by Jamie Smith
He set his shoulders and went back to the Capitol steps where a small platform was being erected for the vice president to stand on. Secret Service agents, garbed in black suits with mirrored sunglasses, were clearing the front of the building and shepherding people to a safe distance. Deciding against introducing himself to the man in charge, he lurked in the shadows of the trees and continued to consider all of the angles. If it was him, a sniper shot was the obvious option. Near impossible to spot or to defend against, the difficulty in pinpointing where the shot came from until later made escape much easier. But somehow it just didn’t feel like that would be Brishnov’s style. The way he had killed the prostitute, allowing himself to be photographed, the murder of Chrastek, the blowing up of the Texas bar; this was a man who had tired of hiding in the shadows and taking no credit for his successes.
To the inexperienced eye, it would appear that Brishnov had become reckless. To Nikita it spoke of a series of deliberate moves on a chess board that were set up to deceive.
He cleared his mind and focused again on the task at hand. The old stone steps had now been cleared, and glancing at his watch Nikita could see that the time of the press conference was nearly upon him. Across the lawn, the press corps had gathered, a roiling mass of reporters and photographers, notepads, pens, long lens cameras and scuffed shoes. The sky above was stormy grey but it looked as if the rain would hold off until after the vice president’s speech, which he didn’t imagine would be too long.
He didn’t have to wait long, as it was barely minutes later when the motorcade appeared, travelling fast along Independence Avenue South West. The black saloon was almost hidden by the rotating, flashing ensemble of police motorbikes and oversized security vehicles.
Nikita sank further back into the shadows, draping his CIA lanyard around his neck in plain sight to ward off any suspicious Secret Service snipers, and set himself up with a clear view of both the politician and the crowd in front of the platform.
Vice President Gerald Phillips approached the platform with his security guard John running point ahead of him, his smooth skin and long nose dulled in the sunlight. Anyone in the way quickly evaporated under the glare of the wiry bodyguard. Secret Service personnel, all in black suits and sunglasses, flanked the vice president and followed from the rear.
They stopped to one side of the platform as Ed Sheen passed them and took up his place at the microphone.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” he said heartily, enjoying his moment in the spotlight. “Thank you all for coming. The vice president will be making a short statement and no questions. Without any further delay, I give you Vice President of the United States, Gerald Phillips,” he finished flamboyantly, with a hand out in his boss’s direction.
The vice president smiled broadly and began walking with short steps towards the platform, suddenly looking very much his age. He stumbled slightly as he climbed the steps, but John was on hand to steady him. He fruitlessly tried to smooth down his charcoal grey suit, bulky over the Kevlar vest, swept a hand over his severe side parting and laughed as he got to the microphone. “What I’m about to say will hopefully offer more stability to the country than my footwork on these steps!” The press corps indulged him with a smattering of laughter which died down immediately as the vice president raised his hand and the smile faded from his face.
“I want to thank you all for coming; I can see some friendly faces in there, yes even in the press corps,” he said to another ripple of smiles.
“You may be asking why I chose this spot for what I’m about to say. This may not be where I earned my stripes — I have Texas to thank for that — but without a doubt it’s where I earned my stars serving the American people, here at the Capitol Building, an emblem of what this country stands for — liberty, freedom and an iron will.
“And it is for that reason that I’ve chosen a place that is not about me, but is about the history and the future of this country, to announce my candidacy for president of the United States.”
At that moment a banner unfurled down the wall behind him, reading ‘Gerald Phillips for President’ on a deep blue background, with a red stripe through the centre.
There was some polite applause from the journalists, but a more enthusiastic reaction from the gathered crowd which had been drawn by the media circus, with two media helicopters now circling overhead.
He signalled to his wife Audrey and she bustled over, John stepping back out of the way, his eyes watchful. Her white perm was set perfectly in place, impervious to the gentle breeze down the National Mall. He put his arm around her and they both fixed their faces into smiles and waved. He then released her and she stepped to the side.
Nikita’s eyes were furiously searching the landscape, scanning the buildings with his keen eyes for any window ajar and gleaming gun barrel, anyone in the crowd looking even vaguely suspect. He identified some possible candidates in the crowd, but no one of Brishnov’s stature and nobody who on closer inspection met the requirements he was looking for as a would-be assassin. He had suspicions, but nothing was certain and his heart was racing with suspense. Yet all seemed calm, which only served to increase his anxiety.
“For the past seven years, the president has done great work, and I’ve worked tirelessly as his vice president to support that great work. But now I want to make this country even greater. Normal protocol would have me fill a hall full of supporters in a state that loves me, to announce a run for president, with champagne and streamers. But running for this great office is not a party, it’s not about being surrounded by yes men, it’s about doing what is right for the United States of America!” he exclaimed with his fist held triumphantly aloft.
“Seven years ago, the world was beset by a cold front, but through tireless work we have pushed it back while ensuring that things never became too hot, and that our relations with the Soviet Union are stronger than they have been for decades. I don’t want to see the blood of American soldiers spilt on foreign soil, or any soil for that matter. I want us to enter a future without fear, a future of—” he coughed slightly and wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow.
“A future of pe—” he coughed again, and put a hand on the microphone to steady himself.
He smiled a crooked smile, and went to continue speaking. As he did, his eyes rolled back into his head and his legs folded under him. He fell backwards onto the steps as Audrey rushed to his side, just failing to catch him as he landed heavily. The steps were lit up by the strobe light effect of thirty camera flashes furiously flickering as the press throng closed in and Nikita ran from his hiding place towards the vice president.
The Secret Service quickly pushed the horde back, but there was one person missing. The one person who should have been right by the vice president’s side throughout the speech. John the bodyguard.
Nikita was already on the hunt and pulled his handgun from the holster, holding it low while beginning to spring after the dark shape ghosting towards the very trees Nikita had loitered in earlier. Sirens were wailing as blue lights flashed in the distance, closing in on Capitol Hill. Whether they were ambulances or the police, Nikita couldn’t tell. There was no time to wait and find out; he must find John. John would lead him to Brishnov and he could end this whole sorry saga.
Brishnov.
If John was running, did that mean that Brishnov was still near, surveying the whole scene, perhaps with a sniper now that the perfect misdirection had been performed? “Follow the lead you’ve got,” Nikita muttered to himself.
He began running hard towards the trees, John no longer visible. Covering the ground in seconds, Nikita paused under the canopy of the spruce trees. They weren’t densely packed but provided enough shade for a dark suit to fade into in the overcast afternoon.
Searching the area, Nikita absorbed all the information in front of him, and saw the lithe figure of the bodyguard who was across the road nearing the Rayburn House Office Building. He began his pursuit once more, crossing
the grass and hurtling across the street, dimly aware of the blaring of car horns and screeching of brakes as he did so. He cared little, his focus entirely on the man he was pursuing, some hundred yards ahead of him.
John was fast, almost seeming to glide across the ground, so unlike a typical bulky bodyguard. But Nikita was faster.
Even in hard shoes, Nikita was making up ground quickly, but as John passed the Rayburn Building, he threw a glance over his shoulder and saw Nikita gaining on him. He turned a hard left and charged directly into the congressional office building.
Nikita groaned. This could complicate matters considerably.
He then heard multiple gunshots and his chest tightened, knowing exactly what he could look forward to once he entered.
Slowing as he reached the doorway, situated beneath grey stone columns, he held his HDM pistol in both hands and stood with his back to the wall next to the doorway, listening intently. There were no screams or shouts, only silence, which was the worst thing Nikita could have hoped for. He could almost smell the blood.
He nudged the door open with the barrel of his gun and stepped silently into the building, keeping the wall behind him and searching the entry hall with the pistol. Blood was already pooling on the floor, but it was the bodies that Nikita focused on more.
Three security men lay dead on the ground, two behind the concierge desk inside the building, slumped back in their chairs with double taps between their eyes. Another lay next to the metal detector at the entryway, staring blindly up at the ceiling. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-two but a wedding ring gleamed on his lifeless left hand.
Three others also lay dead, one Nikita recognised as a congressman, while a man with wispy grey hair lay slumped over a woman in her thirties who even in death was still holding the stack of papers she must have been carrying.
All of the deceased had been killed in identical ways, and Nikita felt the hairs on the back of his neck quiver with suspicion.
He set his shoulders grimly and moved down the corridor, fiercely determined. His breath was heavy from the sprint and he paused to regain control, remembering Denisov’s words: ‘if you act on adrenaline, you act without control. There is no such thing as a KGB agent with no control, because they will be dead either by their own failings or by the enemy’s hand.’
The corridor was deserted, and Nikita was grateful that it was a weekend and most people were not in work. Nonetheless, a building such as this should never be this quiet. Perhaps the gun shots encouraged people to hide, he thought to himself hopefully.
At the end of the corridor, a staircase opened up to the right, and double doors led outside on the left. He quickly spotted the hint of a bloody handprint on the bannister of the stairs.
He immediately moved towards the doors. No KGB agent, double agent or otherwise, would be careless enough to leave a handprint when being pursued. There was also the fact that the victims had all been shot. “No reason to have blood on your hands unless you chose to,” Nikita muttered as he saw that the fire alarm connected to the door had been disconnected, deactivating it. He pushed the doors open.
A bullet missed Nikita by a fraction of an inch, ringing as it ricocheted off the metal doors. He threw himself back behind one of the doors. He chanced a glance around and saw John moving swiftly over the street towards the Spirit of Justice Park, now only about forty yards ahead of him. Leaping out from behind the door, Nikita hurtled across the street and into the park, closing the gap rapidly.
When he had closed the distance to around fifteen yards, he raised his gun. “It’s over, John. Don’t make me shoot you,” he shouted.
The bodyguard slowed to a stop in front of the fountain in the centre of the small, deserted park which was merely a green topping for an underground car park. He turned and raised his arms and grinned at Nikita.
“Drop your weapon,” Nikita said, moving closer.
John withdrew it and tossed it towards Nikita, who nudged it away with his foot. The temptation to just pull the trigger was huge and he fought to keep control.
“What did you do to the vice president?”
“Some good old fashioned novichok agent, comrade; he will not survive. He was dead before he even took to the stage. Dead before he even got into the car,” John said with a chuckle.
Nikita laughed. “Is that right? Then give me a reason not to shoot you.”
“Control, not adrenaline,” whispered John from underneath his long, curved nose, his accent slipping to reveal a thick Soviet accent.
Nikita cocked his head to one side and fired.
CHAPTER 21
Far from looking surprised, John merely smirked as the shot deflected off the stone statue in the middle of the fountain directly behind him.
“I am not here to talk with you, whoever you are; I am only here to take you in for the murder of the vice president,” said Nikita.
“Then he is dead? I have fulfilled my mission?” John said desperately, a look of ecstasy crossing his face.
“Like I said, I am not here to talk. The next shot will not miss; I give you my word on that.”
“You don’t behave like a CIA analyst…” John began, falling silent as Nikita walked towards him, but the smirk didn’t leave his face.
Nikita pulled John’s arms behind him and prepared to put handcuffs on him. As he did, John pushed backwards, hard, driving Nikita into the low wall around the fountain. He lost his balance and fell into the water, but managed to hold onto the bodyguard, pulling him with him.
Before he was able to spring to his feet, John was on him, holding him under the water. Looking up at the face from underwater, Nikita thought John looked strangely distorted and multi-hued. Almost automatically he swivelled and swept John’s leg. It barely moved but did enough to loosen the pressure on him momentarily to get out of the hold by placing his wrists between John’s hands and forcing them upwards and outwards.
Nikita propelled himself backwards, cracking his head on the stone wall. He stood up dizzy as John launched a fresh attack at him. Nikita ducked the assault, noticing that it hadn’t been a trick of the water, and John’s face really had become blotchy. He came up from his low position with an uppercut which John attempted to dodge, but Nikita caught the end of his nose, which came away from the face and flung up into the air, coming to land in the water behind him.
Nikita looked at the face in front of him with no hint of surprise. The long, curved nose had been replaced by a short, horribly familiar, straight one. The sallow, smooth skin tone had now been largely washed away by the water, leaving a pinched, pale face with broad, high cheekbones. And an angry scar running from the corner of one eye out to the ear.
“Hello comrade,” Taras Brishnov sneered in Russian. As he spoke, his facial muscles seemed to relax and unbunch from the position he’d been holding them in to become John. The rounded face became thinner and gaunter.
“You do not seem surprised,” he said curiously.
Nikita did not reply, instead throwing himself at him, but Brishnov stepped calmly to one side, leaving Nikita swiping at thin air and stumbling forwards. Brishnov kicked him ferociously in the lower back, causing Nikita to wail out loud despite himself and fall forward onto the wall again.
Both men were soaked to the bone, and Brishnov was laughing now. “So much fuss made over the Black Russian,” he spat. “So much energy wasted on so pathetic a man, a dirty little African posing as a Russian. Hell will freeze over the day any Russian breeds with a black,” he said, all trace of the smirk now gone.
Nikita sat in the water and looked desperately for a way up. He felt for the knife in his boot but Brishnov kicked his hand away contemptuously.
“Every trick, you think you know, I have been doing for a decade longer. They call you the greatest Russian agent? You are nothing more than Klitchkov’s pet.”
Nikita laughed bitterly. “Perhaps, but rather his pet than his sacrificial lamb, sent to the slaughter and betrayed by his own country
.” The smile fell from Brishnov’s face.
“You lie!” he said, thrusting a fist at Nikita, who ducked and threw a counter punch at Brishnov’s side. Brishnov spun and launched a rear kick at Nikita’s knee; Nikita jumped above it and launched the side of his hand at Brishnov’s neck.
To onlookers it was hard to keep pace with the two elite KGB agents, both trained in the same skills, but both with very different approaches. The rapid thrusts moved like lightning as they danced and splashed their way around the fountain.
Brishnov’s style was one of rapier-like flicks and movements, but from a clearly stiff military background. Nikita moved more slowly, but with more fluidity and more strength. He attacked less but made more connections with his opponent. However, Brishnov’s connections were more damaging and began to take their toll. Both were looking for a weakness in the other to exploit, and both struggling to find one.
They broke apart, both gasping for breath, both struggling to maintain a firm foothold on the mossy bottom of the pool. With a jolt, Nikita realised he could not beat Brishnov. Not with his fists.
“Why do you think I came here today? Why do you think I was with Chrastek that day you shot him?” asked Nikita.
Brishnov said nothing, just eyed Nikita again with his cold smirk.
“My order to pursue a threat to the vice president did not come from the CIA. It came from home. Klitchkov passed on orders from Yerin himself. Yerin ordered you to be killed,” lied Nikita.
“This is why you can’t trust blacks,” sneered Brishnov. “I know Yerin better than you could possibly know; he would never betray me.”
“He betrayed you, and so has your country. You are lost with no hope, Taras,” whispered Nikita, reverting back to English as he became aware of a crowd of people drawing near. He caught sight of flashing blue lights in his periphery just before he heard a familiar voice say, “Jake!”
