by Jamie Smith
Nikita strode over and closed the doors, picking up the gun from the floor as he did. It felt light, and he checked the barrel, noticing that there were no bullets in the chamber. He looked up and Kemran was holding a box of ammunition.
“Beginning to trust me yet, Allochka?”
“I trust nobody. What is the information you have for me?”
“Zurga, as you know, is here on this island. His home is almost visible from this room, atop the hill to the north of here. He may be stupid to oppose the USSR, but he is no fool and it is heavily secured. He knows that he is not safe, that the wealth he now has from selling secrets makes him a target. Rather than try to hide, he has been quite overt with his fortune since coming here a few weeks ago.”
“Sounds like a fool to me,” mused Nikita. “Why would he believe himself infallible? Surely he must know that we would come for him once he revealed his treachery?”
“He believes himself to be under the protection of the US. But he is really of very little use to them at this point; he has most likely given them everything he knows by now but that is enough to do significant damage. I understand it is important that you break into the fortress,” Kemran said with artful avoidance. “The US have at least provided him with security guards. They work in shifts of five hours, and all are armed. The perimeter of the land is marked by barbed wire,” he handed Nikita some wire cutters, “and trenches which I cannot help you with. There will be dogs, and again you will have to circumnavigate them through your own ingenuity. I cannot tell you how to conduct your mission; you are the expert, but you tell me what you need and I can provide you with it.”
“It will be loud. Stealth will get me only so far, and I will need there to be a delay to any emergency services.”
“This is easily taken care of; the island has only limited services, and the chief of both police and fire brigades are in our pay. It is not difficult to bend people to your will in an island so remote. Everyone has a price, and in Skyros it does not cost the Kremlin a great deal.”
“I will need grenades, flash grenades, tranquillizer darts, a tactical sniper and handguns. Perhaps a Stechkin.” He paused, thinking. “No, make that a Stechkin Avtomaticheskij Pistolet Besshumnyj. Also, plenty of ammunition.”
“You sure you want an APB for this mission?” asked Kemran disbelievingly.
Nikita paused. The APB, a silenced version of the Stechkin sub-machine pistol, was KGB to the core. Perfect for a mission making a statement.
“Yes, I am sure. And also, I need a knife.”
“Flick-knife? Two-inch blade?” Kemran suggested, indicating small and easy to carry weapons.
“No. An eight-inch serrated hunting knife,” responded Nikita coldly, trying not to think of what it was he must do.
Kemran looked into Nikita’s eyes, any hint of humour gone from his baleful face. Nikita returned his gaze, setting his jaw.
“There is no doubting you are KGB, but don’t let your eyes betray you, comrade. You have a heart but you can ill afford mercy in this coldest of wars.” He stood, “Very well. The Kremlin have us very well stocked and funded in Greece due to our interesting political location, so I should be able to get you everything you require.” He turned back as he reached the door to leave. “You must not leave any survivors; the secrecy of your identity is more important than the mission.”
Nikita looked up and nodded. As the door closed, he exhaled deeply and his body sagged. He held his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes, trying to rub away thoughts of what he must do. His heart was screaming against the horror awaiting him. He tried to remind himself of what he was there for. He focused his mind on Milena, on his father, his mother, on the life he wanted to give them. “Do not think about it, just do it,” he muttered to himself.
He returned to the balcony windows and gazed down the track to the deep azure of the sea. He made an instant decision. He quickly hid any evidence of his work, and grabbing a towel from the bathroom, left the apartment and headed down the track. It was lined by pink oleanders, stunningly beautiful flowers that Nikita knew were some of the most poisonous to humans in the Mediterranean.
The path led across the sunburnt road and down towards the sea. To the left he could see craggy brown rocks and made his way to them, climbing atop the sea-worn outcrop. From the vantage point he could see that they led down to a small and deserted cove, invisible to passers-by on the road. He clambered down to the cove, which was lined by smooth, white stones a foot across, piling down into the clear water. He stripped off his clothes until he was wearing nothing but his briefs. His dark muscles were glistening in the sunshine, which was beating down on him from a cloudless sky, giving his skin an almost blue translucent sheen, punctuated by the tiny scars across the top of his arms and back. Making his way across the cobbles, seemingly impervious to the small stones digging into the soles of his feet, he walked into the water. A slight gasp uttered from his lips as the bracingly cold water struck his legs, but his steps didn’t falter, though his mind was suddenly far away.
***
SHELEKHIVSKE LAKE, SUMSKA OBLAST, NORTHERN UKRAINE, JANUARY 1983
“On my whistle, you will dive in. Anybody resurfacing in under ninety seconds will receive five lashes. First blood wins each pairing,” screamed Captain Denisov, spittle flying everywhere, mixing with the spray from the wind-whipped water.
The boat rocked slightly as the bitter January wind swept across the iron-grey water. The nine young men tried to disguise their fierce shivers as they pulled their thick clothing off. Nine young men and one seventeen-year-old boy. Nikita was wild-eyed and his teeth chattered uncontrollably as he stripped down to his underwear and fitted the weighted belt around him. He was squatted at one end of the dinghy, slightly away from the others, who didn’t seem to want to be too close to him. That was how it had been since Klitchkov had left him at the training base. Always separate, only spoken to in taunts and barbed comments. What was he doing here in the middle of an icy lake in some godforsaken forest in the far reaches of Ukraine? The hairs on his arms were almost rigidly on end, adrenaline coursing through his veins. Denisov thrust a short dagger into his hands without looking at him, and distributed similar knives to all the other recruits, noticeably less forcefully.
“Fear nothing, prepare for everything. You know your pairings. Three, two, one…” shouted Denisov, then the whistle sounded, shrill as it echoed across the deserted lake, muffled from the world by the woods surrounding its shores.
“Don’t think about it, just do it,” Nikita muttered to himself, before throwing himself backwards over the side of the dinghy and into the frigid waters. The world turned upside down as he saw the mountains shimmering in the mist, and momentarily imagined how beautiful it must be in the summertime. Then the water tore at his skin like a thousand tiny knives, his whole body protesting violently against the sub-zero temperatures. The belt pulled him down to the lake bed, some three metres below. He was aware of shapes around him and as his feet hit the bottom, he descended straight into a crouch, his knife held out in front of him in his right hand as he had been trained. His heart was beating frenetically, trying to pump blood around his freezing body to keep his core temperature up, but Nikita knew he would not have long. Dimly aware of shapes in front of him, he cast around in the dark but crystal-clear water for his sparring partner. Suddenly there was a searing pain in the triceps of his right arm and he let out a silent scream as his knife fell to the murky lake bed. A small cloud of red burst from his arm and as his head snapped around, he could just see a dark shape disappearing into the gloom. As he did, he felt another stab in his left arm and more blood. He was becoming dizzy in the sub-zero temperatures and the confusion as to what was going on began to overwhelm him. Suddenly in front of him he saw the grinning face of the oldest of his fellow trainees, Vladimir Neski, knife held at the ready. Nikita made to find his knife but suddenly there were knives at his back, pinching, nicking, darting. He screamed, but it was lost in a burst of bub
bles and he fell forwards, blood streaming from his skinny frame. So much pain and so many cuts. The butchering had stopped as quickly as it had begun, the freezing temperatures forcing them hastily back to the surface now ninety seconds had passed. Moving was becoming hard for him as his muscles stiffened from the wounds, and pain wracked through his back and arms. He knew the cuts were not fatal on their own but also knew that he did not have the strength to make it back to the surface. His lungs were screaming but his mind was fading. So cold, so very cold.
Then Milena. Gabriel, his father. Sophie, his mother. Their faces hovered before him in the dark reed-strewn depths of the unforgiving Ukrainian lake. He couldn’t save himself for him, but he sure as hell would never give up on them. He was almost face down on the bottom but his feet found a rock and with every last bit of his strength, now underwater for nearly two minutes though it felt like a lifetime, he propelled himself forwards and upwards. Blood had begun streaming from his nose as blood vessels ruptured and his organs began to slow towards a stop. He would not die today, not like this. He would not let his family die because of his failures, because of the cruelty of Mother Russia, which had been no mother to him. He would only go on his terms. With a last shove despite his searing lungs, his bleeding limbs, his body so numb with the horrendously low conditions, he broke the surface and screamed, “Not like this!” His head was spinning and he began to lose focus as his body began to freeze and his eyes closed. He was vaguely aware of being roughly grabbed by the arm and he gave in to the darkness.
***
Nikita’s mind snapped back to the present and realised he was now at waist height in these infinitely warmer Greek waters. He shook his head, trying to shake off the gruesome memories, but his hand absently stroked across his right triceps, feeling the scars that would forever be there. He pitched himself forwards, driving his lean body under the water and feeling the cool saltwater flow over him and press at his lungs. Several powerful strokes took him further underwater, challenging the protests of his lungs and enjoying the absence of any other thoughts. Above water, his mind was full of unwelcome memories and reflections, but here beneath the surface, now safe and alone, his mind was clear, as if the water were washing away the sins, he knew he would commit. Eventually giving in, he broke the surface and turned back to look at the shore, now some thirty metres away. Above his private cove, set back from the road, he could see a small chapel, a whitewashed cross silhouetted in the sunshine. Holy water indeed, he ruminated.
Enjoying the therapy of the physical exertion, he swam for perhaps half an hour, heading against the waves and out to sea, his powerful arms scooping the water and propelling him forwards. Some way out he stopped, and treading water, he gazed back at the shore, taking in the dry rolling hills spotted with short, tough, green bushes and dusty terrain. He looked down and saw some fish swirling around beneath him and for a moment wanted nothing more than to just stay there, floating, away from the violence of his life on land. He sighed and began making his way back to shore. As he climbed out of the sea, he picked his way over the sharp pebbles and stared out across the Aegean. The gentle breeze made him shiver, but he was already beginning to disassociate himself from his own feelings, in preparation for the night ahead.
Once dry and dressed, he climbed back up the rocky wall to the rear of the cove, scaling the sea-beaten stones and testing his strength. As he pulled himself over the ledge and onto the roadside, he caught his index finger on a shard of stone, puncturing the skin. Blood swelled from the small cut and trickled down his finger.
Still human, then, he thought, as he sucked on the wound. He began walking and tried to push the images of Vagin from his mind, and the Udmurt woman whose true story he might never know.
He strode along the dusty road, admiring the skill of the occasional passing drivers in navigating their ageing vehicles around the huge potholes in the sporadic stretches of tarmacked road. As he stood aside to let an old truck pass, avoiding going through a particularly severe pothole, it slowed to a stop next to him. He noticed that the bumper was held on by duct tape and there was a significant dent in the driver’s door. A man, perhaps in his sixties, with crooked teeth, a patched hat and a leathery brown face that could only belong to one who spent most of his time outdoors, peered out at him, a smile on his face.
“Éla tha se páo egò?” the man asked.
Nikita’s Greek was very limited, but after his intense studying of the phrasebook Mrs Shapova had given him, he vaguely understood the offer of a lift.
“Entáxei,” he replied in acceptance, relieved to get out of the beating sun and cautiously climbing into the passenger side of the cab.
The islander nodded benignly to him, before throwing the truck into gear and pulling away with a screech of the engine. The road ahead was barely visible through the thick dust on the windows but the driver navigated his way confidently, like a man who had a lifelong affinity with the roads of this small speck of land on the eastern edge of the Mediterranean.
The truck’s cab was sparse and well worn, the seatbelt long since disintegrated. Groaning its way to the top of a hill, the truck reached the peak and treated them to a stunning view of the old port town of Skyros and the blazing azure of the bay glinting in the rising heat.
The driver caught Nikita’s wide eyes admiring the view, and he laughed. He pinched his thumb and index finger and kissed them like a French chef celebrating a fine meal, before opening his hand to the view.
Nikita smiled in spite of himself. “It’s a beautiful island,” Nikita said loudly in an effort to be heard over the indignant engine and the grinding of the suspension taking on the bumpy track.
“Yes, very beautiful,” responded the man in heavily accented and stunted English, clearly delighted to see Nikita sharing his love of the view. He offered Nikita a cigarette, which was refused, before lighting one of his own, the pungent smell filling the cab. Nikita would have suspected they were strong Turkish cigarettes if he didn’t know better than to think any Greek man would be seen smoking a Turkish product.
Ten minutes later they had bumped their way down to the harbour and the truck ground to a halt in another screech of unhappy brakes. Nikita, spluttering slightly at the heavy smoke in the vehicle, cranked down the window a crack to let in some fresh air before turning to thank the driver, who was offering his hand. He shook it, feeling the smooth, beaten leatheriness of his hand.
“Welcome to Skyros; I am Giorgos,” he said, again trying to get his old Greek mouth around the English words, but seeming to Nikita to have more familiarity with them than he let on.
“Thank you for the ride,” replied Nikita. “Martins, Nathan Martins.”
Giorgos’ crinkled eyes twinkled, and he nodded at Nikita. “Adío, Nathan.”
“Adío.”
Nikita climbed out of the truck, and watched as it pulled away, thick smoke still snaking out through a crack in the window. He took a deep breath, feeling relaxed from his interaction with a normal person. Aside from his brief visit to his family, he could not remember the last time he had spent any time with someone who was neither KGB nor politician. He realised he missed it, although it was such a long time ago now, he could scarcely remember exactly what it was that he missed. The more he considered it, the more he realised he was missing something he had never had. It was more the missing of an innate human need than any real personal experience.
He strode down a ramp to the seafront, past the first of many seafood restaurants, making his way towards the town centre and its smattering of gaudy shops hocking tourist tat, before making his way into the heart of the port town.
The narrow, paved streets were all bordered by the same whitewashed buildings with blue shutters, creating a feeling of sunshine, space and beauty.
Finding his feet taking him down Serakonta Street, he paused outside a small shop in a narrow road heading inland. The shop window was full of small wooden carvings, with everything from masks to bowls and earrings, mainly carved
from pale brown olive wood.
But it was none of those that had caught his eye. Almost obscured by a particularly ugly attempt at a giraffe was a small carving of a dog. However, it was carved in an unusual black wood, and was not just any dog; it was unmistakably a Black Russian Terrier.
Nikita was stunned by the piece, not only to see a carving in a wood that was unvarnished but somehow as black as him, but also of the Russian military dog, a dog he had come to know well during his training with Denisov. He stood there transfixed by the piece, and became momentarily oblivious to his surroundings.
He pushed open the small door, and stooped to enter. The shop was empty except for a young woman behind the counter, idly flicking through a magazine.
She did not so much as look up as he entered, and he suddenly felt awkward about announcing his presence. He couldn’t see her face as it was obscured by the book, but he could see a tumbling mass of brown curls exploding out from behind the words Vogue Magazine.
He began wandering about the shop, inspecting the various carvings largely hewn from olive wood. He was avoiding the Black Russian dog; for some reason he felt awkward about going straight to it, although he could almost feel its presence and was slowly working his way towards it. He was very nearly there when the woman’s voice behind him said, “What is it you are looking for?” in an accent he struggled to place.
Taken aback by her directness, Nikita looked up at her, and now that the magazine was down on the counter, he could see her more clearly.
Big, liquid brown eyes peered at him out of a high-cheeked, golden-brown face, with freckles dappling her nose, and her curls now looking more golden than brown as sunlight landed on her face. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
