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

and closed the slat in the door, dulling the sound of his former superior’s voice and walked back along the corridor without a backwards glance.

***

Four photographs sat on Chairman Klitchkov’s desk. On one was drawn a red cross, cutting the ugly scar on Brishnov’s face in half. The others glared up at them: Lev Veselovsky, Zach Burn and Viktor Yerin. All three looked completely different, but there was a similar puffy element to their complexions, the look that comes from too long indoors, plotting the deaths of better men.

“Lieutenant Colonel, I want you to take control of the Burn situation. He is a dog and will receive everything a traitor to the state deserves, but not yet. There can still be value in him and you must handle him with care until such time as we need to dispose of him.”

“Of course, sir. I can be of some assistance with Yerin also, perhaps?”

Klitchkov laughed. “You cannot trick a trickster, Maxim; you are too close to this one to behave dispassionately.”

Clearly disappointed, Denisov nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Klitchkov slid the photo of the moustached Burn slightly towards his lieutenant colonel with the tip of his index finger.

Nikita stood impatiently, his hands clasped behind his back, fingers firmly crossed for his chance to take on the neo-Nazi.

Klitchkov paused. “I know what you would have me do, Agent Allochka. And I would give it to you, were it not for the caution that stays my hand. I shall make arrangements for Veselovsky myself. He is a base traitor who rides upon the coat-tails of phrases like ‘take our country back’ and ‘patriotism’ that inflame the hearts of simple minds, and preys on those same people to push an agenda that would bring our nation to its knees. No, this one is mine,” he said, a flush upon his cheeks and his eyes flashing.

He moved the photo of Veselovsky delicately towards himself, taking several breaths to calm himself. Nikita gave no indication of his disappointment to Klitchkov, only balling one hand into a fist and massaging it with the other hand behind his back.

“And you, agent,” said Klitchkov, looking up, the colour now gone from his face. “That leaves you with Viktor Yerin.”

“Yes, sir.”

“He is currently being held in Matrosskaya Tishina Prison, here in Moscow. This must be kept a secret; the last thing we need is Amnesty International breathing down our necks. I suspect he will be in no condition to defend himself.”

“Sir?”

Klitchkov smiled wildly. “I have had him moved to a Kishka for the past three days,” he said, chuckling.

Denisov laughed. “The depths of your cruelty continue to surprise me, sir.”

The smile fell instantly from Klitchkov’s face. “You think the man deserves kindness?”

“Of course not, sir,” stuttered Denisov. “I could not have thought of a more apt punishment myself.”

Klitchkov said nothing. He sat down and started making notes in a pad before him. The other two men stood patiently at ease. After several minutes, Klitchkov looked up, irritated. “What are you waiting for? Go! Speak to my secretary for any further arrangements you require. Allochka, report back to me as soon as your mission is complete. You have twenty-four hours,” he added, before going back to his notetaking.

Nikita exhaled. Twenty-four hours to plan and execute a break-in to a federal penitentiary and assassinate a maximum-security political prisoner. This had never been on the KGB syllabus.

***

As darkness fell, so did Nikita. Parachuting in silently from the hastily arranged light aircraft high above, the black parachute ghosted him down gently, cutting through the heavily falling snowflakes. Nothing more than a shadow floating through the night skies.

As he descended towards the penitentiary, he quickly gauged his bearings, locating his intended point of entry.

Landing silently on the roof of the vast complex, he was grateful for once for the heavy snowfall that descended with the Russian winters. Dragging the parachute behind him, he brushed out his footsteps as he approached an old stone chimney. Shining his torch down, he could see the metal grating that had been fixed into place to prevent any prisoners from getting any ideas of escape. From a black backpack he withdrew a compact hacksaw and some rope. Standing astride the brickwork of the chimney, he bunched up the parachute and stuffed it roughly into the backpack before lashing the rope around the chimney several times and dropping the remainder down the chimney. Flashing the torch down, he could see it had reached close to the bottom. Clipping the saw to his belt, without hesitating he grabbed the rope, wrapped it around his foot, and swiftly lowered himself down. His feet hit the metal grating heavily, and with a grinding of metal that felt painfully loud in the silence, it gave way and he continued rapidly towards the floor.

So much for maximum security, he whispered quietly to himself, unclipping the hacksaw and storing it out of sight at the side of the fireplace from which he cautiously emerged.

Running silently on rubber-soled shoes, he moved rapidly from the layout drawings he had earlier memorised, again reluctantly thanking his trainers for those draining hours he had been forced to spend training his memory.

Confidently he navigated his way through the kitchens which lay dark and empty. Reaching the exit, he paused and opening the door a crack, peered out. He was on the ground floor. Two guards were patrolling the common area, with cells lining the floors above, which judging by the torchlight, were also being patrolled. He needed to reach the left-hand side of the common area, approximately twenty yards away, which would be impossible with both of the ground floor guards having eyes on all areas of the space between them. He let the door close as one of the guards circled close to him, and considered his options.

He cursed the limited planning time he had been