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

conduct your mission; you are the expert, but you tell me what you need and I can provide you with it.”

“It will be loud. Stealth will get me only so far, and I will need there to be a delay to any emergency services.”

“This is easily taken care of; the island has only limited services, and the chief of both police and fire brigades are in our pay. It is not difficult to bend people to your will in an island so remote. Everyone has a price, and in Skyros it does not cost the Kremlin a great deal.”

“I will need grenades, flash grenades, tranquillizer darts, a tactical sniper and handguns. Perhaps a Stechkin.” He paused, thinking. “No, make that a Stechkin Avtomaticheskij Pistolet Besshumnyj. Also, plenty of ammunition.”

“You sure you want an APB for this mission?” asked Kemran disbelievingly.

Nikita paused. The APB, a silenced version of the Stechkin sub-machine pistol, was KGB to the core. Perfect for a mission making a statement.

“Yes, I am sure. And also, I need a knife.”

“Flick-knife? Two-inch blade?” Kemran suggested, indicating small and easy to carry weapons.

“No. An eight-inch serrated hunting knife,” responded Nikita coldly, trying not to think of what it was he must do.

Kemran looked into Nikita’s eyes, any hint of humour gone from his baleful face. Nikita returned his gaze, setting his jaw.

“There is no doubting you are KGB, but don’t let your eyes betray you, comrade. You have a heart but you can ill afford mercy in this coldest of wars.” He stood, “Very well. The Kremlin have us very well stocked and funded in Greece due to our interesting political location, so I should be able to get you everything you require.” He turned back as he reached the door to leave. “You must not leave any survivors; the secrecy of your identity is more important than the mission.”

Nikita looked up and nodded. As the door closed, he exhaled deeply and his body sagged. He held his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes, trying to rub away thoughts of what he must do. His heart was screaming against the horror awaiting him. He tried to remind himself of what he was there for. He focused his mind on Milena, on his father, his mother, on the life he wanted to give them. “Do not think about it, just do it,” he muttered to himself.

He returned to the balcony windows and gazed down the track to the deep azure of the sea. He made an instant decision. He quickly hid any evidence of his work, and grabbing a towel from the bathroom, left the apartment and headed down the track. It was lined by pink oleanders, stunningly beautiful flowers that Nikita knew were some of the most poisonous to humans in the Mediterranean.

The path led across the sunburnt road and down towards the sea. To the left he could see craggy brown rocks and made his way to them, climbing atop the sea-worn outcrop. From the vantage point he could see that they led down to a small and deserted cove, invisible to passers-by on the road. He clambered down to the cove, which was lined by smooth, white stones a foot across, piling down into the clear water. He stripped off his clothes until he was wearing nothing but his briefs. His dark muscles were glistening in the sunshine, which was beating down on him from a cloudless sky, giving his skin an almost blue translucent sheen, punctuated by the tiny scars across the top of his arms and back. Making his way across the cobbles, seemingly impervious to the small stones digging into the soles of his feet, he walked into the water. A slight gasp uttered from his lips as the bracingly cold water struck his legs, but his steps didn’t falter, though his mind was suddenly far away.

***

SHELEKHIVSKE LAKE, SUMSKA OBLAST, NORTHERN UKRAINE, JANUARY 1983

“On my whistle, you will dive in. Anybody resurfacing in under ninety seconds will receive five lashes. First blood wins each pairing,” screamed Captain Denisov, spittle flying everywhere, mixing with the spray from the wind-whipped water.

The boat rocked slightly as the bitter January wind swept across the iron-grey water. The nine young men tried to disguise their fierce shivers as they pulled their thick clothing off. Nine young men and one seventeen-year-old boy. Nikita was wild-eyed and his teeth chattered uncontrollably as he stripped down to his underwear and fitted the weighted belt around him. He was squatted at one end of the dinghy, slightly away from the others, who didn’t seem to want to be too close to him. That was how it had been since Klitchkov had left him at the training base. Always separate, only spoken to in taunts and barbed comments. What was he doing here in the middle of an icy lake in some godforsaken forest in the far reaches of Ukraine? The hairs on his arms were almost rigidly on end, adrenaline coursing through his veins. Denisov thrust a short dagger into his hands without looking at him, and distributed similar knives to all the other recruits, noticeably less forcefully.

“Fear nothing, prepare for everything. You know your pairings. Three, two, one…” shouted Denisov, then the whistle sounded, shrill as it echoed across the deserted lake, muffled from the world by the woods surrounding its shores.

“Don’t think about it, just do it,” Nikita muttered to himself, before throwing himself backwards over the side of the dinghy and into the frigid waters. The world turned upside down as he saw the mountains shimmering in the mist, and momentarily imagined how beautiful it must be in the summertime. Then the water tore at his skin like a thousand tiny knives, his whole body protesting violently against the sub-zero temperatures. The belt pulled him down to the lake bed, some three metres below. He was aware of shapes around him