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

him. He rocked slightly on his chair, noticing that the front right leg was slightly loose. Keeping his eyes fixed on the photograph for any sign of movement, his right hand reached down and began to swiftly, but silently, unscrew the rusty old bolt holding the leg in place. He fought to keep his posture relaxed, but through straining his ears heard the feather-soft footsteps of an intruder inside. Quickening his unscrewing, he began to work out a plan, but froze as he saw the reflection of what he was certain was the cold metal barrel of a handgun.

As the gun moved closer, he could see that it was extended due to a silencer being screwed on. A silencer meant someone who was here to do only one thing.

He heard the whisper of a faintly quickened breath as the feather-light steps moved towards him, and as the hammer was pulled back, he pushed off with his right foot, launching himself at the intruder, chair leg in hand, the balcony furniture crashing around him. The face was barely visible in the shadows, but the gun was all too clear, and he swung the leg up, knocking it to the side. He vaguely noticed that the trespasser had not attempted to pull the trigger before he fell on him.

His victim was older than he would have guessed, perhaps mid-fifties, which explained the slightly heavier footsteps than those of a younger assassin, but he was agile. He somersaulted backwards as Nikita rolled forwards, jabbing the chair leg in a move towards the throat that would have been fatal had the intruder not leapt out of the way with a movement that defied his years.

“Enough!” shouted the man, dressed in black and sporting a grey, almost white, beard, as he raised a hand and rose to his feet.

Nikita stood up, light on his feet, assessing the situation. Something didn’t feel right. The man was also standing, but his pose was not one of readiness for combat. He was dabbing at his lip, which had been split when he and Nikita had collided.

“Who are you? Who sent you?” Nikita demanded, not relinquishing his hold on his makeshift weapon. He was aware that the gun lay on the floor between them, and began to move slowly and subtly towards it.

The man cocked his head, squinting slightly as the sun shone through the balcony doors into his eyes. “I am your contact, Agent Allochka. I am Sabirow Kemran, the Soviets’ man here in Greece. They told me you were the best the academy had ever seen, but I wanted to make sure for myself. I can see now that the rumours were not exaggerated.”

Nikita recognised the Turkmeni name, and saw now that his assailant had the darkened skin and delicately slanted eyes of someone from Turkmenistan in the south of the USSR. They had one of the loudest voices calling for devolution, and were looked down on by many Russians — a feeling Nikita could identify with.

“A Turkmen working with the KGB? You will need a stronger argument than that to stop me eliminating you.”

“This is what I like about you KGB agents, you are so warm and friendly,” Kemran said. “Even Turkmen can have their uses to our delightful nation, something I would have thought you might be able to empathise with, Allochka. Plus, my skin colour enables me to pass for Greek when I need to.”

“Can you tell me where the market is?” Nikita recited the code phrase, with great suspicion.

“The market is closed, but never in Moscow,” replied Kemran calmly.

Nikita slowly lowered the chair leg. “OK, I will listen to what you have to say, but I don’t trust you. Contacts do not usually break in and point loaded guns at agents. One twitch and I will kill you.”

“Not so much as a cough, comrade! Come, let us sit; I have important information for your mission.” Kemran glanced at the open balcony doors. “It is of course not for me to tell an agent how to do his job, but you might want to close the doors from eavesdroppers, agent.”

Nikita strode over and closed the doors, picking up the gun from the floor as he did. It felt light, and he checked the barrel, noticing that there were no bullets in the chamber. He looked up and Kemran was holding a box of ammunition.

“Beginning to trust me yet, Allochka?”

“I trust nobody. What is the information you have for me?”

“Zurga, as you know, is here on this island. His home is almost visible from this room, atop the hill to the north of here. He may be stupid to oppose the USSR, but he is no fool and it is heavily secured. He knows that he is not safe, that the wealth he now has from selling secrets makes him a target. Rather than try to hide, he has been quite overt with his fortune since coming here a few weeks ago.”

“Sounds like a fool to me,” mused Nikita. “Why would he believe himself infallible? Surely he must know that we would come for him once he revealed his treachery?”

“He believes himself to be under the protection of the US. But he is really of very little use to them at this point; he has most likely given them everything he knows by now but that is enough to do significant damage. I understand it is important that you break into the fortress,” Kemran said with artful avoidance. “The US have at least provided him with security guards. They work in shifts of five hours, and all are armed. The perimeter of the land is marked by barbed wire,” he handed Nikita some wire cutters, “and trenches which I cannot help you with. There will be dogs, and again you will have to circumnavigate them through your own ingenuity. I cannot tell you how to