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

He was of medium height, with the look of a once handsome man ageing badly, with a rounded belly and thinning hair which had been brushed so as to give it the appearance of volume.

They followed him further into the apartment. On the walls hung Goya and Rembrandt prints, with bookcases showcasing delicate leather-bound original prints of classics.

“Can I furnish you two with a beverage?” asked Chrastek, in delicately accented English, as he walked over to a drinks’ cabinet standing against the wall.

“Nothing for us,” said Nikita, eager to get the meeting over with as quickly as possible.

“You knew we were coming?” Sarah asked sharply.

The man chuckled. “You won’t mind if I do?” he said, ignoring Nikita’s question. “Please, sit,” he said, beckoning to the ornate furniture in the middle of the room. Nikita selected a crimson chaise longue to perch on, while Sarah sank into a deep armchair. Petr Chrastek remained standing. “You are here for information?”

“Who are you?” Sarah asked directly.

Petr gave a thin smile. “I’m many different things to many different people. I like to, as the Americans say, keep my fingers in many different pies. But to you, I am a man who can point you in the right direction.”

“How do we know you aren’t a Soviet spy?” she asked.

His eyes flickered to Nikita in a smirk. “You don’t. I will give you information, my dear; you can decide what to do with it. My employment is none of your concern,” he said as he took a sip from the small sherry glass held gently in his hand.

“Petr, tell us what you know,” said Nikita impatiently.

“Very well,” said the Czech man. “You are looking for a KGB assassin,” he said as a statement, not as a question.

Neither of the CIA agents responded, waiting for him to continue.

“I know who he is. But first I will need something from you.”

Sarah laughed. “I knew it. You’re a fraud.”

“Sarah, he already knows more than he should.” Nikita looked at Petr. “What do you want?”

“Immunity,” whispered Petr.

“Immunity from what?” demanded Sarah.

“From any indiscretions that may surface against me,” he said dismissively.

“You know full well we can’t give you blanket immunity when we don’t even know what the charges are,” said Nikita.

“Then, I will keep my information to myself and the vice president will die,” the reluctant informant replied.

There was a taut silence, in which the two CIA agents stared at each other.

“What bullshit is this?” Sarah said, standing up. “Come on, Jake, this joker is clearly wasting our time.”

“If you leave, then you are consigning the vice president of the United States, and most likely the next president judging by the polls, to death. And very soon too,” Petr said coyly.

Sarah froze in place, clearly torn. “Come on Chrastek, spit it out,” said Nikita, his eyes boring into him. Why was he making it so hard to get the information he had been placed by the KGB to provide?

“Not without my immunity,” the paunchy man said, inspecting his nails and polishing them on his shirt.

“Fine, but if you have the knowledge you claim to have, immunity or not you will be forever known by the American intelligence services. You’ve come this far, and you brought us to you, so why play this game?” said Nikita.

“Just give me my immunity. I know your department has the authority.”

“Incorrect. Immunity comes from way above our pay grade I’m afraid, buddy.”

The Czech man’s face tightened and he ground his teeth in obvious frustration. He turned his back, gazed out of the window and hummed along to the classical music emanating from his record player.

Suddenly his face was pressed against the glass as Sarah had pounced and twisted his arm behind his back. He yelled out in pain.

“We tried to do this the easy way, but you will tell us what we need to know. Forget immunity, your life will be made total hell; I will see to it personally,” she said with strength belying her slight frame.

“Sarah, come on,” Nikita said, “you can’t strong-arm a civilian.”

“Nobody knows we’re here, Jake, nobody at HQ knows who Petr Chrastek is, if that’s even his real name. I’m not leaving here without the information locked in this crumbly head of his,” she said, tightening her grip on his arm and causing him to cry out again. “Now help me out,” she said as she twisted the informant round and slammed him into the floor, digging her knee into his back.

Nikita squatted down in front of him and looked into his eyes. “Dude, it’s really worth your while to just tell her what she needs to know; she isn’t pissing around here.”

The man’s face had turned beet red with anger and pain, but he glanced at Nikita, a look of knowing passing between them. He had played it very well, thought Nikita. “Very well, very well! Let me go and I’ll tell you,” he spat out.

“Too late, old man, give me information and I’ll let you go,” she said viciously, digging her knee into his spine.

He wailed in pain. “Brishnov! His name is Brishnov, Taras Brishnov!” he cried, his East European accent strengthening as he lost control amidst the pain. “Now let me go, you monster,” he said, and she relented slightly as he slumped forward, his face buried in the shagpile rug she had pressed him into.

She dusted herself off and sat primly back on the armchair.

“Ok, now the rest, Chrastek,” said Nikita calmly, throwing an angry look at Sarah.

The man turned over, walked to the window and poured himself another sherry, sipping it and taking a deep breath. “You are animals who deserve no information and everything that happens to you.”

Sarah stood up and threw a painting from