Fit For Purpose

he moved his coffee cup up to his lips, he surreptitiously glanced across the road at Rabinovich in the cafe’s window. Colonel Kamenev of the FSB listened to his team’s chatter coming through his hidden earpiece. He listened as the team talked through the logistics of their plan, he watched as the team’s motorcycle, taxi, and minibus took up their prearranged positions. Pleased with the professionalism of his team’s preparation, Kamenev carefully turned his full attention back to Rabinovich. He checked his watch and mentally confirmed the set time for the journalist, who was a member of Kamenev’s team, to conclude the interview.
“Any minute now,” he whispered. He watched the cafe across the road as Rabinovich stood, smiled, and shook hands with the Irish journalist. Kamenev spoke quietly as if to no one, “OK, he’s on his way out… any second now.”
Rabinovich stepped out on to the beachfront street’s pavement; he squinted in the sunlight. As his eyes adjusted to the glare, he looked up and down the road and across to the beach suspiciously but, seeing nothing out of the ordinary, started on his walk home. The minibus approached from the north, a taxi from the south. Rabinovich looked across to the road when he heard the loud, noisy acceleration of a motorcycle; he watched as the bike dodged in and out of the light traffic before cutting in front of the taxi and slowed. Multiple car horns blared. Rabinovich slowed his pace to watch the traffic shenanigans with slight amusement. The motorcycle veered in front of the taxi, purposefully forcing it to lurch as if out of control. The taxi fishtailed across the centre line into the path of the oncoming minibus. The taxi clipped the side of the minibus which appeared to simultaneously speed up and slide. Rabinovich saw what was happening, but too late. He opened his mouth as if to scream as the minibus jumped the curb swerved onto the pavement, and ran Rabinovich down. He was dead before the minibus’ wheels had stopped rotating.
To the casual observers, who now crowded around the scene of the crash, it looked like a horrible, tragic accident. They would report it as such to the police collecting witness statements. Across the street, Kamenev neatly folded his paper and placed it under his arm as he stood and left the beachfront table and slowly walked away. The motorcycle had disappeared. Police sirens wailed while the taxi and minibus drivers disappeared into the gathering crowd that stood around the dead Russian journalist. The redhead walked down the beachfront without looking back.

Chapter One
Montreal Trudeau Airport, November 20th
Sarah Jones had already finished her shift when she volunteered to help staff the ticket counters teeming with storm-displaced and angry passengers. She was a tall, striking Canadian of Jamaican heritage with eyes so deep and green that men, particularly, sometimes got lost in them. As a psychology graduate, she was always interested in how people responded to her professionally and she often played a game with herself where she observed travellers in line and determine whether they’d be pleasant, demanding, entitled, angry, or passive. During this shift, so far, she had hit the target more often than not: delayed passengers were almost universally angry, demanding, and entitled. She finished with yet another disgruntled passenger when she scanned the line in front of her. There, about two people back, she saw a good-looking man in maybe his late thirties, touch of grey at his temples, so probably early forties, who exuded a sense of tranquillity. She liked him immediately.
Sarah surreptitiously kept glancing up at the man while she dealt with the customer in front of her. She noticed how his fine features set off his pale blue eyes and she surmised that he wore his good looks with ease, as if he didn’t realise how handsome he was. She thought that he wouldn’t be one of those guys who used his looks or substituted handsomeness for a genuine, natural charm. She noticed his sports jacket, quality, not American, she thought, probably Italian or British. The jacket had a classic looking check, British, she thought. He was one person back now. Sarah looked up and held his gaze over the counter passenger’s shoulder. He smiled, shyly and sweetly she thought. He’s genuine. He’s a nice guy and I like him, Sarah thought, it’s a shame he’s flying out.
The passenger’s mind was somewhere else when the tall, beautiful ticket agent waved him to her counter. He smiled feeling somewhat embarrassingly self-aware.
“Sorry,” he explained. “I was miles away.”
Sarah noticed his accent as he handed over his passport and e-ticket. He was a Brit. Sarah scanned his passport: Thomas Price, place of birth, Manchester.
“Sorry, Mr Price, but as you probably know the flight is delayed. The storm,” Sarah said almost regretting she was stating the obvious,
“Yes,” Tom Price replied. “It’s not a problem.” He looked around and lowered his voice. “At least not for me. I’m in no rush. But it’s probably made your job more difficult.”
Sarah smiled sweetly and held Tom’s gaze, “Going home, sir?” She noticed his eyes, grey blue with a hint of sadness. She scanned his left hand, third finger unadorned.
“Yup, on my way home.”
Sarah detected an underlying melancholy in the passenger’s response. Her fingers zipped across the keyboard in search of Tom’s flight and seat. She leant forward over the counter conspiratorially, “I can offer you an upgrade if you’d like, sir.”
“Brilliant,” Tom grinned with genuine excitement. “I’ve never flown business class.”
“Then how about first class?” Sarah whispered with a smile.
“Seriously? Even better. Wow. Thanks.”
Sarah’s fingers flew across the keyboard and her printer rattled as it produced a new ticket.
“Any luggage to check?” She asked.
“Just this,” Tom held up his hand grip. “Cabin baggage.”
“Ah, a light traveller,” Sarah said wondering where he had been in Canada, what he had done, and