“Hey! Watch where you're going will you!”
Nojovski nodded vaguely in the man's direction. The bustle of Donetsk's early morning foot traffic had caught him off guard, and he was struggling to keep his mind focussed. He navigated his way through the crowds towards a ticket booth, and tried to avoid any more altercations.
“Destination?” the ticket officer asked him, utterly disinterested in the answer.
“Kyev.” Nojovski answered.
“15.60.”
Nojovski handed over a crisp twenty, and quickly pocketed the tickets and change. It felt strange to be doing something so routine again. The past ten years had been enough to destroy the minds of most men, and Nojovski was not exactly “running without fault”. He had to stop himself from just wanting to run home, away from all this, away from the sheer terror of what he was boarding a train to meet. But this had to be done. There was only so long you could put something like this off before you may as well just hurl yourself off a bridge. A tannoy gruffly announced the arrival of the 9:20 to Kyev Central, and Nojovski joined the stream of people heading in it's direction.
The train was typical of Russian design – practicality before beauty, and it was clear they had taken the former so much to heart they had all together forgotten about the latter. It clunked to a halt, and Nojovski hurried down the end of the platform in a vain attempt to find some kind of solitude in a quiet carriage. A brief glance over his shoulder revealed the futility of that plan. You would have thought this train was carrying emergency aid supplies such was the desperation in the faces of those heading towards it. He boarded the second carriage from the front, and realised his dream of a quiet journey into Kyev was deader than the slowly decaying pigeon tucked neatly under the seat in front of him.
A morbidly obese businessman made some unrecognisable noise towards him and slumped down in the seat he had hoped would remain unoccupied. His elbow snuggled obtrusively into Nojovski's side. Dimitri squirmed in his seat, reluctantly fighting back the desire to break the man's arm in three places and fold it into his briefcase, but the last thing he needed right now was attention. He moved as close to the wall as he could, and tried to focus on the view outside as the train struggled out of the station and on into the cold wilderness towards Kyev.
It was like a child's xylophone, banging noisily in his ear. Again, and again, and again. Nojovski waved a hand aimlessly, trying to stop whatever was making that noise. A hand gently shook his shoulder.
“Mr Nojovski. We're here.”
Nojovski's eyes snapped open, and his eyes focussed on the shapely figure of a KLM stewardess smiling politely at him. He smiled awkwardly, and thanked her. He cursed for allowing himself to sleep. The surgery must have knocked something out of him, and he made a mental note to get it back.
The light was pouring into the cabin as weary travellers pawed open their window blinds and tried to make out the various London landmarks below. Nojovski followed suit and grimaced as the plane lurched downwards. The pilot quickly chirped up over the tannoy with a belated apology, asking all passengers to please fasten their seatbelts. Nojovski heard a nearby passenger grumble something in Russian about “horses” and “already bolted” and smirked to himself. There was nothing like a bit of Eastern Bloc humour to warm the soul.
Fifteen minutes later, Nojovski was through passport control quickly thanks to his diplomatic papers, and heading toward the rowdy arrivals area. He turned up his jacket collar, and with the aid of his three-day stubble, avoided the attention of almost everyone. One old lady appeared to think he was her grandson, but a quick curl of the lip had her hastily looking for other options. A man towards the back caught his eye, and motioned for him to head towards the rear car park.
“Nojovski?” the man said when they reconvened beyond the crowd.
“Yes. Who are you?”
“Jay Croft. Sanderson sent me to meet you.”
Nojovski nodded and looked at him expectantly. Croft was trying not to look new at this, his over-ironed shirt and expensive haircut betraying him. He was beaming at Nojovski with the look a new dog gives his master and it was disturbing him.
“We should go then?” Nojovski suggested with more than a hint of impatience.
“Sure, do you need anything?” Croft offered eagerly.
“A car would help I guess.” Nojovski surprised himself at how nice he was being.
“Why don't we get a coffee before we head back?”
“I'm not sure if you're on work experience, or you're just that stupid to suggest that two secret service agents spend more time in a public place than is necessary, but whatever your reason, show me where the car is. If you decide to stay here and have a fucking cappuccino, please, be my guest.”
As the last words slipped out of Nojovski's mouth, he closed his eyes and sighed. He half expected to open them and find Croft in a heap on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably, but to his credit there was was, staring at him with a fair amount of burning rage behind the agency trained blank face.
“It's this way” Croft forced out.
“I'm sorry Jay. I know you're just doing your job, and the strain of losing your partner due to a mistake you couldn't possibly have avoided must be terrible.” Nojovski wished he'd said.
Oh the joy of hindsight.
The man was snoring now, a globule of spit trembling between his slightly parted lips. Nojovski looked at him and shuddered. He turned away and caught his reflection in the window. Tears had streaked their way down his face and Nojovski was taken aback by the sight of them. He faked a yawn and wiped his face, trying not to catch anyone's eye, lest they give him a judging look, and stood, stepping out into the centre of the carriage.
He was thirsty, and a guard pointed him in the direction of the buffet cart, which was rumbling its way awkwardly down the aisle, pushed by a man who looked too old to be walking, let alone working. Nojovski purchased a small coffee and allowed himself the moment of pleasure as the thick black concoction stirred him from his daydreams.
The train finally rumbled into Kyev, and Nojovski stooped to look out the window, admiring the ancient archways that criss-crossed above. Even with everything bad that this city now meant to him, the little things that he had always enjoyed shone through, like tiny beacons of sunshine on a dismal day. Dimitri thought he may have smiled if he hadn't felt so thoroughly unlike smiling, something which in itself nearly made him at least smirk. He pulled his jacket from under the right buttock of his still sleeping neighbour, and squeezed his way onto the bustling platform, and out into the city beyond.
Not five minutes from the station, Nojovski settled himself behind a small table in a backstreet café, ordering coffee and a bagel from the skinny young girl who had come to take his order. She smiled when she returned, and set down his mid morning snack before him. Dimitri had forgotten what public etiquette was like, and stammered as he dug around in his brain for a simple thank you and polite nod. Struggling to regain his composure, he looked up quickly enough to see the burly silhouette of Aleksander Yekov attempting to squeeze himself into a seat next to him. He waved the girl away impatiently, and in the same movement, smacked Nojovski clean across the face.
“I am not a man to be kept waiting Dimitri.” Yekov's stare was cold and clinical.
Nojovski had expected worse from his former employer, but was still taken aback by the bravura of his retribution. He clicked his jaw awkwardly, and took a swig of the coffee.
“A hug would have been nice, Aleksander.”
Yekov continued to stare, the stone grey of his eyes revealing nothing, when all of a sudden a roar of laughter burst out of him. The old man's willowy grey hair jumped about his head, sending a small cloud of dandruff into the air.
“Dimitri Nojovski. Ten years out of it and you're still as sharp as ever. I am most impressed and amused. Most amused. Are you well my friend?”
Dimitri shuddered inside but kept himself physically composed. The mere shape of Yekov's lips making the words “my friend” was enough to make him reach out and crash the old man’s face against the table, over and over again, until those lips could utter no more than a bloody gurgle. But now was not the time.
He nodded. “Thank you for seeing me. I'm here to take you in.”
Yekov started to shake his head, but Nojovski grabbed his face tightly.
“Don't even think about moving.” Nojovski hissed. “I know you had Jay killed, and after ten years, I can prove it.”
