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

didn’t take a seat himself; instead, he began striding back and forth, the adrenaline still coursing through him. He could feel Larry’s hipflask against his chest and longed to take a long drink from it. Not now, not yet, he thought to himself.

“For Chrissake stop pacing and tell me what’s happened,” demanded the chief.

Nikita stopped pacing and looked at Sykes. “The White Russian is real and he’s going to kill Phillips,” he said with as much sincerity as he could muster.

“Phillips as in the vice president?” he replied, with a smirk. “Is this some kind of a joke, Marshall?”

“No, sir. The White Russian is a rogue KGB agent who intends to hit us right where it hurts. What’s more, we know who he is.”

He threw the photo of Brishnov down on the table. “Taras Brishnov, the KGB’s greatest prize, and the jewel of Brezhnev’s crown. With Yerin gone, he’s lost his last remaining mentor.”

“Jesus Christ, you better have some proof for this.”

“Our proof is lying on a white shag carpet in Baltimore with the side of his head blown off,” said Nikita, who began pacing again.

The vein in Sykes’ temple looked ready to burst. He gave Sarah a cigarette and lit it for her. As she exhaled the smoke, she relaxed slightly and her hands trembled less.

“You two had better start at the beginning,” Sykes said, lighting a cigarette for himself.

“There’s no time, Sykes,” said Nikita angrily. “We need to secure the VP.”

“You’re upset, so I’ll allow your insubordination this once,” said Sykes. “Now sit your ass down and tell me everything. And talk quickly,” he said with a coldness that left no room for argument.

“OK, but before I do can I get these video tapes over to an analyst to see if he can trace the car registration?”

“Come on, Jake, you know the chances of that car being registered to a KGB spy are pretty slim. Now start talking.”

Nikita relayed everything from receiving the tip off from the SE division through to his and Chang’s visit to Baltimore and what they had uncovered.

As he finished recounting the murder of Chrastek he sat back, but Sykes was leaning forwards, looking calmer than Nikita had ever seen him. “OK, you’re both dismissed. Go home and get some rest; tomorrow could be an intense day.”

Nikita was stunned. “But, boss, you need us to help track Brishnov down!” He noticed with alarm a hint of the Russian slip into his American accent. Mercifully Sykes did not.

“You’re analysts, not field agents. You’ve done great work, and stay close to your phones as we may need you. Let the experts track him down,” he said in his best attempt at kindness.

Nikita stood up and left the room without saying anything. He knew he’d pay for his disrespect, but the mission was too vital to his own identity remaining a secret for him to sit back and watch from the sidelines.

Sarah followed him out, limping slightly, still shell-shocked but with some colour returning to her cheeks.

He turned to her and swallowed his anger at her. “Let’s get you home,” he said, putting his arm around her and helping her walk out, not caring how it might look to the rest of the office.

“Can I stay with you tonight?” Sarah asked him, looking almost childlike up at him.

He paused. “Sure, of course you can.”

“You’re sure?” she asked dubiously.

“Of course,” he said again, but only to keep his cover. Inside he was a maelstrom of feelings.

They didn’t speak on the drive home, but Nikita tenderly helped the still shaking Sarah out of the car and into his apartment.

Sitting her on the sofa, he went to make tea for her. While the kettle was boiling, he took a long slug from Larry’s thermos flask and exhaled heavily.

When he returned to the living room Nikita found Sarah crying softly, and felt a momentary pang of irritation. On the scale of the things, he had seen and done in the past year, the death of Petr Chrastek ranked fairly low.

He collected himself and sat down beside her. He put his arm around her once more, feeling awkward.

“It’s my own fault,” she whispered.

“Of course, it isn’t,” Nikita replied. “You had no way of knowing what was going to happen to Chrastek.”

“Not that! But that I was there at all. I’m an analyst, Jake. I’m good at research, at numbers, at puzzles, but this? I only learned how to fire a gun at the team field training we did,” she sobbed. “I’m not cut out for it.”

“You’re a fantastic analyst, Sarah; we aren’t designed for field work,” Nikita said kindly.

“You are!” she exclaimed. “You were so comfortable, and so quick to jump and protect me.”

“That was because I care for you, nothing more,” he said. “Anybody would have done the same.”

She shook her head, looking more like her old self. “No, they wouldn’t, Jake. I thought you were just an analyst, but there’s more to you.”

“What do you mean?” he asked cautiously, noticing his shoulders tense.

“You’re heroic.”

Nikita laughed bitterly. “Trust me when I say that I am no hero.”

“Just my hero then,” she said, smiling and kissing him gently on the cheek before snuggling up to him.

Nikita smiled at her but felt cold inside. There was ice in his veins and all he could think of was Brishnov. While Brishnov was alive, he knew that nobody was safe. Not him, not Sarah or Blaine, not even Elysia. Brishnov would have seen him with her earlier. Nobody was safe.

After some time, he felt the steady breathing of Sarah against his arm and lifted her gently, carrying her to bed and covering her.

Returning to the sofa, he opened a bottle of Old Forester, something he had developed a taste for since his visit