He took a taxi, illegally offering hard currency to travel alone, and sat silent in the back during the drive into the city and his apartment. His sister had said she would get some milk and bread and vodka in, put some soup in the fridge, clean up the place a bit. He looked out the window at the grey colourless people and the grey colourless streets. Moscow. He hated the place. He was from Kiev.
Throwing his bags on the floor, he walked through to the tiny kitchen to turn the heating on. It might have been summer but the nights were still chilly, and the one good thing about a KGB apartment building was that they didn’t scrimp on the heating.
There on the sink was a bottle of vodka. Should be in the bloody fridge, he thought, picking it up and taking a glass from the cupboard. Blowing the dust clear, he walked though to the small sitting room and sprawled in a chair. Welcome home Alexi, he said to himself, and miserably tilted the bottle to his lips.
Half an hour later, he got up, stripped his clothing off and stood under a sad little trickle of water that should have been a shower. He had just begun to soap up his hair when he thought he heard a knock at the door. He paused, shrugged to himself and kept on going. When he was finished, he walked through to the sitting room, a towel round his waist – and there, sitting in one of his two chairs, was a man, lean and hard with greying hair and an eye patch. He was wearing well-cut Italian slacks and an English blazer over a silk shirt.
“Who the fuck are you?” he asked.
The man stood and looked around the apartment, the drab walls brightened only by a fading calendar and a picture of a lake in the spring. Standard issue.
“I used to live in a place like this,” he said. He turned and fixed his one good eye on Kirov. “Nikolai Borshin.”
Kirov looked at him. The man oozed confidence.
“The Nikolai Borshin?” he asked with a raised eyebrow, holding the towel in case it dropped.
“Your boss, if that’s what you mean.”
Kirov gave a sad sort of a smile.
“I knew I was in the shit, but I wasn’t expecting this.”
“You could show more respect, Major Kirov. It might help your case.”
“Comrade General. With respect –” He came to attention; then, feeling slightly foolish in a towel, continued, “– I’m sick of kissing arses. If you want to throw me out then throw me out. I joined up to do a job. I worked hard and I produced results but I have sucked on the crap long enough. I have been returned home in disgrace to appear before a disciplinary hearing for a act that I wilfully committed, and I would commit again. I knocked that bastard’s teeth out – and if anybody here gave a damn about the reasons then I wouldn’t be here. So, with respect Comrade General, I have a right to be pissed off!”
“Why did you do it?”
“Is this my hearing?” Kirov asked. “Because if it is…”
“Answer me!”
“The Head of Rezidentura in Mexico leant on the cleaning women. Jobs are hard to come by. One was a good looker. That was bad enough – but, when I found him forcing himself on her thirteen year old daughter, that was enough. Rape is rape. He laughed and said they couldn’t touch him. But I could. Now he’s talking through a wired jaw. I’m not sorry I did it. I would do it again.”
“Is that the truth?” Borshin asked.
“It is. But since when has that mattered? He is a party member.”
“It matters to me,” Borshin said, his voice soft with menace.
Kirov looked him direct in the eye. “I heard that about you.”
Borshin smiled and, to Kirov’s astonishment, moved across to the picture on the wall, lifting it carefully away exposed a small microphone. He had half expected it, but not that the General commanding the Fourth Directorate should warn him of it.
“Get dressed,” he said, “and come with me.”
Kirov was moved to a brand new apartment just of the Oktober Prospekt. The building was small and its other tenants were very senior public officials, most of whom he was told he would never see. When he climbed into bed that night, he wondered – having come home for a reprimand and now in splendour – just what he was getting into.
Two days later, Nikolai Borshin came by the apartment. He was accompanied by Svetlana who had an armful of files. Kirov was pleased to see him. The waiting had been difficult and the walls of the apartment seemed to be closing in on him.
“Your story checks out. Your... friend has been recalled and has seen his last overseas posting. He will be spend the rest of his career screening visas in some airport.”
Kirov was relieved and it showed in his face as he came to attention. “Good. Thank you, Comrade General. What now? Do I get another posting?”
“That depends,” Borshin replied. The two days had been used in a flurry of vetting, all of Kirov’s
