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

some of the deeper caves; it is a labyrinth that runs deeper and farther than we could ever have imagined, but I have the perimeter sealed and the surrounding area has been scorched of all life,” he said, closing his eyes.

“Excellent. Now I need you to stay in your current location and secure the caves. It is to become a base for an important operation.”

“What operation is that, sir?” enquired the captain.

“That is above your rank, Captain, but perhaps not for long. Instructions will be forthcoming shortly,” he said enigmatically and put down the receiver. He quickly picked it up again and dialled another number.

“Da?” said the high-pitched voice of Maxim Denisov when he came to the phone.

“It’s Klitchkov—” he began.

“Ah yes, our esteemed new leader,” he interrupted drily.

“If that is your attempt at brown-nosing, it needs some work,” said Klitchkov mockingly. Denisov said nothing. “How would you like to serve our homeland, comrade?” asked Klitchkov.

“I have spent my life serving her,” said Denisov caustically.

“Calm down, lieutenant-colonel. This would not only be serving the Soviet Union, but ensuring her greatness for generations.”

There was a pause. “I’m listening,” said the cold voice.

“Very good… I think you have earned your wings. I have a highly classified operation that I need you to oversee. Report to my office within the hour,” Klitchkov said and hung up the phone.

Less than twenty minutes later Denisov stood at attention before the new chairman of the KGB.

“You are ready to serve as you have never before, Maxim?” Klitchkov asked carefully.

“Without question, sir.”

“It will be dangerous. You could lose your life in the service of your country.”

“There is no more honourable way to go,” Denisov said, knowing what his superior wanted to hear.

Klitchkov stood and walked around to the young officer and pinned to his chest a badge of gold and red stripes. “I do not suffer failure, Colonel.”

“Colonel?” gasped Denisov, showing more excitement than any had ever seen him display.

“Do not cause me to regret it.”

“No, sir. I will follow you wherever you command,” said Denisov, with no sign of his former air of cold indifference.

“Yes, I think you will do perfectly,” said Klitchkov. “Now sit; the details of this operation are the highest level of classified and any mistakes will have repercussions on a global scale. There is a great deal to orchestrate, and I must now place it in your hands.”

Klitchkov put his feet up on the desk in front of him and smiled. Everything was coming together perfectly. He then began to unfold the complex plan he had been working on right under the nose of Yerin.

***

Nikita awoke with a jolt, momentarily confused by his surroundings. As his eyes accustomed to the gloom, he realised that he was on the sofa. If his eyes had not revealed it to him, the stiffness in his neck would have. As he pushed himself upright, the splitting down the centre of his forehead forced him back down and he tasted bile in the back of his throat.

The empty bottle on the table in front of him revealed the source of his pain and he shut his eyes, wishing it away. That did nothing to rid him of the hangover and with a groan he forced himself up and made his way into the kitchen. He made himself a strong black coffee and washed down a couple of paracetamol, with the hot bitter liquid and another groan.

As the coffee hit his stomach and the caffeine entered his veins, it all came rushing back to him. Brishnov, the plot, Chrastek’s head exploding, Sykes’ hesitation, Sarah’s emotional collapse and Elysia’s return. Elysia. He could not get her from his mind, but knew he must. Everything depended on the resilience of Jacob Marshall. Nathan Martins did not and could not exist in Washington, and nor could Nikita Allochka.

He rubbed his eyes and thought again of Brishnov and the vice president. Making his mind up, he crept into his bedroom, moving soundlessly. He could see the gentle rise and fall of Sarah’s body under the bedsheets as he grabbed some clothes and left the room, dressing silently in the living room after dousing himself with cold water.

Twenty minutes later he arrived at the CIA headquarters. Hurrying through security, he marched quick time through the labyrinthine corridors and into the office of the Soviet Counter-intelligence Branch.

Blaine was already at his desk, his eyes bloodshot. “Jesus, you look horrible,” he said to Nikita as he dropped heavily into his chair.

“You’re no oil painting yourself, buddy,” Nikita replied drily, rubbing his own eyes and trying to ignore the sick feeling burning in his stomach.

“I’ve been here all night; what’s your excuse, wise guy?” retorted his colleague.

“Why have you been here all night? What have you found?” Nikita asked sharply.

“I’ve been pulled onto your investigation. I’ve managed to trace the registration of the White Russian’s car—”

“What did it show? Tell me everything,” interrupted Nikita.

“Nothing doing, man, it was hired under a false name of some guy from Delaware who kicked the bucket years ago.”

“That took you all night?” Nikita said with a raised eyebrow.

“Of course not. There’s some strange movement happening in the USSR since Yerin was removed. Some guy named Denisov seems to have been dropping in on their nuclear sites and disappearing with a load of staff.”

“Did you just say Denisov?” Nikita said sharply, stunned.

“That’s right. Maxim Denisov. You know him? I’m not familiar with the name.”

***

EAST SIBERIAN TAIGA, USSR, OCTOBER 1986

Nikita looked ahead of him at his fellow KGB recruits. Of the hundred and fifty he had started with almost five years ago, only fifteen now remained. They were marching in single file through the largest forest on earth, along a rough game track that had been flattened out by many