芸能人
sky like an emerging sun.
Wednesday 8:23 A.M.
Viktor Fedorovich Volodin was amazed he'd managed to make his way this far, from the fiery intersection at the base of the Acropolis all the way down Leoforos Amalias, without his frayed facade of calm completely disintegrat¬ing. He bit his lip, using the pain to hold back the panic. Traffic on the avenue was backed up as far as he could see, and firemen were still trying to reach the charred remains of the truck. On his right, the new Zapio conference cen¬ter and its geometric gardens were shrouded in smoke.
He scarcely noticed. Breathing was impossible anyway, since the diesel fumes of the bus settled in through its broken windows and drove out all oxygen.
How had it come to this? He'd spent his entire life in the party apparatus of Sakhalin, rubber-stamping idiotic eco¬nomic plans concocted in Moscow, trying to survive the infighting and intrigue of the oblast's State Committee. Then one day a personal aide of none other than the presi¬dent, Mikhail Sergeevich himself, had secretly made an offer that sounded too good to be true. Help transfer some funds, do it for the Motherland. . . .
It would be simple. KGB would never know.
Nobody told him he'd be stepping into a nightmare. And now his worst fears had come true. To see your driver crushed alive, only inches away, then watch him inciner¬ated. They were closing in.
Fsyo kanula ve vyechnost, he thought, kak ve prizrachnoy skazke. Everything is gone now, like a fairy tale.
He crouched down in the torn plastic seat as the ancient city bus bumped and coughed its way into the center of Syntagma Square. Around him were packed the usual morning commuters 被リンク gripping briefcases and lunch bags, cursing the delays and blaming the incompetents in Parlia¬ment. The air was rank with sweat.
Finally the vehicle shuddered to a halt. End of the line. He rose, trembling, and worked his way to the forward exit, then dropped off. As his feet touched down on the warm pavement, he quickly glanced right and left, search¬ing the crowded midmorning street for any telltale signs that he'd been followed.
There was nobody, he concluded with relief. The milling Greeks didn't seem to notice he was there, or care. They were too busy complaining about the traffic, the smog, the latest round of inflation. Business as usual in Athens, the timeless city. This place, he told himself, should have been the perfect location to hide, to just disappear. Novosty was supposed to handle the final delivery.
Maybe the crash had been an accident. Fate. Sud'ba. Things happened that way.
He was sweating heavily now, whether from fear or the early morning sun he wasn't sure. Already it was a nascent ball of fire in the east, promising to bake the asphalt of the square by noon.
He stepped over the curb and onto the sidewalk. The outdoor cafes were all thronged with workers and tourist 中古車 s having a quick coffee before taking on the city this spring day. He felt his knees tremble slightly and realized he only wanted to collapse. Any table would do. Just melt into the crowd, he told himself, then nothing can happen. Nichevo nye sluchitsya.
He w 写真共有サイト iped at his brow and settled nervously into the first empty chair, plastic and dirty, hoping to look like just another tourist. The cafe, he noted, was Papaspyrou, in front of the American Express office. Perfect. Above all else, he wanted to pass for an American. But he was still trying to get it right. How did they look?
"Elleniko kafe, my friend? Greek coffee?"
He jumped at the sound of the voice over his shoulder, seizing the side of the table.
The voice was speaking English, he finally realized. Maybe he did look American!
It was an accident, he kept telling himself. The truck couldn't have—Relax. Novosty made the arrangement with the American, didn't he? You saw him hand over the letter. Now the trail will just vanish. KGB will never be able to stop it.
He turned, casually flashed an empty smile for the small,
gray-haired waiter standing behind him, tray in hand, white towel over the sleeve of his tailored but frayed brown suit.
"Sure, thanks."
You're better every day, he told himself. You're even starting to get the accent right now. Keep working on it. The twang. And learn
Wednesday 8:23 A.M.
Viktor Fedorovich Volodin was amazed he'd managed to make his way this far, from the fiery intersection at the base of the Acropolis all the way down Leoforos Amalias, without his frayed facade of calm completely disintegrat¬ing. He bit his lip, using the pain to hold back the panic. Traffic on the avenue was backed up as far as he could see, and firemen were still trying to reach the charred remains of the truck. On his right, the new Zapio conference cen¬ter and its geometric gardens were shrouded in smoke.
He scarcely noticed. Breathing was impossible anyway, since the diesel fumes of the bus settled in through its broken windows and drove out all oxygen.
How had it come to this? He'd spent his entire life in the party apparatus of Sakhalin, rubber-stamping idiotic eco¬nomic plans concocted in Moscow, trying to survive the infighting and intrigue of the oblast's State Committee. Then one day a personal aide of none other than the presi¬dent, Mikhail Sergeevich himself, had secretly made an offer that sounded too good to be true. Help transfer some funds, do it for the Motherland. . . .
It would be simple. KGB would never know.
Nobody told him he'd be stepping into a nightmare. And now his worst fears had come true. To see your driver crushed alive, only inches away, then watch him inciner¬ated. They were closing in.
Fsyo kanula ve vyechnost, he thought, kak ve prizrachnoy skazke. Everything is gone now, like a fairy tale.
He crouched down in the torn plastic seat as the ancient city bus bumped and coughed its way into the center of Syntagma Square. Around him were packed the usual morning commuters 被リンク gripping briefcases and lunch bags, cursing the delays and blaming the incompetents in Parlia¬ment. The air was rank with sweat.
Finally the vehicle shuddered to a halt. End of the line. He rose, trembling, and worked his way to the forward exit, then dropped off. As his feet touched down on the warm pavement, he quickly glanced right and left, search¬ing the crowded midmorning street for any telltale signs that he'd been followed.
There was nobody, he concluded with relief. The milling Greeks didn't seem to notice he was there, or care. They were too busy complaining about the traffic, the smog, the latest round of inflation. Business as usual in Athens, the timeless city. This place, he told himself, should have been the perfect location to hide, to just disappear. Novosty was supposed to handle the final delivery.
Maybe the crash had been an accident. Fate. Sud'ba. Things happened that way.
He was sweating heavily now, whether from fear or the early morning sun he wasn't sure. Already it was a nascent ball of fire in the east, promising to bake the asphalt of the square by noon.
He stepped over the curb and onto the sidewalk. The outdoor cafes were all thronged with workers and tourist 中古車 s having a quick coffee before taking on the city this spring day. He felt his knees tremble slightly and realized he only wanted to collapse. Any table would do. Just melt into the crowd, he told himself, then nothing can happen. Nichevo nye sluchitsya.
He w 写真共有サイト iped at his brow and settled nervously into the first empty chair, plastic and dirty, hoping to look like just another tourist. The cafe, he noted, was Papaspyrou, in front of the American Express office. Perfect. Above all else, he wanted to pass for an American. But he was still trying to get it right. How did they look?
"Elleniko kafe, my friend? Greek coffee?"
He jumped at the sound of the voice over his shoulder, seizing the side of the table.
The voice was speaking English, he finally realized. Maybe he did look American!
It was an accident, he kept telling himself. The truck couldn't have—Relax. Novosty made the arrangement with the American, didn't he? You saw him hand over the letter. Now the trail will just vanish. KGB will never be able to stop it.
He turned, casually flashed an empty smile for the small,
gray-haired waiter standing behind him, tray in hand, white towel over the sleeve of his tailored but frayed brown suit.
"Sure, thanks."
You're better every day, he told himself. You're even starting to get the accent right now. Keep working on it. The twang. And learn