The Soviet Comeback

by Jamie Smith

  It was only after he had checked all of the remaining rooms that he was able to release a long breath.

  On the living room table was a thick envelope, and next to it were two bottles — one of vodka, the other of Kahlua: the ingredients for a Black Russian. Kemran’s joke was not lost on Nikita, but he did not smile. Next to the bottles was a note: Everyone needs an escape —Russians drink. SK.

  Nikita felt a tightness in his chest, like a clock that had been wound too tight. His hands shook from the adrenaline still coursing through his veins. He felt elated, horrified, powerful and disgusting.

  If I am a Russian then I must escape like one, he thought to himself, and grabbed the vodka by the neck, ignoring the Kahlua. He unscrewed the cap, took a swig straight from the bottle and felt the burn as the alcohol hit the back of his throat. He gasped, and then felt the heat as it moved into his stomach, working into his bloodstream. He needed to feel warm.

  He took the bottle with him and headed to the bathroom to wash the blood from his skin. He left the clothes on the floor of the shower, letting the blood and dirt seep out of them, creating a dark brown pool trickling down the drain like something from a horror movie. He scrubbed at himself, periodically picking up the vodka to swig from it. Numbly noticing a wound on his calf, he poured vodka on it, almost to feel something. Even the sting felt subdued.

  He closed his eyes and allowed himself to feel the darkness, and encouraged the steaming water to wash away his sins.

  ***

  The thudding on his door entered his dream before it roused him. His head felt heavy, his mouth thick and dry.

  Nikita forced himself up off the bed where he had collapsed the night before. The towel he had wrapped around his waist had long since fallen off, leaving him naked and shivering slightly.

  The banging on the door was louder now.

  As he stood up, he swayed on his feet. The half-drunk bottle of vodka was lying on the floor next to his bed. He looked at it and retched.

  The banging on the door got louder and he quickly grabbed the towel, wrapped it around his waist, and staggered his way through, finding his coordination to be unfamiliarly poor.

  Nikita grabbed his handgun off the table as he passed, and approached the door cautiously, albeit slightly heavier-footed than normal.

  A glance through the spyhole quickly woke him up. Elysia was standing there, her tear-streaked face clearly visible. She was in a battered blue pinafore, stained and plain. Somehow, she looked even more lovely for it.

  He quickly looked around the room, taking in the array of weaponry scattered haphazardly. If Denisov could see him now, he would be kicked out of the KGB without a second chance.

  Darting around the room, he called out. “Who is it?”

  “It’s Elysia, please let me in,” she pleaded, sounding distressed.

  Immediately he felt a heaviness in his heart, and he glanced at the vodka bottle.

  “One minute,” he replied, “I’ll be right there.”

  He gathered all of the remaining equipment he had returned with the night before and stuffed it into his khaki sack, before dashing into the bedroom and throwing it into a wardrobe, before heading into the bathroom, balling up his bloody clothes and wrapping them in a plastic bag. Nikita returned to the bedroom and put the bag into the wardrobe on top of the khaki bag before slamming it shut and returning to the front door. He glanced again over his shoulder. The room was a mess, but it wouldn’t give him away.

  Opening the door, Elysia fell through it and threw herself into his arms. “Oh, Nathan!”

  Catching her, he pulled her up into his arms. “Elysia! What’s up?” he said, seamlessly switching back into character as Nathan Martins. She clutched at his arms and buried her face in his chest, sobbing.

  He held her close to him, sensing the perfume of her dark hair in his nostrils as she shook from the sobs wracking through her. His mind felt heavy and sluggish. There was something else too, an unfamiliar feeling.

  He pried her away from him and led her into the apartment, closing the door behind her after quickly glancing around the deserted pathways surrounding his building.

  He took her hand and led her over to the sofa, and then strode to the kitchen and got her a glass of water.

  She took it from his hands and put it straight down on the table before looking up at him as he lowered himself onto the couch beside her.

  “Giorgos is dead, Nathan.”

  “What?” he replied sharply, looking completely dumbfounded.

  “My uncle, Giorgos, who you met at the bar yesterday, he is dead,” she said, struggling to control the wobbling in her voice.

  “I’m so sorry, Elysia; he looked so well and full of life yesterday. What happened?”

  “He… he didn’t die from sickness,” Elysia said. “He was in a car crash.”

  “A car crash?” Nikita exclaimed, genuinely surprised this time.

  “Yes, that useless truck of his finally betrayed him. They think the brakes failed and took him over the edge of the mountain road inland from Houlakia. They won’t even let us see the body because it is so ruined.”

  Kemran is earning his money, thought Nikita.

  “Oh man, that’s a damned waste of a life. I know I hardly knew him, but he seemed a good man.”

  “He was a fool,” said Elysia, anger flashing in her dark eyes. Then as the anger quickly seemed to deflate from her, she added, “But a fool with a good heart.”

  Nikita smiled warmly at her, finding it harder and harder to deny that feeling growing in his breast. “Can I fix you a drink? Tea?”

  “Perhaps something stronger?” She said, nodding towards the vodka and Kahlua.

  “Of course. I’ve recently been introduced to Black Russians…”

  “That sounds good.”

  Carrying two of the cocktails over to the sofa, he looked into her puffy eyes and raised a glass. “Stin igià Giorgos”.

  She touched her glass to his. “To Giorgos.”

  More tears snaked their way down her cheek and she tried to sip the drink. “I can barely believe he is gone. So many times, we told him to get a new truck, but he loved that thing nearly as much as the wine he carried around. Pappoús is inconsolable.”

  “Something like this… must be hard to accept. For everyone,” he said, grabbing and squeezing one of her hands as her eyes filled again with tears.

  Feeling instantly awkward, he made to move his hand away, but then she clutched it.

  “It makes me realise that maybe Giorgos was right all these years. The moment to be lived in is the present one. He would always recite this Groucho Marx quote to me: ‘I, not events, have the power to make me happy or unhappy today. I can choose which it shall be. Yesterday is dead, tomorrow hasn’t arrived yet. I have just one day, today, and I’m going to be happy in it’. He made me memorise it when I was small, because he said too many people now, even on this island, get caught up worrying.”

  “He’s a wise man. He didn’t strike me as a worrier.”

  “He wasn’t. At least the last time I saw him, he was happy.”

  The image of the bullet-riddled truck flashed through Nikita’s mind.

  Elysia held his hand and looked into his eyes. “Giorgos would want me to find joy in everything,” she said and kissed him fully on the lips. She smelt warm, like old summers.

  Nikita pulled away, and saw her eyes fill with pain and confusion. Those eyes, liquid brown like those of a doe. A strand of her dark hair fell across her face, and he couldn’t help but push it back behind her ear, eager to keep drinking in her beautiful, sorrow-filled face. He leant forward and kissed Elysia deeply, allowing himself to give in to another kind of escape.

  ***

  He woke suddenly feeling a warm hand on his bare shoulder. “Nathan… kalimera ómorfe.”

  He jerked upwards quickly, disorientated. Elysia was there sitting on the bed, looking over at him, her hair falling across her face.

  “It’s OK, ómor
fos,” she smiled at him. He could smell coffee, and noticed a cup on the bed stand beside her.

  “Ómorfos?” he asked.

  She laughed, a tinkling sound full of joy in sharp contrast to the deep sadness she had shown earlier that morning. “Your Greek needs some practice. It means handsome, or beautiful man.”

  “Then it’s you that is the ómorfos one,” he said, looking up at her, causing her to roll her eyes. He wrapped her in his arms and pulled her down onto the bed. She felt light in his muscular arms but he kissed her only gently.

  She laughed again, but stopped when she saw his pained expression. His insides raged with a cyclone of emotions. “What is it? What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “It’s you I’m worried for. We shouldn’t have done what we did; you’re grieving.”

  “We did what we did because I wanted to, and I don’t regret it.”

  “I just… don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Then don’t,” she replied, pulling away slightly to better look at him.

  He steeled his heart, and reminded himself that Nathan was a character he was playing, not the person he was.

  “OK then.” he smiled at her and kissed her again.

  “Good. Now, I have to go; my family need me and will be worried about where I am,” she said to him.

  He nodded at her and watched as she gathered her things and arranged her mussed-up hair. He was entranced by her, and hated himself for letting it happen so easily. He felt dirty and corrupted by the vast amounts of blood already on his hands. But every time he felt himself indulging in these feelings, his training would kick in and force him to suppress it, leaving him with an internal see-saw of emotion to no emotion and back again.

  He walked her to the door, which she pulled open, her eyes filling with tears again as the real world flooded in with the sunlight.

  “Thank you for this morning,” she said, and pecked him on the cheek before turning and walking purposefully away.

  ***

  LENINGRAD, 1985

  “You want to cry, Allochka?” Major Koryan leered, his face inches from the pitiful specimen in front of him. His skeletal face looked like the skin had been pulled back, leaving it pale and translucent. His brown eyes held no warmth, only disdain at the trembling boy before him. “This is the best you have, Maxim?” he said, turning from his crouched position to look at the impassive face of Denisov behind him. “You must be losing your touch.”

  “Mastering emotion is the biggest remaining obstacle,” replied the steady voice of Denisov, everything about him a masterclass in controlled emotion. “That and a discomfort with heights which will be conquered eventually.”

  “Is that right,” muttered Koryan, crouching back down in front of Nikita. “Your weakness disgusts me,” he whispered into his ear.

  It happened in a flash. Nikita’s teeth latched onto the ear of the major and tore at the lobe, ripping skin and sinew. The major screamed and leapt back, the bottom of his ear half dangling off. A look of deepest loathing and fury crossed his face and he drew his weapon and aimed it at Nikita. Denisov, spotting the danger, moved quickly and wrestled the firearm from Major Koryan.

  “If you had let me finish, Igor, I would have said that the emotion we have to contain is his rage, not his tears.”

  “That mudak has ruined my ear; I will have blood!”

  “Igor, let me deal with this. Go and visit the doctor; he will sew it back together. I will make sure he is punished.”

  Koryan’s eyes burned as he looked at the newly named Lieutenant-Colonel Denisov, and held his tongue. Barely. He spat at Nikita as he walked to the door. Nikita smiled back through his blood-smeared mouth.

  “Be careful with that ear, comrade.”

  Koryan turned to strike him, but Denisov caught his hand and forced him to the door. Closing the door behind Koryan, Denisov locked the door and paused, with his back to Nikita, taking a deep breath before turning and walking back across the room. He picked up a chair and turned it so that the back faced Nikita, straddled the chair and leant his arms on the frame.

  He said nothing.

  Nikita held his gaze for as long as he could but eventually his will broke. “I am sorry, Lieutenant-Colonel, I failed you.”

  “You failed your comrades and you failed your country. The Soviet Union does not tolerate failure,” Denisov said, the contempt oozing out of him. “You are an important asset to us, boy, but not indispensable.”

  “I have done my best.”

  Denisov spat at the floor in front of him. “You want my pity? The KGB accepts no weakness.”

  “I will do better.”

  “This I know. First, you must pay for your crimes to Koryan.”

  Nikita hung his head; he knew what that meant.

  “How long, Lieutenant-Colonel?”

  “Two weeks in the cold box.”

  “Two weeks? Nobody can survive that!”

  “Nobody can survive that, SIR.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Consider yourself lucky; Koryan would have had you die by firing squad. I am lenient because frankly, I’ve wanted to do the same thing to Koryan myself.” He threw Nikita a small smile. “Survive this, and you can survive anything.”

  “Please, sir, please, I will do anything. Please not the cold box. For that long. I will die.”

  The lieutenant-colonel stood up. “You will be brought food occasionally. Good luck, comrade,” he said, then walked from the room. As he left, two soldiers came in. Nikita began to sob.

  “Please, sir, I beg you!”

  Despite being chained in a snow-covered stone shed, some way from the compound, his yelling could still be heard from inside the warm building. But they quickly faded as the temperature dropped. Inside the hut, he could hear his comrades’ laughter over the sounds of the rats at his feet. He began sluggishly jogging on the spot, all he could do to keep warm as the chains limited his movement. It was all he could do to stay alive.

  Two weeks later, the two young trainees were sent to let Nikita out. They found a man barely conscious. As they unfastened him, he fell to the ground, and they caught him before he landed. He tried to shrug them off but did not have the strength. They dragged him across the snow and inside to the first warmth he’d felt in two long weeks. He made not a sound throughout and his eyes barely opened.

  They tossed him on the floor inside, at the feet of Denisov. Nikita looked up from the ground, forcing his sunken eyes open. Looking down, Denisov saw cold rage emanating up at him. The eyes, now, of a killer.

  ***

  Nikita watched Elysia as she disappeared around the corner. Then, exhaling, he leant against the door frame and closed his eyes.

  He banged a hand against the door before pulling it shut, blocking the emotions of the real world and cursing himself. The Soviet Union did not tolerate weakness, and would not forgive it. He must be tougher. He must remember the cold box.

  Walking back in, he picked up what was left of the bottles of alcohol and emptied them down the sink. Time to become the KGB agent.

  No sooner had he emptied the bottle of Kahlua than there was a knock on the door. Putting the bottle down gently, he strode over soundlessly with one hand on the gun tucked into his belt at the small of his back, easing back the safety with a gentle click, and put an eye to the spyhole. He saw Kemran standing there. His handler smiled at the spyhole and gave a small wave.

  He opened the door and stepped aside as the Turkmen agent walked in.

  “Must feel strange, waiting for me to let you in to my apartment,” Nikita said wryly.

  Kemran chuckled. “Good to see you still have your sense of humour after yesterday.” He sat down on the sofa and looked at Nikita. “That was quite a mess we had to clean up.”

  “Those were my orders.”

  “And by God did you follow them. A statement was certainly made. But remember, one successful mission does not make a successful spy. You are very young, beware of getting cocky because you will make
mistakes.”

  Kemran looked at the kitchen counter and saw the empty bottle of vodka lying on its side by the sink. “I see the shop girl isn’t your only vice.” He winked. “Or perhaps you can’t have one without the oth—” His words were cut off as Nikita put a hand to his throat and pushed him back onto the sofa.

  “Utter one more word and I’ll slit your throat where you sit. You’ve seen Zurga; you know it’s not a problem for me.”

  Kemran lifted his hands in surrender, and Nikita relinquished his hold and took a small step back.

  Kemran winced and rubbed his throat. “Interesting you say that, because when I looked at it him, he had all the symptoms of a man who had been poisoned.” When Nikita said nothing, he smiled and said, “Don’t worry, Agent Allochka, both of your secrets — the girl and how you killed Zurga — are safe with me. I actually think it was an ingenious tactic you employed; you may yet be as good as they hope.” Seeing Nikita’s suspicious look, he added, “You may not believe it of me, considering our line of work, but I really do deplore violence. It’s unfortunate that life has taken me to a job so mired in it. I want you to succeed, Allochka, so we can get this whole thing over with as soon as possible and I can go back to Turkmenistan and live a life completely unembroiled in politics and espionage.”

  “Does such a world exist for a man like you?”

  Kemran shrugged. “Only God knows the answer to that.”

  “You should be careful talking of God, comrade. That could be considered treason by those in the Kremlin.”

  Kemran laughed. “Ah yes, religion is the enemy of the proletariat, and bolshevism a friend to us all. As long as Soviet Russia remains, my God remains whoever is in charge of my pay check.”