[Scroll Down for Chapter One, where Genady Navolska, a Soviet illegal, receives his first delivery of stolen crypto from U.S. Navy LT (jg) Howard Simeneau, who believes he is working in the cause of peace by betraying his country]
The drive to his next stop was about two hours. The material Howard had given him was time sensitive, and it needed to begin its journey back to The Center as soon as possible. Also, the longer it remained in his possession, the greater his personal danger. Once he was on the road he took out a Camel, cracked the driver's side window, and lit the cigarette. American cigarettes were good, and inexpensive. Genady especially liked Camels, but one of his conceits was that he hated smoke in the car. He never smoked when he worked, so it was a relief to get on the road.
He took the first Newport News exit and found a legal on street parking spot near the Trailways bus depot. He opened the car door, disposed of his cigarette on the street, and entered the depot, where he stashed the pack in a locker.
Genady returned to his car and drove to a pay phone. As the coins clanged down the slot, he casually confirmed that he was not being observed. It was a lazy Sunday evening, and there was no one about in that part of town. It would have been obvious if someone had been following him unless it was a remarkable job. A French accent answered at the other end. "Allo?" "Good evening my friend, this is Allie. Can we meet for breakfast tomorrow morning? I have a present for you." "Of course. Would seven be convenient?" "Yes. I will be there. See you then." The Frenchman hung up without saying goodbye.
He drove home through the the rapidly fading twilight. As he pulled into the driveway he told himself that it had been a good day. Things were coming together. He could have pulled into the garage - just barely. He always had some project going on in there, but he needed to keep room for the car, in case he needed to do some private project on the car itself. He left the car outside. It was dark by now. The Gibbous Moon had risen in the south east, casting a comforting glow on the modest neighborhood. The house would have been small for an American family, just two bedrooms, a living room, a tiny study or den, an eat-in kitchen, one and a half bathrooms. Definitely a leftover from an earlier time. One bedroom and bath were on an abbreviated second floor. For the average Soviet family it would have been a palace, and he had it all to himself, a fact that made him feel occasionally guilty. It wasn't a beach front house, but it was close enough to the beach that there wasn't really the lawn that Americans prized. The property surrounding the house, as with all the others in the neighborhood, was sandy, with some scrub trees scattered about that could tolerate the unwelcoming soil.
He thought of celebrating his first successful delivery from Howard with a shot or two of aquavit, but decided to put it off. As long as he was in the west he was working, and the danger was there. It was best to run sober and alert.
