Checkmate [Mandee/America]

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[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style,background-color: #d4d4d4; width: 140px; border-left: #7E6F8C solid 6px;] TAGS Alfred F. Jones (America) WORDS 565. LYRICS Dorogi by Molchanov. NOTES 29 July 1956 Houston, Texas

[atrb=style,background-color: #d4d4d4; width: 308px;] Sergey often found himself wondering what all had to come to pass so that he would be in his current predicament. Was it fate? Or did the Americans know something with this whole 'free will' idea. It was hard to say for sure. Regardless, the agent was driving around Houston, Texas out of boredom. His wife was growing suspicious and she needed to remain silent for a little longer. In the past few days, Sergey had taken to spending more time outside and in public. He was a fugitive. There had been no cryptic warnings or anything since the move away from New York and Sergey was beginning to doubt that there even was a threat. The KGB had been silent. Finally reaching a park, Sergey slowed his speed and pulled into a free space. Here, people would ignore him. They would ignore the new Chevy and that was fine with Sergey. Working for the KGB wasn't great pay, but working as a lawyer paid very well. The ability to supplement his income as well as the KGB's ability to use him as a mole made Sergey rather versatile. Within minutes of his parking, a patrolling police car approached and the officer got out. Sergey was being accused of speeding, but in his defense, overgrown bushes mostly covered the sign. He was let off with just a warning, but in the exchange, unspoken information had been passed. Sandwiched between the vehicle registration and his driver's license was a single slip of paper. After the officer had left, Sergey got out of his own car and proceeded to do what he always did--exercise. Jogging gave the agent the time he needed to reread the note again in his mind. His handlers back in Moscow weren't being very helpful, but the tip off was enough. Sergey was capable of taking care of himself. Unlike the nations, Sergey wasn't invincible and after running for some time, started feeling the effects of fatigue. Fourth bench on the right going counterclockwise around the permieter of the jogging trails. In essence, that was all the note said. It wasn't too hard to spot the dead blue jay near the correct bench. The further deter people, whoever left the dead drop (in this case, literally within the carcass of a dead bird) smeared the bird's organs around the carcass. It was rather repulsive, but effective. Seeing that no one was clearly around, Sergey let his wallet, lighter, and cigarette box fall from his pocket onto the ground beside the bird, giving the perfect cover for getting near the repulsive thing. Deftly, he slit open the bird's body with one hand while the other was busy gathering his own possessions. The agent scooped out the contents and pocketed them. Among the collection of items was an American quarter. Sergey abandoned the bird and resumed his jog. The coin had the same look and feel as a real quarter, but for one key difference. This coin was hollow on the inside. Press on a specific part and the two halves separated revealing a compartment bearing a note. As he jogged, Sergey pulled the coin from his pocket and pressed down on the the '1' in '1950'. He removed the paper and put the coin back together. The message was brief and written in a small, clear hand. They found you. Keep jogging.

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Alfred spent the last several days in Houston, after receiving a lead that a suspected KGB mole opted to hide out in the area. He paced around as he waited for a phone call containing more information - hopefully information that he could act on. He hated the thought of those spies lurking around in his organizations, attempting to gather as much information as possible to bring back to the corrupt, backward government that they worked for.

Not that he didn't have his own agents set up to try to gather information from the KGB for remarkably similar purposes. He was determined to get rid of as many of Ivan's scouts as possible. This was a race, after all.

Alfred gnashed his teeth together as he pulled into a parking spot at a local park, a few spaces away from a Chevy that matched the description he was given by his informant. Alfred did a few short stretches near his car, warming up for his own jog. He marched over to a drinking fountain, surreptitiously glancing at the license plate as he headed over. The license plate matched. Good. Alfred took a few drinks before wiping off his mouth. He did a few more stretches before he headed out on his way.

He wasn't the only 'agent' in the area, of course. He was just the one who was going to attempt to make first contact. The other agents, unaware as to certain vital information about Alfred, likely assumed this was owing to his youthful appearance. They, like most, figured he was as young as he looked, and therefore relatively new to the ranks of the FBI. He was expendable, in other words. They could afford to lose him if the initial confrontation didn't end well.

Instead, Alfred would make first contact because he was in relatively little danger by doing so. Sending a regular human agent in could put that agent's life at risk. Sometimes risks needed to be taken, of course, but countries could not die that easily. He would be injured enough that it would look believable, but he wouldn't die. He would heal faster than the average human, though would hopefully be out of the public eye by the time this became clear. The only risk was that Alfred's superhuman qualities might be discovered. Expendable? Not at all.

That, and Alfred wanted in on the adventure! He'd be damned if he was going to sit on the sidelines and watch until the last minute. He was in on this mission, and he wanted to be involved in it as much as possible.

He jogged through the park, casually starting up conversation with a few of his citizens that he passed along the way. He enjoyed mingling with them. At one point in his journey he passed a dead bird, both he and the woman he was speaking with looking on at the spectacle in disgust. Why hadn't someone cleaned that yet?

And yet, for all the chatting he'd done, he had yet to encounter the man that he was looking for.

Not long after sighting the dead bird (though a correlation between the two was the last thought in Alfred's mind), he struck gold. This man matched the description of the suspected KGB agent he was looking for. Much as he'd done with his citizens, though this time with an ulterior motive in mind, he fell into step beside the other man. "Hey there!" His voice came out in a light Texas drawl, his location within his borders having the usual effect on his voice. "Great day for joggin', isn't it?"

Mar 31, 2013 12:49:35 GMT -5 Sergey Andreyevich Kozlovsky said:

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style,background-color: #d4d4d4; width: 450px; -moz-border-radius-topright: 30px; border-radius: 0px 30px 0px 0px; border-left: #7E6F8C solid 6px;] { мать-земля родная, русская, Дорогая родина моя! In which a conversation is briefly struck but a quieter and more solitary nature make conversing less than desirable and in which some suspicions are raised yet only as gut feelings--the true nature of the American is still unknown

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style,background-color: #d4d4d4; width: 140px; border-left: #7E6F8C solid 6px;] TAGS Alfred F. Jones (America) WORDS 403. LYRICS Dorogi by Molchanov. NOTES 29 July 1956 Houston, Texas

[atrb=style,background-color: #d4d4d4; width: 308px;] It wasn't long before Alfred approached Sergey. The agent kept calm and pretended to be nothing more than yet another American citizen enjoying a good day for a jog. He could be anyone. As a lawyer, he wasn't particularly famous and had a few clients, defended them well, but didn't win everything. His family could remain unknown and since his wife didn't work, she was in little danger. The hardest part was that Sergey essentially had to run two lives. His assignment to the United States was supposed to be brief, but ended up being extended due unforeseeable consequences. "Hi! I suppose so. There's nothing much else to do today." His accent was mild, but distinctly American to anyone with a good ear. Nameless, he could easily pass as an American. With a false name and documents, no one knew he was a Russian citizen. He kept jogging, thinking that the young man would take a hint and move on. Sergey really wasn't in the mood to talk. He came out here to be alone with his own thoughts, not socialize with teenagers. Heck, Sergey figured he'd seen more than the other guy would see in a lifetime. He was so very wrong, but such knowledge was not known to the Russian spy. "Er, for lack of a better conversation topic, what's your major and what school are you attending?" It was an innocent enough question and Sergey wasn't expecting any fancy answers. In some regards, Sergey could be oblivious, but he definitely noticed that the American kept pace with him. Hoping to get a point across that it was time to part ways, Sergey sped up and increased his stride. Most people would take the hint and let Sergey continue on his way. There was nothing strange about not wanting to talk while exercising. He was concerned about his son, Vladimir. It was hard to explain to a child that people in the United States didn't like Russians; they thought Russians were Communist. The single slip of paper was folded in his pocket. It was hard not to be a little suspicious. Was this...boy part of 'they'? Were 'they' lurking in the shadows? The creeping bit of fear gave Sergey enough extra energy to try and widen any gap a little more. On the outside, it just looked like an adult man feeling good and wanting to run a bit harder.

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Alfred had no intent to 'take the hint', as he was on a mission. Not that there were any glaring hints in the first place. Sergey continued to jog, and even responded to Alfred's commentary. Even if Sergey were not a suspected mole, he would have likely continued the conversation until Sergey gave a more obvious sign that he wanted to be left alone.

That said? He was almost positive the man was a spy for the KGB. He had absolutely no plans to let this man out of his eyesight until he was under arrest.

Sergey unintentionally made it even easier for Alfred to continue talking as he inquired as to what Alfred was 'studying in school'. "The University of Houston and Astronomy." Alfred answered with the first university and major that sprung to mind. Sergey didn't expect any fancy answers and he wouldn't get any fancy answers. "On summer break right now, though!" Most college students would be on summer break in the middle of the summer, right? He thought that made sense, at least.

No, there was nothing strange about not wanting to talk while exercising, but two aforementioned factors worked against Sergey in this regard. He wasn't going to shake Alfred off that easily. Alfred picked up his own pace in order to keep up with Sergey. If Sergey hoped that Alfred would eventually tire out, he would have a long time to wait.

That said, Alfred was aware that he couldn't very well keep jogging alongside Sergey in silence without arousing suspicion. They already had a conversation started, and Alfred intended to continue it. He just needed to keep tabs on Sergey for a bit longer before his men could act, and the best way to do that was to keep up the lines of conversation.

"What about you? What do you do?" It was posed as an innocent question, and was to some extent. If he recalled correctly from his research, this man had a cover job as a lawyer, so it was also casting a line and hoping that Sergey would bite. It was a casual enough question, and went along the lines of Sergey's prior question to him, so hopefully Sergey would play right along.

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style,background-color: #d4d4d4; width: 450px; -moz-border-radius-topright: 30px; border-radius: 0px 30px 0px 0px; border-left: #7E6F8C solid 6px;] { мать-земля родная, русская, Дорогая родина моя! In which the first lies are told, though unintentionally trying to throw Alfred off his trail and in which we hear a little about Sergey's family and Sergey's history

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style,background-color: #d4d4d4; width: 140px; border-left: #7E6F8C solid 6px;] TAGS Alfred F. Jones (America) WORDS 684. LYRICS Dorogi by Molchanov. NOTES 29 July 1956 Houston, Texas

[atrb=style,background-color: #d4d4d4; width: 308px;] Saturdays were supposed to be pleasant. Perhaps this one was, perhaps it wasn't. Sergey was far too concerned about coming up with a convincing story that he wasn't who he really was. The reason wasn't out of suspicion, but because his secrecy was of utmost importance. The less anyone knew, including an innocent college student, the less he had to worry about the FBI hunting him down if they weren't already. The note never gave details on the Americans searching for him. Today, one could never be too careful. He was well aware that in America, students got the summer off. He usually visited his family in Illinois or spent time with his friends. There was a war going on while he was studying, so it was futile to try and return home to Russia. It seemed that simply trying to 'run away' wouldn't be enough to deter the young American. The energy of youth, for sure. Either this kid was completely oblivious to social cues or there was reason to be suspicious. In Russia, people would have just left him alone. In America, people might chat for a bit, but as soon as Sergey broke off communication, it was an obvious sign to part ways. There was nothing to fear, right? He could lie through his teeth, lay a trail of false bread crumbs, anything to keep himself and his family safe. Elena would be expecting him home for dinner and he had promised to take his son, Vladimir, out to play football. That said, Sergey was willing to go to greater lengths to protect himself even if it meant lying. He was good. Unlike some people, Sergey didn't stammer or sweat, or get fidgety when he lied. Lying was like telling the truth. Only it wasn't the truth. "I work in the auto industry." Americans said 'auto' when they meant 'automobile', yes? Sergey decided to play it safe. Better sound uneducated than too smart for his own good. A lawyer was expected to be smart. His answer was vague with a hint of finality. He didn't want to continue the conversation. Still, he was too polite to tell Alfred that he wanted to be left alone. And yet...there was still an ounce of gentleman left in Sergey. Small talk was fine, good even. "Name's Lucas Walker." Another lie. Any other day and Sergey would have said his name was Andrew Kozlov. If there was someone from the FBI around, they would have recognized it. It was his cousin's name and he even managed to get his handlers in Moscow to alter his license so that it read 'Andrew Kozlov'. His feelow attorneys knew him as that and the only person to say otherwise was his wife. Luckily, she didn't work and was able to homeschool Vladimir. The thing about lying was that once one started lying, it was impossible to stop. Sergey had a whole web of lies wrapped around himself. It was harder to keep the lie going when his wife and children weren't knowingly a part of it. The smart thing to do would have been to leave them in Russia, but Sergey couldn't bear to be without his wife and sons. Since moving to America, Sergey had invested in a few pairs of Bermuda shorts. They were good for jogging except that they revealed a single incriminating mark. As a child, he had fallen several stories and shattered his right leg. Despite surgery to set the bones in place, there was permanent scarring where the bone broke through the skin. It was hard to pass the scars off as being from something other than a serious fracture and mostly, Sergey didn't try. He slowed his pace. There was no way he could jog at a quickened pace for too long. There were a few other people out in the park, but most never bothered to give Sergey a second glance. In return, Sergey made no attempt to make eye contact or seem the least bit interested in their existence. Getting rid of the college student was more important.

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The man did not give Alfred the answer that he was expecting, but that meant next to nothing. Lawyer, auto worker, what did it matter if it was a cover job anyway? Alfred had no plans to continue the conversation on that front regardless - though he certainly intended to continue conversing with Sergey. One thing he did find strange about Sergey's job description was that he had not included the name of the manufacturer or dealer he worked for. Most of his citizens would inform anyone who asked a specific company they worked for - not just a vague 'I work for the auto industry'. It certainly wasn't enough to act on, but it was something.

Alfred did not recognize the name that Sergey introduced himself by - Again, this did not deter him. Just because the man did not introduce himself under the known alias of Andrew Kozlov did not mean that he was not said man.

"Sam Adams. Good to meet ya, Lucas." If the spy was going to provide him with an alias, then so would Alfred. He wondered, with amusement, whether Sergey would catch the reference. If he did not, that was another point against him. If he did, then at least the guy did his research.

Alfred noted the man slowing his pace and slowed his own, making certain to keep jogging at the same pace as Sergey so that they could continue their conversation unhindered. He was fairly certain that "Lucas Walker" was the KGB spy he was looking for, but he needed a bit more to go on before he could call his agents into action.

"You're not from around here, are ya?" Alfred inquired with a smile, deciding to be a bit more bold in his pursuit. The question was posed innocently, yet designed to make the man squirm a little if he was indeed a Russian spy. He wanted to see how the other jogger would handle it.

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style,background-color: #d4d4d4; width: 450px; -moz-border-radius-topright: 30px; border-radius: 0px 30px 0px 0px; border-left: #7E6F8C solid 6px;] { мать-земля родная, русская, Дорогая родина моя! In which lies are continued along with the fear of being found out and in which Sergey tries to create an entirely different character and history for himself out of necessity

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style,background-color: #d4d4d4; width: 140px; border-left: #7E6F8C solid 6px;] TAGS Alfred F. Jones (America) WORDS 465. LYRICS Dorogi by Molchanov. NOTES 29 July 1956 Houston, Texas

[atrb=style,background-color: #d4d4d4; width: 308px;] Everything was a lie. At times, Sergey wasn't even sure who he was. He lived and breathed lies. Unfortunately, lying was becoming a habit. If he didn't watch himself, he would degrade to a chronic liar. He had a believable story, but this American was persistent. Sergey didn't trust the American at all. It was by gut instinct, yes, but years with the KGB taught Sergey to always trust his gut instinct when it came to people. Luckily for Alfred, Sergey knew his American history. He forced a small smile to indicate he got the reference of the famous leader of the Sons of Liberty. The next question came as a bit of a surprise. If by 'not from around here' Alfred meant not from Texas, then there was no problem. However, Sergey figured that Alfred suspected he wasn't an American. "I'm from Connecticut originally. My family's Polish. My mother's maiden name is Kaminski. My Alma Mater is Northwestern University where I studied finance. Since, I've been working for Chevrolet." If that didn't quell the American's curiosity, nothing would. It was all a lie and Sergey was quite used to lying and making it sound natural. He only hoped Alfred would take the bait. However, in his attempt to throw the teenager off his trail, Sergey was making himself seem more suspicious. Sergey was playing off the fact that most American couldn't tell the difference between a Russian and Pole. After all, all Slavs looked the same, right? Pretending not to be paranoid was the hardest. Surely there were FBI agents in every tree watching his every move. Sergey jammed his left hand into his pocket and turned on his radio. The idea was to send a message to his handlers in Moscow to alert them of the situation, but make his signal impossible to track or read. So long as people were around, Sergey was in danger. "I take it you're a native Texan." It was a reasonable assumption. Alfred had a Texan accent and he was attending university here in Houston. "I'll only be staying here for a few more days. My cousin Claire and her husband, Robert, are on vacation and they asked me to look after their twin daughters." He kept jogging. Hopefully Alfred wouldn't notice the slightly ragged breathing and sweat dripping down Sergey's face and back. He was nervous and with good reason. Being chased by the FBI was never a relaxing situation to be in. Also, he could only pray that Alfred wouldn't suspect him to be a Russian spy. It felt like a game of cat and mouse. The only problem was that Sergey was the mouse. The Russian's only hope was to remain free long enough to flee back to Russia and the safety of Moscow.

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Alfred listened as Sergey provided him with what could be described as an abbreviated life story. A small smile crept across Alfred's face. The man knew how to cover his tracks, Alfred would give him that much. Unfortunately for Sergey, the very fact that the man mentioned roots in Connecticut gave Alfred more of a lead.

The FBI did their research, of course. They knew that the spy in question studied law at Yale before joining the KGB - and Alfred knew because he'd studied the file before going on this mission. He wasn't about to let a Russian spy slip through his fingers. Regardless of how much more Sergey gave Alfred to work with, he'd likely be taking Sergey in nonetheless. When it came to communist spies, Alfred didn't take any chances. That being said, he still did want as much of a case against this man as he could muster.

"Naw," Alfred responsed to Sergey's inquiry in the same Texas accent, before switching to one remarkably similar to the one Sergey was using. "I was actually born and raised on the east coast." Sergey mentioned watching a cousin's twin daughters next. Oh, this could be a lot of fun. "Where are they now? Hopefully they're old enough to be left on their own, since you went on a jog without them! Unless they're off in the park playing? Still, you'd think you'd want to keep an eye on them..." He trailed off, wondering how Sergey would respond to that one. Either way, he was pretty sure it would get to Sergey. If it was a lie, Alfred was practically calling him out on it. If it was the truth, Alfred was criticizing his skills as a babysitter. Alfred wasn't particularly bothered either way. He wasn't in the business of pleasing commie bastards, after all.

"Maybe we should take a break." Alfred suggested with a casual smile, noting that Sergey was starting to look fatigued. Though Alfred did not correctly attribute it to nerves, he could tell that the jog was starting to get to Sergey.

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style,background-color: #d4d4d4; width: 450px; -moz-border-radius-topright: 30px; border-radius: 0px 30px 0px 0px; border-left: #7E6F8C solid 6px;] { мать-земля родная, русская, Дорогая родина моя!

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style,background-color: #d4d4d4; width: 140px; border-left: #7E6F8C solid 6px;] TAGS Alfred F. Jones (America) WORDS 522. LYRICS Dorogi by Molchanov. NOTES 29 July 1956 Houston, Texas

[atrb=style,background-color: #d4d4d4; width: 308px;] Sergey assumed that the FBI were looking for a single, Russian lawyer. His plan was to simply make himself appear to be anyone but the guy the FBI was hunting. The hard part was keeping the entire lie consistent. When lying, there are a few rules to kepe in mind. One is to keep it simple. One can later embellish if necessary, but people will believe simple lies. Two, keep it realistic. There is nothing worse than an unbelievable lie. Three, don't contradict. People don't believe lies that contradict themselves. Sergey reviewed everything he had said to the American. His name was Lucas Walker. He worked for Chevrolet. He got his degree at Northwestern University. He came from a Polish family in Connecticut. He was in Houston to look after his nieces. Sergey's main problem was his accent. He spoke English with a mild Connecticut accent and it was too dangerous to pretend he was from anywhere else. If a juxtoposition of his lies existed, then the presence of Connecticut would be consistent everywhere. It varied from having worked in Connecticut, raised in Connecticut, or the truth, studied in Connecticut. It was rather surprising to hear the teenager change accents. It had a distinctly Texan flavor, but now, the boy was using a far milder and familiar accent. Someone with that sort of talent would be useful. He hadn't really thought this through all the way. What did girls like anyways? Dance was the first thing that came to mind. How long were dance lessons? Two hours? "They take dance lessons. I dropped them off at the studio before coming here. Watching little girls do ballet for two hours doesn't seem very appealing." There. Hopefully it was believable. Personally, Sergey enjoyed going to see Russian ballet with his wife. Since moving to the United States, there hadn't been any opportunities to watch a dance performance, but the man had fond memories from living in Moscow. The idea of taking a break was appealing. However, it would make lying a little more difficult. For the most part, Sergey could lie fluently, but today was incredibly stressful. Moving targets were hard to hit. Maybe the FBI really was waiting in the woods for Sergey to stop jogging. One clean hit and he would be dead. Dead as a doornail dead. Maybe this kid was just some innocent college student, but today, Sergey wasn't taking his chances. "I'm alright, though a break wouldn't hurt. After all, it's a nice day." A girl on her bike passed the two joggers and waved pleasantly before speeding on her way. Sergey was breathing hard--a combination of stress and fatigue. It was hard to know if being told that the FBI was onto him was good or bad. For one, he now knew to be cautious, but he also felt FBI eyes on him at all times. There was no happy medium here. Sergey slowed his pace as they approached another bench. By the time they reached the bench, he was walking and clearly out of breath. He took several deep breaths in an attempt to calm his nerves.

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Alfred was not surprised to hear a quick turn-around from Sergey, as he claimed that the girls he was supposed to be watching were at dance lessons. He chuckled at the commentary that succeeded it. "I can't say that I blame you. I'd probably do the same if I could. I take it their lessons are somewhere around here?"

The blond was determined to get Sergey to keep talking. Even if they only talked about the weather, they would still be talking and Alfred could keep an eye on Sergey. Now that he had the suspected spy in his sights, Alfred did not plan to let him out of his sights until he was certain that he was in custody. Especially not with the kind of information he was passing along.

Alfred smiled as Sergey indicated that he was receptive to Alfred's idea that they should take a break. It would be much easier to go after Sergey when the time came if he wasn't already in motion. He, like Sergey, waved at the girl riding past on her bike. He turned his attention back to the other man, who by this point was slowing considerably. Alfred, meanwhile, continued to jog in place even as they reached the bench.

"I'm training for a competition." Alfred piped up suddenly, in an effort to explain why he was still jogging even though he was the one who suggested a break in the first place. In reality, Alfred was trying to show Sergey that he was stronger than him. Alfred had an advantage, of course, owing to what he was, but the fact remained that he wanted to be better than Ivan at everything he possibly could. Showing one of his spies that he had a higher resolve than him? Alfred was relishing the opportunity.

Technically, his excuse was no excuse. He was training for a competition - Just a much larger competition than Sergey realized at this point in time.

When Alfred finally did stop jogging, he focused his eyes on the Russian at once. "You know, you look a bit familiar...do you have a cousin named Andrew Kozlov?"

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[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style,background-color: #d4d4d4; width: 140px; border-left: #7E6F8C solid 6px;] TAGS Alfred F. Jones (America) WORDS 416. LYRICS Dorogi by Molchanov. NOTES 29 July 1956 Houston, Texas

[atrb=style,background-color: #d4d4d4; width: 308px;] "Near enough." He didn't know of any dance studios. Being vague would hopefully slip under the radar. Even though Sergey was still very fit, he couldn't run three kilometers in ten minutes anymore. His sit-up count was a bit lower than when he was younger and just keeping up with the young recruits was harder by the year. However, Sergey was more than capable of bringing his reps back up if he worked hard enough. It was quite hot outside and fatigue came on sooner than in New England or Russia. Russia never really saw temperatures over thirty-eight degrees Celsius. Even though he stopped running, Sergey wasn't giving his body much of a break. He took the time to stretch some of the muscles in his legs and arms. It felt as though he was fighting the urge to be paranoid so as to raise the least suspicion. He merely nodded at Alfred's comment regarding training. It didn't matter to Sergey. He had more important things to worry about. His wife and sons plagued his mind. What they didn't know could hurt them. Sergey had heard of Comrade Braginsky and rumors circulated about his influence, but never met the elusive man. There was no way of knowing that this teenage boy wasn't even truly human. Alfred's next comment was like a punch in the gut. Apparently the lies had been unsuccessful. Clearly the FBI had done their research. Sergey froze for a moment or two, shocked. "No, I don't know anyone by that name." Cover blown. If the American was perceptive enough, he would have noticed the momentary falter in Sergey's otherwise relaxed and cool presence. The muscles had tensed instinctively. Since 1942, Sergey and Andrew hadn't contacted one another for any reason. Sergey was busy studying at Yale and Andrew had enlisted in the military. However, Andrew never came home after the war. He was presumed dead, but no one knew for sure. Andrew's parents had laid a gravestone over where the body should have been. Sergey had merely stolen his cousin's name as a cover. Sergey Kozlovsky sounded too Russian. Sergey went back to his stretches, but he acted differently. There was a sense of nervous energy, anxiety. Knowing, Sergey decided, was worse than not knowing. Every muscle, every neuron in his body was poised for a flight reaction. The spy was the zebra drinking from the watering hole, ready to run at the slightest movement. The enemy could be anywhere and was everywhere.

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Alfred knew that the time to act was near. Three other agents were in the immediate vicinity, keeping their eyes on Alfred and waiting for the signal that "Lucas" was their man. There was only one more test left, and Alfred would see how his jogging partner scored soon enough.

He took a few steps toward Sergey as the other man denied knowing the name Andrew Kozlov. "Huh, that's odd. You look so much like him! He's from Connecticut too. Studied at Yale in the 1940s. Only difference was that he was Russian, not Polish." Alfred smiled as he revealed bits and pieces of Sergey's own life story, all part of the research his agency gathered together for just this purpose.

Alfred was still unsure what to do with this confirmation. He was as close to positive as he could be that this man was the spy that he was looking for. However, capturing him in their current location would be a challenge. Part of him wanted to make an example of Sergey, and to do it in broad daylight to send a message that any Russian spies he caught in his agencies would be dealt with promptly. However, he had to admit that he did not want unsuspecting citizens in the park to get involved - or, in the worst case scenario, put in danger.

The young country was on edge as well, but for a different reason. If Sergey was the zebra at the watering hole, Alfred was a cheetah ready to pounce. He started to stretch as well, his eyes on Sergey the entire time. If the man made any sudden moves he wanted to be able to act, even though he had other agents to fall back on. No doubt they would spring to action if Sergey bolted.

"Unless you're actually Russian and you're not telling me? But why would you need to hide something like that? Only if you're doing something you're not supposed to be doing...are you doing something wrong, Sergey Kozlovsky?"

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[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style,background-color: #d4d4d4; width: 140px; border-left: #7E6F8C solid 6px;] TAGS Alfred F. Jones (America) WORDS 465. LYRICS Dorogi by Molchanov. NOTES 29 July 1956 Houston, Texas No dialogue, just narrative. I'm also breaking it up a little to draw things out.

[atrb=style,background-color: #d4d4d4; width: 308px;] Wrong. He was from St. Petersburg, but grew up in Moscow. He was attacked by a dog, fell off the apartment roof, and was declared a lost cause by all of his teachers. His uncle was a prominent member of the Party, and Sergey had KGB connections. Someone would hear of it. Someone would find out. He did his best not to react, not to reveal himself anymore. Breathe! Sergey's mind was racing. And, just when he thought it was all under control, the truth fell like a brick. His body stopped listening. It didn't process, it reacted. They knew who he was from the start. That bastard had told them his name. There was only one course of action his body understood. He ran. He ran back the way he came, right hand secured around the pistol in his pocket. The flood of adrenaline kept him going, kept him moving. There was no time to think, no time to reason. This had turned life or death. People turned to stare at him. Sergey ran like some hell beast, like he was running from his own shadow. His feet pounded hard against the trail. His heart was racing and beat so hard it might burst. Distance. He needed to put as much distance between himself and the American authorities as possible. Were they behind him? Sergey honestly didn't know. He wasn't thinking rationally. His right hand brushed against the two pieces of paper he had received earlier that afternoon. He pulled them out and without a second thought, ate them. Evidence gone. Of course, it would need to be reported later, but the KGB would understand. Sergey's first destination was his car. A sports jacket would provide a good hiding place for a pistol and a knife. In Texas, it was illegal to possess a Bowie knife on one's person, but legal to keep it in one's car. Just in case, Sergey kept a Bowie knife in the glove compartment. He stuffed the sheathed blade into his jacket and slammed the door shut. A glance behind him and he could just make out four figures running towards him. One against four. Bad odds. No time was wasted in running. At this point, Sergey didn't care where he was going. So long as there were people, he was safe. They couldn't attack him in broad daylight with so many people around. Saturday afternoon in July? The Americans really were idiots. Even if the Americans were armed, it didn't matter. Guns were too loud and would attract too much attention. Besides, it was hard to hit a fleeing target. Too many people and the chances of hitting an innocent civilian increased greatly. For now, Sergey could breathe for a moment. So long as he stayed near people.

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Alfred expected Sergey to bolt. They knew his identity. They knew he was the KGB spy. Sergey had no choice but to run. At least then he had a chance, however small, of eluding capture.

Alfred ran after Sergey, determined not to give Sergey the advantage that he was hoping for. Years upon years of military experience had their advantage - Alfred was able to keep a respectable enough distance to pursue Sergey, though he lacked the proximity that he needed in order to pounce.

It was true that Alfred acted on impulse. Perhaps he should have been more careful, luring Sergey to a less populated area before he revealed his knowledge of Sergey's true identity. He was paying for it now, but remained determined not to let it effect the outcome of this chase. He would get his prize in the end. He would not let Ivan win this round, not when he was so close.

Alfred ran slightly ahead of the other agents, having the advantage of being closest to Sergey when the chase began. Though he did not retrieve his gun, he slid his hand into his pocket to ensure that it was in it's proper position were he to need it. He and the other agents were fast approaching Sergey as he made a brief stop at his car. Alfred narrowed his eyes, doing what he could to bridge the gap somewhat in the short time Sergey stayed stationary at his car.

It was plain as day that Sergey stopped at the car for something. No one in Sergey's position would take the risk of sacrificing the head start he had by stopping for no reason. No, Sergey had to be retrieving a weapon, or evidence of some sort. The car would need to be searched after the capture was successful.

Alfred and his agents were at a disadvantage as long as there were crowds around, and Alfred knew it. However, he did have one matter on his side - He certainly knew the area better than Sergey. If Sergey made one wrong move, Alfred could still pounce. Just one slip up...

As a small side note, a sports coat could serve as a good means of distraction in order to evade capture. Hold it by the back of the collar and whip it into the enemy's face. The natural reaction is to protect the eyes and face. In this way, one can attain valuable seconds that could equate to life or death. This had been a part of Sergey's training as an agent. Of course, no one wanted to be in such a situation but teaching it was necessary. It was too dangerous to bring his files and the Russian hoped that the FBI wouldn't find them. The briefcase was still in the car wedged underneath the driver's seat.

He kept on running, though he no longer had a specific destination. Actions were made on impulse. Turn? Go for it. He didn't know the park at all; heck, he didn't even know Houston very well. Sergey thought he was staying in relatively populated sections of the park, but such was not the case. Believing to have put considerable distance between himself and the American agents, Sergey slowed his pace and checked his surroundings. The first problem was the lack of people. It was still far too dangerous to fire a gun, but if he was killed, there would be no civilian witnesses. Second, the place was surrounded by woods.

Sergey swore silently to himself. He knew he had to keep running in order to have the possibility of surviving. Hopefully the Americans didn't have dogs. The KGB agent made a hard left turn and fled to the cover of the trees. Branches cut at his face as he ran, moving deeper into the wooded area. Sergey only stopped when he realized how lost he was. His heart was pounding so loud, he was sure the people in New York could hear. The simple metal cross he wore under his clothes felt hot against his chest.

Capture had to be out of the picture. If only he could get back to his car, he could drive anywhere. He had a family to think of as well as his integrity. Sergey knew he couldn't turn himself in and if capture was inevitable, then he wasn't going to submit without a fight.

He kept still, straining to hear the sounds of approaching people. How tenacious were the Americans? Sergey knew that if he moved, the Americans might hear him. However, if he remained still, then he wasn't be any more productive. The thought of standing perfectly still until dark wasn't very appealing nor was it practical. Of all the options, keeping still made the most sense. For a few minutes, at least.