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Secretary of Defense Conlan.โ€

The president stopped pacing and stared at his secretary of state, utterly aghast.

โ€œYouโ€™re telling me that Simon was murdered by the Russians?โ€

โ€œIโ€™m telling you that the FBI believes it a possibility.โ€

Callahan sat back down on the sofa and shook his head. โ€œThis is ridiculous.โ€

Harry Bernstein said nothing, instead looking at his hands nervously. He would have his payback to the FBI director for forcing him to deliver this to the president.

โ€œSo what you are telling me is that Petrenko has somehow not only got KGB agents onto US soil, but that one is drifting around the country killing our own agents and even our secretary of defense. All while the Russians are signing the disarmament treaty with me. But youโ€™re telling me this without any evidence whatsoever. What the hell do you want me to do with this? Iโ€™m far too busy to deal with the hunches of low-level FBI analysts. I canโ€™t confront the commies with mere hearsay. I imagine theyโ€™re busy enough trying to come up with a way of getting out of Afghanistan at the moment, which incidentally is an update I hope to God Iโ€™m going to get a more detailed report on.โ€

โ€œI understand completely, sir. I should add that every single person whose death is being investigated on this FBI list had been working on Soviet projects.โ€

The president gazed coldly at Bernstein. โ€œHow about leading with that one next time, instead of leading me around the houses with conjecture.โ€

โ€œI appreciate it isnโ€™t a firm lead, but it was felt that there was enough confidence enough that there may be some foul play at work to bring it to your attention, ahead of your next meeting with Mr Petrenko. You may need to tread carefully. If he does indeed have agents working to destabilise our intelligence agencies and government it could be that he isnโ€™t as willing to move beyond the Cold War as it has seemed.โ€

โ€œItโ€™s no surprise that he has KGB agents in the US. We havenโ€™t been as effective in weeding out theirs as they have ours, but I canโ€™t see any reason for him to be so brash as to begin assassinations.โ€

โ€œBe that as it may, Mr President, I would suggest being vigilant until such time as we are able to furnish you with more concrete evidence.โ€

โ€œYou find me that concrete evidence and weโ€™ll have our revenge on them for Conlan and McMahon, but donโ€™t come back to me on this until you have anything worth telling me. This feels like one of the more pointless conversations of my time in the White House.โ€ The president stood and walked back to his desk where he sat down. โ€œThat will be all, Harry. Transfer the investigation to the CIA; if thereโ€™s any merit in this it has connotations for foreign policy. Bring me more.โ€

โ€œYes, sir,โ€ said the secretary, himself standing and walking back to the door.

โ€œOh and, Harry,โ€ said the president.

โ€œMr President?โ€

โ€œWould it not make more sense to code name him the White Russian?โ€

Bernstein smiled. โ€œOf course, sir, Iโ€™ll see to it,โ€ he said and closed the door.

Once the door was closed, the president put down his pen and sighed. Rubbing his eyes again, he pressed the intercom on his desk. โ€œPeggy?โ€

โ€œYes, Mr President?โ€ responded the New York accent of his personal assistant.

โ€œCould you have them send me in a White Russian? I have a sudden craving for a cocktail.โ€

โ€œIt is only eleven a.m., sir.โ€

โ€œYes, but itโ€™s nine p.m. in Moscow,โ€ he responded and put down the phone.

***

Nine miles away in Langley, Nikita stood by the water cooler in his office at the Central Intelligence Agencyโ€™s headquarters and surveyed the scene in front of him. The open plan office spread out before him, yellow in the glow of fluorescent lights. There were few windows and the cloudy midwinter provided little lighting for the room anyway.

Small Atari computer screens flickered at desks across the room, with analysts tapping away with a furious intensity. The walls were plastered with papers, post-its, maps and photographs in an organised chaos of investigations, suspects and persons of interest.

A giant map of the Soviet Union was pinned to a wall on his right next to a television which showed the news on a loop at all times.

Nikita sighed. He felt so far away from the Kamenka shanty from which heโ€™d been plucked all those years ago, but no more satisfied for it. He couldnโ€™t deny that the last six months had been the best of his life. Being part of a team that accepted him, living an ordinary life, aside from the occasional mission at weekends or evenings, had felt fantastic. The reality that he was living a lie to all of his co-workers and also actively working against them did not sit entirely comfortably, but rarely consciously fazed him.

He walked back to his desk, lost deep in thought. Sitting down in his swivel chair, he then leant back and turned to his desk mate.

โ€œHey Blaine, bar tonight?โ€

The blond New Yorker Blaine Lahart looked up from the notepad he was scribbling in. He had the sort of face that only suited a smile. โ€œJeez, isnโ€™t that your third night running, Jake?โ€

โ€œWhat can I say; this job makes me drink.โ€

Blaine laughed. โ€œMore than my old man who was every inch the Irish stereotype. Sure, it is nearly Friday after all. Letโ€™s get the rest of the gang together.โ€

โ€œCool.โ€ Nikita nodded at Blaineโ€™s notes. โ€œAny progress?โ€

โ€œNot much. Trying to get Russians to play ball on nuclear site visits is hard work.โ€

Nikita laughed now. โ€œYou thought the commies would make it easy?โ€

โ€œTheyโ€™re too busy trying to make the war in Afghanistan look like a success.โ€

โ€œHowโ€™s that going for them?โ€

โ€œAbout as smoothly as us in Vietnam.โ€

Nikita grimaced. โ€œYouโ€™d think these people

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