CLOAK & CORKSCREW: 31) TERMINATION WITH EXTREME PREJUDICE
My Saturday Evening Post: A Serial Novel of Intrigue & Lunacy
62.
Traffic was bad enough escaping central Paris, but even worse on the autoroute. Igor Kuntevich cursed as he checked and rechecked his wristwatch.
Vladimir Batamirov shrugged. “Should have taken the train. It is fast.”
And has cameras. Batamirov did not know what Kunty had in mind for his French agent, so he was not thinking of the investigation that would likely take place post-meeting.
It took one hour-and-fifteen-minutes to reach CDG Airport. Batamirov connected with his agent as the car approached the arrivals ramp.
Yes, the agent had been waiting, was just about to return to the departure lounge; time was running short because the queue to get through security had lengthened—and boarding was imminent.
“I have only ten minutes,” he said, his exasperation increasing when he saw, from a short distance, another person accompanying Batamirov. He repressed an irrational impulse to slip away. Instead, he pointed at a refreshment kiosk fifty yards away.
Kuntevich felt for his special pen. He had never killed anyone before. He had no qualms about doing so, for the Motherland. So he mustered the will to complete this mission, a swell from deep inside his torso that spread out until his fingers and toes tingled in anticipation of greatness to come. He would be the toast of his colleagues, romanticized thereafter in SVR lore.
The Frenchman ordered a double espresso before Batamirov caught up and introduced his colleague. He looked Kunty up and down, unsmiling. Was Batamirov being replaced? He looked to his case officer for an explanation, glancing at his wristwatch to underscore that time was short before returning his eyes to Batamirov’s. “My flight…” he gestured with his head.
Kuntevich ordered espresso for himself, and cappuccino for Batamirov, and the three men took their steaming libations to a high table without stools.
Batamirov explained in French that Kuntevich had traveled from Moscow just to convey the appreciation of the SVR’s director-general, and could not return without having done so.
The French agent shrugged and blew a raspberry, followed by an askance glance at Kuntevich. Bon, merci, au revoir.
Kunty held the special pen in his hand, awaiting the opportunity to click the cap, burst the seal, and infect the Frenchman’s espresso with Polonium 210. But the French agent had not placed his cup and saucer upon the table; he held it in his hand. Furthermore, he sipped furiously and was almost finished.
Kuntevich finally spoke, in English. “My director awards you the Order of Lenin for your service. It will be kept in Moscow.”
The Frenchman stared at Kunty stony-faced. And finally placed his cup and saucer upon the table
“He asks that I give you a special phone number. If there is anything you need.”
The Frenchman shrugged then shook his head. “What I do not need is attention.”
Wordlessly, Kuntevich fixated his eyes above the Frenchman’s left shoulder and grimaced.
Just as silently, the Frenchman, by reflex, turned to see what had attracted Kunty’s attention, and in that fleeting moment, the Russian clicked his pen and flicked a drop of heavy liquid into the Frenchman’s remaining espresso, under the guise of moving to grab a paper serviette on the other side of the cup for jotting a number.
The pen did not produce ink upon serviette.
“It doesn’t matter,” sighed the French agent. “Give your colleague the number, I get from him later. I must go.”
Damn, he’s not going to finish his espresso.
Almost as an absent-minded afterthought, the Frenchman picked up his cup and drained it. He shook his head at Batamirov, like, all this for a silly award, uttered a single au revoir, meant for both Russians, and hurried off to security.
Kuntevich mouthed the words au revoir, asshole.
Batamirov threw Kuntevich a look of disgust, which rubbed the colonel the wrong way, at the wrong time.
Holding his Polonium pen in his hand, about to reach into his pocket for a special metal case to conceal any leaking radiation, Kuntevich noticed a tiny droplet hanging from pen’s end. As Batamirov turned to nod at the Frenchman, who had joined the security queue, Kuntevich impulsively flicked the droplet into Batamirov’s cappuccino. Saves us the trouble of exfiltration, arrest, interrogation and execution.
Batamirov returned to Kunty shaking his head. “That was ridiculous.”
Kuntevich shrugged. “Orders are orders.” He eyed his colleague’s unfinished cappuccino. “Ready?”
“Not yet.” Batamirov defiantly lifted his cup and sipped coffee and froth, just to keep the colonel waiting.
Kuntevich smiled at him. Enjoy.