It was a poor sort of place, usually much frequented by prostitutes, but not on such a night or rather, morning, for it was almost five a.m.The barman leaned on the zinc-topped counter reading a newspaper and Nikolai Belov sat at a table in the corner drinking coffee, the only customer.Belov was in his early fifties and for twelve of them had been Cultural Attache at the Soviet Embassy in Paris. His dark suit was of English cut, as was the dark blue overcoat which fitted him to perfection. He was a handsome, rather fleshy man with a mane of silver hair which made him look more like a distinguished actor than what he was, a colonel in the KGB.The coffee was good and he said to the barman, 'I'll have another and a Cognac. Is that the early edition you have there?'The barman nodded. 'Hot off the press at four o'clock. Have a look if you like. The news is all bad for the British down there in the Falklands.'Belov sipped his Cognac and read the front page. Argentine Skyhawks had continued to bomb the British task force at San Carlos and Falkland Sound.'Mind you, this Exocet missile is the thing,' the barman said.
