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

in front of him. He turned over the photos. On the back it said, ‘Taken at Oldham St, Baltimore MD. ZB’.

Those initials again. He walked over to Chang and showed her the pictures. “Looks like I have a lead to go on. You going to come with me?”

“We’re analysts, not field agents, Jake,” she replied sternly.

“Today I think we’re both. Come on, we’re not taking him down, just trying to find him,” he said in response to her look of incredulity. “That’s what analysts do, the research.”

“Fine,” she said, grabbing her coat. “But a visit to Baltimore was not what I had planned for my day.”

It was a sixty-minute drive from the CIA headquarters on McLean to their destination in East Baltimore and Nikita fought the urge to accelerate. Sarah sat chain-smoking with the window down and saying little, both of them aware of how much was not being said.

He slowed to a stop as they pulled into Oldham Street outside a Greek Orthodox church. It was a visibly run-down street with flat roofed buildings, many of which had once been warehouses, lining either side. He pulled out the photograph from the envelope on the back seat and they put their heads together to examine it. He could smell her perfume and tobacco blend and found it distracting.

He had to resist the temptation to kiss her. She must have sensed it as she looked at him sharply. “Come on man, we’re on the job; focus.”

He was taken aback but didn’t know why; this was Sarah’s way. At least you always knew where you stood. Except, he thought, he actually had no idea where he stood with her.

“Sure. Now where is this alleyway? It isn’t a long street; it shouldn’t be hard to find. We might find a clue,” said Nikita, although privately he couldn’t picture a world in which Brishnov would leave any trace behind. But then, he had already been more careless than he could have imagined, like he was a man with nothing to lose. “Don’t forget your gun,” he said to Sarah, handing her the High Standard HDM pistol that had fallen onto the floor of the car by her feet. Inwardly he squirmed at the thought of being so careless with a government-issue firearm. Denisov would have put him in the cold box for such an offence. His own was firmly clipped into the holster at his waist.

“You take this side of the road, and I’ll take that one,” said Sarah, and they dispersed. Within a minute, Nikita had found the spot. A narrow alleyway at the side of a low concrete building, casting it in gloom despite it being the middle of the day. He could see the window that his comrade had clearly jumped out of following his crime.

He walked along it, eyes everywhere. The alleyway was bare, with the only signs of life the occasional cigarette butt.

He walked back and called Chang over, but she also was unable to see any sign of Brishnov’s presence.

“I didn’t expect any trace. This guy has gone under our radar for years. I’m just astounded he blew the brains out of a prostitute; it’s like he wanted us to find him,” said Nikita.

“Unless this is a different guy. I mean all we can see is the back of his head in this photo,” Sarah replied.

“It’s the only lead we have,” Nikita replied flatly, getting irritated with her constant negativity. “What gun stores are there around here?”

“Damned if I know,” she shrugged.

He bit his lip. “OK, well let’s scatter and find out.”

“You mean separate?” she said, looking suddenly nervous.

“Well… yeah,” he responded. “How did you get into the CIA?” he asked sarcastically.

“Say that again and I won’t let you in when you come round after drinking too much at the bar tonight,” she said with a straight face.

“Now who’s being unprofessional?” Nikita replied acerbically. “Do your job.” He turned and walked up the street. He didn’t fear for Sarah; they had all done basic field training, she could take care of herself.

He glanced over his shoulder and saw that she had crossed to the other side of the street and was making her way in the opposite direction.

He absorbed it all as he had been trained to do. So much of his training had to lie dormant for long stretches of time, ready and waiting for the day he would need to call upon the skill he had spent years finessing. Within seconds he knew the location of every car, where every potential enemy hiding place was and every camera, though there were not many.

After ten minutes of walking through largely residential streets, he came across a short high street, with a Greek bakery, greengrocers, hairdressers and a smattering of cafes and restaurants. It felt like an old-fashioned street from a different era. Shop signs were painted on the brickwork and people of all ages sat outside the cafes chatting. As he passed them, he arrived at a quiet crossroads, and looking down to his left he saw what he was looking for.

A gun shop stood out, newer and shinier than the faded old shops of the high street. Mellor’s Firearms was printed in block white on a black background, and an A-board outside boasted that ammo could be bought by the bucket.

Nikita walked confidently over to it and entered the door without hesitating. Inside was like walking into a KGB armoury, with guns of every description glaring down at him from racks on the walls.

The young man behind the counter was on the phone as he entered but immediately stopped talking as he saw Nikita walk in. “I’m gonna have to call you back, dude,” he said and put down the receiver. He cocked his head and surveyed Nikita. He was muscled but with a beer belly and was wearing