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

of the United States Capitol. Even with tightened security, Nikita doubted it would prevent an agent such as Brishnov from gaining entry and clearing a room with a view of the Capitol.

Already he could see Secret Service agents setting up along the roofs of many of the buildings, and several milling across the lawns, putting up barriers and keeping a close eye on any possibly furtive lurkers.

After absorbing the area for thirty minutes, Nikita walked down to a payphone and made two phone calls. The first was to the office.

“Yes?”

“Sir, it’s Jake—”

“Where the hell are you?” Sykes interjected.

“I’m at the Capitol; I wanted to get here early for some reconnaissance.”

“You’re not a field agent! Get back here now, Marshall, I swear to God.”

“Sir, as the department’s KGB expert I think it’s important I be on site for this one. I have some understanding of how they think and operate.”

“So much so that you didn’t even know that this guy existed until yesterday,” Sykes said caustically.

“The VP is going to wear a vest now,” Nikita said, changing the subject rapidly.

“How did you manage that?” Sykes murmured, softening a little.

“I just highlighted how it was in the best interests of the country; he’s a sucker for a bit of patriotism.”

“Good work. He’s not an easy man to persuade,” Sykes responded before pausing. “Very well, stay on site and do what you can to help. But don’t get in the way of the Secret Service. Unlike you, they’re actually extensively trained for this sort of thing.”

“Sure thing,” said Nikita. Already he had identified at least five easy ways to murder the vice president on the steps of the Capitol Building and get away before anyone even realised what had happened.

But he could be sure that if he had thought of five in just half an hour, Brishnov would have reams of angles that he had been plotting, possibly for weeks.

After he put the receiver down, he slotted a few more coins in and made the second call.

After ringing for some time, a woman’s voice answered timidly. “Hello?”

“Sarah, it’s me,” he said, “How are you doing?”

He heard her breathe a sigh of relief. “I’m glad you called. Where are you?”

“I’m at the Capitol; this is where Brishnov’s going to try and take out, Phillips.”

“Isn’t that the Secret Service’s job?” she said quickly, almost snapping. “We’ve done more than enough! Why would you put yourself back in the field?”

“Don’t worry, the only one in any danger today is the vice president. He should be here soon and then we can put this whole thing behind us.”

She sighed again. “I wish we could turn the clock back to yesterday morning, to being in bed together.”

“Instead let’s look forward to the clocks rolling forward and being in bed together again tonight. Are you going into work today?”

“How can you even ask that after what we saw yesterday?” she demanded.

“I’m sorry, of course you aren’t. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Just you to come back in one piece. Maybe we can get takeout.”

“Perfect, take it easy and I’ll catch you later.”

He hung up and rubbed his eyes. His chest felt constricted and it was hard to breathe. There was no place for a girlfriend in the world in which he was operating. When I get home, I’ll end things with her, he thought to himself. It’s the only way, before it’s too late.

He set his shoulders and went back to the Capitol steps where a small platform was being erected for the vice president to stand on. Secret Service agents, garbed in black suits with mirrored sunglasses, were clearing the front of the building and shepherding people to a safe distance. Deciding against introducing himself to the man in charge, he lurked in the shadows of the trees and continued to consider all of the angles. If it was him, a sniper shot was the obvious option. Near impossible to spot or to defend against, the difficulty in pinpointing where the shot came from until later made escape much easier. But somehow it just didn’t feel like that would be Brishnov’s style. The way he had killed the prostitute, allowing himself to be photographed, the murder of Chrastek, the blowing up of the Texas bar; this was a man who had tired of hiding in the shadows and taking no credit for his successes.

To the inexperienced eye, it would appear that Brishnov had become reckless. To Nikita it spoke of a series of deliberate moves on a chess board that were set up to deceive.

He cleared his mind and focused again on the task at hand. The old stone steps had now been cleared, and glancing at his watch Nikita could see that the time of the press conference was nearly upon him. Across the lawn, the press corps had gathered, a roiling mass of reporters and photographers, notepads, pens, long lens cameras and scuffed shoes. The sky above was stormy grey but it looked as if the rain would hold off until after the vice president’s speech, which he didn’t imagine would be too long.

He didn’t have to wait long, as it was barely minutes later when the motorcade appeared, travelling fast along Independence Avenue South West. The black saloon was almost hidden by the rotating, flashing ensemble of police motorbikes and oversized security vehicles.

Nikita sank further back into the shadows, draping his CIA lanyard around his neck in plain sight to ward off any suspicious Secret Service snipers, and set himself up with a clear view of both the politician and the crowd in front of the platform.

Vice President Gerald Phillips approached the platform with his security guard John running point ahead of him, his smooth skin and long nose dulled in the sunlight. Anyone in the way quickly evaporated