The Soviet Comeback

by Jamie Smith

  Both of the prisoners held their backs straight, full of dignity, their otherwise pristine white robes becoming dirty on the mossy cave floor.

  The captain walked to them and the two Afghan soldiers raised their eyes to him from under the heavy cloth wrapped around their heads. One was older, roughly late fifties with a thick grey beard and clean shaven over the lip, his face carrying a dignified wisdom. The other could be no older than twenty-five, with a round face and sharp nose.

  Sergeant Pogrevniak pushed the barrel of his weapon against the forehead of the elder prisoner. “Can I decorate the walls with the blood of this scum now, Captain?” He laughed, his lips pulled back tightly over crooked teeth.

  The captain pushed the gun down. “We treat our prisoners with respect, Sergeant.”

  “These aren’t prisoners, they are raghead scum.”

  The captain struck the sergeant around the face with the back of his hand. “Speak that way about me or our prisoners again and I will have you court-martialled, Sergeant.”

  Fury filled the face of Pogrevniak, who in turn struck the young private standing next to him who had let out an involuntary chuckle at the reprimanding of his commanding officer. The smile quickly left his face. Both retreated to the far side of the cave, watching with a mixture of curiosity and anger.

  “Do you speak Russian or English?” The captain asked them falteringly, in the one phrase he had memorised.

  “We speak both Russian and English, but our English is better,” replied the older mujahideen in a cultured accent.

  “Why do your people continue to fight?”

  “It is a Jihad. We will fight to the death against the enemies of Islam,” the young Afghan soldier said angrily.

  “This is why religion is poison,” said the soldier. “You would allow your women and children to die in the name of God.”

  “Religion may be poison,” acknowledged the elder soldier passively, “but God is real. Faith is real. With a faith in a higher power, we can accept death gladly, knowing that paradise awaits.”

  “That is a good way to avoid ever living,” the soldier said, rolling his shoulders to try and relieve them of the tension.

  “To the contrary, my friend, it means that we all have the opportunity to find peace with our mistakes, remedy our wrongs and live with no regret. Can you say that you will live with no regrets over the massacre of an entire village of innocent people? Why do white men feel the need to invade, demean and wield power over those who are different?”

  “I am following orders; this is not personal,” the captain said stiffly to the gentle old man.

  The old man looked benignly up at him and lowered his hands from his head. The captain said nothing. “Put aside the violence, Captain, and look for love,” he said gently.

  The captain laughed — a loud, humourless bark. “There is no love to be found in these caves, only death.”

  “It does not matter where you are, God can find you,” the old man replied before adding in Russian, “S milym rai i v shalashe budet.”

  “If you love somebody, you will have heaven even in a tent,” repeated the captain. “You know Russian proverbs.”

  “The beauty of that one always stayed with me, Captain. Now, it is time to do what you must. Go with God, for Allah is merciful,” he said and kissed his comrade on the cheek. They both closed their eyes.

  “Allahu akbar,” they both whispered. The gunshots echoed throughout the mountain, but it was their words that rang longer in the mind of the young captain, who would be forever changed.

  ***

  “You have done well, Captain,” said Chairman Klitchkov waspishly. “You are certain no civilians escaped? It is vital for national security that the events of the Spīn Ghar Mountains remain unknown.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied the captain into the radio receiver, fighting to keep the tremble from his voice, as the racking regret began to course through his veins. “We are still clearing some of the deeper caves; it is a labyrinth that runs deeper and farther than we could ever have imagined, but I have the perimeter sealed and the surrounding area has been scorched of all life,” he said, closing his eyes.

  “Excellent. Now I need you to stay in your current location and secure the caves. It is to become a base for an important operation.”

  “What operation is that, sir?” enquired the captain.

  “That is above your rank, Captain, but perhaps not for long. Instructions will be forthcoming shortly,” he said enigmatically and put down the receiver. He quickly picked it up again and dialled another number.

  “Da?” said the high-pitched voice of Maxim Denisov when he came to the phone.

  “It’s Klitchkov—” he began.

  “Ah yes, our esteemed new leader,” he interrupted drily.

  “If that is your attempt at brown-nosing, it needs some work,” said Klitchkov mockingly. Denisov said nothing. “How would you like to serve our homeland, comrade?” asked Klitchkov.

  “I have spent my life serving her,” said Denisov caustically.

  “Calm down, lieutenant-colonel. This would not only be serving the Soviet Union, but ensuring her greatness for generations.”

  There was a pause. “I’m listening,” said the cold voice.

  “Very good… I think you have earned your wings. I have a highly classified operation that I need you to oversee. Report to my office within the hour,” Klitchkov said and hung up the phone.

  Less than twenty minutes later Denisov stood at attention before the new chairman of the KGB.

  “You are ready to serve as you have never before, Maxim?” Klitchkov asked carefully.

  “Without question, sir.”

  “It will be dangerous. You could lose your life in the service of your country.”

  “There is no more honourable way to go,” Denisov said, knowing what his superior wanted to hear.

  Klitchkov stood and walked around to the young officer and pinned to his chest a badge of gold and red stripes. “I do not suffer failure, Colonel.”

  “Colonel?” gasped Denisov, showing more excitement than any had ever seen him display.

  “Do not cause me to regret it.”

  “No, sir. I will follow you wherever you command,” said Denisov, with no sign of his former air of cold indifference.

  “Yes, I think you will do perfectly,” said Klitchkov. “Now sit; the details of this operation are the highest level of classified and any mistakes will have repercussions on a global scale. There is a great deal to orchestrate, and I must now place it in your hands.”

  Klitchkov put his feet up on the desk in front of him and smiled. Everything was coming together perfectly. He then began to unfold the complex plan he had been working on right under the nose of Yerin.

  ***

  Nikita awoke with a jolt, momentarily confused by his surroundings. As his eyes accustomed to the gloom, he realised that he was on the sofa. If his eyes had not revealed it to him, the stiffness in his neck would have. As he pushed himself upright, the splitting down the centre of his forehead forced him back down and he tasted bile in the back of his throat.

  The empty bottle on the table in front of him revealed the source of his pain and he shut his eyes, wishing it away. That did nothing to rid him of the hangover and with a groan he forced himself up and made his way into the kitchen. He made himself a strong black coffee and washed down a couple of paracetamol, with the hot bitter liquid and another groan.

  As the coffee hit his stomach and the caffeine entered his veins, it all came rushing back to him. Brishnov, the plot, Chrastek’s head exploding, Sykes’ hesitation, Sarah’s emotional collapse and Elysia’s return. Elysia. He could not get her from his mind, but knew he must. Everything depended on the resilience of Jacob Marshall. Nathan Martins did not and could not exist in Washington, and nor could Nikita Allochka.

  He rubbed his eyes and thought again of Brishnov and the vice president. Making his mind up, he crept into his bedroom, moving soundless
ly. He could see the gentle rise and fall of Sarah’s body under the bedsheets as he grabbed some clothes and left the room, dressing silently in the living room after dousing himself with cold water.

  Twenty minutes later he arrived at the CIA headquarters. Hurrying through security, he marched quick time through the labyrinthine corridors and into the office of the Soviet Counter-intelligence Branch.

  Blaine was already at his desk, his eyes bloodshot. “Jesus, you look horrible,” he said to Nikita as he dropped heavily into his chair.

  “You’re no oil painting yourself, buddy,” Nikita replied drily, rubbing his own eyes and trying to ignore the sick feeling burning in his stomach.

  “I’ve been here all night; what’s your excuse, wise guy?” retorted his colleague.

  “Why have you been here all night? What have you found?” Nikita asked sharply.

  “I’ve been pulled onto your investigation. I’ve managed to trace the registration of the White Russian’s car—”

  “What did it show? Tell me everything,” interrupted Nikita.

  “Nothing doing, man, it was hired under a false name of some guy from Delaware who kicked the bucket years ago.”

  “That took you all night?” Nikita said with a raised eyebrow.

  “Of course not. There’s some strange movement happening in the USSR since Yerin was removed. Some guy named Denisov seems to have been dropping in on their nuclear sites and disappearing with a load of staff.”

  “Did you just say Denisov?” Nikita said sharply, stunned.

  “That’s right. Maxim Denisov. You know him? I’m not familiar with the name.”

  ***

  EAST SIBERIAN TAIGA, USSR, OCTOBER 1986

  Nikita looked ahead of him at his fellow KGB recruits. Of the hundred and fifty he had started with almost five years ago, only fifteen now remained. They were marching in single file through the largest forest on earth, along a rough game track that had been flattened out by many boots. The East Siberian Taiga stretched for hundreds of miles in every direction, a thick, dense forest of larch, spruce, pine and fir. The days were still uncomfortably hot, with the air thick with mosquitos. But at night the subarctic frigidness of the long Siberian winter was beginning to creep back in, with temperatures plummeting. It had been an uncomfortable night on the forest floor. The other recruits had huddled together for warmth, but Nikita knew better than to try and get so close to them. Instead, he had spent the night with his eyes open, sitting propped against the tree, ears alert to the wolves, bears, reindeer and other deer, but nothing had dared approach the coiled springs that were the young KGB agents.

  The hardened trainees all wore the long thick grey coats of their order. No one displayed anything that would suggest their discomfort, although several of the recruits had removed their ushankas, the ear flaps all currently pinned up.

  Nikita liked to always bring up the rear when marching in this formation; it allowed him to keep his eyes firmly on his comrades, who had spent that past four years doing all they could to sabotage him.

  Currently nothing could be heard other than the firm footsteps of their knee-high black leather boots. The forest was eerily subdued. Not even the wolves had risen yet.

  The track began to incline before falling away sharply, zig-zagging down the slope, forcing the men to use the thick pine trunks to stop them from losing their footing. The track pulled away sharply to the left at the foot of the slope and suddenly opened into a clearing that stretched for over a thousand yards.

  On the floor at the edge of the clearing was a wooden wall, with guns held in place by wooden pegs serving as racks. As they got nearer, Nikita could see there were three different types of firearms: Dragunov sniper rifles, Kalashnikov automatic rifles and Makarov PM pistols. There were also a series of knives, the like of which Nikita had never seen. They had fierce double-sided blades and thick round steel handles with rough circular grips, and a curious outcropping of metal at the foot of the blade.

  Standing next to the wall of weaponry was their tutor, Maxim Denisov. He was deep in conversation with two men, one whom he recognised even from behind as the man who had changed the course of his life, Colonel Klitchkov. The other was a new face to Nikita — a solid looking man around sixty, with thick wire-rimmed glasses and a stern grey suit. The way the other two men looked to him, Nikita could immediately tell that he was their superior.

  “I think that is Viktor Yerin,” Yuri Popov, the recruit directly in front of him, whispered to Neski in front of him.

  Neski looked briefly over his shoulder. “Of course it is Yerin. He dines often with my father,” he sneered, before throwing his standard look of disgust at Nikita and turning back to face the front and continuing to swagger.

  As they got to the men, they moved out of single file, instead lining up opposite the wall and the three men, waiting for them to finish their conversation.

  The three stopped talking abruptly and turned to face the recruits who all stood to attention and saluted their superiors.

  “These are the best we have produced, sir,” Denisov said laconically to Yerin. Even by Denisov’s standards, Nikita was surprised with the indifference he showed to those superior to him, merely just adhering to the most basic of formalities.

  Yerin surveyed him with disapproval before looking back to the men. He walked along the line, looking at them closely.

  As he came to Neski, the young man stepped out and offered his hand. “Excellent to see you, Viktor — my father sends his regards,” he said pompously.

  Yerin stopped and stared at the arrogant trainee. Denisov and Klitchkov looked mutinous.

  Looking back at his two colleagues, Yerin ignored Neski’s proffered hand. “Are you training our agents to be insolent and to break ranks now?” he asked.

  Neski’s eyes widened in horror before he dropped his hand and stepped back into line. “Sir! Sorry, sir.”

  “You would shame your father?” Yerin asked Neski, whose face had whitened and all trace of arrogance gone.

  Klitchkov stepped in. “Agent Neski will of course embrace his punishment for his impudence, which will give him ample time to reflect on his errors, won’t you soldier?” he said, looking at the young man.

  Neski nodded frantically.

  “Sobchak, Maklako, help this sinner discover the meaning of penitence,” Denisov said slickly to two of the other trainees.

  The two recruits stepped out of ranks and without a word grabbed Neski and began dragging him into the woods.

  “If he screams, do not bring him back,” said Yerin coldly. Klitchkov chuckled, turned back to the recruits and nodded to Denisov who was now facing Nikita, studying him. Denisov turned behind him and picked up one of the curious-looking knives from the rack, around four metres away from Nikita. He weighed the knife in his hands, holding it out perpendicular to his body, his palm holding the weight and his fingers wrapped around the top. His thumb gently rested on the metal notch protruding from the top of the hilt where it met the blade.

  There was silence as all the young KGB recruits stood resolutely at attention, almost quivering with vigilance. Their years under the tutelage of Denisov had led them never to be restful, and to always expect the unexpected. The cold, clinical teacher had a flair for the dramatic, and many of them bore scars to remind them. Yerin and Klitchkov, however, while more relaxed, were nonetheless staring at Denisov with cautious interest.

  “Allochka, down!” screamed Denisov suddenly. As he said it his thumb pushed down in the crook of the metal notch on the knife handle.

  The blade shot out from the handle, directly at Nikita’s heart.

  The second’s notice that Denisov had given him would have left almost anyone else in the world impaled like a stuck pig. But it was not for no reason that Nikita was the best recruit in the KGB programme. Already he was on the balls of his feet, too aware of Denisov’s cruelty to be unsuspecting. His training had taught him that to fall backwards was quicker than to fall forwards and it
was this training that saved him. Had he dived forwards he would have thrown his head into the path of the blade, but as he fell backwards the blade whistled past his ear, almost slicing the skin.

  He landed heavily on his back, knocking the breath from his lungs, but instantly leapt back onto his feet with ease, and stepped back into line. Barely four seconds had passed.

  Denisov stood with the handle of the knife in his hand and a spring hanging from the end. There was silence all around, before Yerin began applauding.

  Nikita felt cold inside, but his heart was beating overtime. Surviving by a split second produced a massive amount of adrenaline and he controlled his breathing to stop his hands from shaking.

  Klitchkov smiled knowingly.

  “What is this amazing contraption?” asked Yerin, showing more emotion than his face was used to displaying.

  “The Spetsnaz ballistic knife, sir,” answered Denisov. “It travels at speeds of over sixty miles per hour and is capable of piercing body armour… or slow KGB soldiers,” he added with a wry smile.

  Yerin smiled again. “He knew it was coming, I presume?” he said, twitching his head in Nikita’s direction.

  “No, sir,” said Denisov.

  The smile immediately faded from Klitchkov’s face.

  Yerin turned and looked at Nikita. “You did not know of the knife attack?”

  “Niet, ser!” barked Nikita.

  Silence descended on the clearing once more as Yerin continued to inspect him, now smiling. In the distance they heard a scream and the smile faded instantly from Yerin’s face.

  He stepped back and surveyed the men. “Well at least we know you have managed to train one of them well. How many more would have managed to avoid your attempts to kill them, I wonder?” he mused.

  Denisov’s expression was flat. He walked past the men to retrieve the blade.

  “The intention is that our men will be behind the blade rather than in front of it, sir,” said Klitchkov. “Let us see them in action for firearms training,” he added to Denisov, who nodded and began walking down the line, handing guns to the soldiers.