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

It hit his tongue like sugar, the back of his throat like fire and settled in his stomach like hot coals, burning through his entire body. This was nothing like the potato vodka he’d had thrust upon him in the USSR. This was good.

He raised the bottle again for another slug, but paused, and then lowered the bottle. What was he doing? This was a live operation and this bourbon had other, more important uses. He eased the cork back into place.

He left the dining room by a different exit, bourbon in one hand and raised gun in the other and moved out into the entrance hall. He could see the corridor leading to the rear of the house which he’d seen through his scope earlier, but he knew what he was looking for wasn’t back there. Still not a sound to be heard, he moved towards the wide staircase leading upstairs from the hall. Keeping to the edges to avoid creaking floorboards, he put much of his weight on his hands. He pushed down heavily on the handrail, to ensure minimal pressure was put on the old wooden stairs hidden beneath the deep, plush, cream carpet.

At the top of the staircase, he reached a T-junction as the landing corridor ran down to the left and down to the right. From here he was entering the realms of guesswork, and his brain was working furiously to calculate just how high the chance of the operation failing was, and the deadly action he would have to take if any of the house staff intervened.

He had no choice. To keep his family safe, he could not afford to fail on a mission of such gravitas.

Remembering the woman in the window earlier, he made an educated guess that Conlan would room the staff in a different part of the house to him and his family, and opted to go right, the opposite way from the woman’s room and back in the direction of the garage.

The corridor was pitch black, but looking up and down it he could see a glow filtering through from under doors of some rooms.

Walking down to the right, he again kept close to the walls to avoid creaking floorboards. Putting his ear to each door as he passed, he was desperately looking for any sound or signal that the room could be the one housing the secretary. He couldn’t afford to pick the wrong one, but the door to every room stood white and plain, with no indication at all.

He passed one door that was slightly ajar, but with no light shining from it. He nudged it open soundlessly and saw that it was a bathroom. He stepped inside and looked around swiftly, his eyes resting on the medicine cabinet above the sink. Opening it, he cast his eyes over the array of bandages, paracetamols, sleeping pills and other basic medical paraphernalia. He stuffed some of the pills into his pockets and moved back into the hallway.

He reached the room at the end of the corridor and again put his ear to the door. The glow from this one was different, giving a bluish flicker from a television rather than from lamplight. Pressing his ear gently to the door, he could hear the sounds coming from the television and concentrated to work out the nature of the programme.

It didn’t take long to work it out, with the sounds of the CNN newsreaders describing the tensions surrounding the INF Treaty and President Callahan’s determination to see it through.

Bingo. Nikita reached into his pocket and pulled out a silencer, which he screwed into the CZ-75. If all went to plan, nobody would get shot tonight.

He stuffed the upturned neck of the Very Old Fitzgerald into his belt and, with the gun held firmly in his right hand, reached down, turned the handle and threw open the door into the bedroom of the US secretary of defense.

CHAPTER 14

Conlan was lying on the bed half clothed. Nikita was reminded strongly of Zurga, which already felt like a lifetime ago. But not long enough to forget, he thought, and felt a momentary urge to take another slug of the bourbon.

The room reeked of wealth and luxury. The satin sheets shone on the bed, illuminated by the light of the huge television screen facing it on the wall, next to the door through which Nikita had just entered.

With no lights on other than the TV, Conlan was cast in a flickering blue light, but unlike Zurga, he was very much alert and awake.

“What the — who the hell are you?” he exclaimed before seeing the gun in Nikita’s hand and falling silent. His eyes widened, and he pushed himself up against the headboard, fear showing in every part of his body.

Nikita sighed. This was going to be such a tedious way of killing someone. He grabbed a chair from a dresser under the television, dragged it near to the bed and sat down.

“Drink?” he said, unveiling the Old Fitzgerald and pulling out the cork with his teeth, which he spat on the ground and handed over the bottle.

Conlan took it but said nothing.

“Look, Secretary, just tell me you’re not going to run away or anything so I can lower this weapon. Nobody likes having a gun pointed at them, and to be perfectly honest I don’t much like pointing it.”

Conlan nodded, and relaxed just a fraction as Nikita put the gun in its holster.

“Who are you?” Conlan asked again. He had a sheen of sweat on his head, but otherwise had recovered his composure remarkably well.

“I can see why you rose to become secretary of defense. Look how quickly you’ve adapted to having a man with a gun in your bedroom. Did you serve?”

“I imagine you already know that,” he replied