Call me Vladimir

Greetings,

This is a little difficult to express clearly. Things around here have gotten messy and my report is being transmitted from an unknown location.

My boss in Moscow is going nuts. If this appears vague and mysterious, well then, that's the way it is. When you are in this line of work, reality is vague and mysterious enough as it is.

You may have read, heard or seen, depending on your choice of media, about Mr. L. He passed yesterday in a London hospital. Someone gave him Polonium-210, a radioactive substance on November 1st. I was at the circus that day.

He had tea at a swanky hotel and said he was going to meet someone from Italy at a sushi bar. I have nothing against sushi but, as my handlers will tell you - if they ever talk - we are trained to avoid raw fish.

Now, I know this may appear to be a biased cold war account but, I was not directly responsible for putting the P-210 in his soup. Why would anyone want to ruin perfectly good soup?

Honestly, it was a figurative little man disguised as an inspector from the Wealth Department. He came in through the bathroom window.

His entry, a desperate act of retaliation approved by Big Brother was witnessed by a young femme fatale out walking her pet rat. She and the rat are now in protective custody at a mansion in Surely.

He had access, not me. I know this because I've been dating his sister since Halloween. If she finds out I'm talking to you she'll drop me faster than you can say, "You can always run but you can never hide."

Small traces of P-210 occurs naturally in the body. It's a free radical. The soup stuff originated from a foreign nuclear reactor and is 250 times more toxic than cyanide. A particle smaller than a dust mote can be fatal.

It is easily transported and impossible to detect. It comes in powder or liquid form. It is a small, little nuclear device. It goes down smooth. On the rocks. Trust me on this. Gotta run.

Peace.