Buried By The Highway

The Chatterbox

"A chatterbox is a treasure for a spy."

                                                                                              ~ Russian Proverb

Soviet Embassy
London, England, United Kingdom
September 6th, 1989

Anastasia Malova slowly realized just how much trouble she found herself in.

It should've been nothing more than a simple life. Instead, conforming to her father's wishes, she ended up working a mid-level position at the Soviet Embassy in London. It was decent work with decent pay but being so far away from Leningrad began to etch into her soul.

While Anastasia conceded that the United Kingdom was a far better place, home was home, and she wanted to go back somewhere familiar. While fluent in English, she rarely used it in the world beyond the walls of the embassy. She even avoided her own neighbors, as curious as they might have been about the woman from the USSR.

This was why she was taken aback when someone approached her. Of course, she reflected with a scowl as she typed out her reports, it just had to be an intelligence man from the British Security Service. It was out in the open, at one of the markets, where the black Briton casually introduced himself. Milo Witkowski was his name, and he was looking for information on one of her bosses.

If she had refused, Milo and his people would 'release' a photo of the two together where they stood. The KGB knew who Milo was, he told her, and it would be considered high-treason just to be talking to him. She didn't know what to do. Was this man bluffing? Was he not? If she ran, and went straight to her boss, telling them of what happened, would they believe her, or send her to a labor camp? She couldn't take the chance. Like with her father, she gave into fear and pressure.

She started with all the small things: names, ranks, roles, some other miscellaneous information. Something harmless, she reasoned. As long as she provided, her 'secret' was safe. Yet, despite being compensated, she never seemed to satisfy her new handler. Then in escalated.

Photography of secret documents that she had clearance for. Eavesdropping on senior staff, including the London Rezidentura, General Friedrich Yermakov. Things that would surely expose her as a spy, willing or not.

As weeks went by, she began to worry about whether or not her superiors were watching her. Paranoia soon set in and she became suspicious of her own friends and colleagues. It got to the point where she isolated herself from everyone else and hadn't slept well since. It wasn't a hard conclusion to come to: she vilified the idea of being a spy. People back home would kill to have a job such as this, to work abroad with all of its perks and perils. Ironic, because if they found out what she has done, they would kill her instead.

To think, all she wanted was to play her violin for an audience and entertain others. Bigger dreams shattered by a reality that could very well end with her as a nameless corpse buried by the highway.

Anastasia just finished writing the last of her reports when she saw General Yermakov pass by. He was a wrinkled old man who had served in the Great Patriotic War. Despite his age, and health issues that she knew about, he was still very lively. This time, however, she noticed a sorrowed look on his face and that he was slouched as he walked into his office.

What a damn shame, she told herself.

The man took her under his wing when she first arrived. While she didn't understand why, she was always appreciative. She had someone to talk to, and someone to protect her if things went bad. Now, she knew as she felt her heart sank, she was betraying him, not just her country. When she was told this was the man she would extract information from, she understood why that intelligence man approached her, of all people.