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

was warm and dusty and filled him with a surge of excitement at the journey ahead. “Perhaps my training brainwashed me more than I thought,” Nikita muttered to himself, grimly reminding him of what it was he would have to do.

***

As he stepped out of the front doors of the airport, a black Lada with darkened windows pulled up, its brakes screeching horribly, drawing the stares of everyone nearby.

The USSR had reliability and brutality in large doses, but subtlety was not an area in which it flourished.

The sweating red-faced driver rolled down the passenger window. His blond hair showed beneath his wide brimmed black hat, and wire rimmed sunglasses covered his eyes. “Allochka?”

Nikita gave no response but narrowed his eyes. He opened the passenger door and got in, but couldn’t help smiling bitterly. The elaborate and gruelling journey to get to Cuba for the sake of a subterfuge which had been immediately dispelled by the driver’s blunt approach.

As soon as the door closed, the wheels screamed once more as the driver ground the stick into gear and pulled away.

Rather than give the driver, who had left the windows rolled down, the opportunity to give away any more of his identity to a casual passer-by, Nikita elected to hold his tongue until they arrived at the embassy. The drive took about forty-five minutes, and he marvelled at the relative emptiness of the roads compared to the relentlessly busy Moscow he had journeyed from.

As they entered the Miramar district of the city, he could immediately see the Soviet embassy rising above the surrounding buildings, for all the world looking like a giant concrete syringe. He cringed as he recalled reading in the news the cost to the Russian taxpayer that the building, which had taken nine years to construct, had totalled. As they made their way through the brightly coloured but shabby streets, filled with smiling faces and loud music, he couldn’t help but feel the building was lording a wealth and authority over a people who simply didn’t care. Looking around, he saw smiling black people, Latin American people, white people all mixing, laughing and smiling and he realised that for the first time in his life, he was not the minority.

***

As Nikita was shown into the ambassador’s office, he was confronted with two men in dark suits, standing talking in front of a large desk. As he closed the door behind him, they halted their conversation mid-sentence and looked up. One of the men was unremarkable-looking, with a weak chin, heavily veined nose and thinning hair, but a warm, genuine smile and bags under his eyes. The other immediately looked dangerous to Nikita. Lean, yet solid-looking, he appeared totally in shape. His handsome high, cheek-boned face was framed by short blond hair and split by an angry scar running from the outer corner of his pale right eye and going across to his ear.

Saluting, Nikita stated, “Ambassador Yitski, I am Special Agent Nikita Allochka reporting for duty.”

The man with the veined nose smiled and moved forward. “At ease, agent.” He held out his hand. “Do come in; it is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Sir?”

“You are already a legend in the KGB; nobody believes that there is really a black Soviet agent!”

“Perhaps that is a good thing, sir; I just want to do the job that is required of me.”

“Of course, of course. Please do sit down.” He gestured to one of the seats in front of his desk. “And where are my manners! Agent Allochka, this is Agent Brishnov, one of our finest.”

“An honour to meet you, comrade,” said Nikita, extending his hand.

Brishnov looked disdainfully at Nikita’s dark hand, and with clear reluctance extended his own, with a forced smile. “Good of you to join us out here,” Brishnov said, almost mockingly, as his cold, clammy hand shook Nikita’s hand weakly, as if afraid to properly touch him.

“Do sit down, both of you,” said Yitski, pulling a bottle of vodka from his heavy wooden desk drawer, along with three glasses. Out of the corner of his eye, Nikita could see Brishnov wiping his hand on the back of his trousers.

“Ah, none for me sir, but thank you,” said Allochka.

“A Russian who doesn’t drink vodka? You won’t drink with us, comrade?” said Brishnov, outwardly sneering.

“Come, Allochka! You will need something to settle your nerves for what lies ahead,” added Ambassador Yitski.

“Forgive me, but I think I will need my wits to be as sharp as possible for what lies ahead. I mean no offence.”

“Nonsense, my boy, vodka is good for the heart, wits and whatever else you need it for! But I shall not force you.” Filling two glasses, Yitski pushed one to Brishnov, raised his own and said, “To the Black Russian!”

“Rodina,” responded Brishnov. The homeland.

Coughing a little as he slammed the glass back on the table, the ambassador wiped his red nose and withdrew a document from his desk. Suddenly his demeanour took on a nervous edge and he looked quickly at the door to check that it was closed.

The document had a photo on the front, and the hairs on the back of Nikita’s neck began to tingle.

“And so, to business Allochka. Here is your assignment. One of our agents, Josef Zurga, has crossed. He had high level clearance and the information he has could prove catastrophic if it falls into the wrong hands. We do not believe he has told them everything yet; he is trying to play both sides and needs to be terminated immediately. He was seen recently in New York when he had no business being there. He had travelled there using a false passport, but by chance we had an agent at the airport who recognised him.”

“How do you know he has crossed, sir?”

Bristling, Brishnov said, “You do not need to know.”