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

Nikita felt a tightness in his chest, like a clock that had been wound too tight. His hands shook from the adrenaline still coursing through his veins. He felt elated, horrified, powerful and disgusting.

If I am a Russian then I must escape like one, he thought to himself, and grabbed the vodka by the neck, ignoring the Kahlua. He unscrewed the cap, took a swig straight from the bottle and felt the burn as the alcohol hit the back of his throat. He gasped, and then felt the heat as it moved into his stomach, working into his bloodstream. He needed to feel warm.

He took the bottle with him and headed to the bathroom to wash the blood from his skin. He left the clothes on the floor of the shower, letting the blood and dirt seep out of them, creating a dark brown pool trickling down the drain like something from a horror movie. He scrubbed at himself, periodically picking up the vodka to swig from it. Numbly noticing a wound on his calf, he poured vodka on it, almost to feel something. Even the sting felt subdued.

He closed his eyes and allowed himself to feel the darkness, and encouraged the steaming water to wash away his sins.

***

The thudding on his door entered his dream before it roused him. His head felt heavy, his mouth thick and dry.

Nikita forced himself up off the bed where he had collapsed the night before. The towel he had wrapped around his waist had long since fallen off, leaving him naked and shivering slightly.

The banging on the door was louder now.

As he stood up, he swayed on his feet. The half-drunk bottle of vodka was lying on the floor next to his bed. He looked at it and retched.

The banging on the door got louder and he quickly grabbed the towel, wrapped it around his waist, and staggered his way through, finding his coordination to be unfamiliarly poor.

Nikita grabbed his handgun off the table as he passed, and approached the door cautiously, albeit slightly heavier-footed than normal.

A glance through the spyhole quickly woke him up. Elysia was standing there, her tear-streaked face clearly visible. She was in a battered blue pinafore, stained and plain. Somehow, she looked even more lovely for it.

He quickly looked around the room, taking in the array of weaponry scattered haphazardly. If Denisov could see him now, he would be kicked out of the KGB without a second chance.

Darting around the room, he called out. “Who is it?”

“It’s Elysia, please let me in,” she pleaded, sounding distressed.

Immediately he felt a heaviness in his heart, and he glanced at the vodka bottle.

“One minute,” he replied, “I’ll be right there.”

He gathered all of the remaining equipment he had returned with the night before and stuffed it into his khaki sack, before dashing into the bedroom and throwing it into a wardrobe, before heading into the bathroom, balling up his bloody clothes and wrapping them in a plastic bag. Nikita returned to the bedroom and put the bag into the wardrobe on top of the khaki bag before slamming it shut and returning to the front door. He glanced again over his shoulder. The room was a mess, but it wouldn’t give him away.

Opening the door, Elysia fell through it and threw herself into his arms. “Oh, Nathan!”

Catching her, he pulled her up into his arms. “Elysia! What’s up?” he said, seamlessly switching back into character as Nathan Martins. She clutched at his arms and buried her face in his chest, sobbing.

He held her close to him, sensing the perfume of her dark hair in his nostrils as she shook from the sobs wracking through her. His mind felt heavy and sluggish. There was something else too, an unfamiliar feeling.

He pried her away from him and led her into the apartment, closing the door behind her after quickly glancing around the deserted pathways surrounding his building.

He took her hand and led her over to the sofa, and then strode to the kitchen and got her a glass of water.

She took it from his hands and put it straight down on the table before looking up at him as he lowered himself onto the couch beside her.

“Giorgos is dead, Nathan.”

“What?” he replied sharply, looking completely dumbfounded.

“My uncle, Giorgos, who you met at the bar yesterday, he is dead,” she said, struggling to control the wobbling in her voice.

“I’m so sorry, Elysia; he looked so well and full of life yesterday. What happened?”

“He… he didn’t die from sickness,” Elysia said. “He was in a car crash.”

“A car crash?” Nikita exclaimed, genuinely surprised this time.

“Yes, that useless truck of his finally betrayed him. They think the brakes failed and took him over the edge of the mountain road inland from Houlakia. They won’t even let us see the body because it is so ruined.”

Kemran is earning his money, thought Nikita.

“Oh man, that’s a damned waste of a life. I know I hardly knew him, but he seemed a good man.”

“He was a fool,” said Elysia, anger flashing in her dark eyes. Then as the anger quickly seemed to deflate from her, she added, “But a fool with a good heart.”

Nikita smiled warmly at her, finding it harder and harder to deny that feeling growing in his breast. “Can I fix you a drink? Tea?”

“Perhaps something stronger?” She said, nodding towards the vodka and Kahlua.

“Of course. I’ve recently been introduced to Black Russians…”

“That sounds good.”

Carrying two of the cocktails over to the sofa, he looked into her puffy eyes and raised a glass. “Stin igià Giorgos”.

She touched her glass to his. “To Giorgos.”

More tears snaked their way down her cheek and she tried to sip the drink. “I can barely