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

There was silence.

“Lahart, you’re looking into whether the Russians are meeting their disarmament requirements. Marshall, you’re investigating Yerin and the KGB’s movements, and Chang you are trying to find out if this White Russian exists, and now have the full weight of the CIA behind you. The connection between the last two should be plainly obvious at the least. You have to all start working together if we are ever going to get anywhere.”

“Sorry, Gor… Chief, but I don’t see how the INF Treaty has anything to do with other two,” said Blaine. “The treaty was signed months ago and there’s no indication at this point that they’re not doing everything they are supposed to. My eyes on the ground there tell me they’ve been following the protocol outlined in the treaty so far.”

“Take a step back from it for a minute. After years of back and forth, the Intermediate Nuclear Forces Treaty finally gets signed just weeks after Secretary Conlan, the one key vocal opponent to it, dies. No matter how natural it seems to be, that alone should have set our alarm bells ringing and it didn’t at the time because we all wanted the treaty signed so badly.”

“I do see what you’re saying but I’ve looked into it and there was no hint of foul play in the coroner’s report,” said Chang. “I’ve found absolutely nothing so far to suggest that the Bl— the White Russian even exists,” she said with an arched eyebrow.

“The same on my front with the KGB,” added Nikita. “No unusual activity to report from any of my investigations on the movements of all key officials.”

Sykes slammed his liver-spotted hand down on the table. “Come on, guys! Are we the CIA or some two-bit private investigator? Tell me that you can’t see how what you’re all working on is connected? If there is even a hint that the Soviet Union is not keeping to the disarming requirements of the treaty then it’s a major and direct threat to our national security. For some reason, the FBI wanted to tell the president about this at a point when we have no proof, and now the pressure is on all of us. If we don’t get answers it’ll be all of our asses on the line.”

“What do you want us to do, boss?” asked Nikita.

“Go and do your goddam jobs!” said Sykes, the vein now bulging again at his temple, and his neck corded. He opened the door and beckoned them out. “Get me some sort of a lead by the end of the week.”

The other two walked back to their desks but Nikita excused himself and went to the bathroom. Locking the cubicle door behind him, he pushed the toilet seat lid down and sat down on it. He put his head in his hands and rubbed his weary eyes. It was what he had feared. They were asking for too many assassinations, and no matter how natural he made them look, it no longer took a genius to make the connection.

He got up, left the bathroom, headed back to his desk and spent the remainder of the afternoon deep in thought for how to salvage the situation while it was still based on suspicions and nothing more concrete.

He was still distracted and gazing blindly at his computer screen when home time loomed and Blaine gave him a nudge. “Jake! Anybody home?”

Nikita started slightly. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Home time man, are we bound for the bar? Rodney’s buying, remember!”

“Yeah, sure. I’m gonna have to catch you up though, just got a couple of things I need to wrap up here.”

“Well don’t take too long, it’s hard enough getting Rodney to prize his wallet open at the best of times. I’m not even sure he has a wallet,” said Blaine with a grin.

“No chance I’m missing that, buddy, be right behind you.”

He waited as they all filtered out before gathering up his belongings, slinging his bag over his back and heading out through security. He walked swiftly through the car park to his grey Ford Sierra. It was in gear before the door had even closed. He drove into town and stopped at the first payphone he saw. He put a nickel into the slot and began dialling the number he had memorised. Just before he hit the final number he hesitated, and then put down the receiver.

Never deviate from procedure.

He took a deep breath. He was allowing himself to get spooked and that was not something he could afford to do. That is when mistakes were made, like calling his handler from the first payphone available on the route into town from the CIA headquarters.

“Yoptel-mopsel,” he cursed himself in Russian under his breath, and went back to the car. He drove further into town before turning down a side street and pulling over. Feeling under the driver seat, he pulled out a short stick of chalk. He left the car and walked back to the main road, and bent down next to a low blue mailbox at a busy crossroads to tie his shoelace. On his way back up he drew his hand across the side of the mailbox and left a wide chalk stripe diagonally across it above the USPS logo. Sometimes the old ways were the safest. Now he must be patient.

Leaving his car where it was, he walked the three blocks to the bar where his colleagues awaited him. A sign outside read ‘Happy Hour’, which explained why the bar was so crowded when he entered. He spotted his friends packed into a booth at the rear of the bar, but avoided catching their eye and aimed instead for the bar. He needed a drink before he spoke to anyone this evening.

He pushed his way through the throng at the bar until he found a small space at the