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

a black Russian,” Nikita replied blandly. “I am under no illusions that I am where I am only because I am useful to you, nothing more than that.”

Klitchkov’s eyes widened and he smiled brightly. “Au contraire, my boy, au contraire! I think you magnificent, and after all these years watching you grow, I hope you will forgive my admitting a certain fondness for you.”

He leant back in his seat, surveying Nikita. “Win us this war, Allochka, and the Black Russian might mean more to the Soviet Union than just a vodka cocktail.”

Nikita looked at Klitchkov with the detached eyes he had been trained to have. The words were of a politician, one trying to manoeuvre his way into the trust of an asset. But the warmth of the words was not matched by those eyes, which retained a slightly maddened twist in their pale blue depths. The scars on his body were a reminder of the cruelty of the man. He knew there would be a time when his usefulness to Klitchkov would run out, and he would need to be prepared.

Nodding, Nikita replied, “Perhaps. But what is it I’m here for, Colonel? I am fully operational and ready to do my time in the field.”

“You do seem ready, but you are not quite fully operational.”

“Colonel?”

“There is one more test to pass before we send you to America. Your red test.”

“I thought…”

“You thought yourself too special? Above ordinary KGB agents?” The colonel’s tone had quickly changed, and his face was cold. “You are little older than a child and already you overestimate yourself. You have not yet done a thing.”

“I am eager to serve…” The atmosphere was suddenly tense, and Nikita felt alert. Something didn’t feel right and his finely honed senses tingled. He felt a single bead of sweat snake its way from the pit of his arm and down his side.

“You serve only your sentence for the rehoming of your family. You forget them now!” barked Klitchkov, leaning forward. “You serve me. You serve Mother Russia.”

Rising, Nikita put his hand on his heart and recited, “I, a citizen of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, joining the ranks of the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti, do hereby take the oath of allegiance and do solemnly vow to be an honest, brave, disciplined and vigilant fighter, to guard strictly all military and state secrets, to obey implicitly all KGB regulations and orders of my commanders, commissars and superiors.

“I vow to study the duties of a soldier conscientiously, to safeguard army and national property in every way possible and to be true to my people, my Soviet motherland, and the Workers’ and Peasants’ Government to my last breath.

“I am always prepared at the order of the Workers’ and Peasants’ Government to come to the defense of my motherland — Russian Union of Socialist Republics — and, as an agent of the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti, I vow to defend her courageously, skilfully, creditably and honourably, without sparing my blood and my very life to achieve complete victory over the enemy.

“And if through evil intent I break this solemn oath, then let the stern punishment of the Soviet law, and the universal hatred and contempt of the working people, fall upon me.”

“Well recited, boy. Prove you mean it; show what we do to enemies of the state and become a man.” Klitchkov pulled from his heavy overcoat a revolver, silencer and spare magazine, and passed them to Nikita. He pointed to a closed door on the far side of the room, before lighting a cigarette and sitting down. “Double taps. To the head,” he added, as he unfolded an old newspaper and then began to flick through it.

Of course. The KGB trained to always take two shots or more, always to the head where possible. To leave no doubt.

Nikita took the gun, flicked off the safety catch as he had been trained to do, and moved swiftly towards the door, his nerves tingling. He had known this day must come, but had hoped it never would.

He opened the door onto a dark corridor, and after quickly checking the magazine was full, held the gun ahead of him as he screwed the silencer into place. He could hear his heart hammering in his chest and worked to keep his breathing calm. He could almost feel the burning adrenaline coursing through his veins, but his hand stayed steady. His training had taught him to be the best and to feel no fear.

The door closed behind him, leaving him in pitch darkness, and he could see nothing. He felt a light switch on the wall but chose to ignore it, preferring to run on sound and touch than to announce his approach to whatever lay ahead. He began to move slowly forwards, keeping both his ears and the gun cocked. He trusted his instincts.

The air was dusty and tasted of the past, and swirled around him as he moved along the corridor. He could see the outline of a door ahead with a dim glow emanating from the cracks around it. Approaching it, he flattened himself against the wall and listened carefully. He could hear whimpering and heavy breathing, but no loud noises. He didn’t like it — he was going in blind to a situation that was probably ready for him and the odds were not stacked in his favour.

But he was KGB. Pushing the door open, he immediately absorbed all the information that the room threw at him, and knew he was in no immediate danger, but didn’t relax.

Entering from the back left side of the room, directly ahead of him was a man in military uniform who had a gun pointed at him. To his left, against the far-left wall were four figures on their knees, with old potato sacks over their heads. The room was dimly lit from a failing