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

of shit,” he spat, hatred in his eyes. Nikita was looking beyond him to the other three, one of whom looked in better shape than the rest, with a jarhead haircut, trimmed beard and a military bearing.

“Is it a prerequisite of being a racist American that you have to have beards?” said Nikita with a grin. He lowered his fists and took a swig of his whiskey. Running it around his mouth before swallowing, he took a moment to savour the cool drink. This was not a place for Sambo; nothing must connect him or the Soviet Union to the murder of the secretary. This was a place for street rules.

He offered the bottle to Black Beard.

“You mustn’t be from around here, boy. Your kind don’t come to this side of town, and we don’t share a drink with slaves. It’s been too long since we hung one of y’all; I think it’s high time we had another, don’t you, fellas?” he said, turning to his friends. Nikita took his opportunity, and swung forwards with the bottle, smashing it into the temple of the man, who crumpled to the ground.

Rather than being unnerved, the other three ran forwards, but the narrowness of the alleyway meant that one had to stand back while the other two ran forwards. Jarhead might cause him some problems, but the other was fat and soft, with beer dripping in his thick, pale brown beard.

***

KAMENKA, USSR, 1975

The pre-dawn pallor was beginning to rise above the forest next to the shack that Gabriel Allochka called home as he trudged wearily towards it.

It had been a long night of street sweeping, the only work the small town of Kamenka ever afforded him, and that was only sporadic.

Dirt was caked over his hands and cheeks from the labour, and he knelt next to an old plastic bucket filled with water, methodically cleaning away the grime. As the dirt cleared from his skin, the callouses and scars became visible across his large hands.

His eyes were stung as the tip of the sun broached the top of the forest, bathing everything in a stunning golden-green glow. He shielded them, grimaced and turned back to the shack.

He eased open the door, careful not to wake anyone, but to no avail. The small figure of his nine-year-old son Nikita shouted, “Father’s home!” He then charged towards Gabriel and wrapped his arms around his waist. Gabriel could not help but chuckle.

On the makeshift bed on the floor lay Sophie Allochka and their toddler Milena, who was sound asleep. Sophie smiled sleepily up at her husband. “Welcome home, dear.”

Gabriel picked up Nikita in one arm and leant down to kiss his wife. Nikita screamed with delight as he was turned upside down in the process. Incredibly, Milena dozed on through it all.

“How was work?” Sophie asked softly, as she stood and placed the blankets over Milena with great care.

Gabriel rubbed his stinging eyes. “Not good — they came at me again,” he said enigmatically.

Sophie’s eyes widened with fear. “Are you OK? Did they hurt you?”

“I was able to keep them at bay once more.” He looked down at his son, who was gazing up at him with big brown eyes full of adoration and concern.

“Who hurt you, Papa?”

Gabriel sat down heavily in the room’s only chair. “I suppose it is time we had a talk, Niki,” he said with a sigh, and picked the boy up and placed him on his knee. “Son, out there in the world you will find that many of the white people do not like us.”

“Why not?”

“Because they are afraid of what is different. They have been poisoned by hate. But we must never lower ourselves to their level. We can live, with God’s grace, free of hate and let them be the ones held back by fear. Whatever they take, they can never take the freedom in our minds.”

“I don’t understand, Father,” said Nikita in a small voice.

“Ok, let me put it this way. When you go out there into Russia, you are going to get beaten up. The white boys are going to come at you in a group — for some reason they always come in a group — and they are going to try and hurt you. Sometimes you will get hurt.”

“Gabriel, what are you saying? You’re scaring him,” Sophie said sharply, and tried to lift Nikita from her husband’s knee.

Gabriel held Niki down. “No Sophie, it is important for him to hear this. Niki, just because they want to hurt you, does not mean you have to let them! If they come at you, you pick out the leader, usually the biggest one, and while you are getting beaten up, you beat the leader up. If you do that, they will leave you alone. They fear us, but never ever fear them. By doing that, you can earn their respect. I want a better life for you than the one I have given us.”

***

Gabriel’s words echoed through Nikita’s mind as he readied himself in the Texas alleyway. The leader was already down, but Jarhead represented the biggest threat. A plan was already in his head — to swing the fat man round and drive him into Jarhead, incapacitating them both.

But then came a horrible realisation.

The only sure way to avoid identifying himself with any possible connection to Secretary Conlan’s murder was to take the beating.

A group of white men beaten unconscious by one black man was sure to draw attention and risk the rest of his mission in the US.

He groaned inwardly. This was not going to be fun.

He made a show of attempting to throw what felt like a painfully slow punch at Jarhead, who was able to easily fend it off, and smash a giant fist, right into the middle of