Fateful Lightning: A New History of the Civil War & Reconstruction by Allen Guelzo (self help books to read TXT) 📕

“He’s Russian, from their embassy,” she said.

She noticed Tom’s face change immediately. A photofit of a memory took shape in Tom’s mind’s eye.

“Some kind of cultural attaché at the embassy here,” Constance continued. “Name of Kamenev. Looks like he’s had some facial injuries, burns perhaps.”

“Fuck me,” Tom said to no one.

“Do you know him?” Constance asked.

“I’m not sure,” Tom answered honestly. Images of faces flashed through his mind like business cards in a Roladex. The name Zalkind screamed in his head. The Mi-17 helicopter crash must have been for real and Zalkind must have survived it with some injuries. A new name, new face, a new role but same evil bastard. Kamenev/Zalkind, as if suddenly aware of Tom’s psychic hatred, looked across the groups into Tom’s eyes. Tom noticed a cloud of concern cross the Russian’s face.

Constance moved on to another circle of loud and happy people. Tom felt himself move as if electrically charged to the very periphery of the room. He didn’t notice Nia as she joined him, but she sensed his apprehension.

“What’s wrong?” Nia asked.

Tom nodded towards Kamenev still ensconced in Orla’s group.

“I think it’s someone from my past,” Tom said.

Nia laughed falsely, “All these people are from my past.”

Tom didn’t laugh.

“Oh. Military past?” she asked, “Bad?” and Tom nodded.

A few high tables away, Kamenev graciously made excuses and stepped away from his group. He took one last long look across the room at Tom trying to lock his facial features into his own memory. He didn’t recognise him, but he was concerned. The British guy had a military bearing, had taken up tactical positioning to watch events in the bar, and had a limp possibly from military action. The Brit had no field craft, so he wasn’t an intelligence operative but Kamenev was concerned enough to leave the event earlier than he had originally planned.

Jane approached Nia and Tom and pulled Nia away to be interviewed by a young, starry eyed reporter from the Evening Standard. Tom left the event room, took some stairs down and stepped into the utility bowels of the BFI. He found a small blocked corridor that he felt was relatively secure and called Jacques Gagnon. Gagnon answered on the fifth ring.

“Tom, not that I’m not pleased to receive a call from you, bro, but it’s five p.m. the day before Christmas Eve. Tomorrow’s a holiday here and I’m buried in paperwork trying to clear my desk. And, there’s an office party to prepare for. Can we chat after Christmas?”

“Sorry Jacques mate, it is important. I think Zalkind’s alive. He’s calling himself Kamenev working out of the Russian Embassy here in London as a cultural attaché, probably cover for intelligence.”

There was silence, Tom heard Gagnon’s heavy breathing.

“Are you sure?” asked Gagnon. “You’re not at some party pissed out of your mind?”

“Not pissed and not one hundred per cent sure. But, Jacques, I’m pretty certain. He’s had some facial surgery. My friend said it looked like the type someone would have to cover burns rather than anything cosmetic. So, yeah, pretty sure it’s him.”

“Shit. Fuck. Okay. I’ll do some digging here to see if we have any records we could piece together. I’ll also see if your MI5 and MI6 can shed any light on this. My office party can wait while I try to do the digging but don’t you do fucking anything, okay?”

Tom agreed and hung up. Gagnon put down his phone, opened a laptop and began searching for flights to Heathrow.

Tom felt lighter when he returned to the event room and its bar. It was Gagnon’s problem now. Nia was finishing up with the interview. She called Tom over and held his hand again. The reporter asked who the handsome man was, Nia answered simply, “My fella.” Tom liked the sound of it.

Nia whispered to Tom that she wanted to get her handsome fella home. Their sense of urgency to get coats and car service was only obvious to themselves. They dropped coats as soon as they entered Nia’s house. Tom undid his bow tie and took off his jacket. He expected an almost feverish climb up the stairs to the bedroom. Instead, Nia led him up to the second floor and into the study. He took off his cummerbund as she closed the curtains. Nia lit the fireplace, dimmed lights, and poured two glasses of port. They clinked glasses. She took a gulp of her port then put down her glass and turned her back to him. She ran her hands through her hair, pulling it up as if in a makeshift bun. She lowered her head coquettishly. Tom downed his port and put his glass down next to hers. He moved behind her and brushed her exposed neck gently with his lips. Her skin goose bumped to his touch. He nuzzled into her neck enjoying the scent of her perfume and desire.

Tom began to unzip her dress. Slowly until there was enough slack to gently ease the dress off her shoulders. He kissed her shoulders from her neck to her arms. Kissing the ball of her shoulder he could see her face in profile, her eyes were closed, and her lips were slightly parted. He returned to her dress, zipping it down to her lower back. Nia moved her arms, so the dress slipped off and over her breasts. Tom kissed the hollow where Nia’s back ran down to the band of her lacy black thong. Nia pursed her lips and involuntarily moaned ever so slightly. Nia’s moan excited Tom and he pulled off his shirt and stepped out of his trousers. Nia began to breathe more quickly. He ran his hand softly down her spine and then out over her hips and around and down her buttocks. He unzipped