Disorderly Elements by Bob Cook

Gossudarstvennoi Bezopastnosti , the KGB.
    His peers regarded Bulgakov with mild suspicion. They mistrusted his fondness for Savile Row suits, Rolex watches and other trappings of Western decadence. Only Bulgakov’s superiors knew better. Despite his relatively low rank, he had been given a free hand to do whatever he pleased throughout Europe: his freedom from bureaucratic restraint ensured the safety of countless operatives in his care. His record was one of unblemished excellence.
    Bulgakov boarded the 9.05 train for Victoria and sat in the window seat of a second-class smoking compartment with his attaché case and a pocket romance entitled Love’s Revenge by Bernadette Williams. Books like this baffled Bulgakov. He failed to see why the British working people should devote so much time and money to prose of this sort:
Vera’s heart throbbed in anguish as Milo held her in his passionate embrace. She felt his warm, sweet breath, and panic surged within her.
    â€œNo, Milo,” she breathed. “We mustn’t. The Count will be here soon.”
    â€œHush,” Milo whispered. “I will deal with Count Adolfo when he arrives.”
    He kissed her tenderly and stared deep into her azure eyes. A tear rolled down her face, and he brushed it away with a gentle sweep of his finger.
    â€œWe will never be parted,” Milo said.
    Bulgakov suppressed an urge to vomit all over the page, and he reflected that Marx’s dictum on the opium of the people could be fruitfully applied to areas other than religion. Indeed, it was a mystery to Bulgakov how Marx, who had written his great works in London, could ever have drawn inspiration from the British proletariat. Judging by the contents of Love’s Revenge , the Anglo-Saxon workers had a long way to go.
    He shut the book in disgust and put it beside him. The train rolled into Clapham Junction Station, and more passengers got on. A vast, wrinkled woman in an orange floral dress sat beside Bulgakov. She too had a copy of Love’s Revenge . Unlike Bulgakov, she found the saga of Milo and Vera enthralling.
    Bulgakov stared at the woman in horrified fascination. All his doubts about the English proletariat were summed up by this menopausal monstrosity. What would Marx have made of such a creature, with her blue-rinsed hair, butterfly spectacles and huge plastic earrings shaped to resemble bunches of grapes? Could the Revolution truly begin here?
    Bulgakov forced himself to look away from the woman. He could face tortured suspects with equanimity, he was indifferent to the sight of demonstrators being shot, and the faces of arrested dissidents left him wholly unmoved, but this—this was too much. There were limits to what even a KGB officer should be expected to witness.
    The woman continued to read Love’s Revenge with avid interest. As the train entered Victoria Station she put the book down and dipped into her handbag for her ticket. Having found it, she shut the bag, picked up Bulgakov’s copy of Love’s Revenge , and got off the train.
    Bulgakov watched her go, and noted that her stockings were full of holes, exposing tufts of hair and varicose veins. He shuddered and picked up her copy of Love’s Revenge . Stapled to the inside back cover were some folded documents. He put the book in his attaché case and left the train.
    Inside Victoria Station is a branch of the National Westminster Bank. Bulgakov entered it, took £400 in cash from his attaché case, and paid the money into the account of Mrs J. Hobbes. He then left the station and hailed a taxi, which took him to the British-Soviet Chamber of Commerce, 2 Lowndes Street, SW1.

Chapter Twelve
    â€œD O COME IN,” Owen said. His tone was glacial. Wyman closed the door and sat down in front of Owen’s desk.
    â€œHow did it go?” he asked.
    â€œThe Minister was not pleased,” Owen said solemnly.
    â€œYou know, I had a vague suspicion that he