Cold Blood. Alex Shaw

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       Chapter 2

      Offices of the Directorate for Personnel, Moscow Military District, Russia

      The two high-ranking officers from the GRU listened to the sound of boots approaching at a steady pace along the wooden-floored corridor. The colonel took the file the major had given him and looked once more at the release form. He shook his head in dismay. In Soviet times he could have refused point-blank to let such an outstanding young officer go, but this was the new Russia and times had changed. Now a skilled man such as this could earn hundreds of times his current salary in the business world. Russian Military Intelligence couldn’t keep him if he didn’t want to be kept, and that was the harsh reality of the ‘new Russia’.

      The doors to the cavernous room were opened by a low-ranking aide and the guest was let in. He drew nearer to the desk before coming to attention and saluting his two superiors.

      The colonel returned his salute. ‘At ease, Gorodetski. Please sit.’

      ‘Yes, Comrade Colonel.’ The young officer sat in the indicated chair.

      There was a long pause while the colonel looked at the form again, then at the man sitting in front of him. ‘You are at the end of your second tour of duty, Captain. You have achieved much.’

      ‘Thank you, Comrade Colonel.’

      The older man furrowed his brow. ‘You are still young; you have an extremely bright military career in front of you. One day you could be sitting here, and have these…’ The colonel indicated his rank bars. ‘So, that makes me ask why. Why do you not want to extend your duty?’

      Sergey Gorodetski looked first at the colonel and then at his major, the man he had originally given his release form to. ‘I am grateful for what the Russian Army has done for me but I now wish to pursue other interests. I have been offered an opportunity—’

      The colonel snorted and cut him off. ‘This is your opportunity, Captain.’

      Gorodetski continued. ‘With respect, Comrade Colonel, I have something I must do.’

      The colonel was not moved. Before him sat a rare breed of soldier, the ‘intelligentsia’ of Spetsnaz. With his supreme language skills he could pass for a foreign national and was also deadly with a Dragunov sniper rifle. ‘I knew your brother. You are better than he was.’

      Gorodetski nodded. He didn’t know how to take this comment. His brother, too, had been a Spetsnaz officer but he had been killed in Afghanistan. The colonel continued, ‘You have made your family very proud and upheld your brother’s name. But you can do so much more. Will you not reconsider your decision?’ He didn’t like to plead but damn it; this man was one of the best he’d ever seen.

      Gorodetski shook his head slowly. ‘I have made my decision, Comrade Colonel. I am sorry.’

      ‘A Spetsnaz officer should never be sorry.’ The colonel held out his hand and the major passed him a pen. He cast one more look at the young officer before signing the form and marking it with the official stamp. All three men stood. The colonel handed Gorodetski the papers. Gorodetski saluted and left the room.

      ‘Fool,’ muttered the major.

      ‘Exactly the opposite,’ replied the colonel.

      Horley Community College, Horley, UK

      ‘My dad says all the French are poofs,’ Danny Butterworth stated to the class of fifteen-year-olds.

      ‘Sam knows French, don’t ya, Sam!’ added his comedy partner, Dale Small.

      Samantha was busy reapplying eyeliner and didn’t look up from her mirror. ‘Voulez-vous couchez avec moi?’

      ‘Everyone has, you slapper!’ Dale shouted.

      At the front of the class, Arnaud took a deep breath. ‘That is enough!’ He slammed the French textbook on the desk and glared at the offending class members. ‘I have asked for silence and I will not ask again!’ A hand went up at the back of the class. ‘Yes, Danny?’

      ‘Which page we on, mister?’ Danny replied with a cherubic expression.

      Arnaud paused and inwardly sighed before answering. ‘Page sixty-nine. Le Weekend.’

      There were sniggers around the room. ‘That’s when Sam does her French, sir – at the weekend,’ shouted Danny across the classroom.

      ‘Twat!’ Sam put down her compact and raised her middle finger.

      ‘Stand up.’

      There was a pause and Sam, a heavily made up girl, her hair streaked bleach-blonde, stood up. Arnaud looked her in the eye she held his gaze. ‘Wot?’

      ‘What do you mean, “wot”?! I will not tolerate that kind of language in my French class!’

      ‘But it is French, mister,’ shouted Dale

      ‘And she is a slapper, sir!’ added Danny.

      Sam threw her textbook at the two boys. ‘Wankers!’

      ‘Get out. Just get out.’ Arnaud was turning red. Unbelievable, unbelievable.