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

might alert neighbours and if nothing else it was quite irritating. He clubbed the barman over the head with the keg tap and the screaming stopped.

He could hear people in the bar trying to make their way through the door at the rear and sighed. Why would they not accept their fate? If only they knew that the door was the key to their death.

If he could hear them coming through then he needed to get out. Now.

The smell of gas was strong as he walked swiftly out of the door, with a glance behind him at the bodies on the floor. One was still writhing in his own blood. He closed the door behind him, grateful that it opened outwards. He rolled a heavy wheelie bin over to block the door, and dragged some boxes to further lock them in. He thought he heard the sound of voices which meant they had broken through from the bar and into the back room.

His eyes widened and he broke into a sprint as the flames of the bar met the open gas pipe. The explosion ripped through wood, iron and stone, bursting the building outwards. Brishnov flung himself forwards and began to commando crawl towards the alleyway as bricks, tiles and other detritus from the building landed around him. As he reached the safety of the alleyway, he took a deep breath and smiled. Murdering Americans was beyond satisfying. It was arousing. His hand moved down to his crotch and he closed his eyes.

The ringing of the explosion in his ears was interrupted by the sound of sirens in the distance. He cursed. There would be time for relief later, but God forbid if anyone discovered the precious Black Russian.

He stood and made his way back to the car, disappearing into the night, unseen amidst the chaos of people screaming on the street as the inferno gathered pace.

***

Nikita’s eyes flickered open as he felt light fall on his face, and they quickly flickered shut again. He wanted to return to the dream; it had been a good one. Back in Russia, he was playing with Milena, laughing with his parents, nobody else around, no scent of judgement or contempt. As he awoke, he could no longer discern if it was memory or fantasy.

It was wiped from his mind as the pain caught up with him and his eyes shot back open again. His body screamed from head to toe. He tried to lift his head but it hurt too much. His shoulder was full of fire, whether from the bullet wound or his DIY attempt at cauterising he was not sure.

As he tried to push himself up, he silently screamed and was barely able to prop himself up on one arm. The injured shoulder was unable to take any weight. He had never felt so weak.

He was on a threadbare bed as hard as a table, with light streaming onto it from a window above him to the left, casting the rest of the room into semi-gloom. A rough blanket was half drawn over him, and his clothes were in bits on the floor beside the bed, as if they had been torn from him. He looked around the room for any indication of where he might be, but there was little in the way of clues.

A bedside table stood next to him and an imposing dark wood chest of drawers was on the opposite side of the room, with a wood-panelled television on top of it, complete with a portable aerial balanced on top.

He lay back so as to use his right arm, and fumbled with the bedside table, pulling open the small drawer within it. He felt around for the contents, pulling out in turn a carton of Belomorkanal cigarettes, a litre bottle of vodka and a gun.

Soviet smokes, vodka and a gun meant that Brishnov had brought him to a Soviet safe house. But where was Brishnov?

As if in answer to his silent question, the door opened and in walked the slender Russian spy. He looked at Nikita and smirked.

“Water,” said Nikita, but Brishnov just smirked at him and pulled over a chair to sit next to him.

They sat in silence staring at each other for a minute.

“What of the men that attacked me? They will identify us; you should have let them finish beating me.”

“Tempting as that was, you do not need to worry about them.” There was no trace of the southern accent Brishnov had so smoothly adopted as the Russian rolled from his tongue.

“You killed them?”

“Such a crude question, but I suppose crudity is to be expected from one such as yourself,” he replied, leaning back and inspecting his nails. “You nearly died, comrade,” he added without concern. It was a matter of fact. “Klitchkov would have been inconsolable if his favourite protégé had fallen.”

Nikita could think of no response and silence again invaded the room.

“You saved my life” he said, breaking the silence.

Brishnov’s eyes widened in mock surprise. “And why would that ever be in doubt?”

“I know that you doctored my orders.”

“Little thieves are hanged but great ones, escape,” he replied with a wink.

Nikita grunted. “I am in no mood to play games, agent; talk to me plain and simple.”

The smile fell from Brishnov’s face. “Well naturally you would want things explained to you in simple terms,” he said, glaring in Nikita’s eyes, daring him. “But of course, you are badly wounded and speaking without thinking. Too much of that American whiskey shit has turned your manners rotten.” He picked up the bottle from the drawer next to the bed and unscrewed the cap, taking a long drink of the vodka.

“Ah, it is not good vodka but this is still finer than water. Come, let us drink to the success of your mission, comrade,” he