Москва

I knew you'd used me, weeks before our last goodbye, shivering at the embassy that icy morning. You'd walked from the main doors to the bars by the sentry post. I could see your breath, like mine, across the four meters separating us. The guy with the grey barrelled zoom lens didn't seem that interested whilst he took perfunctory photographs of us.

You said they'd never catch you now - but I noticed you didn't make the same comment about me. I'd been the one who you'd asked to get the stuff and had fallen deeply, willingly, into your spell as we'd plotted mere weeks before how I could provide you with the information.

And three weeks even earlier, when we'd first met in that cafe. Insufficent tables, a coffee together and then you'd forgotten your bag and I'd left a few moments later to return it. Such a simple device, but you had me hooked and then as we developed our passion you started asking for small, soft favours.

It was a rachet, both of emotions and of crime. Who'd ever know about either? But they did find out. Not about me, but about you having some of the papers in your possession. It wouldn't take long to piece it together and that's why I thought it best to disappear. You ran for cover to your embassy, but we now both know what happened.

A week after I said goodbye with my eyes, I saw the news report and the pictures of your car being pulled from the Moscva and you being described by that other name you had told me. I left Russia the same day, back to London, to another identity.

The ache lasted months but I finally put you into a little closed box in my heart.

Then today.

I saw the black cars approach, the whirr of a window from the one in the middle. A couple of softly spoken words, and the look from those eyes. Your eyes. Then a whirr again and you were gone. But now, to me you have come back, and it will all start again.