The misty Heath

It was a cold, misty, February morning. Smiley was walking slowly through the narrow paths of the Heath. He was looking for a mark. A chalk mark on a tree trunk or a rock. It was Moscow rules. From time to time he turned around making sure he was not being followed. He was wearing a dark overcoat that blended in with the shade of trees and bushes providing him perfect camouflage.

Then, suddenly, he stopped and leaned forward. On a dark rock under a bush he found what he was looking for - a chalk mark. Smiley turned into an old path that was barely visible in the thick mist. Thorny branches grew onto the path almost blocking the way through. But Smiley was moving faster, his feet shuffling. He felt he was getting closer. The adrenaline was pumping through his veins and his haste disclosed excitement. To his surprise he noticed spot of fresh blood. Then another. Smiley hurried down the path, the thickening branches leaving scratches on his face and hands. Suddenly Smiley stopped. Hanging from a tree, as if thrown on to it by an enormous animal, was a body of an elderly man. Smiley recognised him at once. His head bowed down he took off his thick glasses and rubbed his eyes as if to hold back tears.

Quietly, I took the pistol out of my jacket pocket. He was about 50 yards from me. One shot and Smiley collapsed, flat on his face into a bush. I put the pistol quickly back into my pocket - it was still hot - an ran into the misty Heath.