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

It said simply:

Tonight, with the wine comes the enemy. Get out

As he dashed up the corridor, he began shouting, “Guards! Guards!”

Cato appeared around the corner, his legs visible before his stringy body followed.

“What is it, Josef?”

“Why do none of my servants call me Mr Zurga!” Josef exclaimed, spittle flying slightly from his lips. “Where is my head of security?”

“I imagine he’s in the security tower… Mr Zurga,” he said. “What is it? What has happened?”

But again, Josef was off through the house in search of his head of security.

CHAPTER 9

Nikita’s head was attempting to play out every scenario. Denisov’s voice screaming, “Fear nothing, prepare for everything,” over the biting Russian winds rattling around his head like a mosquito he couldn’t swat away. Today he must turn the mosquito into his weapon.

He sat cross-legged on the floor of his hotel room, palms face down on his knees and his eyes closed, as he slowed his breathing and meditated on the plan for the night ahead. The Havana embassy had confirmed Kemran was their man in Skyros, and also confirmed that Giorgos was on Kemran’s payroll, while Klitchkov had confirmed the mission was a go. Nikita did not like so many people being involved. People were liabilities. Trust nobody but yourself, he thought to himself. He repeated it out loud, forcing the reminder to be vigilant into his head, wrapping itself around everything else.

He opened his eyes and surveyed the floor before him. Directly in front of him was Zurga’s file — blueprints of the fortress along with satellite images of the complex and an ordnance survey map of the surrounding hills. Either side of that were the weapons which Kemran had already left in his room by the time he returned to the apartment. It looked enough to start a small war.

He glanced at his watch. Twenty-one hundred hours. That gave him ninety minutes before the arrival of Giorgos for the wine delivery.

On the bed was an array of garments, all black, which he began to pull on. Kemran had left a Kevlar vest for him and he picked it up, weighing it in his hands. It was heavy and would limit his movement. He laid it back on the bed and stretched. He would need to be as mobile as possible for his plan to work. Without a vest, mobility became even more important.

Pulling on a heavy belt with a thick leather sheath at the hip, he picked up the hunting knife. A crueller looking weapon he had never seen. The eight-inch blade was serrated on both sides, leading to an evil curved hook at the tip. It looked akin to shark teeth, and was capable of similar levels of damage. He slid it into the sheath and moved onto the other weapons.

He picked up two KGB standard-issue Makarov semi-automatic pistols and smiled grimly to himself. Kemran had risen admirably to the challenge of making sure everything pointed to the KGB. The pistols were old and battered, but they would do. He put one in a shoulder holster and the other he tucked into the belt at the small of his back. Not his favourite place to keep a weapon, and Denisov certainly would not approve, but it was always good to have something extra up your sleeve. He clipped the grenades to a strap across his chest, the tranquillizer gun into a holster at his hip and slung the sniper over his back by the strap. He stretched and darted around the room, testing his flexibility and versatility while carrying his one-man army.

The Stechkin APB remained on the floor. He knew exactly the weight of that, and knew the destruction it would carry out. An old fabric army holdall sat next to it, laden with ammunition. He leant down and unloaded it, leaving only what he would need in there and no more.

At eleven p.m. he saw the lights of Giorgos’s truck come bouncing down the track. Little chance of catching anyone off guard in that dilapidated old thing. He would have to make do regardless. The lights shut off as the truck pulled to a stop at the bottom of the driveway to the hotel.

He sloped out of his room and walked slowly down the track, his right hand held out and stroking the pink flowers as he passed. He tore off a small handful as he walked, feeling the cool petals against his skin.

“A very bad choice if they are for luck,” Giorgos said, looking at the flowers still in Nikita’s hand.

Nikita’s face remained impassive as he stared down at the oleander petals that were bright pink, flecked with red.

Giorgos grunted and started the engine, the lights throwing shadows across the dusty track. “Let us deliver some wine,” he said grimly.

They clattered along the track that went through the valley before it wound up a hill. At the top they could see across a small valley to the hill ahead. The fortress was perched at the top, bathed in spotlights which lit up the boundary fences clearly.

“Time for you to get into the back,” Giorgos said to Nikita. “There are a lot of boxes to hide behind, and the guards do not look hard if I give them wine. Only the cheap wine though. Zurga refuses Greek wine, demanding only French piss.”

They stepped out of the truck, and walked round to the back, Giorgos opening the doors out. Nikita heard dogs barking across the valley and sighed. He did not look forward to the dogs.

“Careful with this piss; it is for the vlàka,” he swore, motioning to the boxes packed in near the door. Nikita climbed up and into the midst of the boxes.

“Do not wait for me afterwards Giorgos.”

The old Greek man nodded soberly, and