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

to make his way through the entire house just to get upstairs, where he would still have to find a way to identify Conlan’s quarters.

On the far side of the house, he could see what looked like a garage bolted onto the side of the building. That would be where he would find his way in.

To avoid the gaze of the cameras, he crept his way back to the rear of the house, and circled round to the other side, approaching the garage from the back. No lights were on anywhere on the ground floor now and he moved with more confidence as he drew towards the low building.

The side of the garage was met by a hedge which would be very difficult to get through without generating a significant amount of noise. Allowing himself to stand up to his full height and briefly stretching his cramped back muscles, he looked at the building. There was a wooden door at the back of the garage which he approached softly, and held his ear against. He could hear nothing, but while leaning his head against the door he noticed he was directly facing a wrought iron drainpipe leading up the side of the house.

He followed the line of the drain upwards and saw that it carried right up to the rim of the roof. He could easily climb it, drop onto the flat roof of the garage and enter through the window of the house visible above it.

He swiftly dismissed the idea, knowing that it would likely create more noise and difficulty than was necessary for the operation, but logged it as an escape route should he need one.

From his pocket he withdrew two long pins and went to work on the garage door, careful to make no sound. In under a minute, he heard the welcome click of the lock.

Without prompt, the old door opened slightly, the wood clearly slightly shrunken and only held in place when forced closed and locked. He was grateful that it made little sound as he pushed it further open, and moved swiftly inside, on high alert, with his weapon drawn and, as always, the safety off.

Once inside, he dropped into a crouched position, his back to the wall and his ear cocked, while he let his eyes adapt to the gloom. He breathed deeply and slowly through his mouth, knowing that nasal breathing was always louder and more recognisable.

As his vision became accustomed to the darkness, he could see four cars in the large garage; inside it looked even bigger than he had anticipated. A battered jeep sat next to a gleaming station wagon, which was itself alongside a Silver Spirit Rolls Royce and cream Porsche 911 Carrera 3.2. Nikita gave a low whistle; these were some serious cars. The jeep, with a thick layer of dust on it, looked like it hadn’t been touched in years. Conlan was clearly not a hands-on ranch owner and every inch the wealthy Southern politician, a fact reinforced by the absence of tools, old paint tins or any of the other clutter you would normally expect to find in a farm garage. The place was pristine. Aside from the muddy old jeep, the only things to suggest he was in rural America were the ornate shotguns on racks on the wall, over a long, low apothecary cabinet. Nikita crossed to it and checked the drawers, finding old boxes of shotgun cartridges in one of them. He closed the drawer gently, and again noted their location should he need them.

He turned now to the door on the right of the garage, connecting it to the rest of the house — a far newer door than the others. He ran his fingers gently around the edge, checking for sensors and ready to make his escape if an alarm was triggered. He paused. Nothing happened.

The door was made of a heavy wood — Nikita guessed oak — and fitted the frame perfectly, with two locks.

He peered at them and put his ear to it, listening for any sound. He was grateful, but surprised, not to have not seen or heard any dogs on the ranch. But then Secretary Conlan seemed to have little interest in having a ranch in anything other than name.

Going to work on the first lock, Nikita again made quick work of it, feeling the tell-tale turn of the bolt, but the second lock proved to be more stubborn. No hint of frustration showed on his face, his training having kept him calm and patient through far more than a difficult door lock.

Eventually it began to turn, and his fingers strained to hold and turn the heavy latch, which clicked over with a sound that felt loud in the night-time silence of the ranch.

He pushed down the handle, which squeaked painfully before the door opened. The handle again complained noisily as it was eased back into position. Gun first, Nikita entered what he could immediately see was the kitchen — a large room with an island in the middle, and polished wooden surfaces surrounding.

Once he had ensured the room was clear, he moved swiftly through it, clear where he needed to get to. He left the kitchen and entered the adjoining dining room, and saw what he was looking for in the corner. The drinks cabinet. It was a huge globe of the world that, when smoothly swivelled round, retracted and revealed the array of beverages within. Taking in the offerings, his eyes lingered on the familiar vodka, but moved past it to an unopened bottle of amber liquid. Picking it up in his black leather-clad hands, he examined the label. Very Old Fitzgerald, for connoisseurs of fine bourbon, bottled in 1958.

“Perfect,” he mouthed to himself, as he eased the lid off. It smelt potent. He paused briefly, then raised it to his mouth, and careful to not touch his