by Jamie Smith
Klitchkov and the agents left the room and walked down the corridor, Nikita following behind. As they marched purposefully towards the front door of the apartment and out of the door, he dropped back. Making to follow, he stepped back into the apartment and with a huge exhale released a stifled sob as he collapsed onto the decrepit old sofa which groaned under him. He crossed his arms around him at the horror he had just committed, the blood he had spilled in just the room next door. Fighting to keep the tears back in his eyes, he dug his fingernails into the flesh of his arm, drawing blood.
Droplets of blood trickled down his forearm and onto the sofa as he clenched his jaw, to force away the feelings he knew he must not have.
“We do what we must, and we must continue,” he whispered to himself. Pulling himself towards the door, he punched the doorframe and yanked it open, driven by the purpose to which he had committed. As he stepped out, he turned and saw Klitchkov leaning against the metal railing, looking out across the concrete estate.
“Out of your system?” he asked without looking at Nikita.
When Nikita said nothing, Klitchkov turned and faced him, leaning backwards on his elbows against the metal handrail. His face was unreadable. He looked into Nikita’s eyes.
Suddenly he leapt forward, pushing Nikita back against the wall, his hand around his throat. He was grinning, the same crazed look in his eyes that Nikita had seen before.
Spitting the words out, he said, “Did. You. Get. It. Out. Of. Your. System? Your disgusting display of weakness?”
“Yes, sir,” Nikita gasped, his eyes full of hatred.
“If it happens again, I will kill you myself,” Klitchkov said, releasing Nikita. Then, sneering, he added, “Comrade.”
CHAPTER 6
Warm wind whipped at his face as he disembarked the Czechoslovak State Airlines flight at José Martí Airport, Havana in the way wind seems to at airports the world over. The climate in the Republic of Cuba was hot and humid, and after growing up in the Soviet Union, Nikita was unfamiliar with the heat in which he found himself, and the contrast to the USSR was not lost on him.
As he made his way down the metal steps, he stretched his legs and arms, working a kink out of the bunched muscles in his left shoulder. It had been a long flight, in which he had first been sent to Helsinki in a military plane from Moscow, then travelled overland by train to Prague before the final journey across the Atlantic — all to evade the keen eyes of those scrupulously watching anyone brave enough to step from behind the iron curtain, especially those that did so to head to Russia’s communist cousin. It had given him too much time to think about what he had done, what he knew he now was, and dark circles shadowed his eyes.
The large plastic red letters ‘Jose Marti — La Habana’ were looking out from the oddly winged concrete structure that made up Cuba’s international airport, hazy in the beating sun. He breathed in deeply. The air was warm and dusty and filled him with a surge of excitement at the journey ahead. “Perhaps my training brainwashed me more than I thought,” Nikita muttered to himself, grimly reminding him of what it was he would have to do.
***
As he stepped out of the front doors of the airport, a black Lada with darkened windows pulled up, its brakes screeching horribly, drawing the stares of everyone nearby.
The USSR had reliability and brutality in large doses, but subtlety was not an area in which it flourished.
The sweating red-faced driver rolled down the passenger window. His blond hair showed beneath his wide brimmed black hat, and wire rimmed sunglasses covered his eyes. “Allochka?”
Nikita gave no response but narrowed his eyes. He opened the passenger door and got in, but couldn’t help smiling bitterly. The elaborate and gruelling journey to get to Cuba for the sake of a subterfuge which had been immediately dispelled by the driver’s blunt approach.
As soon as the door closed, the wheels screamed once more as the driver ground the stick into gear and pulled away.
Rather than give the driver, who had left the windows rolled down, the opportunity to give away any more of his identity to a casual passer-by, Nikita elected to hold his tongue until they arrived at the embassy. The drive took about forty-five minutes, and he marvelled at the relative emptiness of the roads compared to the relentlessly busy Moscow he had journeyed from.
As they entered the Miramar district of the city, he could immediately see the Soviet embassy rising above the surrounding buildings, for all the world looking like a giant concrete syringe. He cringed as he recalled reading in the news the cost to the Russian taxpayer that the building, which had taken nine years to construct, had totalled. As they made their way through the brightly coloured but shabby streets, filled with smiling faces and loud music, he couldn’t help but feel the building was lording a wealth and authority over a people who simply didn’t care. Looking around, he saw smiling black people, Latin American people, white people all mixing, laughing and smiling and he realised that for the first time in his life, he was not the minority.
***
As Nikita was shown into the ambassador’s office, he was confronted with two men in dark suits, standing talking in front of a large desk. As he closed the door behind him, they halted their conversation mid-sentence and looked up. One of the men was unremarkable-looking, with a weak chin, heavily veined nose and thinning hair, but a warm, genuine smile and bags under his eyes. The other immediately looked dangerous to Nikita. Lean, yet solid-looking, he appeared totally in shape. His handsome high, cheek-boned face was framed by short blond hair and split by an angry scar running from the outer corner of his pale right eye and going across to his ear.
Saluting, Nikita stated, “Ambassador Yitski, I am Special Agent Nikita Allochka reporting for duty.”
The man with the veined nose smiled and moved forward. “At ease, agent.” He held out his hand. “Do come in; it is a pleasure to finally meet you.”
“Sir?”
“You are already a legend in the KGB; nobody believes that there is really a black Soviet agent!”
“Perhaps that is a good thing, sir; I just want to do the job that is required of me.”
“Of course, of course. Please do sit down.” He gestured to one of the seats in front of his desk. “And where are my manners! Agent Allochka, this is Agent Brishnov, one of our finest.”
“An honour to meet you, comrade,” said Nikita, extending his hand.
Brishnov looked disdainfully at Nikita’s dark hand, and with clear reluctance extended his own, with a forced smile. “Good of you to join us out here,” Brishnov said, almost mockingly, as his cold, clammy hand shook Nikita’s hand weakly, as if afraid to properly touch him.
“Do sit down, both of you,” said Yitski, pulling a bottle of vodka from his heavy wooden desk drawer, along with three glasses. Out of the corner of his eye, Nikita could see Brishnov wiping his hand on the back of his trousers.
“Ah, none for me sir, but thank you,” said Allochka.
“A Russian who doesn’t drink vodka? You won’t drink with us, comrade?” said Brishnov, outwardly sneering.
“Come, Allochka! You will need something to settle your nerves for what lies ahead,” added Ambassador Yitski.
“Forgive me, but I think I will need my wits to be as sharp as possible for what lies ahead. I mean no offence.”
“Nonsense, my boy, vodka is good for the heart, wits and whatever else you need it for! But I shall not force you.” Filling two glasses, Yitski pushed one to Brishnov, raised his own and said, “To the Black Russian!”
“Rodina,” responded Brishnov. The homeland.
Coughing a little as he slammed the glass back on the table, the ambassador wiped his red nose and withdrew a document from his desk. Suddenly his demeanour took on a nervous edge and he looked quickly at the door to check that it was closed.
The document had a photo on the front, and the hairs on the back of Nikita’s neck began to tingle.
“And so, to business Allochka. Here
is your assignment. One of our agents, Josef Zurga, has crossed. He had high level clearance and the information he has could prove catastrophic if it falls into the wrong hands. We do not believe he has told them everything yet; he is trying to play both sides and needs to be terminated immediately. He was seen recently in New York when he had no business being there. He had travelled there using a false passport, but by chance we had an agent at the airport who recognised him.”
“How do you know he has crossed, sir?”
Bristling, Brishnov said, “You do not need to know.”
“Ignore Taras, he has been doing this for too long and has forgotten how to talk pleasantly,” said Yitski.
“There is nothing pleasant about what we do. Let me take out Zurga, why have this n—”
“Enough, Agent Brishnov!” snapped the ambassador. “It is not for you to decide who carries out what mission. You follow orders, agent, and you would do well to remember that.”
Nikita was staring coldly at Brishnov. “Any special requirements?” he asked the ambassador, without taking his eyes off his fellow agent.
Before Yitksi had a chance to reply, Brishnov spoke. “Make it messy. This svoloch has betrayed Mother Russia; we need to send a message to anyone else who might think about betraying my country.”
“Calm down, comrades,” said ambassador Yitksi. “But Agent Brishnov is right; we need to send a message, also to the Americans.”
Nikita looked into the eyes of Ambassador Yitski. “It will be done.”
Brishnov rose and walked quickly from the office. Nikita followed behind, and as he stepped over the threshold into the secretary’s office, Brishnov whispered into his ear, “I will be watching you. Slaves cannot be trusted.”
With the eyes of the secretary on them both, Nikita clenched his fists and fought the urge to respond, instead smiling passively at the secretary as he received his documents for the mission ahead. When he turned to look behind him, Brishnov was gone.
“Agent Allochka, are you listening?” the business-like secretary demanded, noticing him looking at the doorway. The elderly lady peered at him over her half-moon spectacles, her face looking all the more severe for her hair which was fiercely pulled back into a bun.
“Ah yes, of course, Mrs Shapova.”
Her eyes softened slightly. “You are not the first new agent to come through here you know, all puffed up with their own belief in how invincible they are. So often it is the last time I ever see them; do not be one of them. Stay vigilant, young man.”
Nikita was stunned; Mrs Shapova was the first Russian to ever show even the slightest interest in his wellbeing.
Losing his cool demeanour for a moment, he stuttered, “Ah, oh, OK, yes, I shall hope that this isn’t the last time you see me, ma’am.”
She smiled benignly, handing him his documentation. “Your flight to Athens—”
“Athens? I thought I was going New York.”
“Our sources tell us that your target is currently on the Greek island of Skyros. Your flight leav—”
“I do not speak Greek; I have learned an American accent.”
“You had better learn fast then, comrade,” said Ambassador Yitski from the door.
Mrs Shapova handed him a Greek-Russian phrasebook.
“A phrasebook?” he exclaimed disbelievingly.
“We all have to start somewhere, dear,” she responded. “Your flight leaves in two hours.”
Yitski chuckled from the door, “You do not want to start disagreeing with Mrs Shapova here. Think of it as a working holiday! Good luck, agent, we are relying on you.”
CHAPTER 7
Nikita sat on the balcony of his room at the San Marco Hotel in Houlakia Bay on the North West coast of Skyros. The tiny island, only eighty-one square miles in size, sat at the foot of the Sporades Archipelago, lost somewhere between Greece and Turkey, somewhere between the east and the west. He allowed himself a moment to absorb the view before him of whitewashed walls overlooking the deep blue Aegean Sea, with islands dotted on the horizon and a warm breeze gently playing across his face. He had never seen anywhere so beautiful.
I’m a long way from Kamenka, he thought to himself, sipping a glass of cold water. He bit into his chicken souvlaki and spread the contents of the envelope Mrs Shapova had provided across the table in front of him.
The face of Josef Zurga looked up at him. He had an ill-favoured look, although Nikita suspected it had been doctored to look that way. He was grateful; he needed to dislike the man. Zurga was almost snarling at the camera, his balding, coarse black hair giving way to the oily-looking face of one who has been corrupted by politics.
“So this is what a double agent looks like…” he muttered to himself.
He cast his eyes across Zurga’s vital statistics, and saw nothing to strike fear into him in the forty-year-old man standing at only five feet ten inches. But he knew that what Zurga lacked in brawn, he made up for in brains, which is how he had managed to stay alive this long.
More intimidating would be getting into the fortress where he was staying, atop a hill overlooking the old port of the island. A sniper shot from across the valley would be ideal, but would not be nearly messy enough for the men at head office, and more significantly for Brishnov, who, Nikita suspected, might be a problem he would have to deal with at some point. In a strange way Nikita could see why Zurga would have been drawn to hiding away on this tiny, barely inhabited island. With its history in the Greek civil war, which pitched communists against the US-backed capitalist government, and its location between Europe and Asia, Zurga had found a place that reflected his own politics — caught in two minds.
Gazing out across the pink oleanders to the green-blue sea, a plan began to take shape in his mind. As he began ruminating on it, he suddenly heard the slightest sound coming from inside the apartment, like the slow exhalation of one trained in being silent. Fighting the instinct to tense up, Nikita channelled the calm from his years of training, and looked casually around for what was at his immediate disposal.
On the balcony with him was just a table, chair, and collection of papers and photographs. He propped up one of the photographs, and with the slant of the light was able to see the blurry outline of the apartment behind 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 read
iness 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.”