Confession Of An Astonished Executioner

I had the opportunity to observe Varya at social gatherings. Sometimes she stood alone: a mysterious beauty attracting the attention of men and women alike. Other times, she was with familiar or unknown companions. I witnessed her interactions with people – from the organisers of evenings at the Russian House to ambassadors and the all-powerful Grokhot, considered a top-tier conversationalist. Artyom Ivanovich and Varya resembled two talking icebergs: beneath the words, an abyss one might not want to explore. My opinion of Varya was also shaped by the cautious stories of Artyom Ivanovich, who couldn't reveal everything but still provided enough fuel for speculation. My final impression was this: Varya was intelligent and attractive, though not young. In Witsburg, she lived with her sick, elderly mother, a countess. She was ready to manipulate people to achieve her goals, employing various means: extensive connections, the bedroom, and, if necessary, blackmail and murder. The closer you got to her, the stronger the feeling of danger became. And with this brilliant and dangerous woman, I was urged to become close enough to obtain and verify critically necessary information. * Grokhot, not without edification, told me the following. Varya had ended up near him by decision of the MI6 leadership in 1991. She had identified Grokhot's man in her circle, managed to start a relationship with him, and ‘fall in love.’ Varya allowed herself to be perceived as a standard, silly Englishwoman and to fall into the power of the terrible people on Grokhot's team. A lovesick Englishwoman, albeit with Russian roots, is a terrible force, a wild boar ready for anything. Varya first managed to convince Grokhot's plant, Romeo, and then Grokhot himself. As a result, she began supplying the Office with high-quality disinformation, discrediting high-ranking figures in Moscow, whose heads Varya easily turned and then promptly handed over to Grokhot and her friends at MI6. Grokhot, having learned that Varya had fooled him with disinformation, never forgave her or MI6. However, his contacts with Varya continued – he didn't want to let her go. * Regarding the ship purchase, the Office knew almost everything. The Office also knew almost everything about Admiral Murashko – the main curator of the deal on the Russian side. Almost… The details of Varya's relationship with each participant in the deal, on both the Russian and Anglo-American sides, needed to be clarified: who was the ultimate beneficiary, on which side, and to what extent? * Grokhot, known for carefully orchestrating meetings, introduced us. Because of this, Varya assumed I was part of Grokhot's team. As usual, she communicated with a dual purpose: to find something out and to peddle disinformation. Grokhot understood that Admiral Murashko was just a figurehead. The real focus was how much money was involved, which bank held the funds, who the Russian intermediary was for transferring money abroad, and the nature of Varya's involvement in bank transfers. These were details that involved not only Murashko but also many other cases. In the Office’s file, kept since my youth, there was information, among other things, about my ability to hypnotise. I never called it hypnosis myself, since I did nothing specific. Somehow, it came naturally to me, in moments of special concentration, to penetrate the hidden corners of my interlocutor's mind. I would literally begin to hear thoughts arising alongside the spoken words, thoughts more significant than the words being spoken, at least to me. I rarely used this ability. But in Varya's case, I was more than interested in hearing what lay behind the words or what was simply hidden. By obtaining the names, positions, and titles of the banking intermediaries, which the Office would never have uncovered, I seemed to justify my involvement in the affair. * My close acquaintance with Varya began during a meeting at the Russian House bar. At first, we were among a group of acquaintances, but soon they dispersed, leaving Varya and me alone. Since I had suggested we meet, she waited, leaving the initiative to me. We talked about Russian émigrés in Witsburg. We also discussed the old countess’s health and the care for her, which was Varya's responsibility. Gradually, I steered the conversation toward Varya's remarkable qualities. To begin with, her spiritual qualities – those peculiar to a Russian aristocrat passionately fond of classical music and Silver Age poetry. Then I turned to her appearance – the nobility of her features, the burning expression in her eyes, her astonishingly elegant long neck, and her magical mane of hair. Below the neck, I hadn't yet ventured. I said all this was slowly, clearly, quietly, almost dispassionately, accompanied by a childish ‘staring contest’ game: who would blink or look away first? I caught Varya's attentive, appraising gaze, silently waiting for the end of this sudden siege. When silence fell, neither of us was in a hurry to break it, enjoying the exhilarating exchange. The scene ended with the gentle touch of Varya's hot palm and her almost inaudible words, ‘Let's go.’ We drove through night-time Witsburg, reaching a house on a hill. After a brief encounter with her mother in a wheelchair, we found ourselves secluded on a balcony veranda, champagne glasses in hand. There, a luxurious view of the city lights stretched to the horizon. The touch of hands on the balcony railing turned into a firm contact of shoulders, then a kiss. Reality began to slip away from me. I didn't remember the rest clearly. With a sliding motion from the top of my unbuttoned shirt collar downwards, Varya's hand confirmed my intense arousal. Gently breaking our kiss, I stepped to the side and slipped behind Varya, softly placing my hands on her breasts and pressing her entire body against mine. Unresisting, Varya helped me slip her light dress down to her waist. We became an indivisible whole, feeling a release from the tension of the last few hours. We even whispered a little during the process. But as we approached the finale, conversation ceased; we surrendered to the frantic rhythm, completely losing control. We both remembered the first meeting as magical and filled with unwavering pleasure.