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

nature reserve and then on past the meres outside of the aptly named Ellesmere. Tom suggested they push on past the village with its busy wharf and eventually moor up at a more bucolic stretch of canal. The canal took a rightward turn passing the junction for the Montgomery canal. Tom and Nia pushed on through the two locks at New Marston until Nia chose a mooring spot on a quiet, heavily wooded stretch of the canal.

The Periwinkle’s engine clicked through its cooling and contraction stages as Tom locked the stern doors and he, Nia and Jack went for a run down the towpath. Hidden in the undergrowth at the side of a small canal bridge to the rear, the Russian agent observed them through his binoculars. He was thankful that his run across fields, down county lanes, and on the occasional towpath, shadowing the Periwinkle, had finally ended. He watched the narrowboat and its occupants until the evening dark made further observation impossible and the Periwinkle’s curtains were drawn. He slipped back through the hedgerow and stretched his cold and aching limbs; he was exhausted from the physically demanding day. He walked quickly across the field to a breeze block farm equipment shed. He forced the lock with ease. He lay out some hay and pulled a coat from his day pack, a can of Coke and a power bar. He made a makeshift bed and settled in for a long, cold night.

***

The Next Day, Seven a.m.

The small narrowboat yard was situated at the end of a twisting, turning, oft overgrown country lane. Hard against the canal side, it was ideally positioned for canal traffic. A light burned in the yard’s office as the manager made an early start to his working day. The yard’s secluded nature made it the ideal spot for Kamenev and his driver to approach. The SVR watcher who had followed Nia was waiting for them as they pulled into the ancient boat yard’s small car park. The surveillance man was dirty and sore from his night in the machine shed. He slipped into the Focus’ rear seat and quickly apprised Kamenev and the driver as to Tom Price’s location.

The boat yard manager, surprised by business so early in the morning, greeted the Russians suspiciously. Kamenev quickly assuaged the manager’s concern with his cut-glass public-school boy accent and a wad of cash. The manager was quick to rent Kamenev a narrowboat. Kamenev had told the manager that he and his friends had planned an early trip to Llangollen and back, two days and one evening. Kamenev overpaid for the rental, much to the yard manager’s delight.

The three Russians entered the forty-five-foot-long narrowboat along with the yard manager who quickly ran through the boat’s operations. The manager cut his usual orientation short as Kamenev had convinced him that he was a veteran of numerous narrowboat trips. The Russian driver retrieved the two go bags from the Focus as Kamenev bought some basic supplies of food and beverages and caps emblazoned with the boat yard’s name from the small office. Kamenev was keen to make a start and another exchange of cash, as a tip, quelled the boat yard manager’s concern about Kamenev’s desire to start his canal trip before the eight a.m. approved start time.

The watcher, rather dirty from his time tromping across fields, muddy towpaths, and hiding under hedgerows and machine sheds, cleaned himself up in the boat’s small bathroom. The driver, taking up his customary role, this time at the tiller, waited for Kamenev to reboard the canal boat and then he pulled the tiller to the left and increased the engine revs, and the narrowboat moved slowly off from its mooring and into the canal’s main channel. It was heading west. The watcher joined the driver at the stern.

He handed the driver a cigarette, lit it, and then yawned widely and loudly.

“Fuck, I hardly slept at all last night. This country is always frigging cold.”

The driver nodded not really listening and not caring.

“Crazy this, isn’t it?” the surveillance man continued. “Now we’re chasing some Brits in a boat that can go what… four miles per hour? High speed chase, da?”

The driver didn’t see the humour in the situation.

“It’s our job. The boss knows what he’s doing.”

“I don’t know,” the watcher replied in a whisper. He shivered, “I don’t feel right about this. Something’s not right and I’ll be happy when this shit is all over.”

He flicked his half-smoked cigarette into the canal and went into the body of the boat where Colonel Kamenev was cleaning his Makarov.

***

Tom and Nia woke early. The morning was bright but chilly and they had lain in bed chatting and giggling and listening to the cooing of wood pigeons from the copse that bordered the towpath. Once up, Tom had taken Jack for her morning walk while Nia made breakfast. Later, Nia made coffee as she washed the dirty breakfast bowls and plates. Tom checked the engine’s fluids and then fired it up. Tom went back into the boat as Nia sat on the stern gunwale, drinking her mug of coffee. Jack lay down at Nia’s feet. Ducks quacked demandingly on the canal.

A goose waddled down the towpath towards the Periwinkle’s stern. Nia and Jack watched the goose’s slow progress intently, Nia raised her coffee mug in a silent greeting, Jack wagged her tail. The goose slipped into the canal with hardly a splash. The ducks quacked their displeasure at the goose’s arrival. Nia smiled, she was enjoying the little dramas of canal waterfowl, the warmth of the coffee, and the company of the terrier. The Periwinkle’s redoubtable engine hummed contentedly beneath her feet. At eight-thirty a.m., Tom cast off the lines, pushed the Periwinkle away from the canal side, and joined Nia at the tiller.

The Periwinkle made good headway as the canal wound its way around the border town