The Soviet Comeback by Jamie Smith (best ereader for academics TXT) 📕

will have the people calling for us to lead. It is the perfect time to strike. First we strike against the party, and then we destroy the capitalist dogs in the west.”

“And where will our fist fall to launch this strike?”

“There is only one thing that motivates the one they are calling the Black Russian.” He spat the words as if chewing on something bitter. “He serves only to protect his family. It is a secret that Klitchkov has held close.”

“So what do I care about the motivations of that scum?” replied Veselovsky indifferently.

“Yerin knows where his family are. We must reach him in jail, and the information he can provide will draw Allochka to us like a moth to a flame. His crucified body will be a rallying call to the people of the Soviet empire.”

Veselovsky was pensive for a moment, before he stuck his bottom lip out and began nodding with increasing encouragement. “I like this plan, Taras. Let us seal it with a drink,” he said as he walked to the kitchen cupboard and withdrew a clear bottle of vodka. He poured it into two shot glasses and raised his glass. “To a new Russia,” he proposed.

“To revenge,” replied Brishnov coldly. A flicker of concern crossed Veselovsky’s face but he quickly hid it, drinking down his shot.

“I don’t know how you made it back, Taras. Shit, I don’t know how you are even alive. Through the door over there you will find some entertainment that is well deserved. Rest now, because we have much to do.”

Brishnov did not smile, but his eyes flashed with a look too terrible even for Veselovsky to hold. “Do you need her for anything more?” Brishnov asked.

“Niet,” Veselovsky said, his mouth taut. She had been his favourite whore, but if anyone frightened him in this world, it was Taras Brishnov.

“You can come out of hiding now, Boris,” called Brishnov as he disappeared into Veselovsky’s quarters.

Looking brutish but guilty, Veselovsky’s right hand man emerged from the shadows. Boris was a tall, thin man in his sixties with a heavily tattooed neck, proudly displaying various fascist symbols, many of them conflicting. He had a heavily ridged brow with enough brains to be second in command, but not enough to challenge for the leadership, thought Veselovsky. In his hand he clutched the straw hat he had taken to wearing.

“Boss,” he said reverently, handing him a steaming mug of coffee. “Four sugars, just as you like.”

Veselovsky took it without a word, just gazing into the dark brown liquid.

“I think we should discuss Taras,” said Boris.

“Can it wait until after breakfast?” Veselovsky replied, his small watery eyes glowing with displeasure.

“I don’t think so,” said Boris. “His motives do not sound so pure any longer. Revenge burns inside him.”

“We cannot imagine what he has gone through to be here. Do not delay my breakfast because you have a weak stomach.”

“Lev,” said Boris, using a rare level of familiarity and sincerity with his old comrade in arms. “We must be careful.”

“We will. But whatever the motives, the plan is a good one,” he replied, nodding. “Either way, we get to do a bit of cleansing which is always fun,” he added with a weedy smile.

CHAPTER 24

“I don’t suppose you’re gonna tell me where you’re going?” Elysia queried, her arms folded.

“Elysia…”

“OK, don’t tell me. But one of these days Jacob Marshall or Nathan Martins or whatever your name is, you’re going to give me some answers!”

“Is that so?” he said, spotting the slightest hint of a playful tone in her voice as he put his bag down and pulled her to him.

She tried to hold the cross look but it quickly faded as he kissed her.

“Don’t think you can kiss your way out of this one,” she said between kisses.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, kissing her more deeply. She threw her arms around him and he was deeply tempted to pull her back to the bedroom but dragged himself away with great effort. “I have to go. I wish to God I didn’t, but I have to go.”

“When will you be back?” she asked, her eyes wide.

“I don’t know,” he replied honestly. “Maybe a week, maybe a month, maybe years.”

“Don’t say years,” she whispered.

“Elysia…”

“I know, I know. Don’t wait for you, you know how I feel about you et cetera et cetera,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I understand more than you think I do; it doesn’t take a genius to figure some of this out. You come back as soon as you can and we’ll figure things out then. Just… just…” her lip wobbled as she tried to say the words.

“Elysia…” he protested, trying to stop her.

“Just stay alive,” she said and his heart almost broke as he looked on her face, for maybe the last time. She pressed something wrapped in brown packing paper into his hand. It was small, the size of his palm. “Don’t open it now, but take it with you, to remind you of me.”

In the taxi as it pulled away, Nikita unwrapped the gift, and froze. Staring back at him was pocket-sized Black Russian Terrier, perfectly carved, from Cyclades ebony.

***

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