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

ignoring the fact that KGB never put the safety catch on our weapons. When we draw our gun, it is to use it and you had to flick the safety to murder the Udmurt woman. You are not screaming ‘seasoned KGB operative’ to me, soldier.”

There was no trace of the arrogant smirk left on the now clammy face of Vagin.

“I know your story, Allochka. You would not sacrifice little Milena by killing me.”

One shot. Two shots. Three, four, five. Nikita, arm out straight in front of him, closed on Vagin as he emptied the magazine and quickly replaced it with the spare, with a lightning quick motion.

Agent Vagin fell backwards, dead.

“Nobody should know my story,” Nikita whispered.

The door behind him suddenly opened and he wheeled around. Klitchkov entered the room and surveyed the carnage in front of him. Nikita began to lower his gun but heard a movement behind him and saw that the three-remaining people on the floor had removed the sacks and now had guns trained on him.

Klitchkov smiled and walked over to Vagin, pulling his head up by the hair.

“This is an interesting take on a double tap, Agent Allochka, but I cannot deny that I appreciate the symmetry,” he said conversationally. The ruined face of the fallen soldier stared up blankly, with a bullet through both eyes, one through both cheeks and one that had gone through the mouth and out the back of the head.

“What is going on? Why did he know about my family? Who are these people?” Nikita demanded.

“You forget yourself Allochka; remember who you are speaking to.”

“My apologies, Colonel,” Nikita said, attempting to get his racing heartbeat under control while trying to understand the situation he found himself in. He dimly noticed that his hands were shaking uncontrollably.

“Quite OK, old boy, understandable in the circumstances. But do try to remember your training — you do not question orders. The Udmurt girl — congratulations on matching her hair colour with the region — was an enemy of the state, and Vagin was an incompetent army private who had been leaking low level secrets to help feed his drug habit. He had to be eliminated, and discreetly. That is more than you need to know.” He held out his hand. “You passed the red test; welcome to the KGB, Agent Allochka.”

Shaking the colonel’s hand, Nikita felt dirty and contaminated, and also felt certain there was more to the story. The agents in the corner were all resolutely looking away from the body of the Udmurt woman, and they looked shaken as they lowered their weapons upon a signal from Klitchkov. Remembering his family, he inclined his head politely and embraced his acceptance into the Soviet Secret Service.

Klitchkov and the agents left the room and walked down the corridor, Nikita following behind. As they marched purposefully towards the front door of the apartment and out of the door, he dropped back. Making to follow, he stepped back into the apartment and with a huge exhale released a stifled sob as he collapsed onto the decrepit old sofa which groaned under him. He crossed his arms around him at the horror he had just committed, the blood he had spilled in just the room next door. Fighting to keep the tears back in his eyes, he dug his fingernails into the flesh of his arm, drawing blood.

Droplets of blood trickled down his forearm and onto the sofa as he clenched his jaw, to force away the feelings he knew he must not have.

“We do what we must, and we must continue,” he whispered to himself. Pulling himself towards the door, he punched the doorframe and yanked it open, driven by the purpose to which he had committed. As he stepped out, he turned and saw Klitchkov leaning against the metal railing, looking out across the concrete estate.

“Out of your system?” he asked without looking at Nikita.

When Nikita said nothing, Klitchkov turned and faced him, leaning backwards on his elbows against the metal handrail. His face was unreadable. He looked into Nikita’s eyes.

Suddenly he leapt forward, pushing Nikita back against the wall, his hand around his throat. He was grinning, the same crazed look in his eyes that Nikita had seen before.

Spitting the words out, he said, “Did. You. Get. It. Out. Of. Your. System? Your disgusting display of weakness?”

“Yes, sir,” Nikita gasped, his eyes full of hatred.

“If it happens again, I will kill you myself,” Klitchkov said, releasing Nikita. Then, sneering, he added, “Comrade.”

CHAPTER 6

Warm wind whipped at his face as he disembarked the Czechoslovak State Airlines flight at José Martí Airport, Havana in the way wind seems to at airports the world over. The climate in the Republic of Cuba was hot and humid, and after growing up in the Soviet Union, Nikita was unfamiliar with the heat in which he found himself, and the contrast to the USSR was not lost on him.

As he made his way down the metal steps, he stretched his legs and arms, working a kink out of the bunched muscles in his left shoulder. It had been a long flight, in which he had first been sent to Helsinki in a military plane from Moscow, then travelled overland by train to Prague before the final journey across the Atlantic — all to evade the keen eyes of those scrupulously watching anyone brave enough to step from behind the iron curtain, especially those that did so to head to Russia’s communist cousin. It had given him too much time to think about what he had done, what he knew he now was, and dark circles shadowed his eyes.

The large plastic red letters ‘Jose Marti — La Habana’ were looking out from the oddly winged concrete structure that made up Cuba’s international airport, hazy in the beating sun. He breathed in deeply. The air