Read an Excerpt from Identity Revealed!
Ivan tossed back a shot of vodka, a futile attempt to push the events of the day from his mind. Refilling the shot glass, he sat down heavily in the leather armchair in the sitting area of his expansive office. He moved the shot glass in a slow circular motion, allowing his mind to be temporarily mesmerized by the swirl of vodka.
There was a touch of irony in his eyes as he looked around at the opulence of his office. What a contrast this room was to where he spent the majority of his day. This was where he started and ended his days. This was where he read and wrote reports. This was where he drank his vodka at the end of a hard day—sometimes with his comrades, more often alone.
His real work took place in the lower recesses of the building in obscure, soundproof rooms where cries for mercy and screams of terror never reached the light of day. These were rooms that few knew still existed. Those who opposed the State were dealt with in rooms such as these, by men such as Ivan. And Ivan was good at what he did. He had a reputation for ruthlessness, for an ability to extract information from men or women when all others had failed. But today Ivan had failed.
How could he have known of the man’s heart condition? How could such a crucial detail have been missing from the medical report? If he had known, the interrogation would have taken a slightly less abusive course, sufficiently enough so as to prevent the unnecessary death of the prisoner—at least until such time as Ivan would have been able to extract all relevant information. But he had not known, the prisoner was dead—and his secrets went to the grave with him. It had been a disappointing day.
Ivan downed a second shot of vodka while the sound of the phone ringing beckoned him back to the moment.
“Ivan speaking,” he answered on the fourth ring, not wanting to answer, but it was his private, secure line.
“The package you requested will be shipped to Alyssa Holmes at 121 Parks Boulevard, Richmond, Virginia.” The voice on the other end was male, middle-aged—and American.
“Could you repeat the shipping address?” Ivan asked in heavily-accented English, his eyes suddenly alive, the excitement in his voice hard to contain.
“To Alyssa Holmes at 121 Parks Boulevard, Richmond, Virginia.” The voice on the other end was strained. Ivan barely noticed. He definitely didn’t care. The long awaited information was now his.
“You will be paid as agreed upon.” Ivan said, then hung up. The day was forgotten. The dead man was forgotten. The slump in the shoulders was gone. Ivan was a new man. Stretching his arms upward and backward, he interlocked his fingers behind his head. A look of vile satisfaction began as a faint glimmer in the center of his eyes, then quickly spread across his face like a dark poison. He was to have his revenge.