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

protect her. But, like any deal, we can only give you all of this in return for something. You will not see your family, perhaps for years.”

Sophie began to sob into Gabriel’s shoulder, who himself was muttering something about ‘madness’.

“Mother, please. I will do what I must for our family; you know that it makes sense for us,” Nikita said with forced calmness.

The silence was broken as Klitchkov clapped his hands. “Excellent! I shall give you five minutes to pack your things and say your goodbyes. Your boy will return to you a man, Mrs Allochka.” He rose smoothly, and with a nod to Nikita, walked out of the hovel and lit a Belomorkanal cigarette.

The two bodyguards stood waiting, looking tense. “At ease, gentlemen,” Klitchkov ordered. “There will be no trouble here.”

“What a beautiful day,” he then said to no one in particular as he gazed off across the grey landscape and exhaled a cloud of smoke through pursed lips, a smirk curling one corner of his mouth.

Minutes later, Nikita walked out of the shack, pulling the door closed, muffling the sound of his mother’s anguished cries.

He walked forwards without looking back and joined Colonel Klitchkov with a look of quiet anger and determination on his face.

“What is the organisation I am joining, Colonel?” he asked.

Klitchkov smiled. “Why, the KGB of course.”

CHAPTER 2

GENERAL SECRETARY MISHO PETRENKO’S OFFICE, THE KREMLIN, 1986.

General Secretary Petrenko was known for his humour, but today he was in a foul mood. Sitting at his ornate wooden desk, alone in his office, he pored over a report. It was titled ‘The Budapest Problem’.

“It certainly is a problem,” he muttered to himself. “They are all a problem.” He balled the report and then threw it at the bin, missing horribly, and the ball landed amidst the others he had already angrily tossed.

He rubbed his temples and closed his eyes. He felt tired. Beyond tired.

The speaker on his desk buzzed. He smoothed the hair around his bald pate and sighed heavily before bracing himself. He pressed the button on the intercom.

“Da?”

The tinny sound of his receptionist’s voice crackled through. “General secretary, Comrade Yerin, the chairman of the KGB, is here to see you.”

“Yes, I know who Yerin is, thank you, Anna!” he snapped. “Let him in.”

Outside, Anna raised her eyebrows, giving the granite-faced visitor, all the information he needed on the general secretary’s current mood.

The door to the office opened and Viktor Yerin strode in purposefully, without hesitation, brushing snow from his heavy coat. He had thick wire-rimmed glasses and a tightly drawn, humourless face with squashed cheeks. Heaving his bulk out of his chair, Petrenko walked round to the front of his desk, extending his hand.

“Viktor! Thank you for coming. You are well?”

Taking the general secretary’s hand, Yerin, who towered over the rotund figure in front of him, said, “Surviving general secretary, surviving.”

“That is no mean feat in these dark times, Viktor,” the general secretary responded, signalling to a seat as he walked back behind his desk where he sat, opened a drawer and pulled out a bottle of vodka. Yerin observed that it was a fluid motion, and one with which the general secretary was clearly familiar. Opening another drawer, he extracted two glasses and filled them both, pushing one to Viktor.

“Indeed, sir,” Viktor responded.

The general secretary raised his glass and they both threw back the clear liquid with practiced ease, neither gasping at the burning alcohol.

“You are always so formal, Viktor! But then I suppose that is to be expected from a man of your position.”

“With respect, sir, it is not a position I ever asked for.”

“Ah yes, but a masterstroke of my predecessor Brezhnev’s to put you in the position nonetheless. About the only masterstroke he ever had actually. Thanks to you, the CIA operatives infiltrating our country are being well weeded out. But now I think it is time for the hunted to become the hunter. I need a man in America.”

“We already have many men in America, sir; this is how we have taken care of the CIA operatives on Soviet soil.”

“But we need something more; I feel that we are getting only scraps,” said Petrenko, then looked pointedly at the KGB head. “Unless of course you are keeping things from me, Viktor? Are you still Brezhnev’s man?”

Viktor looked coldly at the general secretary, visibly bristling at the accusation. “I have never withheld information from you. I serve the Soviet Union dutifully and faithfully, as I always have done.”

“Calm down, Viktor, I meant no offence” said the general secretary, holding a weary hand up. “As you are well aware, there is growing discontent throughout our great nation. The economy is dying; the Baltic satellite nations are pulling ever away; I have been forced to withdraw from the arms race with the US as our nation grows weaker by the day. And to make things worse, there are these goddam neo-Nazis running around Moscow, flaunting their swastika tattoos and killing anyone with the slightest tan. The iron curtain is a little rusty at present! My own are turning against me. I have to be careful in whom I put my trust. As Winston Churchill once said, ‘Behind me are my enemies, opposite me is my opposition’.”

“Then, sir, how can I prove my loyalty… again?” Yerin asked, his face unreadable.

Leaning back in his chair, the general secretary looked Viktor directly in the eye.

“I need a man in the US.” He held up his hand. “I know, I know, you have your man who gave us the American spies. But now I need someone to help us go on the offensive on American soil, not on our own. Not some low-level CIA mole. I need a man of action, a man to get me the information I need. A man