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

of Chirk and through its first tunnel. Nia noted how the more natural, river-like appearance of the canal changed to something that had been obviously cut through the landscape by the picks, shovels and dynamite of man. She wondered about the canal builders’ hard lives, of how much blood had been spilt to build the canal, bridges, tunnels and aqueducts. She thought of the builders’ wives and families. Tom was aware of the history of the canal, particularly, this stretch, which he considered his home stretch, but enjoyed Nia’s enthusiasm for the story. He watched her face as she recounted canal builders’ tales, he watched her eyes shine, how her lips parted over her teeth. He loved that she now shared this passion.

They passed over the border between England and Wales at the dramatic Chirk aqueduct. Nia increased revs to fight the increase in the canal’s current as the Periwinkle traversed the aqueduct and then through another tunnel. A little later, Tom suggested they moor up for lunch below the little Welsh village of Froncysyllte before they travelled across the most dramatic aqueduct on the British canal system. Nia pulled the boat into the right-hand bank of the canal hard against some mooring points. Tom stepped off the Periwinkle and made the boat fast.

The afternoon warmed and Tom and Nia enjoyed a post-lunch cup of tea on the stern. The low winter sun had inspired their use of sunglasses. Tom made some notes in his log while Nia skimmed a script. They were pleasantly interrupted by an ancient towpath walker who greeted them with a robust ‘hello’ along with a wave from his walking stick. Tom and Nia both smiled and nodded to the walker.

“Where are you two from?” the walker asked.

“Here,” Tom said. “And London,” he added, with a nod in Nia’s direction.

“Funny I haven’t noticed you before,” the walker continued. “I usually walk the towpath most days. At my age, I’ve got to keep moving or I’ll seize up. I’m eighty-six you know.”

“Well done you,” Nia said. “I hope to be as active as you when I’m eighty-six.”

“Yes, it’s about two, two and a half miles, my walk. And I see all kinds of things.”

Nia was intrigued, “Oh, like what.” She smiled slyly to Tom.

“Well, some wonderful wildlife; hawks, badgers, an occasional fox,” the old man looked off into the woods that bordered the towpath. “And, erm, some people need to close their curtains when they’re on the boats more. I’ve seen people in their toilets, and in the bedrooms. In all kinds of undress. Not that I’m looking mind!” He shook his head with some kind of memory. “It’s not right. Kiddies walk and cycle on these paths you know. And the number of people who can’t handle the boats. I’ve seen all sorts; people who can’t steer or control the boats, I’ve seen crashes into the canal sides and into other boats. All sorts of malarkey.”

“Have you indeed,” Tom said.

“Why just about ten minutes ago a boat tried to pass under the swing bridge back there,” the old man signalled where with a directional shake of his walking-stick. “A boat tried to rush through the swing bridge even though it had been opened by someone from a boat that was patiently waiting on the other side. Both boats then tried to get under the bridge at the same time and scraped each other with a terrific noise. Cheeky buggers too, they were, the people on the boat at fault. All loud and shouty. Foreigners, they were.”

Nia and Tom glanced at each other anticipating a pro-Brexit turn to the conversation.

“Russians, I think.”

Tom froze.

“I served in West Berlin when I was in the army,” the walker continued. “Used to meet some Russkis at the checkpoints there. Recognised the lingo.”

“Which way was their boat travelling?” Tom asked with barely concealed concern in his voice. Nia stared at him.

“Oh, this way,” the walker said. “Towards the aqueduct.” He turned and looked back down the canal, “Yes, that’s them now. Silly buggers.”

Tom quickly moved to the open stern doors and grabbed a small pair of binoculars that were hanging in a storage compartment there. He focused on the boat. It was a battered old purple rental, and it was moving faster than was acceptable on the canal. Its wake was visible, and it rocked moored boats as it passed, clanging them into the canal’s sides. Tom didn’t recognise the two men on the tiller but for a fleeting moment he saw a third head pop up to stare over the boat’s long cabin. Even through the binoculars he recognised Zalkind/Kamenev.

“Nia,” he commanded. “Cast us off.” He turned to the walker, “Sir, you better get the hell out of here. Make your way back down the towpath. Try to act naturally, keep your head down. Call the police when you’ve passed the purple boat.”

There was something in Tom’s voice that the old walker didn’t question. He nodded grimly and immediately started to walk back from the way he came. Nia untied the bow rope and made her way back to the stern rope. Tom cut it with a knife and held his arm out to her as she stepped up on to the stern deck. Behind them, the purple boat appeared to slew sideways across the canal.

“They’re blocking the canal,” Nia said with alarm creeping into her voice. “Who are they?”

“Russians,” Tom replied. “I think they’re after me.”

“Holy fuck!” Nia stated, eyes wide.

Tom increased the revs and the Periwinkle moved into the centre of the narrowing canal. He quickly tied the tiller so that the boat maintained a straight course. He moved quickly into the Periwinkle’s long cabin. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he thought. He knew that whatever was about to happen would change the trajectory of his and Nia’s lives forever and probably not for the better.

Kamenev watched