beamed at him. "And tell Danny to come and see me some time. I need to make sure he knows what he's doing before you go."

"Great, mother. Thanks."

A smile beamed across his face as he turned away. Her hand was left in mid-air and her smile faded, to be replaced by a hint of sadness.

"Where were we, Harold? The Soviets, right? No, I will go to Poland, and I will say what has to be said."

"Yes, Prime Minister," said Harold with a hint of a smile.

Simon walked out of the study and into a back room in No. 10, followed by Danny. He turned and faced Danny, who could hardly contain his enthusiasm. They were both silently laughing with the excitement. The two friends hugged.

A minute later, as they were sitting calmly and sat at a table, Simon was already thinking through the details he had to work on, but Danny would do most of the thinking, and the work.

Danny took charge, "Simon, you contact 'Morgan', the sports car people and I'll contact 'Land Rover'. We need a British car, I think. Let's see if they'll donate it. It should be good publicity for them. Then contact some clothing firms and see if we can get sponsorship. Tell them who you are and use your mother's name."

"Ok, will do," said Simon, eagerly, "You're the boss."

Chapter 2

1980 - Moscow, Russia

 

A dead father-in-law, courtesy of the storm over Wisconsin the day before and an angry wife, who'd phoned him at JFK and directed him to attend the funeral of her father, made him an irritated reporter. Added to that, an economy class seat next to a sweaty overweight Swede, who'd mistakenly decided he needed to know his life history, complete with photos, led him to being more than riled. Riled wasn't even close, in this instance.

Hank Mathis, junior reporter at 'NCC Broadcasting' was rankled. After the best part of a day travelling from New York to Moscow to cover the 'commie' Olympic Games, he was peeved, moodier than a hormonal teenager and jet lagged to boot. Plus, this Moscow Sheremetyevo-2 Airport, or whatever the Russians called it, was supposed to be the latest and greatest Russia had to offer. Well, apart from it being full of foreigners, it didn't have air conditioning.

'Call themselves civilised? It's more like a Turkish Steam Bath on a Friday night,' thought Hank Mathis.

On exit from the airport terminal, the uniformed Russian soldier pushed and manhandled the gaggle of press people, towards a beat up old bus, which would take them to their 'Press Officials' hotel'.

Mathis was damned if he was going to travel for more than an hour in this olive-green death machine. He was American, damn it, and he wanted to travel in the back of a taxi and not in one of those Ruskie 'crapmobiles'. He wanted a real car, one that got you from A to B safely, and more importantly, in reasonable comfort.

The young army private smiled at the pressman but used his handheld metal sign to push Mathis in the direction of the bus. Mathis pushed the little rat back but found an unexpected resistance.

"All Press on bus," shouted the young soldier with a thick accent, his face only inches away from Mathis's.

"I'm American," he said back, looking at the soldier and smiling with what he considered to be his best, 'I'm special' smile.

"You Press?" asked the Russian soldier.

"Yes, I'm one of America's leading press men," he lied.

"You, on bus. Now!" insisted the soldier of the Soviet Union, pushing out his chin and meeting Mathis's smile with his own unwavering stare. A stare that only Russian soldiers had yet managed to perfect.

Mathis's smile faded and he reluctantly mounted the bus, which would take them to their hotel. They would cover the 1980 'Games of the XXII Olympiad', an Olympics which the US and half the world had boycotted in opposition to the Afghan war, being fought by the Soviet Union.

Although he'd protested against coming to this country, his editor had insisted, and even his wife had said that it would be good for his career. He'd briefly expressed a preference for covering the Republican Convention in Detroit where Governor and 'B' film actor, Ronald Reagan, was hoping to gain the nomination for the U.S. Presidency. His editor had noisily insisted on him going to Moscow. In Mathis's opinion, there was more chance of him becoming Pope than of Ronnie Reagan becoming President of America.

A blonde girl, who wouldn't have been out of place cheerleading back home, met him at the hotel entrance. He gave her his special smile and she reacted, as most women did, by almost swooning. However, when she opened her mouth, apparently she came not from Ludlow, Kentucky but from Moscow, Russia.

"You Mr Mathis?" she asked Mathis, rather brusquely, in his opinion.

"Yes, young lady and you are?" He encroached on her space, but she seemed not to notice.

"I liaison for Games. My name Klementina, but you can call Klemy. If you go out, I go with. If you speak to citizens of our glorious socialist republic, I listen," she said, in a thick Russian accent.

With that, she turned on her heel and headed for the hotel reception. "Follow please," she said over her shoulder. Mathis followed, carrying his own suitcase.

Along one wall of the hotel, near the lifts, where no one could miss them, he couldn't help staring at the line-up of Soviet athletes. It wasn't the steely-jawed male athletes, it wasn't professional diligence, it was the line-up of female athletes. He dropped his case and stared at the brightly lit beauty pageant. Some of the 'ladies' looked like testosterone, steroidal 'she-men' and those sent a shiver along his spine, but it was two or three who fitted his description of women worthy of his attention.

"You admire our glorious, successful athletes. Good. I wait."

"Who is this?" asked Mathis, pointing to a particularly attractive blonde twenty something, who looked as if Aphrodite herself had put her together. He wasn't naïve enough to believe it was a true representation of the real thing, but if this love goddess was half as delicious as her picture, she would be more than worthy of his attention. He'd always had a penchant for tall blondes, but this flawless, firm jawed, built for loving, beauty was a cut above any woman he'd set his eyes on previously, and that included his wife of five years, Mary.

"That is Irisa Tupolev, our champion javelin thrower. Twice Soviet champion, a personal best of over seventy two metres and future Olympic Champion."

"The world record for women's javelin is only seventy metres isn't it?" he said slowly, still admiring her picture.

"But she break, and Western women cheat," insisted Klemy.

"Can you get me an interview? Please."

"Perhaps, after. Come with. I show you room."

Mathis sensed the jealousy vibe and wrenched his eyes away from the picture. In his world, jealous women weren't a rare phenomenon.

 

***

 

Breakfast for Hank Mathis was usually a silent affair. However, Klemy had insisted on joining him at 'zero seven hundred hours' the following morning and briefing him on who he could interview and where.

"Today, you will have interview at our Grand Arena, Central Lenin Stadium Area, Moskva, which holds over 100,000 persons. Is largest in world and commissioned by our glorious leader, General Secretary Leonid Brezhnev. First interview, after he will win Gold, will be Vladimir Kiselyov, our Shot Put."

"How do you know he'll win Gold, Klemy?" asked Mathis, taking a mouthful of scrambled eggs and bacon.

"Believe me, he win Gold for Soviet Union."

She handed him a sheet of paper.

"Here is a list of ten interviews today. I will check all reports before dispatch. I will be with you during interviews."

"I appreciate your attention and arrangements, but I'd prefer to do the interviews alone Klemy, and I won't check them with you first," he smiled at her with his winning smile, but he could see that Klemy was under orders and he felt sorry for the poor girl, even though she was a 'commie'.

She returned his smile, which revealed a gold tooth at the front. "I like you Hank Mathis and I cooperate, up to point," she conceded, giving him her own seductive smile.

His charm and smile came naturally but his mind was still on Irisa Tupolev, the paragon of loveliness he'd seen on the poster. If, in real life she was half as beautiful as her picture, she was a 'must have'.

Chapter 3

1980 - Moscow Olympics

 

"Irisa, Irisa, Irisa!" the crowd roared.

'This is it, my moment of glory,' Irisa thought as she tried to walk gracefully onto the pitch. She felt hyper.

Her coach had given her the regular pre-game vitamin injection a few minutes ago, and it was already kicking in. He had never told her what kind of vitamins was in the shot, but he'd said everyone was taking these vitamin injections, and so she needed to take it as well. Anyway, she knew better than to argue with her coach.

'He must have given me a stronger than normal dose today,' Irisa was thinking as she entered the pitch. She felt restless and couldn't keep still. Her face was one big smile as she waved to the thousands of spectators who'd come to see her win Gold for the glorious Soviet Union. Her shoulder length blonde hair reflected the sun's golden rays. She knew she looked stunning and was in peak condition.

Finally, Irisa Tupolev, Olympian, would be the Soviet Union's victor, its heroine. She could feel it in her bones, she could feel it in her heart, her whole body was ready for this victorious moment, and her chest swelled. She could picture herself standing on the victor's podium, in the middle, feeling the weight of the gold medal gracing her neck, whilst singing the national anthem. Some so-called experts were claiming that she had a slight chance to win this year only because not all the 'good' athletes were participating.

'What do they know anyway?' Irisa said to herself. 'Are they saying I am not good enough? I'll show them all today. I will.'

However, she still had some doubt.

'What if I don't win?' she panicked. 'There's no guarantee.' She started to hyperventilate and could feel her pulse racing.

As she strolled towards the starting line, the crowd got louder, and she felt herself grow several inches, which wasn't an entirely positive thing for her. She knew she could get the longest throw, but not if she crossed the line at the end.

'If only I had smaller feet,' she thought to herself and grimaced.

Slapping her hard on the shoulder, grouchy old coach Valentin handed her the javelin with a thinly veiled threat, "Irisa this is for your country, don't you forget."

Irisa could feel a cold chill running down her spine. She really didn't like coach Valentin. There was something creepy about him.

"Yes, I know," she said, feeling some of the euphoria wear off, "You don't have to remind me. Do you want me to lose my concentration?"

'Why does he always do that? I really don't need such comments right before the throw. You'd think he didn't want me to win,' she sneered.

She tried to relax her shoulders, took a few deep breaths and started her run. After fourteen steps, she flexed her arm into position and thrust the javelin at what she estimated was a thirty-five degree angle.

'This is what he does to me, makes me doubt my technique,' she thought.

'I know what to do,' she mumbled to herself.

That damn Coach Valentin made her nervous. She'd run too fast, and her heart was pounding. She tried to slow down. She hopped a few more steps, still holding her breath. She hadn't stepped over the line this time. The javelin left her right hand with the force of a Soyuz spacecraft. She was happy. The sun caught the silver javelin as it travelled to its target.

'Is it long enough?' she panicked.

The noise from the stands was thunderous. She looked towards the crowd, and they were on their feet. They were roaring her name.

'I've really done it. Finally, victory is mine.'

She fell to her knees and kissed the ground.

She had no control over what happened next. Coach Valentin pulled her off the ground, put the Soviet flag around her shoulders, and pushed her to run a victory lap around the track. The crowd was shouting her name as she started her slow run. She searched the stands for her parents' faces, but she didn't see them in the blur of thousands of faces.

'I can't believe they did this to me. This is my big day, and they're not here,' she said to herself and was disappointed.

They'd promised to be there. It had been four long months since Irisa had seen them last, and then only a short weekend in Leningrad. They'd had such a wonderful weekend, sitting around the heavy wooden table in the cosy, but rundown kitchen, eating too much. They'd been so excited for her. She wondered what could have kept them away. She kept running around the track, but the excitement had left her.

Suddenly, she felt like she'd been struck by lightning as her eyes locked onto a man in the press section with the most striking blue eyes and seductive smile she'd ever seen. Irisa could barely breathe, and she felt her legs turn to jelly. She ground to a complete halt and couldn't move. Her breath caught in her chest, and she closed her eyes for a second. When she opened them again, he'd gone.

'Who was that man?' she pondered, still anchored to the ground. It wasn't his height or the hair, although they were impressive. It wasn't even the ocean blue eyes, it was the grace and charm, she just knew that he'd possess. She knew that he'd be the kindest man she would ever meet, and he would have the most sensitive hands.

Grouchy old Coach Valentin suddenly appeared out of nowhere, and he didn't look pleased. He pushed her in the back and barked at her.

"Not him again," she despaired, then realised she'd said it out loud.

"This is your Victory Run, Irisa," he said, scowling, "so run."

'What's his problem?' Irisa thought. 'You'd think he'd won the bloody Gold.'

Irisa barely remembered the medal ceremony. However, finally, she had a Gold medal around her neck and stood to receive the Soviet national anthem. Somehow, it wasn't as exciting as she'd imagined it. Someone told her to hold up the medal and kiss it and she did what she was told, putting on a big smile. She wanted to savour this moment, but as soon as the national anthem was drawing to a close, Valentin grabbed her roughly by the arm and shoved her in the direction of the athletes' bus.

'Idiot,' she thought. 'He is in a seriously bad mood today. What's the hurry? Let me enjoy my victory!' she thought.

As she approached the bus, she noticed him again, 'Mr Blue Eyes and Flirtatious Smile' from the stands. He was leaning nonchalantly on the rusty old blue bus. As soon as he laid eyes on her, he walked towards her, right hand stretched out for a greeting and holding the microphone like a phallus. His smile was infectious.

'Obviously a reporter. And a gorgeous reporter at that,' Irisa said to herself and was drawn towards him, hypnotized by those beautiful blue eyes. She was speechless.

Once again, Coach Valentin appeared and dragged her away roughly, shouting, "No interviews. No interviews."

Irisa froze. Something had to be wrong with him today. He never declined interviews, especially not interviews with the foreign press. He would stand there right next to her and take all the credit for her merits. Something was off today.

"What is wrong with you?" Irisa barked at him, which caused another scowl.

"Are you saying no interviews with the international media? Is that what you're saying?" she said impatiently, whilst glancing at the bus. She was afraid the man would disappear.

"Are you out of your mind? This doesn't make sense," Irisa shouted at him.

"You can't stop me from talking with the press, today of all days. I finally won Gold and I'm a heroine," she added defiantly. She didn't know what had come over her, normally she wouldn't dare talk to Valentin that way.

"No, shut up Irisa. No interviews today and I mean it, no interviews with anybody. Now get on the bus, sit down and behave yourself," Valentin hissed back at her.

Irisa was boiling. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been this furious. She walked over to her coach and stood right in front of him, ready for a confrontation, but then she realised 'Mister Pressman' was no longer there. She'd missed her moment, and she was livid.

"Idiot," she whispered, hoping he was out of earshot.

There was no reaction from the grouch, so obviously he hadn't heard. If he was acting strange before, he was even worse now. Sombrely, he handed her a large brown envelope with 'Irisa' scribbled in red ink across the front.

"Get on the bus and read it, right now." Valentin said.

"What's this?" Irisa asked, but Valentin had already disappeared.

'It's probably my new training schedule,' she thought. 'Can't he let me enjoy my victory for a few days first?'

'He probably wants to make sure I'm in shape for the next Olympics, so I can win more medals for him and make him look good.'

'I'm not in the mood to study this schedule yet,' she said to herself and put the envelope down on the empty seat next to her. Then she thought better of it. Knowing Valentin, he may already have scheduled a session for the same evening, and she'd be in big trouble if she didn't show. She tore it open, and gasped when she saw the note inside.

'I knew they wouldn't let me down,' she exhaled as she read the short note.

Her parents, Anna and Igor, were in Moscow, and they desperately wanted to see her today. The note said her mother was not feeling well, so they wanted her to meet them at the Hotel Metro in the centre of Moscow, as soon as possible. A man named Ivan would be waiting for her at the reception.

'Oh no,' Irisa lamented, 'There's no way Valentin is going to let me go to meet them,' Irisa fretted, 'but I need to find a way. I'm not letting him stop me this time.'

'Where did he go?' She couldn't see him anywhere outside the bus.

'Should I just leave?' she pondered, but thought better of it when she saw Valentin's broad back in the front of the bus.

She jumped out of her seat and ran towards him while trying to think of a good excuse.

"Valentin, listen to me and listen well. I'm getting off this bus right now to see my parents. They're in town, and my mother is sick. You're not going to stop me. I can outrun you any day, and you know it."

To Irisa's surprise, he didn't resist but simply said as he looked down at the envelope, ripped open, "Go, go. Do whatever you have to do."

'The gold medal must have put him in a better mood after all.'

Irisa scrambled off the bus and disappeared before he had a chance to change his mind. The Hotel Metro was about twenty minutes' walk away, if she walked fast. It had started to drizzle, she could feel cold rain slowly sliding down her back, and her hair stuck to her cheeks. She was soaked by the time she arrived at the hotel, some twenty-five minutes later, but she was so excited she didn't realise how wet she was.

'Now what?' she thought. 'I don't see anybody waiting for me.'

She started to panic until she spotted, rail thin, bespectacled man who'd been trailing her for the last few months. That wasn't so unusual, not in Moscow, not during the Olympics. He didn't react when she entered the hotel so Irisa assumed he was not Ivan.

"Not so fast," the man growled as he grabbed her by the arm and gestured for her to follow him towards the reception desk.

Irisa hesitated and pulled her arm away. This didn't feel right.

'I have to follow him though,' she thought.

She desperately wanted to see her parents. She didn't have a comb with her, so she quickly ran a hand through her hair. She didn't want her parents to see her all dishevelled.

"Ok, ok," she said. "You don't have to manhandle me."

He hissed something at her, but she wasn't paying attention to him any longer.

"Mama, are you there?" Irisa called out as soon as she set foot in the small, dark room behind the reception.

The room was humid and echoed. Irisa could see right away that her parents weren't there. There was nothing except a table and two chairs.

She started to panic and wanted to rush out. 'There's something not right here.' She started to shake. Her vitamin injection was wearing off, and she felt depleted of energy.

Ivan pushed her down onto a wobbly chair in the corner and barked at her. "Sit, shut up and listen."

"Where are my parents?" Irisa asked.

"I said, shut up and listen," Ivan almost bellowed.

Irisa didn't say another word. That look said 'KGB'.

"I don't know anything about your parents, and I really don't give a Siberian goat who your parents are or whether they're dead or alive," he said casually. "They are of no interest to me," he continued and stared at her. It felt like he was undressing her with his rat eyes.

Irisa shuddered. She was used to men staring at her, but this was different. She didn't feel safe. He was so close to her, she could smell his rancid, stinking, tobacco and vodka breath. The nails on his large chubby fingers were dirty and bitten to the quick.

"Ok, what's going on?" Irisa demanded.

"I said, shut up and listen."

"I've a new assignment for you," he said sombrely, and grabbed her by the shoulders.

Irisa exhaled, and a wave of relief took over her body. It was all a misunderstanding. He'd obviously got the wrong person.

"No, no. You've got the wrong person. Don't you know who I am? I'm the Olympic Javelin Champion; what kind of job could you be offering me?" Irisa blurted out.

"No, no mistake. I know who you are," Ivan snapped at her and moved closer. "Ms Olympic Champion," he taunted her. "Big deal," he added, with contempt.

Irisa shuddered and felt tears pressing against her eyelids.

"Look Ivan. There's no job you could offer me that is better than what I have at the moment. Tomorrow I will start training for the next Olympics," Irisa quipped back. "And believe me, you'll have to deal with Coach Valentin if you detain me much longer."

She knew in retrospect that it would sound so naïve, but she didn't know what else to say.

"Shut up and listen," Ivan said again, his eyes cold as steel.

"We can do this the easy way or the hard way. It's up to you really. There's one catch. If you don't do it willingly, you'll have an unfortunate accident, such as losing the ability to walk or perhaps gang raped on the Moscow metro. Or how would you like to spend the rest of your life blind?" He laughed a wicked laugh and grinned.

'He's as ugly as sin,' she thought and pulled away from him.

"Ok, enough with the black humour," Irisa said with a newfound calmness she didn't know she possessed. Although he didn't look like someone who was joking.

"Sit down," he shouted at her as she tried to get up from the wobbly chair.

"Have you completely lost your mind?" Irisa gasped and tried to get up again. "You are insane."

He pushed her back down. "Do what I tell you and you'll have a good life, and you'll keep your legs...and eyes," he added and sniggered.

'This guy is a nutter,' Irisa was getting scared.

"What do you mean, good life? I already have a good life," Irisa protested.

He pulled up another wobbly chair across from her and shoved a colour photograph towards her. The stench of vodka was nauseating. She grabbed the photograph and saw a short, pock faced, slightly overweight, ogre. He was about her age, perhaps a few years older.

"Why are you showing me a photo of this...this...person?"

"This is Sergei," Ivan grinned, exposing his grey teeth.

"And?" Irisa responded impatiently.

"His father is influential in the Party. If you get my drift," he added, with a malicious smile.

"I've no idea what you're talking about," Irisa responded meekly, but her voice betrayed her fear.

"What do this guy Sergei and his party father have to do with me?"

"Your mission will be to help Sergei. He is one of our 'Operatives'," Ivan grimaced.

He leaned in closer and Irisa had to hold her breath. She felt like vomiting.

"Sergei has a problem. He's useless in more ways than one. He's a sniper with no aim," he grinned at her, showing bad teeth. "He's never managed to hit a single one of his targets, but his victims still end up dead."

"Operative, hits, victims? What are you talking about?" Irisa asked, and realised her hands were tightened into fists. She felt trapped.

"So, how do I fit in here?" Irisa whispered, her stomach grinding with fear and hunger.

"You will, let's say, 'help him'," Ivan continued.

"Help him? In what way? I don't understand what this has to do with me?" Irisa started but Ivan cut her off.

"Sergei doesn't have a clue how useless he is. Your job will be to make sure he never finds out," answered Ivan. "He is his father's favourite and this is how it will remain. His three brothers are even worse than he is. You're lucky." That grin again.

"I'm going to help him, how?" Irisa cried. This was getting more absurd by the minute.

"His father has decided he needs a wife who is not only famous and beautiful, but she also has to be an excellent marksman."

"A wife?" Irisa couldn't believe what she was hearing. "No, NO, NO!"

"Sergei would never believe that a woman could carry out a hit, so his honour would be intact." Ivan explained, impatiently. "You will be trained to become Sergei's proxy. Although you don't look so capable to me. You look weak. You look like you are about to pass out," he mocked her.

"So, this is where you fit in," he continued. "Your assignment is to marry him when your training is complete. Someone further up the party ladder has decided."

"Further up than you? That can't be far," she tried mocking him and was rewarded by his backhand across her face. She was stunned and felt her cheek sting.

"Do you think this is funny?" Irisa asked coldly, through tears, but she felt like a deflated balloon.

"No, I don't," Ivan continued. "But it's out of my hands. The decision's been made."

'I'm in the middle of a nightmare,' she thought. 'Just a few hours ago I was running around the track receiving the admiration of the crowd and now this guy is talking about marriage to a short ugly 'hitman'.'

"So let me get this straight. What you are saying is that I will give up my career in sport to become a killer to protect this little rat, Irisa spat out and looked him straight in the eyes.

"You catch on quick," Ivan said. "I knew you'd understand. Eventually."

For Irisa, this was a nightmare. How did they find her? She suddenly had a revelation. It was Valentin, of course. He'd recommended her. No wonder he let her go so quickly this afternoon.

Ivan continued, "Apparently you have excellent aim, but you need training in marksmanship. You've done what was required in the sports arena. You're done."

Irisa felt sick to her stomach. 'This is not happening.'

"Was it Coach Valentin?" Irisa finally asked, meekly. "Can I think about this?"

Stupid question, she realised as soon as the words had left her. She had a feeling what the response would be. The man's tone softened.

"Irisa, the answer to your first question is yes, it was Valentin. Who else knows you as well? And now the answer to the second question," he added, "you're a smart girl. I think you know the answer. It's not a request, it's an order. You will marry Sergei. End of story," he added and sneered at her.

The man didn't stop for breath. He explained that they'd arranged a 'chance' meeting the following evening, in the hotel reserved for the party hierarchy. Sergei would chat her up, she'd come on to him and jokingly he'd ask her to marry him, and she would gladly accept. Apparently stunned by his charisma.

"Where are my parents?" Irisa blurted out.

"Your parents?" Ivan snorted, "You're asking about your parents? Now I have to wonder if you are the one who's crazy."

"There will be time to discuss your parents later. Right now, we have more important business to discuss. He stepped outside for a minute and returned with a large brown bag and handed it to her.

"What's that?"

"It's what you'll wear tomorrow night for your 'date'," Ivan laughed aloud. She peeked inside and saw something bright red.

"Wear this tomorrow night," Ivan said.

"Our Sergei has a weakness for women dressed in red. You have to look the part."

"What part?" Irisa muttered. "I just want to get the hell out of this nightmare."

"You can go now, but you'd better be there tomorrow night at eight p.m. sharp, looking your best. If you don't show up, we know where to find you," he added menacingly and kicked the wobbly chair.

She had to get out of this room, otherwise she'd throw up.

She pushed past Ivan and rushed out into the filthy hotel foyer. She was shaking. She rushed into the street and threw up into the gutter. A hand rested on her shoulder as she shuddered, racked with retching. He stood over her until she'd finished.

"Better now?" he asked, his voice full of sympathy and silk tones.

"Can we do the interview now?" Hank Mathis eventually asked.

"Yes," Irisa blurted out, still coughing.

He handed her a silk handkerchief. She took it, wiped her mouth, and handed it back to him. He didn't flinch at the mess and put it into his pocket.

"Sorry," she said, looking embarrassed.

"You are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen," said Mathis giving her his Hank smile.

"Even like this?" she asked.

"Even like that," he responded. "I'd prefer to conduct the interview in my hotel room without interruptions, if that's ok with you."

Anything to get away from Ivan and that filthy hotel. "I suppose," was all she said.

'I don't even need to think about this,' she thought.

"You can clean up there, if you wish," he suggested and smiled.

She liked the word 'beautiful'. Slowly, a smile was creeping across her face and she followed him to his hotel, and like a lamb, into the elevator. Although alarm bells were going off in her head, she couldn't face Valentin or Ivan, not right then, not ever. This American seemed sympathetic and the nearest thing to a gentleman on a night of success and disaster.

At the hotel, they entered the most luxurious room Irisa had ever seen, with heavy gold coloured curtains and a purple satin bedspread. She didn't even know the American's name. She excused herself, went into the bathroom, and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She wondered if she looked to him as bad as she felt. She washed her mouth out and rubbed toothpaste on her gums before re-entering the suite with a schoolgirl smile.

He had a crystal glass of champagne ready. She eagerly accepted it and took a gulp.

"To the darling of the Olympics," he said.

Valentin's voice popped into her head, 'Never drink champagne or you'll regret it in the morning.'

To hell with Valentin, it was his fault she may lose her legs if she didn't take the 'assignment'. On the other hand, she may lose her legs if she carried on drinking like this.

There was only one easy chair in the room. The American sat on it and took out a writing block. Irisa had nowhere to sit but on the large bed, directly facing him, her knees only inches away from his.

It was probably not a good idea, but Irisa took another mouthful. The American said something and looked straight into her eyes, but Irisa didn't understand. She nodded. The American moved and sat next to her on the bed. Irisa was drowning in those blue eyes and intoxicating, sympathetic smile. He kept filling her glass and her head span faster. She felt like a teenager in love and half way towards losing her legs, and she didn't care.

When the maid knocked on the hotel room door the next morning, Irisa was naked in the oversized bed and the American was gone. She remembered the soft brown paper package on the floor that Ivan had given to her, and she knew what she had to do.

 

***

 

Mathis' flight home was pleasant enough. However, Mathis was in turmoil. Exhausted after a night with Irisa, he slept fitfully, most of the way. His dreams were as empty of carnal delight as they were of romantic intent. He turned in his sleep and groaned. The reverie of a night with Irisa was mixed with the nightmare of the drive to the airport in the presence of Ivan Blok. A mere forty minutes in Ivan's presence had turned Hank Mathis's life upside down.

Chapter 4

1980 - Moscow

 

Irisa strolled slowly down Polok Avenue. It was past midday, and the air was damp with a smell of rain. Her sombre mood and the grey dismal weather were in sync. The dark clouds seemed so low in the sky that she felt as if she was suffocating.

"How on earth did I end up here?" she said aloud, whilst absentmindedly rubbing her slightly swollen belly.

'I don't deserve this,' she thought and roughly wiped a tear that was rolling down her cheek. As soon as she'd wiped it off, another followed. Soon, her face was covered in tears. Her nose was running as well and she wiped it with her hand, and then wiped the snotty hand on her coat.

'I was going places. I was,' she reassured herself bitterly, as she relived the roar of the crowd after her win in the Olympics. 'I was great! I was the Russian beauty. The crowd loved me, and the media adored me. The foreign media had a love affair with me and were all over me for those interviews and stories. And all for what?'

As she walked past a group of four teenagers lurking with intent, they whistled loudly, but she kept her head low and pulled her headscarf further over her head. She stared at the pavement. Normally, men's whistles lifted her spirits. She knew she looked good, but today she felt ugly, and it felt like a slow agonizing dirge.

'How could I have been so stupid?' she kept asking herself as she dragged herself towards the hospital.

She carried a blue sports bag containing her necessities. She was going away for a long time, but 'they' had told her not to bring much.

'You will be provided with everything required for the process and procedures,' she'd been informed by letter. Now she was little more than a 'process and a procedure'.

The pavement was cracked, and stubs of brown grass were pressing up between them. Scattered raindrops marked the grey stone, and she felt a cold drip sliding down her back. She shuddered.

They'd arranged for an appointment at the Military Hospital to sign the necessary documents and a check-up before sending her to an undisclosed location in the countryside. When she'd been six weeks late and distraught, she'd made the call and her new employers had made all the arrangements for 'her future.'

'I'm no longer in control of my own life,' she lamented as she struggled to gain her composure, taking long deep breaths. She felt 'heavy', and her steps were getting shorter.

'Oh my, I'm going to faint right here,' she shuddered and leaned against the cold, damp wall of some depressing office building.

Busy people passed her on both sides, everyone deep in their own thoughts and their own world.

'I could die right here and nobody would notice,' her mind screamed. She took another deep breath, inhaling the damp, foul smelling air.

'Get a grip,' she scolded herself and straightened her shoulders. 'You're stronger than this. What's done is done and life goes on.'

It was as much her fault as his. The fact that she'd have to undergo the 'Procedure' was neither here nor there. After all, he was only a male, and that's what males do. She didn't hate him, quite the contrary. Under different circumstances, she could have loved him.

As she approached the hospital, she composed herself, shook the raindrops out of her headscarf, held her bag close to her, and continued along the pavement, her head high. False bravado perhaps but it was the best she could manage. She reached her grim looking destination and entered through the heavy front doors.

At the reception, she announced herself flatly, "Irisa Tupolev," to the disinterested clerk who looked up from his crossword but barely looked at her. He simply pointed up at the ceiling. "Second floor, turn right at the elevator and then twice left, Dr. Samalenko's office." The clerk went back to his crossword, sucking the end of his pen.

The waiting room was crowded with happy, expectant mums. Their smiles lit up their faces. Some had their hands perched on their bellies, some beamed as they looked through baby magazines. She wasn't in the mood to talk. She stood by the window overlooking a courtyard and looked down without focussing on what was happening outside. She didn't want conversation with overenthusiastic expectant mothers. There were no vacant chairs, and no one offered her one. She glanced at her watch, she was thirty minutes early.

One by one, the women filed out of the waiting room, most leaving as if they'd been given a dose of euphoria. Obviously, they were not there for the same reason she was.

"Irisa, anyone called Irisa?" a stern looking nurse, who would have been better employed as a tank driver, stood in the doorway and called out her name, apparently for the second time. She didn't look pleased.

Irisa grabbed her bag and followed the nurse to what she assumed was an examination room. Standing in the doorway was Ivan Blok.

"What a pleasant surprise for you to see me here, Irisa," he bore a malevolent grin, and Irisa knew that whatever he was here for, it wouldn't be good for her.

"I'm here for an examination," she blurted.

"So I understand. And I'm here to ensure that you make the right decision," his grin broadened.

"What do you want? I have to go in, they're waiting for me."

"Don't worry Irisa. There is nothing to worry about. I will be with you."

"No, this is a private examination. It's private. No!" she almost pleaded.

"Come Irisa. They know me here. There's nothing to worry about," he repeated.

Irisa looked at the nurse for help, but she had looked away in embarrassment throughout the exchange. Irisa supposed that she'd seen it all before, and she seemed to know Ivan.

Ivan stepped out of the way and opened the door to the examination room. He followed her. It was sterile, off-white and the paint was flaking off the walls. Irisa shivered in the cold, both actual and imagined. There was one huge surgical chair, complete with wrist straps and matching stirrups.

'So, they strap you down here. Fantastic,' she thought.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" the middle age nurse barked at her.

"Njet," Irisa replied softly, "but I've no choice."

"Good girl," the nurse replied, taking Irisa's answer as a definite 'yes'.

"Get ready, in the chair. The doctor will be here soon. In the meantime, sign these papers for your termination. Sign here and here. It's simple and painless, almost," the nurse said, without a hint of sympathy and pushed out her ample bosom in Irisa's direction.

"I will take those, nurse," said Ivan coldly, taking the papers from the nurse and the pen from Irisa.

"You do understand that this is it? Your problems will end today. Good, no?" the sour tank driver continued. It was probably her interpretation of the government directive, which said that she had to 'make small talk with the patients'.

Tears welled up in Irisa's eyes as she grabbed the black pen and quickly signed her name. The nurse gathered the papers, clutched them to her bosom, and walked out of the room as the doctor entered.

The doctor showed no concern or surprise at Ivan's presence. He simply ignored him. After the examination, the doctor took Irisa's hand in his, "Everything looks fine, and I see that you opted for a termination. Are you sure that is what you want?"

Ivan pulled Irisa's hand out of the doctor's and pulled him into a corner of the examination room.

"Doctor, I need to have a chat with you. This is what will happen now."

Chapter 5

1981 - Moscow

 

Irisa was dragged out of her reverie by the banging on the door. It had been a sleepless night, too short, yet too long. She was a mess.

The prospect of marriage shouldn't have had this effect on her. She was marrying into wealth and a secure future. Well, that may have been true, but this was against her free will. Added to that, she didn't even like, never mind love, Sergei.

She couldn't decide whether go through with it. She'd have to spend a lifetime of lies, and her parents had brought her up with a different set of values. She hardened her jaw and set her mind firm. She'd send the messenger back with a message that Sergei's father wouldn't forget in a hurry. In an instant, having made her decision, she felt better.

The banging was insistent and louder. She was expecting it. Sergei had told her that someone would deliver her clothes for the wedding, and sure enough, here they were, no doubt courtesy of the Party.

She stood up from the bed a little too fast and almost fell back again. Since she'd stopped training and had been taken under the wing of the KGB, she'd been feeling washed out. She looked into the mirror, a young Olympian looked into the mirror but a forty-year-old stared back at her. Her eyes looked grey, and her cheeks sagged. She momentarily compared that with her physique a few months ago. She could have done with some of her trainer's vitamins right at that moment.

She shrugged on the old dressing gown and felt the ache in her throwing arm. She smiled weakly, 'former throwing arm,' she reminded herself.

"Ok, I'm coming. Wait," she shouted at the door.

She opened the door and a short, unsmiling, nondescript man in a dark suit stood in the doorway, holding a package.

"Yes?" asked Irisa.

He said nothing, but pushed a brown package towards her. She knew that it was pointless sending a message back to Sergei with this messenger, she may as well speak to the dog yapping downstairs. The man shoved the package towards her again, and she had little option but to grasp it. As she looked down at the brown envelope stuck to the package, the man turned and was gone, his shoes making hollow tapping noises on the concrete stairs.

She closed the door absentmindedly and sat heavily on the bed.

Well, no point in delaying the inevitable. It made no difference; she was going to jilt Sergei. So, whether he was left disappointed at the altar, or she sent him a letter or maybe phoned him from downstairs, the fallout would be the same and she would have to deal with the consequences. And she knew there would be 'consequences'.

She picked open the envelope, took out the sheet of paper and unfolded it. It bore the Party crest. Her eyebrows narrowed as she saw that it came from Sergei's father. Her hands shook slightly as she held the letter in both hands. She read it and reread it:

 

Dear Irisa,

I and my whole family congratulate you on your big day. You and Sergei will make an excellent team, and you will be a welcome addition to my family. This is a day for celebration and a new future for you and a break from the past.

I would like to offer you a few words of advice. You must forget your past, Sergei's and your future is the only thing that matters now. So my child, be happy, very happy.

I am of course aware that you were close to your parents, and I can understand that you had deep feelings for them. However, I insist and it would be an honour, if you would let me take over where your parents left off. This is my gift to you. You must come to me if you have problems, worries, absolutely anything.

Although I have no direct contact with your parents, I will make it my personal task to ensure that they remain in good health. You can rest assured that even though you may never see them again, the Party will take care of them.

I wish you and Sergei all the best for the future and great wealth. The Party and I want you to be a great and successful team. And please stop worrying about your parents, they are, and will remain well, but they are your past. Now enjoy your future, and I look forward to seeing you at the wedding.

Your New Father, Sergei.

 

Therefore, the threat was clear and not so subtle. Sergei Senior had repeatedly referred to her parents in the past tense. That was ominous. She had no choice, refuse Sergei and she'd never hear from her parents again. Do as she was told and they'd remain alive and no doubt in a Siberian labour camp. She was too stunned to cry and dropped the letter onto the bare wooden floor, her hands refused to stop shaking.

So, they'd foreseen the possibility of her changing her mind, and this was the nudge they thought she needed.

'Sergei may be a stupid fool, but I must never again underestimate his father.'

The next hour passed in numbed silence as she unwrapped the parcel of clothes and prepared for her future, a future that felt increasingly like a death sentence.