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

“Well let’s hope they don’t learn too quick otherwise we’ll be out of a job,” Blaine replied with a chuckle. “How’re you getting on with the KGB?”

“Slowly. Yerin’s movements are almost too routine. I just need to figure out what he’s covering up.”

“Maybe this Black Russian holds the key.”

Nikita laughed. “To the chairman of the KGB’s movements? And maybe Yerin is hanging out with him and Peter Pan in Never Never Land.”

At that moment the department chief Gordon Sykes walked in and clapped his hands. “Listen in everyone. I’ve just had a directive from the president himself that will change the face of the investigation into the Black Russian completely.”

Nikita showed no outward sign of interest, but did notice his heart rate increase slightly.

“Lahart, note this down,” Sykes said to Blaine, “because this is going to blow it wide open.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Now, the president has requested that investigations be fully turned over to us on this. He has also asked that the code name for the FBI’s phantom assassin be changed from the Black Russian to… you guessed it. The White Russian.”

There was a smattering of half-hearted laughs from people at Sykes’ joke, but they stopped when they saw that his face was serious.

“You’re not serious!” exclaimed a woman sitting a few desks back from Nikita, with a mixture of mirth and incredulity on her face.

The rest of the office laughed, even Sykes allowing himself a rare smile. It made the laughter lines crinkle around his eyes beneath his bushy eyebrows, giving him a much softer look than the strained one he usually sported. “I’m afraid I am, Chang. Direct orders,” he said as he pulled out a pack of Marlboros from the pocket of his shirt, tapped out a cigarette and lit it up, closing his eyes momentarily. Nikita had noticed that when the chief was smoking was the only time the vein in his temple stopped throbbing.

“But… but… sir… you… they… can’t name the world’s most secret agent after a cocktail,” she stuttered, her slender eyebrows lifted in an arch of what was now purely incredulity.

“A Black Russian is a cocktail too, Chang, you moron,” shouted Rodney, an overweight man with pale brown hair and a patchy beard, sitting near the front of the room.

“Since when?”

“Since always!”

Chang flushed and crossed her arms.

“The Black Russian does sound cooler though,” Nikita said kindly, winking at Chang.

She smiled at him, and he felt the blood rush to his face making him grateful for one of the first times in his life that he had dark skin.

“Well of course you’re going to say that,” said Rodney, smiling. A shocked silence descended upon the room, as everyone stared at the obese man with his shirt half untucked.

Suddenly he widened his eyes. “No, that isn’t what I meant! Honestly,” he looked pleadingly around. “I meant because it’s Jake… and Chang…” he floundered, as Nikita and Chang hastily looked down at the floor, a low blush perceptible on her honey-coloured skin. Rodney tried to sit up and leant too heavily on the arm of his chair which gave way under his considerable weight and the chair toppled over sideways.

Everybody laughed, and Sykes said, “Looks like Steinberg just volunteered to buy everyone cocktails tonight; I’ll leave it to you to decide if you want White Russians or Black Russians, whatever the hell one of those is.”

“Sorry, Jake, man,” said Rodney, red and sweaty in the face. His face full of apology; it was easy to see why he had never been made a field agent. No emotion could be hidden from his round face.

“No problem, man. I’ll see you at the bar for that drink you’re buying me,” he replied with a wink.

Sykes took another draw on his cigarette, and while exhaling signalled to Nikita and Blaine. “Sarah, Jacob, Blaine, in my office now.”

Blaine and Nikita looked at each other perplexed. Nikita and Chang avoided each other’s gaze as the trio made their way to the office. “This cannot be good,” said Blaine.

“Why not?” said Chang.

“Dude, he never uses our first names. And nobody calls you Sarah.”

“Good point.”

They entered the glass-fronted office. “Close the blinds, Lahart,” said Sykes as he closed the door behind them.

Blaine and Chang took the two seats in front of his desk and Nikita stood just behind them.

Sykes stubbed out his cigarette in a marble ashtray on his desk, and immediately pulled out the Marlboros again. “Smoke, anyone?”

“Thank you, sir,” said Sarah Chang, pulling one delicately from the squashed red and white packet. Nikita and Blaine held up their hands in refusal.

As the two smokers lit up, the room filled with gentle clouds of smoke snaking their way towards the ceiling. It had taken some time for Nikita to adjust to being in smoky rooms all the time; it had been strictly prohibited during his training. Although many of his fellow agents had found ways to sneak them through Denisov’s routine security checks, he had never felt any urge to partake, and felt even less now. The smell of cigarettes clung to clothes, and could give targets a heads up of his approach if the wind was moving against him. Already he had to clean thoroughly before any mission to ensure the stench of tobacco had been washed away.

Sykes leant back in his chair. “Where are we at?” he asked.

The trio looks nonplussed. “With what?” said Chang in her usual direct fashion.

“With making a connection between your three cases.”

“You never said nothing about a connection between our three cases, Gordon,” said Blaine nonchalantly.

“Call me Gordon again and see what happens, Lahart,” said Sykes coldly. “You’re all working in the goddam Soviet Counter-intelligence Branch; there’s a fairly obvious connection right there. For Chrissake you’re meant to be the best of the