Chapter 1
Over the last thirty hours or so of travel, Lee St John had convinced himself that the Russian foreign intelligence service might know he had reasons, on his return to New Zealand, to finally disembark either in Auckland or Wellington. Auckland would be to catch up with his long-standing girlfriend, Sophie, which he had originally planned to do as soon as he landed. Wellington, on the other hand, was his home town when he wasn’t posted overseas, and was HQ for the government department he worked for. He was due to resume a position there after going on leave for the rest of the week.
To be less predictable, therefore, after passing through border security at Auckland Airport, he bought a ticket for a flight to Christchurch, hoping he could avoid pursuit. It was as good a place as any to lay low.
He found a corner to sit in the busy domestic terminal, away from the bulk of pedestrian traffic; the less visible the better. If he was being tailed by Russian agents, they might show his picture around. He wanted to let Sophie know his predicament but there wasn’t time to find a public call box. Three years of cautious behavior in Moscow made him rule out resorting to his cellphone. As a new employee at the New Zealand Embassy, he had been forewarned about their use for communicating sensitive information. The Russians could use smartphone monitoring spyware, even outside their own country, and he wanted to avoid drawing attention to Sophie.
Having seen and read a lot of thrillers, he couldn’t help feeling paranoid about his situation.
As he waited the short interval until his plane became ready for boarding, he didn’t see any faces he remembered from one or other of the legs of his Emirates flight from Moscow. No one paid him particular attention, including the exceptionally beautiful young woman seated opposite. Other people around him in the concourse were going about their own business. Nonetheless, a prickling sensation, an impression that he was being spied on, began at the back of his neck when the boarding call sounded for his flight.
Reaching the departure lounge, he searched faces in the waiting crowd but avoided a prolonged stare at any individual. He recognized no one.
He took his economy class seat towards the centre of the Airbus A320. Two or three men, among passengers who boarded, looked like they might have Eastern European origins but their faces rang no bells, and they ignored him.
Lee’s flight stopped-over at Wellington for thirty minutes. He had to disembark but didn’t go out to the concourse, choosing to pass through security into the waiting area for re-boarding. The room filled quickly and he recognised several passengers from the Auckland leg of the flight, as would be expected. Only one stood out. A woman close to his girlfriend’s age. She appeared agitated, almost distressed. She was short in stature and willowy, with blonde hair right to the roots, her casual clothes rumpled from travel.
When she glanced at him, with a lost expression, his own predicament concerned him too much to care about whatever hers might be. He ignored her after that, withdrawing into himself and contemplating his circumstances.
The whole situation was bizarre!
He was certain that the events leading him to become a fugitive simply didn’t befall embassy press attachés, ordinary people like him. They happened to spooks in foreign countries. Maybe the Russians had mistaken him for one.
It had all begun with farewell drinks at a popular Moscow bar.
