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

I am not Jacob Marshall. I am not Nathan Martins. I am not Nikita Allochka. I am the Black Russian, he repeated to himself, and gave himself a firm slap on each cheek, before breaking into a run which he maintained for the seven blocks back to his own place. The sun was just covered up and stung his eyes as it lifted above the horizon. Every moment of the run was painful because of the pounding of his feet which echoed throughout his body and right through his head, but he forced himself to maintain his five-minute mile pace and swiftly covered the distance. By the time he reached his apartment, he was drenched with sweat and after doing a cursory check for bugs and listening devices around the apartment, an exercise he carried out diligently every day, he jumped straight into the shower. He stayed under icy cold water for as long as he could, before switching it to scalding hot and then dropping back to freezing again and jumped out. He felt cleansed and ready.

Walking out of the shower to his bedroom, he stopped suddenly. Something was not right. He fastened the towel firmly around his waist and slipped his hand under the dressing table, pulling out a Beretta M9 pistol from its hiding place. Barefoot, he crouched low and cocked his ear, pulling back the slide to kick the first bullet into place.

He was sure he had heard something in the other room.

He trod gently, his feed not making a sound on the carpeted floor, out of the bedroom and into the hallway. He kept his back to the wall and eased back the safety on the gun, which he held up in front of him, while remaining in a semi-crouch himself, moving sideways slowly and soundlessly.

He sniffed the air. He could smell alcohol and tobacco, and wondered if Sarah had followed him round. He paused, debating whether to lower the weapon in case it was her, but not wanting to be an open target if it was not.

He balanced it in his left hand and lowered it to one side where it was out of sight, but ready to swing up at the slightest sign of something untoward.

He moved forward, with more purpose now, into the gloom of the open plan kitchen/living room.

“You,” he gasped.

CHAPTER 17

“Da, menya,” replied Colonel Klitchkov, looking absurd to Nikita in civilian clothing. Dressed in a flannel shirt, jeans and trainers and lounging on his sofa, the colonel looked like an old Californian hippy rather than one of the most senior and powerful men in the KGB.

“And I think you mean you, sir.”

“Of course, yes, sir. What are you doing here, sir?” Nikita whispered, looking alarmed.

“You left the signal,” Klitchkov said simply.

“Yes, sir, but that was for Notrowski and I was going to leave shortly for our neutral meeting place,” Nikita replied, emphasising the last part of the sentence. “My cover will be completely blown if you are seen here.”

Klitchkov raised his eyebrows.

“Sir,” added Nikita.

“Your handler Notrowski understands that I am replacing him, and he knew better than to question me. Believe it or not, agent, this is not my first day as a spy. I am well aware of the risks and of the importance of your anonymity to our national security.”

“Of course, sir, this just feels very reckless…”

“Enough!” snapped Klitchkov. “One year in America and you have become insolent. Question my actions again and I will return you to the cold box in Russia. I hear that helped you to learn respect before, but perhaps you are still an impetuous Nigerian child,” he said mockingly.

Nikita’s face tightened and he looked coldly at the colonel. Suddenly he was aware of the tight skin on his thigh from the gunshot wound way back on the Kamchatka Peninsula.

“I am a Russian… sir,” he said, trying to control his voice.

Klitchkov laughed, the demonic, condescending laugh he had first heard in his Kamenka shack years ago. “Of course, you are, my boy.”

“I have done everything you have asked of me.”

“For love of Russia? Or for your family?”

“They are one and the same to me, sir.”

“You always were an exceptional liar,” Klitchkov said, smiling brightly.

“You would rather I separate them?”

“There are those in the KGB who would have me be kinder to you. Yerin is concerned you have not been given enough of a reason to love Russia and could too easily be turned,” Klitchkov said, folding his hands in his lap and looking at Nikita to see if he would pick up his challenge.

A silence fell between them in which they gazed at each other, weighing up whether to embrace a conflict or avoid one.

Nikita pushed his anger back down, and decided to swallow his pride. “The Soviet Union has always been my home, my country and in my soul. It has fed me and kept its promises to care for my family. The KGB is a tough life because it has to be. Holding grudges is futile and a waste of energy that could be better served in the service of our general secretary’s goals.”

“In another life you could have been a poet, comrade,” Klitchkov said without a hint of humour. “But your point is a good one. We are an agency of business, and that is what I am here for. You have done good work these past few months. Exceptional work in fact.” His demeanour was unrecognisable from just moments ago. “Now tell me why you signalled that you required an unscheduled meeting with your handler. But first, I am working on the assumption that you sweep your apartment for listening devices on a daily basis, da?”

“Da… of course, sir,” Nikita said, feeling insulted at the hint of a suggestion that he would