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

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