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

Looking up at Nikita with the shiv in his hand, Yerin began to sob — racking sobs that took hold of his entire body — and he curled up against the wall.

Nikita walked some way up the corridor to where he had seen an old faucet and bucket by the wall. The guard still lay crumpled and unconscious. Nikita hauled him back into the chair and propped him up. Best to cover tracks where possible.

Filling the bucket from the creaky tap, he walked back and tossed it over the balled up Yerin, who wailed before sitting bolt upright. Nikita passed him the bucket to drink what was left inside.

Gulping heavily, he drank too much and immediately vomited on the stone floor, before drinking some more.

He wiped his mouth and looked up at Nikita in wonder. “Spasibo,” he said simply. Thank you. He looked down at the floor, and Nikita could see shame. When Yerin looked up, there were tears in his eyes. “I fear I have done you great harm.”

“You barely grazed me,” replied Nikita gently, pitying Yerin more and more.

“I am, I think, ready to die,” the old man said.

“Not until you tell me all you know of Pamyat’s plans.”

“At the moment, agent, their main plan… is you.”

CHAPTER 26

“What… what do you mean?” Nikita asked sharply.

Yerin sighed. “I lived my life in the service of the Soviet Republic, blindly dedicated to a succession of power-hungry men. I think perhaps I became one of them myself. The country is on its knees; it is only a matter of time before the vultures descend and pick our empire apart piece by piece. Together with Brishnov we sought to unite with Pamyat to take our country back. But from who? From you and your kind? From the Jews? I think now, at the end of it all, the people who it needed taking back from were those very same that had been claiming it was lost. Namely me.”

“That is very good, but what do you mean that Pamyat’s plan is me?”

“Of course, yes. Some hours ago, I was visited by your good friend Agent Brishnov—”

“Impossible,” said Nikita. “Brishnov is dead; I killed him myself. Spout another lie, and I will plant a bullet in your brain.”

“Come now, Allochka. We both know you have been sent here to kill me. With some patience I may yet be able to save you. I do not know what happened between you, but I can assure you that Taras Brishnov is very much alive. Perhaps now the last of his sanity has deserted him, however.”

 “Impossible,” whispered Nikita, but a dreadful coldness crept across his heart. It was what he had feared, with no evidence of his body ever found.

“But that fall… no one could have survived it,” he said to himself.

“If there is one thing, I can tell you about Brishnov, it is that you should always expect the impossible. Normal laws do not seem to apply to the man.”

Nikita was replaying the moment atop the crane in his head; the drop must have been eighty feet, while dealing with a gunshot wound through a bicep. The odds of survival were… small. Tiny in fact.

“I was angry. So angry. Perhaps my judgement was clouded.” Nikita accepted it dubiously, not able to shake the image of Brishnov falling from such a height. He shook his head. “Why was he here?” he demanded.

“At first, I had believed, or perhaps just blindly hoped, that he was here to rescue me. What a foolish old man I am. But of course, once he got the information he required, he no longer had need for a man who has lost all of his influence.”

“What was the information? Must I drag everything out of you?”

“Patience, agent, patience,” Yerin said, holding up his dripping wet hand. The decrepit old man had begun to shake. Nikita pulled his parachute from the bag and wrapped it around him. Yerin smiled benignly in return. “Kindness can be as disarming as violence, I see now. Perhaps it should be added to the KGB syllabus,” he said with a rasping chuckle. Seeing Nikita’s angry face, the chuckle died. “Yes, yes, OK. I can see I can avoid this no longer.” He looked forlornly at Nikita. “He wanted to know the location of your family.”

Nikita’s eyes were wide with fright. “And what did you tell him?”

Yerin looked sadly up at him. Quick as a flash, Nikita spun, and with the shiv in hand sliced Yerin’s throat deeply. His body trembled as he stared in horror at the once great leader of the KGB.

The old man began to choke, but instead of trying to stem the bleeding, he spat and gurgled the words that were only faintly discernible. “I am sorry.”

“This is an act of mercy you do not deserve, Yerin,” Nikita said, and plunged the shiv into the old man’s heart, leaving it planted in his chest. Without a glance back at him he was already running faster than he ever had back up the corridor, fear and fury gripping every fibre of his being.

He ran through the common area, willing guards to attempt to stop him, daring them to stand in his way. But whether by luck or design he was able to get through to the kitchen without being seen. The air was thick with smoke and he could hear voices but didn’t ee anybody. The flames seemed to have extended beyond the stove to a doorway next to it and guards were working to get them under control with extinguishers. Hardly believing his luck, Nikita slipped like a shadow through the haze and clambered up the chimney swiftly, covering it in giant thrusts, driven by an overpowering adrenaline. When he looked back, Nikita would never be able to