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

“How will we do that?”

“You will join their Soviet Counter-intelligence Branch. As a black man, it will be hard to secure you a senior position, but it should make their checks on your background and intentions a little less resilient than someone looking like a Russian.”

Nikita went to speak, but Klitchkov held up a hand, silencing him. “I know you will have questions, agent, but first we need you to heal as quickly as possible. Being battered so thoroughly has robbed the operation of precious days. Your body is pitiful. You will be transferred from here as soon as arrangements can be made, most likely tonight, and you will have the luxury of every treatment we possess. You will start your new job in two weeks.”

“Two weeks! But, sir—”

“You refuse your assignment? You have not forgotten your family so swiftly surely, Allochka?”

Nikita dropped his gaze. “No, sir.”

Klitchkov’s face registered no emotion. He nodded slightly, then rose from his chair and left the room without a backward glance. Once more Nikita looked at him with contempt, his fingers tracing the scar on his thigh, a reminder of the treachery of Colonel Klitchkov.

***

Two days later, Nikita lay in a room a world away from the hard bed in the Texas safe house. He lay on a soft bedsheet of Egyptian cotton, gazing out at the Gulf of Mexico through bay windows. The curtains were swaying gently in the warm breeze.

The journey in the middle of the night across the border into Mexico, and the helicopter ride from there back to the Soviet Embassy in Havana, were hazy. He had vague memories of drifting in and out of consciousness as the pain medication took hold and dimmed his awareness. He recalled being stretchered into the embassy under cover of darkness through a hidden entrance, masked to prevent any wondering eyes from seeing him. He was now the most important resource in the KGB’s clandestine arsenal, and every precaution was being taken. And every luxury. He nestled comfortably in the new surroundings, usually reserved for only the most senior of dignitaries.

He pushed himself up into a sitting position on the bed with a low groan and inspected his wounded body. The index and middle finger of his left hand were in cast after being broken by the boots of Red Beard and his cronies, and dark bruises could be seen all over his legs, arms and stomach. But they paled in comparison to the deep purple bruising spread across his shoulder and torso. His cauterised wound had left an ugly puckering in a strip from the ball of his shoulder down towards his pectoral in the clear, curved shape of a knife blade. The skin was sunken and inflamed, and had been the source of much discontent for the embassy’s resident doctor.

Nikita glanced at the clock on the wall and saw that he was due for his next dressing. Doctor Zhikov liked to let it ‘have some air to breathe away your stupidity’, but Nikita wished he didn’t have to look at the scar he would bear for life. He felt now that he better understood people’s desire to tattoo themselves; at least that was a scar you chose, not a scar forced upon you. The KGB forbade tattoos as they provided an easy way to identify you, but perhaps one day, if he ever escaped their clutches, he would consider something to cover some of his scars.

He could not see his back but it hurt almost as much as his shoulder, having borne the brunt of most of the kicks. He could feel scabs pulling every time he moved but preferred not to know the extent of the damage. He only cared about when he would be fit and ready for active duty once more.

On the bed next to him was a newspaper, the headline giving tribute to the secretary of defense who had died of an apparent accidental overdose of whiskey and sleeping pills. The president talked of a patriot, a soldier and a man of firm principle. Nikita looked at it with distaste. To be a man of firm principle was only a cause for praise if the principles were not toxic and outdated.

The door opened without a knock and Doctor Zhikov entered along with Mrs Shapova, the ambassador’s secretary who had taken it upon herself to visit him each day.

The short, plump woman bustled in, and after putting down a pile of papers on the bed, immediately started fussing over him and trying to force him to lie back down. “You need your rest, Nikita; you must allow yourself to recover,” she said, the first person he could recall calling him by his first name outside his family. He found he rather liked it, though he was sure it was a breach of protocol.

“Leave him alone, Mrs Shapova! And move those papers!” snapped the doctor, a short, thin Belarusian man with a large round head, topped by lank brown hair combed over a bald head. He waved the secretary away.

Nikita smiled at her with a look of gratitude. She perched herself on the end of the bed, looking like an overgrown hawk, as Zhikov inspected the shoulder wound.

“How does it feel, agent?”

“It is fine,” replied Nikita.

“Oh wonderful, so it is not a problem for you to stretch your arms above your head then,” said the doctor in a voice dripping with incredulity.

“None at all,” said Nikita, with a congenial smile.

“Perhaps you will give us a demonstration, Allochka. I look forward to witnessing a medical miracle unfold.”

Nikita closed his eyes, breathed deeply and centred himself as he brought his arms up at the sides slowly, blocking out the stretch of the scabs across his back as his muscles expanded. As he reached level with his shoulder,