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

“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 indication 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