It was at that point she saw the shadow.
In the kitchen, out of sight of the hallway, probably backed right up to the draining board, a man stood very still, obviously unaware that the sunlight streaming through the window had cast a long shadow on the terracotta tile floor.
Svetlana’s first thought was that it was a burglar and he would definitely have heard her enter through the front door. But the noise from upstairs and thick carpet would have masked her approach. Slowly she crouched and put her shopping on the hallway carpet. She would get out of the flat and call the police. From where she was crouched she could see her mobile on the kitchen table. Damn! Her other neighbours could all be having a lazy Sunday lie in, she would have to go for the phone box at the end of the street. She rose up and turning headed with quick strides for the front door. She was passing the open living room door when she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye; there was a second man. Fear injected adrenaline into her system and like a startled deer she was mid-way through the motions of leaping the last few feet to the door, when she was body checked from the side and sent crashing into the wall. Her head cracked painfully against the plaster causing bile to rise up in her throat as she fell heavily with rough hands grabbing at her arms. A hand gathered a fistful of her long hair and yanked her head painfully back, she could feel a man’s whiskers scratch the soft skin at the back of her neck, his breath hot against her skin. She could feel the shadow man approach at a run by the vibrations from the floor. I‘m going to be raped, she thought. She would have no chance at all when the second man got to them. Desperation powered her right elbow and she drove it back into the ribs of the man half laying on her. A rib cracked, causing the man on her back to gasp, his right leg spasmed and lifted from the floor catching and tripping his companion. Grabbing at coats and jackets hung from hooks in an attempt to prevent a fall; the second man hit the floor heavily, pulling the coat rack and its screws from the wall with a splintering sound and a curse. The pain from the cracked rib caused the first man to rise slightly, instinctively moving away from the limb that had caused the damage. It was a small opening but she went for it, fingers nails digging into the carpet, pulling her body from under him, bare feet slipping and scrabbling against the carpet, trying to gain purchase. She was up! A sob escaped her throat as she grabbed for the door handle, pulled it open a foot, two feet, and a spark of hope lit in her heart. A hand closed around her mouth from behind, yanking her back. A foot crashed into the door, tearing the handle from her grasp and slamming it shut. An arm encircled her slim waist and then she was being lifted and spun. Svetlana’s feet left the floor; she managed to put both arms out, trying to break her fall as the floor rushed up at her. The air rushed from her lungs with an audible “Ooof”, her arms were roughly twisted back up between her shoulder blades. She could see the two men just climbing to their feet, faces ugly, both sets of eyes on her. There had been a third man, three men in her home waiting for her. She opened her mouth to speak when she was silenced by a female voice; the third intruder was a woman? A single command directed at her from the woman pinning her arms
“Zat cnees!”
The fact she had been addressed in her native tongue stunned her, these people knew she was Russian; her cover was blown, unless these burglars or rapists were in the habit of telling Londoners to shut their mouths in a foreign tongue, which was hardly likely. Her tee shirt was ripped off; she heard a crackling sound, a whiff of ozone and her arms were released, a split second later something was jabbed into her back. Her body spasmed as pain exploded in her brain and darkness swallowed her consciousness.
The sandwich was of the mass produced variety, made and packed by minimum wage hands. Scott Tafler took a bite and considered the fare critically. It seemed to him that the enthusiasm of the catering worker who produced this titbit had transferred itself by paranormal means to the handiwork, bland and uninteresting.
The reason he was spending his Sunday here instead of with his wife and three children was quite simply September 11th 2001. His organisation had been found wanting, he reckoned this was entirely due to the lack of ‘Humint’, spies if you will and an over reliance on technology. Just as a B1-B bomber could not fix bayonets and dig out infantry from foxholes and caves, nor too could a surveillance satellite stand at a bar with a drink in hand ear-wigging the conversation between two munitions workers in China.
It would take years to replace the networks laid off after the cold war and introduce new ones in different theatres, not previously thought a threat.
Scott had nothing to do with that aspect; his job was to plough through paper reports and emails to try to catch any third party human intelligence that may come their way. It was a form of ‘catch up’ and trying to cover all the bases at one time until new networks were set up.
Munching automatically, he was scanning a report from the Los Angeles FBI office. A software geek, a ‘Gamer’ geek, which was even worse, had returned from Moscow after six months work. The interviewed geek stated that the Russians hoped to enter the computer game market with Chinese funding. Scott paused; the Chinese had been ripping off American copyrights for years. All software was fair game to them. The PRC was attempting to boost its own challenge in the all world markets. Why should they assist a competitor? In the PRC, the will of the regime controlled every aspect of trade with the rest of the world. Picking up his telephone he dialled home and asked his wife for her younger brothers’ number. He too was a geek but he worked for a very major software company. Half an hour after speaking with him he replaced the telephone and made a note to telephone Washington next day, to get Commerce’s spin on this. Turning back to the report he next dialled a number shown, left a message on Miss O’Connor's answer phone and moved on to the next report.
The cold awoke her; with a start she realised she was lying on her stomach on a cold, white ceramic surface, spread eagle and naked. Her face was flushed and then it came to her that she was laying on an incline, her head lower than her feet. There was pain and soreness between her shoulder blades where the stun gun had been jabbed.
“Vashi ruki zavyazhenniye” a soft, almost sensual female voice informed her that she was bound. Svetlana was struggling to find some reason for her predicament, were these British Intelligence or some other countries agents? Were they her own and this was some test? In a shaky voice, in English and with fear quite unfeigned, she asked
“Who are you, what do you want?” The woman hushed her as if soothing a child,
“Shsss, babushka, shsss”; but the hand that traced its way softly up the inside of her calf was most un-parental.
If this was calculated to make her feel vulnerable, it had succeeded. Her body tensed as the hand reached her inner thigh and continued unerringly toward her womanhood. A door banged open, the sound echoed and the hand ceased its journey. Wherever it was that she had been taken seemed to be some large building, she thought that it lacked furniture or fittings because of the hollow sound. She tried to turn her head more in order to see but there was only the same white material that formed the side of wherever she was imprisoned. By raising her head she could make out the straps that held her appeared to be made of rubber. The echoing footsteps of several people approached and the woman’s hand traced circles around her buttocks, slipping between the cheeks and tracing a line along her spine to her neck. Svetlana’s stomach knotted but the fingers caused an involuntary tremor to pass through her. A male voice sniggered from somewhere behind her and a voice, rich Irish brogue asked the question of a third party