Walter D'Courcey was slightly infuriated, that was sure, but he also was worried for Svetlana, along with her children, her husband, and Florence. What she had done had no doubt been planned previously by Anatoly and herself, but the one thing they had failed to anticipate was the ferocious response Molokov would produce. He sighed, sipping at his coffee from the comfort of his vehicle. He was being driven back to the airport, back to civilization and his superiors, who would no doubt want to hear of his latest exploits.
Once upon a time, he had been one of the superiors he now reported to, and it pained him now to remember such a time. A disgraced agent, he had been demoted to this pathetic excuse for an undercover job- Walter D'Courcey, Global Television bigshot. Even in such a trivial position, he had not been allowed even the simple comforts of his original life. Everything about him, from his wardrobe to his name was a creation of the organization.
Walter, born Rafael Tourelle, was the illegitamate son of an American politician and a French woman, and had been raised by his single mother since birth. Later in life, after developing into a mentally and physically acute young man, he had searched out a postition at the agency. Walter had acheived great success for two decades, but then there was an incident involving a missing shipment of nuclear materials, the death of four agents, and the rise to power of a small terrorist organization. The events had ruined him, and he had been shoved into a blank cover job and rotated to the rear ranks. He was D'Courcey now, a wealthy English television mogul, and though he hated his work, he did enjoy the monetary incentive. There was only one thing he really wanted now, and that was to free himself from this wretched post and return to a state of glorification.
As of late, Walter had been attempting to redeem himself in the eyes of those above him by arranging a deal with the soviets, one that now, thanks to Svetlana would probably sour. He could only hope that the handful of agents that he had bargained for were already safely out of Russia. He winced mentally yet again as he thought of that deal. While it was neccessary, deceiving Florence and Anatoly had been one act he had nearly regretted. He genuinely felt for the pair of star-crossed lovers, particularly Florence. The whereabouts of Gregor Vassy, Florence's father, were still unknown, as was the factuality of his death. However, he could not let that bother him now. Now he must contend with Alexander Molokov.
Molokov seemed to be everywhere. He had an infinite amount of informants, an impeccable array of skills, and an uncanny likeness to the devil himself in the way that he never looked back or felt remorse. The man was a rat, a dirty, sneaky, plotting rat, one who did more than his job with frightening ferocity. Molokov was a KGB senior agent, one who had worked his way up the ladder with incredible speed. He wath ruthless, and everyone who had ever heard of him knew it. D'Courcey himself had heard countless tales of Molokov's tenacity, the way he would do anything required for his operation. He shuddered thinking of the lengths to which he may go to exact revenge on Svetlana, yet he knew that if she were harmed it would be merely a small loss to the organization, and she would pass unnoticed.
"We're all merely players in a game, a game where no one's rules are the same." D'Courcey thought, grinning at the irony of his analogy. "Nobody's on nobody's side."