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Neil Pollack received his PhD from New York University. He is the author of Almost Armageddon, The Rosetta Cylinder, and The Sex Traffickers. His work has been featured in many national and local magazines and newspapers. He lives with his wife on Long Island, New York, and in Florida.

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Almost Armageddon

iUniverse, Inc.

Chapter One

There is no God. There is only Marx and Lenin. Of this, Venus was certain. The gospel according to the Communist doctrine provided her with the absolute truth that only fools believed in God, fools like the Jews—who instead of being allowed to emigrate voluntarily deserved to be thrown out of the Soviet Union—or Christians, who believed in Jesus. A man as God. How ridiculous. A childish crutch, Venus thought. There was only one supreme being, the Communist Party, and with body and soul she vowed to do all she could to save it. Now, she waited for Anatoly Pavel to bring the critical information on Alex Bell.

It was 9 p.m., and Pavel was late, but she didn't allow herself to become upset with him, as unspeakable events in Afghanistan had taught her that patience was the most rewarding of virtues. He would arrive in due time, she told herself, but the frigid Moscow night made her hope it would be shortly. She adjusted the collar of her Russian mink coat, defending herself against the subzero temperatures that felt even colder with the brisk January wind emanating from the Arctic tundra.

She watched her breath form puffs of disappearing clouds as she stood under a street lamp near the corner of Kropotkinskaya and Barykovsky Streets, mere blocks from Red Square—the heart of the Soviet Union. The street lamp's canopy of reflected light gave form to the otherwise invisible snowflakes that seemed to materialize from the shadow of the murky sky. The swirling, pristine crystals descended silently, floating weightlessly to the ground. Dry, brittle snow crunched under her fur-lined boots as she stamped her feet in a vain attempt to ward off the cold. She glanced at her watch. Ten past nine. He was ten minutes late. Her thoughts meandered toward Afghanistan, as they had countless times before.

Afghanistan. The mere thought of that desolate land brought back vivid memories she could never expel from her mind, no matter how hard she tried. Trained as a nurse, she'd been recruited into the war with Afghanistan during its early years, before the people and government became disillusioned with it. The Americans had their Afghanistan in Vietnam, fighting a war with tactics that could never win, a lesson that went unheeded by the Soviet government. She saw many men and even fellow nurses die horrible deaths in defense of Communism, the same Communism she was taught all her life was the one way the world should be.

On the battlefield, she learned to set a bone, stop the bleeding, bandage almost anything, and start an IV as well as anyone—certainly far better than any house doctor. Many of the wounds she saw—gaping wounds with intestines spilling out or horrible wounds to the head—were so severe that no medical miracle could fix them. She spent two years helping men—no, boys—survive their wounds. Some did, but some died, and many went home permanently disfigured. They had risked all they had to keep Communism alive in the cold, mountainous wasteland of Afghanistan.

When she returned home, her skills and attractiveness was not unnoticed by her superiors. They believed she'd make a marvelous intelligence officer, so they trained her. However, she soon grew disillusioned with the desk job they gave her. Somehow, after Afghanistan, pushing papers around her desk and fighting off advances from oversexed men wasn't what she envisioned for herself. After five years with the army, she asked for and received her honorable discharge.

She tried working as a nurse again for a while, but that, too, was something she came to loathe. Changing bedpans and the like was far too mundane for her. The battlefields of Afghanistan haunted her.

She let herself be recruited into the current clandestine cause during the early days of impending changes for the Soviet Union. The lure of doing something for Communism, for her beloved country, and the excitement of the covert work was an enticement she couldn't refuse.

She eventually was asked to perform assassinations by using her obvious talents. Though she did not believe herself to be a cold-blooded killer, she rationalized that the deaths of a few men were well worth the saving of her country and perhaps millions who might suffer and die from the upheaval that would come if Communism lost its grip on Soviet society. The men she killed were enemies. How many good young men did she see die in the mountains of Afghanistan? Too many to remember. The elimination of one or two counter-revolutionaries might help keep her cherished Soviet Union whole. Her reputation as an assassin earned her the code name "Venus," not after the goddess of love but for the Venus flytrap, which recognized her prowess as a silent killer.

She crossed her arms, hugging her coat around her as headlights turned the corner and bounced their beams off the frozen street. Venus squinted against the glare of the caroming lights that grew steadily larger as they approached her and slowed down. Recognizing the car as his, she stepped toward the street as the ancient Zaporozhets sedan skidded to a halt. A momentary chill shot through her body as she reached the car, a reflex action caused by something other than the bone-chilling temperatures.

The door on the passenger side sprang open from the inside, and she quickly stepped into the car. Brushing white flakes from her coat, she snapped, "You're late," knowing he would expect her to be angry. Role-playing was always easy for her—she was a chameleon who could adapt to any environment.

Fearing he would arrive late, Anatoly Pavel had memorized his response in the car but knew he would stumble over his words, no matter how hard he practiced. "I ... I'm sorry. My ... my wife asked me a hundred questions before I left. I know she suspects something, and I ... I had to assure her that leaving home at this strange hour was related to my job."

Her eyes flared. "You didn't say anything else, did you?"

Pavel squirmed as her penetrating eyes glared at him. She always made him squirm, but she was worth it. "Only that my new position with the party obligated me to attend meetings at strange hours."

The windshield wipers were now swatting flakes as thick as goose down. She put a cigarette between her lips, struck a match, and inhaled deeply, the tip of the cigarette glowing red hot in the darkened car.

"And she believed you?" She exhaled smoke directly into Pavel's face.

He coughed. "Of course. In twenty years of marriage, you're the only woman I've been with other than my wife. I'm not very good at lying to her, but I explained that much of my work is top secret, so meetings at this hour weren't unusual."

Satisfied, she nodded her head and said, "Drive." She proceeded to guide him to a large, deserted parking lot. The car's heater was working at capacity, so she opened her coat, revealing her woolen sweater and leather skirt. "You have it with you?"

He reached into his coat pocket and handed her an envelope. She tore it open and read the contents, carefully digesting the information.

Pavel watched her intently as she attended to business. He knew she'd be pleased with his work, and he'd been paid handsomely for the information. But it wasn't for the money; it was her, the most beautiful woman he'd ever been with. He had sex with her three times, and each time had been more fantastic than the time...