Fit For Purpose Read online

  About the author

  Julian D. Parrott was born and raised in Wrexham, Wales. He attended Manchester University and the University of Illinois. He lives in Urbana, Illinois with his wife and, on occasion, can be found travelling the canals of England and Wales.

  Fit For Purpose

  Julian D. Parrott

  Fit For Purpose

  Vanguard Press

  VANGUARD PAPERBACK

  © Copyright 2021

  Julian D. Parrott

  The right of Julian D. Parrott to be identified as author of

  this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All Rights Reserved

  No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication

  may be made without written permission.

  No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced,

  copied or transmitted save with the written permission of the publisher, or in accordance with the provisions

  of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended).

  Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to

  this publication may be liable to criminal

  prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is

  available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-80016-030-9

  Vanguard Press is an imprint of

  Pegasus Elliot MacKenzie Publishers Ltd.

  www.pegasuspublishers.com

  First Published in 2021

  Vanguard Press

  Sheraton House Castle Park

  Cambridge England

  Printed & Bound in Great Britain

  Dedication

  For Beth

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Prologue

  Tel Aviv, November 1st

  Viktor Rabinovich was nervous. The Russian journalist was always nervous these days. A car backfiring on the Tel Aviv street below his apartment would send him into a paroxysm of anxiety while an unexpected knock on his door would ice him with fear. A quiet, gentle man who had always modestly viewed himself as a mediocre local journalist, he never intended to become an international cause célèbre.

  He had been sent to eastern Ukraine by his pro-Kremlin newspaper to write a warm, human interest piece on the camaraderie of the pro-Russian separatists, but he’d ended up reporting on what he observed: secret Russian military intervention and human rights abuses. The drive to be a good and honest reporter overcame his natural timidity. His editor, of course, censored the story but it leaked out and was picked up by western news agencies. To many in the west, Rabinovich was a free press hero, but to the Kremlin he was nothing but a traitor. The Kremlin issued an arrest warrant for him. Warned not to return to his Russian home, he fled to Israel.

  Rabinovich had adjusted to life in exile. He lived a low-profile life in Tel Aviv working as an occasional consultant to press agencies while writing features about the Russian state’s suppression of speech or more personal pieces about his life in exile, and his fear of Kremlin retribution. His fear was justified but he hoped his high media profile would give the SVR and FSB, the Kremlin’s external and internal intelligence agencies, pause before they attempted any action to silence him. Rabinovich was very aware of the Kremlin’s campaign to quash its critics. He knew that at least fourteen opponents of Putin and the Kremlin had already died in mysterious circumstances while living in exile in the UK. He also knew there had also been brazen attacks on émigrés in the US, France, and even in his newly adopted home of Israel. He justifiably feared the SVR and FSB and their long reaches.

  He looked at himself in the mirror that hung in the small alcove by his flat’s front door. He was short, plump and getting plumper. He wore large plastic framed glasses, was heavily bearded, and his bald pate was covered by a plain yarmulke. Dressed in plain blue slacks and a short sleeved white shirt, he thought he looked like a regular Israeli citizen. Rabinovich rarely went out of his flat and almost never met journalists in face-to-face meetings but the recent request came from a legitimate source, a respected Irish daily. Rabinovich had personally checked the journalist’s credentials and read some of her features online, and the meeting had even been approved by the Shin Bet, Israel’s domestic intelligence agency. He had arranged to meet in a popular and very public cafe.

  The cafe was refreshingly cool with a nice view of the Mediterranean and the fine beaches that lined the opposite side of the street. Rabinovich would have preferred to meet at one of the open-air beachside cafes, as it would have been more public, safer, but he would have been bothered by the heat. He was breathing heavily as he entered the cafe after the short but hot walk from his flat.

  “I really need to do more exercise,” Rabinovich thought and then smiled. “Who am I kidding, I need to start some exercise first.”

  He wiped his forehead and back of his neck with his handkerchief. He was early for the appointment, just as he planned, and ordered a sealed glass bottle of water and removed the bottle’s cap himself as he sat down at a small window-front table. Recalling how Alexander Litvinenko had been poisoned, Rabinovich was taking no chances with the possibility of anyone adulterating his beverage. After a third gulp of water, he noticed a small, red-headed woman, dressed as a tourist, enter the cafe. Rabinovich recognised the journalist from her online profile picture. The journalist smiled at Rabinovich, ordered coffee and then took the seat opposite the Russian. After quick and perfunctory introductions, Rabinovich settled in to answer the journalist’s questions.

  Outside, across the street at a beachfront cafe, comfortably relaxing at a table, Feodor Kamenev, Russian temporary cultural attaché visiting Israel along with the Kirov Ballet, pretended to read his newspaper. As he moved his coffee cup up to his lips, he surreptitiously glanced across the road at Rabinovich in the cafe’s window. Colonel Kamenev of the FSB listened to his team’s chatter coming through his hidden earpiece. He listened as the team talked through the logistics of their plan, he watched as the team’s motorcycle, taxi, and minibus took up their prearranged positions. Pleased with the professionalism of his team’s preparation, Kamenev carefully turned his full attention back to Rabinovich. He checked his watch and mentally confirmed the set time for the journalist, who was a member of Kamenev’s team, to conclude the interview.

  “Any minute now,” he whispered. He watched the cafe across the road as Rabinovich stood, smiled, and shook hands with the Irish journalist. Kamenev spoke quietly as if to no one, “OK, he’s on his way out… any second now.”

  Rabinovich stepped out on to the beachfront street’s pavement; he squinted in the sunlight. As his eyes adjusted to the glare, he looked up and down the road and across to the beach suspiciously but, seeing nothing out of the ordinary, started on his walk home. The minibus approached from the north, a taxi from the south. Rabinovich looked across to the road when he heard the loud, noisy acceleration of a motorcycle; he watched as the bike dodged in and out of the light traffic before cutting in front of the taxi and slowed. Multiple car horns blared. Rabinovich slowed his pace to watch the traffic shenanigans with slight amusement. The motorcycle veered in front of the taxi, purposefully forcing it to lurch as if out of control. The taxi fishtailed across the centre line into the path of the oncoming minibus. The taxi clipped the side of the minibus which appeared to simultaneously speed up and slide. Rabinovich saw what was happening, but too late. He opened his mouth as if to scream as the minibus jumped the curb swerved ont
o the pavement, and ran Rabinovich down. He was dead before the minibus’ wheels had stopped rotating.

  To the casual observers, who now crowded around the scene of the crash, it looked like a horrible, tragic accident. They would report it as such to the police collecting witness statements. Across the street, Kamenev neatly folded his paper and placed it under his arm as he stood and left the beachfront table and slowly walked away. The motorcycle had disappeared. Police sirens wailed while the taxi and minibus drivers disappeared into the gathering crowd that stood around the dead Russian journalist. The redhead walked down the beachfront without looking back.

  Chapter One

  Montreal Trudeau Airport, November 20th

  Sarah Jones had already finished her shift when she volunteered to help staff the ticket counters teeming with storm-displaced and angry passengers. She was a tall, striking Canadian of Jamaican heritage with eyes so deep and green that men, particularly, sometimes got lost in them. As a psychology graduate, she was always interested in how people responded to her professionally and she often played a game with herself where she observed travellers in line and determine whether they’d be pleasant, demanding, entitled, angry, or passive. During this shift, so far, she had hit the target more often than not: delayed passengers were almost universally angry, demanding, and entitled. She finished with yet another disgruntled passenger when she scanned the line in front of her. There, about two people back, she saw a good-looking man in maybe his late thirties, touch of grey at his temples, so probably early forties, who exuded a sense of tranquillity. She liked him immediately.

  Sarah surreptitiously kept glancing up at the man while she dealt with the customer in front of her. She noticed how his fine features set off his pale blue eyes and she surmised that he wore his good looks with ease, as if he didn’t realise how handsome he was. She thought that he wouldn’t be one of those guys who used his looks or substituted handsomeness for a genuine, natural charm. She noticed his sports jacket, quality, not American, she thought, probably Italian or British. The jacket had a classic looking check, British, she thought. He was one person back now. Sarah looked up and held his gaze over the counter passenger’s shoulder. He smiled, shyly and sweetly she thought. He’s genuine. He’s a nice guy and I like him, Sarah thought, it’s a shame he’s flying out.

  The passenger’s mind was somewhere else when the tall, beautiful ticket agent waved him to her counter. He smiled feeling somewhat embarrassingly self-aware.

  “Sorry,” he explained. “I was miles away.”

  Sarah noticed his accent as he handed over his passport and e-ticket. He was a Brit. Sarah scanned his passport: Thomas Price, place of birth, Manchester.

  “Sorry, Mr Price, but as you probably know the flight is delayed. The storm,” Sarah said almost regretting she was stating the obvious,

  “Yes,” Tom Price replied. “It’s not a problem.” He looked around and lowered his voice. “At least not for me. I’m in no rush. But it’s probably made your job more difficult.”

  Sarah smiled sweetly and held Tom’s gaze, “Going home, sir?” She noticed his eyes, grey blue with a hint of sadness. She scanned his left hand, third finger unadorned.

  “Yup, on my way home.”

  Sarah detected an underlying melancholy in the passenger’s response. Her fingers zipped across the keyboard in search of Tom’s flight and seat. She leant forward over the counter conspiratorially, “I can offer you an upgrade if you’d like, sir.”

  “Brilliant,” Tom grinned with genuine excitement. “I’ve never flown business class.”

  “Then how about first class?” Sarah whispered with a smile.

  “Seriously? Even better. Wow. Thanks.”

  Sarah’s fingers flew across the keyboard and her printer rattled as it produced a new ticket.

  “Any luggage to check?” She asked.

  “Just this,” Tom held up his hand grip. “Cabin baggage.”

  “Ah, a light traveller,” Sarah said wondering where he had been in Canada, what he had done, and how long he’d been in the country. “Quick business trip was it, sir?” she enquired.

  “Quick trip for fun,” Tom responded genuinely. “Visiting an old friend.”

  “Well, I hope we can have the pleasure of another visit in the near future,” Sarah said and handed Tom his passport and his new ticket. “Enjoy your trip, sir and thanks for flying with us.”

  “Cheers. Thank you,” Tom said. “I will.”

  Tom collected his documents and smiled with a nod to Sarah. He was a bit confused as to what had just happened. He left the counter with a little more of a lighter step than he had approached it with. He slowed momentarily almost turning back to the ticket agent to ask her, ask her what, he pondered, for her phone number? Idiot, he told himself, he wouldn’t know what to say, wouldn’t know how.

  Sarah, watched Tom’s first few steps in the direction of security, noticed his limp, sighed a little with the desire of a missed opportunity, then turned to the line in front of her, smiled again and said with a hint of wistfulness, “Next.”

  ***

  Montreal Trudeau Airport Departure Gates

  The airport gate was crowded, and the passengers’ frustration was palpable. Outside a cold wind whipped and hail pelted the floor-to-ceiling windows. Inside, the terminal’s air was warm and dry and doing nothing to calm the weary passengers who continued to crowd the overwhelmed gate agents for information on their delayed flights. All the gate’s chairs were occupied, people and bags appeared to spill out into the aisles like clothes from overstuffed drawers. Slightly back from the melee, the actress stood leaning on one of the many pillars that held up the wing shaped ceiling, observing.

  Although she was slightly hungover from the previous night’s wrap party and dying to sit down, she people-watched almost out of professional curiosity. She observed the nervous flyer read and reread a page in a novel, the businesswoman in the expensive suit constantly checking her phone, the elderly couple, clearly still in love after goodness knows how many years, sit patiently deep in conversation. What were they talking about? She watched the harried mother with a toddler in a pushchair and a baby on her hip trying to soothe both children while animatedly talking to a gate agent. The actress saw the toddler throw a stuffed toy from her pushchair; the mother missed it deep in conversation with the agent. The actress noticed a guy, early forties, fit, kind face, air pods, leave his seat and retrieve what looked like a blue bunny. The man squatted down next to the toddler looking as if he was making funny voices as he made the bunny dance for the child who was now laughing. The harried mum, blonde, pretty but understandably tired looking, gazed down. Concern changed to a gentle smile as the man straightened, with a little difficulty, from his squat, the mum nodded a thanks and the man smiled. Nice teeth. The actress noticed that the man’s seat had been taken by a teen with greasy hair, giant wireless headphones, and an air of surliness. The man noticed too and gave an ‘Ah well’ motion and wandered off to find some floor space. He had a noticeable limp.

  All these personal, small human interactions and dramas continued to be training for her. It was real-life acting school. She never tired of these moments; locking away a small facial expression, a pause in a conversation, a shift of body weight, a smile, the change of gaze, a touch. She saved them for her own usage to bring depth to a character she may play. She was good at it. She was a jobbing actor, always working and always grateful for work. She was heading home to London from the shoot in Montreal.

  Her role had been a good one. It was one of those secondary characters that had, since her late thirties, become her métier. Still, she reflected, it had been a role that she brought a rewarding depth to. The actress noticed a seat become vacant and she stepped quickly towards it. The kind faced toddler whisperer also made a play for the empty seat but pulled away when he saw her move to sit. The actress nodded her thanks and moved her gaze down into her cabin bag as she rummaged around for one of the two novels she carried,
the Iain Banks or the cheap thriller. She grabbed the thriller with a rather lurid cover. She missed the toddler whisperer’s return nod.

  ***

  Tom Price didn’t mind being gazumped for the seat. He moved to the pillar the elegant woman with the nicely fitted sweater and tight jeans had just vacated. There was a vague scent of something floral, herby, ephemeral. He inhaled the aroma deeply without drawing attention to himself. Tom liked the fragrance. Was it hers, the woman who grabbed the seat? The scent reminded him of something, there was a hint of spice and he immediately felt the dry heat of desert, but then there was a softer, floral nose. This scent evoked the cottage garden that had been attached to a country pub close to his childhood home.

  Home. His flight was taking him home but Tom was in no rush. Jack would be happy with Rachel, so the delay didn’t bother him. He sniffed again, the scent was evocative of times and places now distant and he remembered L.P. Hartley’s statement that the past is a foreign country. In his case, he felt it to be literally true. At least his trip home would be different, at least it would be more comfortable than he had expected, and it would certainly be more comfortable than his past.

  Chapter Two

  Montreal Trudeau Airport

  Home was but a fleeting construct for Tom. After twenty years on active duty, very active duty, home had become a rucksack and kitbag and whatever base he had been sent to. After leaving the army he felt unmoored, unable settle back into the small house that he had never lived in and had never felt like a home. He had only bought it because that’s what people did at a certain time of life and with a certain salary.