The Soviet Comeback

by Jamie Smith

As he looked up, his eyes filled with terror. He raised his fists, but was on the ground before he knew it, clutching his throat where Brishnov had spun and slit it with his combat knife. Blood blossomed from his throat and he gurgled as he tried to hold the two slippery flaps of skin together.

  The barman began to scream. This would not do, thought Brishnov. It might alert neighbours and if nothing else it was quite irritating. He clubbed the barman over the head with the keg tap and the screaming stopped.

  He could hear people in the bar trying to make their way through the door at the rear and sighed. Why would they not accept their fate? If only they knew that the door was the key to their death.

  If he could hear them coming through then he needed to get out. Now.

  The smell of gas was strong as he walked swiftly out of the door, with a glance behind him at the bodies on the floor. One was still writhing in his own blood. He closed the door behind him, grateful that it opened outwards. He rolled a heavy wheelie bin over to block the door, and dragged some boxes to further lock them in. He thought he heard the sound of voices which meant they had broken through from the bar and into the back room.

  His eyes widened and he broke into a sprint as the flames of the bar met the open gas pipe. The explosion ripped through wood, iron and stone, bursting the building outwards. Brishnov flung himself forwards and began to commando crawl towards the alleyway as bricks, tiles and other detritus from the building landed around him. As he reached the safety of the alleyway, he took a deep breath and smiled. Murdering Americans was beyond satisfying. It was arousing. His hand moved down to his crotch and he closed his eyes.

  The ringing of the explosion in his ears was interrupted by the sound of sirens in the distance. He cursed. There would be time for relief later, but God forbid if anyone discovered the precious Black Russian.

  He stood and made his way back to the car, disappearing into the night, unseen amidst the chaos of people screaming on the street as the inferno gathered pace.

  ***

  Nikita’s eyes flickered open as he felt light fall on his face, and they quickly flickered shut again. He wanted to return to the dream; it had been a good one. Back in Russia, he was playing with Milena, laughing with his parents, nobody else around, no scent of judgement or contempt. As he awoke, he could no longer discern if it was memory or fantasy.

  It was wiped from his mind as the pain caught up with him and his eyes shot back open again. His body screamed from head to toe. He tried to lift his head but it hurt too much. His shoulder was full of fire, whether from the bullet wound or his DIY attempt at cauterising he was not sure.

  As he tried to push himself up, he silently screamed and was barely able to prop himself up on one arm. The injured shoulder was unable to take any weight. He had never felt so weak.

  He was on a threadbare bed as hard as a table, with light streaming onto it from a window above him to the left, casting the rest of the room into semi-gloom. A rough blanket was half drawn over him, and his clothes were in bits on the floor beside the bed, as if they had been torn from him. He looked around the room for any indication of where he might be, but there was little in the way of clues.

  A bedside table stood next to him and an imposing dark wood chest of drawers was on the opposite side of the room, with a wood-panelled television on top of it, complete with a portable aerial balanced on top.

  He lay back so as to use his right arm, and fumbled with the bedside table, pulling open the small drawer within it. He felt around for the contents, pulling out in turn a carton of Belomorkanal cigarettes, a litre bottle of vodka and a gun.

  Soviet smokes, vodka and a gun meant that Brishnov had brought him to a Soviet safe house. But where was Brishnov?

  As if in answer to his silent question, the door opened and in walked the slender Russian spy. He looked at Nikita and smirked.

  “Water,” said Nikita, but Brishnov just smirked at him and pulled over a chair to sit next to him.

  They sat in silence staring at each other for a minute.

  “What of the men that attacked me? They will identify us; you should have let them finish beating me.”

  “Tempting as that was, you do not need to worry about them.” There was no trace of the southern accent Brishnov had so smoothly adopted as the Russian rolled from his tongue.

  “You killed them?”

  “Such a crude question, but I suppose crudity is to be expected from one such as yourself,” he replied, leaning back and inspecting his nails. “You nearly died, comrade,” he added without concern. It was a matter of fact. “Klitchkov would have been inconsolable if his favourite protégé had fallen.”

  Nikita could think of no response and silence again invaded the room.

  “You saved my life” he said, breaking the silence.

  Brishnov’s eyes widened in mock surprise. “And why would that ever be in doubt?”

  “I know that you doctored my orders.”

  “Little thieves are hanged but great ones, escape,” he replied with a wink.

  Nikita grunted. “I am in no mood to play games, agent; talk to me plain and simple.”

  The smile fell from Brishnov’s face. “Well naturally you would want things explained to you in simple terms,” he said, glaring in Nikita’s eyes, daring him. “But of course, you are badly wounded and speaking without thinking. Too much of that American whiskey shit has turned your manners rotten.” He picked up the bottle from the drawer next to the bed and unscrewed the cap, taking a long drink of the vodka.

  “Ah, it is not good vodka but this is still finer than water. Come, let us drink to the success of your mission, comrade,” he said and held some to Nikita’s lips. Nikita tried to push it away but Brishnov pulled it out of reach and poured the contents onto his face from a height, soaking his bed

  Nikita sputtered and held up a hand as Brishnov took a final swig to empty the bottle before throwing it against the wall to the other side of the bed, smashing it.

  Nikita thought longingly of the gun in the drawer, but knew that an agent as experienced as Brishnov would not have left it loaded for him.

  Brishnov giggled. “How refreshing, no?”

  Nikita lay back, controlled. “We’re on the same side, remember… comrade?” he whispered.

  “Ah, maybe the same side, but pointing in different directions. To represent the Komitet Godudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti is a great honour; we are the secret soldiers of Mother Russia, of the world’s biggest and most powerful empire. There is no greater prestige, but you, you do not choose this. We only have you as long as we can contain you. There is no honour.”

  “Flaying a man only teaches him to watch his back. I have done everything asked of me and more, despite the hatred that follows me. I nonetheless serve the Soviet Union faithfully.”

  “You expect my pity?”

  “I expect and want nothing from you. But modify my orders again and I will kill you, comrade.”

  Brishnov leant back in his chair and smiled at him. “Perhaps if you managed that, you would have my respect.”

  At that moment the door opened again. Brishnov didn’t turn, instead keeping his gaze fixed on Nikita, whose eyes were distracted by the new arrival.

  The highly polished black shoes clicked and gleamed on the tiled floor but it was the face that drew Nikita’s gaze, the cold blue eyes piercing the gloom before the pale skin and grey hair did.

  Nikita attempted to push himself up and salute. “Colonel Klitchkov, sir.” But he could not sustain the pose and fell back while continuing to try and maintain a salute.

  Klitchkov chuckled. “At ease, soldier, let your body rest.” His eyes wandered over the broken glass and Nikita’s wet face, and raised an eyebrow at Brishnov.

  Nikita was full of questions, but held his tongue, waiting to be addressed.

  The colonel stood with his hands behind his back and looked down at Brishnov in the chair. “Leave us.”

  Brishnov looked up at him petulantly. “I’d r
ather stay.”

  Without taking a breath, Klitchkov kicked Brishnov off the chair.

  Brishnov looked outraged and leapt up catlike from the floor.

  “You wish to say something, Agent Brishnov? To your commanding officer?”

  Brishnov’s face flushed red, but he controlled himself with what appeared a superhuman effort. “No, sir. Sorry, sir.” He appeared to be chewing on the words as if they were sour milk.

  “Then get the out of the room, now,” Klitchkov said softly, with a menace more powerful than if he had screamed it.

  The international assassin stalked from the room like a wounded dog, but left the door slightly open.

  Klitchkov turned and pushed it gently shut until the latch clicked into place, before walking back to the chair and sitting down. He leant back and crossed one leg over the other and surveyed Nikita.

  “You were very stupid.”

  “I had no other choice, sir.”

  “You may be young, but you have received the world’s finest training for five years and the only choice was to be beaten to death by three stupid American brutes? You were trained precisely to employ alternative choices to that one.”

  Nikita said nothing.

  “But you did an excellent job on your primary mission. It broke on the news this morning.”

  “And?”

  Klitchkov raised his eyebrows.

  “Sorry, sir. What are they saying on the news, sir?”

  “That the death isn’t being treated as suspicious, which is as much as we could hope for at the moment. I am sure they will reveal more in time, but I trust that nothing will be revealed that could suggest foul play?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Very good. We found the Dragunov Sniper in our car. Why would you have needed that for this mission?”

  Nikita paused. It would be easy to destroy Brishnov with one revelation. But I want to owe him nothing, to be even, Nikita thought to himself.

  “Well, agent?”

  “It, ah, it was a routine backup plan, sir, just in case something went wrong and had to be tidied up.”

  “You are trained so that things do not go wrong,” snapped Klitchkov, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward. “A sniper shot would have ruined the entire operation and tilted the balance of power around the world. And from a Dragunov rifle, no less! This is the last mistake I will attribute to your youth.” It was the first time Nikita had ever seen anger in the colonel, or any emotion at all.

  “Yes, sir. I had no intentions of using it, and planned my mission meticulously,” he lied.

  “You know me better than to take me for a fool, Allochka.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your next mission will demand scrupulous planning and detail.”

  “My next mission, sir?”

  Klitchkov leant back again and resumed his previous relaxed pose. He briefly turned and checked the door. He stood and walked over to the television, turning it on and turning the volume up.

  The news flickered onto the screen. The picture was fuzzy, with the aerial needing to be moved, but Nikita could see images of Secretary Conlan’s house with a reporter speaking about the sudden death of ‘one of America’s most respected politicians’.

  Klitchkov walked back and returned to his seat.

  “You are to enter the United States Central Intelligence Agency. The importance of the International Nuclear Treaty cannot be understated for the survival of our Soviet Union. You are in a unique position to prevent the Americans from seeing all of our movements and intentions.”

  Nikita’s head was buzzing. The pain was overwhelming and the noise from the television distracting. The CIA was the largest intelligence agency in the world, bigger than the KGB, MI6 or Mossad.

  “How will we do that?”

  “You will join their Soviet Counter-intelligence Branch. As a black man, it will be hard to secure you a senior position, but it should make their checks on your background and intentions a little less resilient than someone looking like a Russian.”

  Nikita went to speak, but Klitchkov held up a hand, silencing him. “I know you will have questions, agent, but first we need you to heal as quickly as possible. Being battered so thoroughly has robbed the operation of precious days. Your body is pitiful. You will be transferred from here as soon as arrangements can be made, most likely tonight, and you will have the luxury of every treatment we possess. You will start your new job in two weeks.”

  “Two weeks! But, sir—”

  “You refuse your assignment? You have not forgotten your family so swiftly surely, Allochka?”

  Nikita dropped his gaze. “No, sir.”

  Klitchkov’s face registered no emotion. He nodded slightly, then rose from his chair and left the room without a backward glance. Once more Nikita looked at him with contempt, his fingers tracing the scar on his thigh, a reminder of the treachery of Colonel Klitchkov.

  ***

  Two days later, Nikita lay in a room a world away from the hard bed in the Texas safe house. He lay on a soft bedsheet of Egyptian cotton, gazing out at the Gulf of Mexico through bay windows. The curtains were swaying gently in the warm breeze.

  The journey in the middle of the night across the border into Mexico, and the helicopter ride from there back to the Soviet Embassy in Havana, were hazy. He had vague memories of drifting in and out of consciousness as the pain medication took hold and dimmed his awareness. He recalled being stretchered into the embassy under cover of darkness through a hidden entrance, masked to prevent any wondering eyes from seeing him. He was now the most important resource in the KGB’s clandestine arsenal, and every precaution was being taken. And every luxury. He nestled comfortably in the new surroundings, usually reserved for only the most senior of dignitaries.

  He pushed himself up into a sitting position on the bed with a low groan and inspected his wounded body. The index and middle finger of his left hand were in cast after being broken by the boots of Red Beard and his cronies, and dark bruises could be seen all over his legs, arms and stomach. But they paled in comparison to the deep purple bruising spread across his shoulder and torso. His cauterised wound had left an ugly puckering in a strip from the ball of his shoulder down towards his pectoral in the clear, curved shape of a knife blade. The skin was sunken and inflamed, and had been the source of much discontent for the embassy’s resident doctor.

  Nikita glanced at the clock on the wall and saw that he was due for his next dressing. Doctor Zhikov liked to let it ‘have some air to breathe away your stupidity’, but Nikita wished he didn’t have to look at the scar he would bear for life. He felt now that he better understood people’s desire to tattoo themselves; at least that was a scar you chose, not a scar forced upon you. The KGB forbade tattoos as they provided an easy way to identify you, but perhaps one day, if he ever escaped their clutches, he would consider something to cover some of his scars.

  He could not see his back but it hurt almost as much as his shoulder, having borne the brunt of most of the kicks. He could feel scabs pulling every time he moved but preferred not to know the extent of the damage. He only cared about when he would be fit and ready for active duty once more.

  On the bed next to him was a newspaper, the headline giving tribute to the secretary of defense who had died of an apparent accidental overdose of whiskey and sleeping pills. The president talked of a patriot, a soldier and a man of firm principle. Nikita looked at it with distaste. To be a man of firm principle was only a cause for praise if the principles were not toxic and outdated.

  The door opened without a knock and Doctor Zhikov entered along with Mrs Shapova, the ambassador’s secretary who had taken it upon herself to visit him each day.

  The short, plump woman bustled in, and after putting down a pile of papers on the bed, immediately started fussing over him and trying to force him to lie back down. “You need your rest, Nikita; you must allow yourself to recover,” she said, the first person he could recall calling him by his first n
ame outside his family. He found he rather liked it, though he was sure it was a breach of protocol.

  “Leave him alone, Mrs Shapova! And move those papers!” snapped the doctor, a short, thin Belarusian man with a large round head, topped by lank brown hair combed over a bald head. He waved the secretary away.

  Nikita smiled at her with a look of gratitude. She perched herself on the end of the bed, looking like an overgrown hawk, as Zhikov inspected the shoulder wound.

  “How does it feel, agent?”

  “It is fine,” replied Nikita.

  “Oh wonderful, so it is not a problem for you to stretch your arms above your head then,” said the doctor in a voice dripping with incredulity.

  “None at all,” said Nikita, with a congenial smile.

  “Perhaps you will give us a demonstration, Allochka. I look forward to witnessing a medical miracle unfold.”

  Nikita closed his eyes, breathed deeply and centred himself as he brought his arms up at the sides slowly, blocking out the stretch of the scabs across his back as his muscles expanded. As he reached level with his shoulder, the screaming in his left shoulder began. He imagined he could feel the gristle rubbing against ligament and bone and paused.

  To the onlookers, his face remained calm and passive, but behind the eyelids his pupils were wide with pain.

  “There is no shame in not being able to do it yet, Nikita; it is only two days since you were shot,” said Mrs Shapova crisply.

  Nikita’s eyes remained closed and he began to force his arm upwards once more. He managed about ten more degrees before hitting a wall and having to let his arm drop.

  “OK, now we have that little charade out of the way, perhaps we can get on with your treatment and recovery, Allochka,” said the doctor swiftly, taking hold of Nikita’s arm and pressing around the joint and wound. “Much as we may wish otherwise, this cannot be healed overnight and requires patience.”

  “There is no room for patience in my line of work, doctor.”

  “It is amazing how many of my patients seem to think that there is no room in their lives for patience. All of them seem to be a hundred per cent the most important people in the world, whether they are diplomats, spies or waiters.”