by Jamie Smith
***
Thirteen hours later, Nikita strode out of Sheremetyevo International Airport in Moscow. The FBI had bestowed a new identity upon him, intent on trying to make his visit look as genuine as possible. He was now Wilmer Jambo from the Communist People’s Republic of Angola, coming to Moscow to take advantage of trade agreements between their two communist nations.
He had tried to tell them that in the Soviet Union he was going to draw attention wherever his passport was from, and that the need to go to such lengths for subterfuge was pointless, but it had fallen on deaf ears.
After three over-zealous strip searches upon presenting himself at customs, the airport security staff had reluctantly let him through.
He stepped outside and breathed in the bitingly cold Moscow air. “Ludshe doma mesta,” he muttered quietly under his breath, enjoying the feel of his native tongue in his throat once more. “No better place than home” He pulled the hefty dossier about Angola that the FBI had thrust upon him to strengthen his cover from his bag and tossed it negligently into a bin as he passed.
He was surprised, almost cross, that there was nobody to collect him, and with some belligerence headed to the taxi rank. Three taxi drivers refused to take him, the last not even attempting to hide his disgust, saying only “No black arses,” before pulling away. Finally, the fourth taxi took him with some reluctance, and he ordered it to take him to the Kremlin. After months in the US with only sidelong glances and whispered words, it was almost a pleasure to know how people really felt.
He was around fifteen minutes from the Kremlin, passing through the Begovoy District when a black ZIS-115 pulled suddenly in front of the taxi, forcing the driver to slam on the brakes.
“Sadnitsa!” cursed the taxi driver, but swiftly fell silent as men in black suits carrying weapons leapt from the car and pulled the back seat door open.
Nikita was unsurprised by the turn of events, and ignoring the ferocious honking of horns, climbed from the cab and stepped into the back seat of the KGB vehicle.
“Subtlety was never your strong suit, sir,” he said as he sidled in to the plush leather interior of the classic armoured car, next to his former trainer.
“Shut up,” replied Denisov placidly as the two men climbed back into the front of the car. He ordered them to take them to a location with which Nikita was unfamiliar.
Nikita didn’t bother to ask where they were going as he knew Denisov would not tell him, but he kept his eyes on the road outside, mentally mapping their journey. He could not help doing it everywhere he went; it had been trained into him by the man at his side. KGB operatives were drilled to within an inch of their lives on memory and concentration tests, getting them as close to an eidetic memory as possible. It had been another area in which Nikita had excelled.
They passed the turn for the Kremlin, instead carrying on over the Bol’shoy Kamennyy Most highway, taking them over the Moskva River and taking a left towards the Repinskiy Skver square. They slowed and turned down a narrow street cast in darkness, that could barely accommodate the long four-tonne vehicle. Nikita looked behind him and saw that upon their entering the street a screen had immediately closed behind them, hiding it from view.
He sat back in his seat. “Ludshe doma mesta net,” he muttered to himself once more under his breath with a gentle smile. Suddenly Skyros, Texas, Cuba and Washington all felt like a distant memory, and none of it felt so wrong any more.
They drove under a low stone arch and into a long brick tunnel which curved around to the right and downwards. The tunnel was pitch black, only illuminated by the headlights of the government vehicle. The air smelled heavy and damp, leading Nikita to the conclusion that they were currently under the river.
The tunnel began to rise sharply, before levelling out. The car stopped suddenly.
“Get out,” ordered Denisov.
Nikita stepped out into the gloomy tunnel and saw a thick metal door that looked like it had almost been cut out of the old brickwork. Denisov stepped in front of him and opened the door, casting bright light into the tunnel. Nikita followed and the heavy door closed with a dull thud.
The tunnel they entered was in sharp contrast to the one they had left behind. An homage to brushed steel and aluminium, it felt like a long metal tube, lit by overly bright fluorescent strips which were buzzing faintly. Nikita shielded his eyes as he let them adjust before following the clipped footsteps of Denisov who had not hesitated before striding off to the left.
They stepped into a buttonless elevator which stood open as if waiting for them at the end of the corridor. Denisov withdrew a fob from his inner pocket and pressed it against a small black circle next to the door. A green light appeared above it and the doors closed sharply.
When they opened moments later, Nikita and Denisov stepped out into a large office with floor to ceiling windows, giving a view over the river. In the near distance, he could see Dormition Cathedral and beyond it the bulbous, multihued turrets of the Kremlin. Nikita had often felt that the brightly coloured stripes and dots of the towers were at odds with the grey concrete landscape known as Khrushchvovka which had appeared under the direction of Stalin’s successor, Nikita Krushchev. The low concrete apartment blocks had been one of the former general secretary’s legacies to the USSR. Normally so drab and ugly, but today, with the view Nikita could see before him, he could for the first time appreciate the majesty of the ancient city.
“Beautiful, is it not?” said the familiar voice of Chairman Klitchkov as he entered the room from a side door and followed Nikita’s gaze. Denisov had already settled himself in an ornate wooden chair in front of the desk and Klitchkov signalled to Nikita to follow suit.
Nikita walked over to the chair, taking in his surroundings. The wall on his right was covered by a dark wooden bookcase packed full of dry-looking books. The desk in front of him was also of a dark wood; Nikita guessed that both were mahogany. They were at odds with much of the rest of the room, which followed the theme of the corridor below, with steel light fittings, polished marble flooring and a vaguely futuristic design.
Klitchkov took a seat behind the desk and leant on the arm of the chair. “Welcome home, Agent Allochka. You have done well. Would you not agree, Lieutenant Colonel?” he said jovially to Denisov.
“Adequate,” Denisov said shortly, ejecting the word with great reluctance.
Klitchkov laughed. “Come now, Maxim, enjoy the proof of your excellence at the academy.”
Denisov said nothing. “Ignore Maxim, Nikita. That is as close as he comes to praise, so take it as such,” said Klitchkov, almost gently.
“Thank you, Chairman, Lieutenant Colonel,” Nikita said, nodding to both. “But I have only done my job, nothing more.”
“Spoken like a true agent,” responded Klitchkov. “Now to business. What instruction have the CIA given you for your journey home?”
“I am to make myself visible to the KGB so as to encourage them to turn me into a double agent.”
Denisov let out a wheezy sound. Nikita realised it was his attempt at laughter. “The Yankee dogs!” he cried in his high-pitched, reedy voice. “They are so blind to what is right in front of them,” he said euphorically.
“This is a fortunate turn of events; we find ourselves in a rare position,” said Klitchkov, nodding, seemingly more to himself than either of his colleagues. “You have played the game exceedingly well,” he added to Nikita. “Despite being forced to carry out some of Yerin’s more questionable assignments out there. Tell me, what do they know of our nuclear disarmament?”
“I don’t have much to update beyond what I told you recently in Washington. My former section chief suspects things may differ from the version of events we are feeding them. However, of the three analysts assigned to investigate any links between the disarmament, the Afghan… victorious withdrawal, and the White Russian, only one remains in the department.”
“It was your lover that Brishnov killed, yes? The Chinese mongrel?” Klitchkov
asked brightly.
“Korean,” Nikita corrected. “He saved me having to burn her,” Nikita said, with a shrug, though his fist clenched tightly in his lap.
Denisov was staring at him, his eyes giving nothing away but his wide, pursed mouth had the hint of a smirk at the edges.
“Brishnov’s last act was a kindness to us; with both you and her out of the team it will hamstring their investigations. Who is the remaining agent?” Denisov asked.
“Blaine Lahart, a very capable analyst. His key area of focus is our adherence to the INF Treaty, but he had been looped in on some of my KGB investigations and Sarah Chang’s interest in the White Russian.”
“Who they now believe to be dead,” Klitchkov commented.
“Who they now believe to be dead, as was your intention,” Nikita agreed. “Do we know if the vice president survived or not?” he added.
“We have been unable to glean that information yet; they are keeping their cards very close to their chest with that one. It is of no consequence either way, as long as they continue to believe Brishnov was acting alone and not under the orders of the Soviet government,” said Klitchkov.
“And was he?” Nikita asked.
“I’ve warned you before about insolence, agent,” Klitchkov said shortly, in the tone change typical of the man. “I will not warn you again,” he said and laid an unusual looking revolver on the desk.
“Of course, sir. Not my concern,” Nikita said, holding his gaze.
“Will this section chief revive the investigation?” asked Denisov calmly, bringing the discussion back to business.
“He is like a dog with a bone once he gets an idea and will chase it into the ground if he has to. However, the death of the man they believe to be the one who had been carrying out all of the assassinations may force him to wrap up the investigation; he has very limited resources. I suspect the investigation will end, but he will not forget it and it will only take the slightest hint of foul play for it to be reopened.” Nikita paused. “There is one more thing,” he added. “During the battle with Brishnov, there was smoke coming from the Capitol. Was this also the work of Brishnov?”
The air suddenly became heavy and tense as the muscles around Klitchkov’s mouth tightened. Denisov continued to look unconcerned.
“What do you know of it?” Klitchkov asked coldly.
“Nothing beyond what I just asked, sir,” Nikita replied. “But I asked a fellow CIA agent who I thought may have information on it and he told me to mind my own business,” Nikita said. Then he added, hoping it appeared as an afterthought, “His name was Zach Burn, by the way,” and closely watched the faces of his two superiors.
Both were highly trained KGB agents and to the casual eye gave no indication that name meant anything to them. Nikita’s eye was far from casual, however. Denisov either knew nothing or if he did, he hid it unbelievably well. Klitchkov, however, had never been a KGB field agent, and his fingers flexed involuntarily. A tiny tell, but significant to one such as Nikita.
“You know the name,” Nikita said. It was not a question.
Klitchkov stood, and turning his back, stared back across the river and was silent for several minutes. The muscles in Denisov’s jaw were rippling, showing his teeth were gritted.
“We know the name,” said Klitchkov slowly.
“He provided me with the evidence I needed to pursue Brishnov,” said Nikita. “He has embedded himself into the CIA well; he is clearly a significant player in the Soviet East Department, for him to be the one informing me of my mission. It was most irregular; I do not know how he managed it.”
Silence fell upon the room once more. This time Nikita decided to sit quietly with it.
Eventually Klitchkov shared a meaningful look with Denisov and sighed.
“You are an observant little shit,” said Klitchkov ruefully, turning back to face them. “Ah, but there is no sense in keeping you in the dark any longer! The man you speak of is a KGB agent, but he is not a Soviet. He is an American who is working for us. He has been providing us with exceptionally high-quality information for three years now. The intelligence he has furnished us with led to Yerin being able to systematically dismantle the US spy network in the USSR.”
“That is a lot of blood on his hands,” commented Nikita.
“It is a bloody business we are in,” responded Denisov.
“Indeed.” Klitchkov laughed. “Yet of late his behaviour has been more erratic and he appears to be spending on a lifestyle that outstrips the significant sums that we are already paying him.”
“You can never trust an American pig,” spat Denisov. “We should kill him and be done with it.”
Klitchkov ignored him. “This fire at the Capitol; it was not a part of our operation.” He threw a photo down on the desk which Nikita picked up. It was a poor photo — grainy and pixelated — but just clear enough to make out the face of Zach Burn entering the US Capitol with a briefcase. “This was taken moments after the vice president collapsed and you pursued Brishnov. The security detail at the front desk had left their post to try and protect the vice president, meaning—”
“That whatever is in that briefcase never got checked.” Nikita finished the sentence.
“Exactly,” Confirmed Denisov.
“Of course, it could be a coincidence. Perhaps Burn had business in the Capitol Building that day, although it did not appear in his report back to us. We are in the business of connecting dots; we are in the business where there are no coincidences. Brishnov had been turned by these neo-Nazi scum, and it appears that Burn has been bought by them,” said Klitchkov.
“You need me to terminate him?” Nikita asked dispassionately.
“I think not,” Klitchkov replied. “Not yet anyway. My gut tells me it was a failed attempt to destroy the Capitol. Pamyat, led by Lev Veselovsky, are intent on only two things; to ethnically cleanse the Soviet Union, and to make Russia the only superpower in the world, by destroying the United States of America.”
“I do not imagine they have had too much trouble gaining support for elements of that in Russia,” Nikita commented, then paused. “My handler in Skyros believes there was a Pamyat agent on the island. I did not know what Pamyat was until now so it had made little sense,” he added.
“It would have been useful had one of you mentioned that to someone back then,” Denisov snapped. “We would have known the depth of their treachery and the reach of their arm.” He breathed deeply, and waved a hand. “No matter. But to your point, no, they have not had difficulty recruiting people,” replied Denisov, letting his face settle back into its naturally smug expression.
“They are an irritating thorn which has been allowed too much freedom to grow. Petrenko was so preoccupied with keeping our nuclear missiles from the grips of NATO and the US that he did not see that Yerin was plotting with Pamyat to overthrow him until it was too late,” said Klitchkov.
“Yerin did this?” Nikita blinked, shocked. “That is why he was deposed?”
“Yerin is a traitor,” said Denisov, the smugness evaporating from his face. “One thing is clear, Colonel, he leaked the details of our operation to one of Brishnov, Pamyat or Burn, possibly all three. He has committed treason.”
Klitchkov’s face turned Nikita’s blood cold, as he saw a hatred that even he had never encountered. “We find ourselves in a web of traitors. Who remains that I can trust?”
“My loyalty cannot be questioned,” answered Denisov, affronted.
“Nor can mine,” said Nikita softly, aware of the disbelief of both of his comrades.
Klitchkov nodded silently. “Perhaps,” he muttered. “Brishnov has been eliminated. Yerin, Burn and Lev Veselovsky must all be dealt with. If it is strength they need to see, then let us give it to them.” He poured out three more vodkas and raised his glass as if to toast before thinking better of it and drinking it. The other two followed suit.
CHAPTER 25
A dark stain under the armpit was the only indicatio
n that the navy-blue uniform was not being worn by its original owner. That man was tied up and dying in a broom cupboard from the stab wound inflicted by the shiv Brishnov carried. He could have brought a proper knife, but the idea of a shiv appealed to his sense of theatre.
The prison guard’s hat, with its broad, flat top, was pulled down tightly onto his head and the collar of the white shirt buttoned right to the top button. He tried to ignore the wet, sticky spot at his side and made his way down the gloomy corridor deep in the bowels of Matrosskaya Tishina prison.
The Moscow federal state penitentiary was infamous for its brutal conditions, high death rate and rampant corruption throughout the staff. Built by the general secretary himself, Josef Stalin, in 1945 on the site of an old asylum, the madness inherent in the site had persevered. It appeared a crumbling stone building from the outside, but inside it seemed nothing less than an homage to a Siberian gulag.
Brishnov shuddered. Why would the inmates not simply escape? It had been so easy to break in. The limitations of the mediocre mind baffled him. But then, he thought to himself with a smile, not everyone could be as exceptional as me. And soon there would be no doubt about who was the greatest Soviet agent there had ever been. He unconsciously massaged his bicep; the arm now pained him every time he tried to do anything that was weight-bearing. I will recover, he thought to himself, and I will destroy him.
As he moved further down the corridor, the smell grew steadily worse, and he could hear moans and cries from some of the doors he passed. Reaching the solid iron door, he was looking for, he covered his nose with a handkerchief taken from the pocket of his jacket and opened the slat.
Even through the handkerchief the stench still permeated his nostrils and he couldn’t prevent his eyes from watering.
Through the slat he could see Yerin standing upright in a ‘Kishka’ or gut prison cell, named for its likeness to an intestine. The tall narrow room prevented Yerin from sitting or kneeling down; he could only stand in the years of excrement that had been deliberately allowed to remain, uncleaned, to torment its victims.
