Mortal seed

chapter 1

Prolog:
I stood in front of the desk facing the airport official, a small balding man in a heavily starched uniform. He didn't lookup. All I actually saw was the bald head and his pen making notes. He handed me the passport I hadn't held in four years.
"You may not visit," the little man said sourly with a heavy accent,
"You have violated the laws of our beloved country too much. To return will mean instant death."
My minders, two - six foot, six inch gorillas, stood close on either side of me.
They seemed bored as they ambled slowly toward the loading ramp while waiting patiently for me to keep up with them. The walk out to the plane was long. I quickly became out of breath and had to stop, twice.
But there wasn't any need to rush. The Aeroflot flight had orders to wait for me.
Tears were again running down my cheeks as I settled into a first class seat. An armrest had been removed making it doublewide for me. This chapter in my life was finished.

~~~~

Chapter 1

The spy...
I wasn't sure he knew I was on him. But I had to keep up the pretense as I followed him onto the plane. I wished to hell that I could play that old Russian trick. However, it wasn't permitted and so, I was booked on the same side, two rows behind him.
Someday when no one was watching, I swear I'd like to pretend I was a damned Russian spy and sit next to a spy like him and when the plane was in the air, I'd turn to him and say, "Dmitriy, how the hell are you?" (Just to let that son-of-a-bitch know that we were watching.)
Countless times, they'd singled out our people and secured the seat next to them and then done this very thing.
There were times when a vivacious woman might end up sitting next one of our people. Eventually, a conversation might ensue, possibly followed an invitation to coffee or supper. Before he/she knew it, the mark (our agent) had been manipulated by the other side. (Possibly turned.)
I could do that.
In C.I.A. charm school, I came to realize just how striking I could be. From my trim figure to my cute face with my (forever pout), to my trim 'C' cup breasts, they'd emphasized that I was hot enough to turn any head. That is, provided I was permitted to do so.
But, no. And so, here I sat two rows back.
The current thinking was that Dmitriy still didn't know who I was and my anonymity was worth more for the time being.
At least, that was the rational in Langley.
We landed in Sheremetyevo International Airport at six in the morning. (Moscow time.) I hadn't slept a bit on the way over. I never do on planes.
However, I wasn't asked to follow Dmitriy at this point, but to take precautions that I wasn't followed and then, report to the embassy. I walked through the crowd and caught a taxi. At a random location, I got out and took the subway while watching to see if I was followed. Again, I switched trains and when I was confident I didn't have a tail, I called the embassy. Half an hour later, a limousine with tinted windows picked me up to bring me in.
"I can give you a day and a half to rest," said a woman I didn't know, "Then, we have a dangerous assignment for you."
Again, I saw her face once. The rest of the time that I sat in front of her desk, all I saw was the short cut gray hair and the thinning area on the top of her head.
Why is it that people don't want to lookup and make eye contact anymore?
She read off of a printed sheet, "Carla will surveil the attaché Dmitriy for one week. Determine a suitable location and then eliminate him in a public manor in order to send a message to the Russians in their own country."
"What kind of a message?" I asked.
"It's not within your pay grade to know that," she dispassionately replied, "Are you capable of performing this assignment?"
"Yes, Mam."
"At least, I think so," I thought.
"Then, you will have a week to prepare. Dmitriy is a creature of habit. In hot weather he goes to an old gravel pit almost everyday for a morning swim. There is a concealed place where you can lie in wait. You'll be able to see the entire area from there. It'll be an easy shoot."
She studied my face for a minute and then, continued, "Your weapon in on the table over there. It's a Russian ASVKM, chambered to fire a .338 Lapua. You have had training with this weapon; have you not?"
"A little. But, why me?" I asked, "I'm not an assassin. I'm a language specialist. Aren't there more qualified people available?"
Again, she stared at me for half a minute before replying, "Like you, this man is of little significance to his government. However, he is a distant cousin to Putin. His death will have a psychological impact without doing any serious harm to US-Russian relations. Ours is not to question the judgment of Langley. The Russians won't know who did this thing. We expect that you'll be on a plane heading home before Putin even learns of the death. Of course, they'll suspect us. Can you carry out this assignment or not?"
I nodded slowly.
"I take it," she said sourly, "that was a yes?"
"Yes, Mam," I answered knowing there wasn't a choice, "I will perform my assignment."
"Even though..." I thought to myself and feeling very disgusted, "In your words... I'm also of little significance to my government."
I rested for a day.
On the third day, I rose early to eat breakfast in the cafeteria. It's often useful to hear the current gossip.
I wasn't disappointed.
"Putie is feeling more international pressure over his suspected killings," someone at the next table said, "Talk is that he's going to back off and opt for more prison and possibly more prisoner exchanges."
"Ya," said another lady, but with a British accent, "I'm glad I'm not in field work. Did you hear about that French spy the Ruskies just released?"
Eyes lifted to study her. I kept eating and pretending I wasn't listening.
"Well, it seems the Russians now have a new improved pig hormone... Shot that woman full of it. Four years later, they traded her for an old Soviet spy... Except..."
She hesitated to study the faces at the table.
"Except," she continued, "the poor woman weighed eight stone when she was captured and when she came back, she was thirty-three stone."
"What's a stone weigh?" someone asked.
"Fourteen pounds."
"My God!" she said, "That's four hundred sixty-two pounds."
"I'm sorry," someone else added, "I find that a little hard to believe."
"Ya, well... The French are keeping her out of sight. I heard she's got a desk job somewhere and she's down to four hundred six pounds."
"All the same," the first woman continued, laughing, "this is still a bit hard to swallow."
"I agree," the other answered, also laughing, "I keep thinking about what she had to swallow to gain that extra three hundred pounds."
"Do you swallow?" another asked.
The group began to giggle.
"That... Is an entirely different matter," answered the first woman with a smile.