For Peter Alenin, today would be as any other day.
He worked for the Komitet gosudarstvennoy bezopasnosti, border division. His work was imperative to keeping Soviet Secrets out of the hands of the enemy.
At least, that's what his commanding officer told him the first day. In truth, he never saw much action.
He had started the KGB application process hoping to work in espionage, but with more than 500,000 operatives worldwide, they could afford to be picky with who went where.
And sure, border guard wasn't the most exciting job, but it was a job, and with the KGB, no less.
There were many who would, and in some cases, had killed for such an opportunity, though admittedly, never for border guard.
Peter had risen quickly through the ranks. Though he had graduated from the Dzerzhinskii Higher Border Command School in Alma-Ata a scant decade ago, he was already an officer. As head of the passport control office stationed in Moscow, there were none who truly envied his job, but if he helped keep even the smallest bit of illegal arms, immigrants, or even literature out of his beloved Russia, he was doing his job, and Peter was determined that none would do it better.
As he sat in his small office, staring blankly at the passing visitors, there was a slight tapping at the door.
"For Gods sake, knock like a man!" He snapped.
As a slightly more authoritative knock began, Peter cut it off.
"Never mind now. Enter."
The slight frame of one of the privates appeared as the door opened.
"Ah, Alexei. Is there a problem?
Alexei stood at attention.
"No, sir. But there's a man at customs who is insisting to see you. He claims you are old friends, and his refusal to submit to a search or even a passport check is causing something of an stir among the men."
With a long sigh, Peter stood up from his abnormally uncomfortable chair.
"Very well, Alexei. We might as well get this over with, yes? Take me to this 'old friend'."
"Yes, sir".
As they walked, Peter amused himself by imagining who it could be that would consider themselves an old friend. Someone from command school, perhaps? He would find out soon enough.
As he turned the corner, two things happened almost simultaneously.
First, he made eye contact with a man about his age, with sandy hair and a strong jawline.
Second, memories began flashing through Peter's mind.Of a happier time, before command school, when he still had Vera, the woman he loved in his life.
Then one memory surfaced, clearer than the rest.
It was one of Vera telling him it was over, that she loved another. Imagine his surprise, his anger, when he discovered that the one she now loved was his best friend, the very man standing before him now.
Just seeing him brought back the feelings of hatred he had for this man for the past decade.
He took that emotion and channelled it, as he had been taught. He channeled it onto two words.
Two words filled with as much hate, pain, and anger as he could manage.
"Hello, Gavriil."
As if they could feel the hate, Alexei and the other guards took an unconscious step backwards. Gavriil, on the other hand, did no such thing. He did the opposite.
"Peter Petrovich Alenin", he said, using Peters patronymic, as was appropriate when addressing your superiors, "it has been far too long, comrade."
Reaching forward, Gavriil grasped Peter's forearm tightly. Peter released it just as quickly.
"I would speak to you privately." He told Gavrill.
"And I, you." He replied.
As they walked back to Peter's office, neither spoka word.
Peter planned to respectfully listen to what would surely be a preposterous, and most likely impossible, request, then eject Gavrill from his office, and possibly the premises, forcibly if necessary.
Oh, how he hoped it would be necessary.
Peters first words to his old friend in private were filled with contempt.
"How is Vera?"
Gavrill looked up in surprise.
"She's... dead. I assumed you knew."
Peters hand tightened almost imperceptibly, and his Adams apple bobbed in his throat.
"No, I had...had not heard. What happened?"
"Officially? She died in a car accident. But I know the truth. She was murdered, and I can prove it."
Peter was somehow able to muster up a snort of derision, despite the onslaught of grief.
"Murder? Who would murder Vera? She's harmless, and politically, worthless."
"About six months ago, I discovered Vera had been unfaithful, on a number of occasions. When I confronted her about it, we had a long talk. We worked it out."
"Do you have a point?" Peter asked, "because I don't need to hear this."
"I'm coming to it. In the course of her...infidelities, Vera came across a small piece of information. She didn't think much of it at the time, but as she began to look into it, she made several rather disturbing discoveries."
"Discoveries? Would you care to elaborate?"
Gavrill leaned forward.
"One discovery in particular. One concerning our dear Chairman, Vladimir Kryuchkov."
Peter held up a hand, causing Gavrill to fall silent. Rising from his chair, he glanced up and down the hallway. Turning back, he locked eyes with Gavrill.
"This is not the time, nor the place. The Danilovsky district, do you know it?"
"Da."
"There is a bar there. The Helte. One hour."
"Understood."
"Come alone."
"Da."
