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

others milled around the ticket machines and small newspaper and confectionary kiosks. Without slowing to a trot, Tom sprinted the last couple of steps and then vaulted over the turnstile. He immediately drew attention from a stern looking ticket collector. Tom heard disapproving shouts behind him as the chase man pushed through the lines and vaulted the gates in pursuit.

With some space to run, Tom turned on his heels and ran for the Oxford Street exit. The street was full of lunchtime shoppers and tourists and Tom quickly limped into the river of bodies. He knew he couldn’t go far. His leg ached like hell, and sirens began to blare behind him and from somewhere in front. He turned to see if he was being followed, he was; smiling boy.

The siren in front was getting closer. Tom was glancing over his shoulder when he stepped out on to the street in front of the wailing police car. The police Volvo’s brakes squealed but stopped the car inches from Tom. Before the policemen could get out of their car, Tom had limped around to the rear door, opened it, and sat down. The two officers turned to face him with surprise and questions.

“My name’s Tom Price and I’m being chased either by the FSB or MI5. And I didn’t pay for my last Tube trip.”

The two officers turned to each other.

“Fucking hell,” said one.

***

Thames House

The deputy director and Patel observed Tom through reinforced one-way glass. Tom was handcuffed to a ring in the centre of a metal table that was bolted to the floor of the soulless room. Tom appeared to be staring at something on the table. The DD glanced at Patel.

“Seriously,” the DD said. “What the fuck was all that argy-bargy about?”

Patel shrugged her shoulders. “Smith did say that they didn’t show Major Price any ID, that Price was clearly shocked by the news of Gagnon possibly killing one of the Russian agents, but seemed to go crazy when informed he couldn’t call a friend in trouble.”

“The friend would be Nia Williams no doubt. So, the denial of the option to call her led Major Price to beat up two of my security agents, ruin one of my beautiful Range Rovers, and lead a posse of more of my security operatives on a mad dash across London?” the DD added.

“Yes, ma’am,” Patel said. “He managed to do all that and find time for a bit of shopping at Primark.”

The DD stared at Patel and then smirked. “Okay. I’ll deal with Smith later. Let’s bring some professionalism to this cock-up. Time for a chat with Major Price.”

Tom could sense he was being watched from behind what he clearly knew was a one-way mirror. So, this was Thames House, he thought, better than some holding cell at the Russian Embassy, or even the interview room at last night’s police station, but he was anxious to make sure Nia was safe. A lock was turned, and the door opened. Two women entered. One middle aged, expensive haircut and grey suit and a smaller, younger South Asian woman in blue slacks and cream blouse with dark, intelligent eyes. Both exuded no nonsense demeanours. He was surprised that there were no men present and then felt that Nia would have been disgusted by his apparent chauvinism. Tom had occasionally come across members of the intelligence services and members of the CIA at various times and various postings across the Middle East. He felt he knew what to expect.

He nodded to the two women.

“Major Price,” the DD began. “I’m sorry for the cuffs but my security team felt, that after your rather boisterous display this morning, you needed them, but I don’t think so, do you?”

Patel moved to the table and unlocked Tom’s handcuffs.

“Thank you,” he said and reflexively rubbed his wrists.

“I must apologise Major Price as I think my lads may have behaved a little too… operationally. I just wanted you to come in for a chat this morning. We know you didn’t… assist Jacques Gagnon in last night’s tête-à-tête with the FSB but perhaps you know what the hell this is all about?”

Tom looked into the woman’s face opposite him. She was earnest and smart, he thought. Indistinct age, perhaps mid-fifties, more than a mid-career officer and, as she mentioned ‘my security team’, someone with authority. Instinctively, he felt he could trust her.

“Feodor Zalkind,” Tom said looking directly into the DD’s face.

The DD glanced sideways towards Patel who shrugged her shoulders as a negative response and began to type into her laptop searching for any records.

“And he is?” the DD asked.

“He’s currently a faux cultural attaché at the Russian Embassy going by the name of Kamenev. Gagnon and I ran into him in Afghan but then he was called Zalkind, ostensibly a major in the GRU. Probably SVR or FSB.”

The DD nodded. Patel continued to type, Tom wondering whether she was searching or taking notes. She looked as if she was capable of both simultaneously.

“About a decade ago he was running some arms for drugs mission with the Taliban, Haqqani Network, and al-Qaeda among other dirty things. Then I ran into him in London before Christmas while he was masquerading as Kamenev. I contacted Gagnon and let him know too. You probably know about Jacques.”

The DD nodded.

“Zalkind was responsible for the death of some of Jacques’ men in Afghan,” Tom continued. “I know Jacques is Canadian intelligence, so I thought he’d respond through regular channels, informing you guys from his official position, that type of thing, so I was bloody surprised when Gagnon arrived in London. We had dinner last night to talk about how best to approach the situation and when to bring in you guys or MI6.”

“And what had you decided about confronting Colonel Kamenev?” the DD asked.

Tom smiled slightly, “Well