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GM Friday 7th February Sochi, the Winter Olympics 2014. The air was unseasonably warm in Sochi, casting doubts upon the logistics of the game, but spare snow had been stored, and was being hauled to the slopes. The mood was reasonably bouyant, with spectators both domestic and international looking forward to the herculean efforts of the olympians. Of course, the tourist industry was in full swing, with every type of food and drink being plied, and a rain of tourist tat to take home, place in the back of a cupboard, and stay there unseen for decades. There was a heavy and intimidating police presence, thanks to terrorists threats. And, some might say, to the possibility of demonstrations against the Russian governments policies over homosexuality. There was to be no marring of the festivities with contreversy, at least as far as the officialdom was concerned. One police officer was on edge. Sergeant K was smoking heavily. His revolver was hidden from view, under his armpit, but he always found it uncomfortable. Plain clothes policing in Russia could be a nerve wracking business. Shoulda brought a shotgun...he said to himself, between puffs, thinking of his favourite American film. He had good reason to be nervous too, given what he had found out. There was sweat on his forehead, despite the cool air. What he needed was someone to help him, and get him the hell out of Russia. An american tourist, well connected, plenty of money, and capable. He had considered approaching the American athletes, but they were too close to the problem, he judged. One wrong word, and boom... A palpatation in his chest. He visibly jumped at the thought...