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

“Colonel?” said a wheezy voice at the end.

“Denisov?” Klitchkov replied, surprised. “What are you doing at the Kremlin?”

“I have been reassigned back to Moscow, sir. Is the line secure from your end?”

“Da, they have full encoding equipment for the commissar’s communications here.”

“Good. Yerin is gone; they need you back in Moscow immediately.”

“Gone? What do you mean?”

“All will be explained to you upon your return here, sir; even a secure line can be tapped.”

“I am overseeing a vital mission in Afghanistan at present; I cannot return to the Kremlin until that is complete. It is a matter of national security.”

There was silence at the other end and he could hear voices faintly discussing it.

“OK, Colonel Klitchkov. Our esteemed leader has decided that Yerin is a Nazi traitor and has removed him from his position with immediate effect. You are now Chairman of the KGB.”

“What are you saying, Maxim? Livenko was Yerin’s deputy. I am several steps down from leading the KGB,” said Klitchkov, fearing he was part of a hoax.

“Petrenko fears others in Viktor’s circle may be entwined in his treachery. You are now the head of the KGB. You will be required in Moscow as soon as your Afghan operation is completed.” There was a moment’s pause before he added, “Congratulations,” and hung up the phone. The line went dead with a hum, and Klitchkov replaced his receiver, a look of ecstasy on his face.

***

More than eleven thousand kilometres away in Washington DC, Vice President Gerald T. Phillips stood in the traditional home of the vice president, Number One Observatory Circle in quiet contemplation, a state he was best known for. He had not tried to use the vice presidency as a place to press his own agendas, but instead had patiently and quietly done whatever was asked of him by President Callahan for seven long years.

He had stepped away from his bickering campaign team in the other room to clear his head, and gazed out at the grounds of the United States Naval Observatory. Secret Service agents could be seen patrolling the grounds. He couldn’t stand them, and not for the first time he wondered if he was making the right decision but the wheels were too far in motion now. Too many people would be let down, and he knew the burning ambition in the pit of his stomach would never go out; he owed it to himself to try.

The vice president saw his glazed reflection in the window, smoothed down his pale brown side parting and allowed himself a small smile. Who would have thought that the boy raised in Connecticut would be so close to becoming the leader of the free world?

Phillips walked over to a drinks cabinet and poured himself a scotch whisky, taking a small sip and releasing a sigh. He left the room, waving his new bodyguard away; the implacable man seemed to take his duty too seriously and was never more than a couple of feet away, even inside his own home. “Take the afternoon off, John, I’m perfectly safe in my own home,” Phillips said to the wiry but solid man of an indistinguishable age due to a perfectly smooth face devoid of any blemishes. An unusual look in a bodyguard.

“I believe that is what the secretary of defense thought too, sir,” the serious man said stiffly.

Phillips sighed, too resigned to the reality to try arguing back despite his position of superiority. With the tumbler of whisky still in hand, he returned to the large office he kept at the home, and the din from the carefully selected members of his team subsided. He leant against the doorframe and took another sip of whisky.

“So where have we gotten to?” he asked, surveying them through his wire-rimmed glasses.

His campaign manager Ed Sheen, a young man with dark blond hair and a weak chin, sat back with an arrogant confidence, and pulling the cigarette out of his mouth, blew out smoke and smiled at him. “We are good to go, boss,” he said in a voice tinged with Georgian drawl. He handed over a sheet of paper that had been scribbled all over. Peering over his glasses, Gerald Phillips was able to discern the makings of his speech, the speech that would announce his intention to seek the Republican nomination for the presidency.

“Your handwriting is horseshit, Ed, but you guys have put together a good-looking speech,” he said with a wry smile and looked at each of the four-strong team one by one.

“Lisa, type this thing up for me and let’s get this show on the road,” he said, looking at his assistant, a prim young woman with dark hair who clearly had eyes for Ed. “I want to run through it a few times before the press conference tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, taking the paper back from him.

“What time have you booked the press for, Terry?” he asked Terry O’Connor, his press secretary.

“At sixteen hundred hours, Mr Vice President. The president can’t be seen to endorse you so it’s best that we don’t hold it at the White House. As it stands, we’re set up to do it on the steps of the Capitol, but I could get them here if you would prefer. It’s already the worst kept secret in Washington that you’re going to run, so no reporter is going to miss it. You will have the headlines tomorrow night, sir.” Little did Terry know how prophetic his words would be.

“If there is one thing politics has taught me, Terry, it is that nothing is ever certain. It would be just our luck that the Berlin Wall falls over this afternoon,” he said and his team laughed uncertainly. It was rare that Gerald Phillips made a joke, and rarer still