by Jamie Smith
He pushed down the handle, which squeaked painfully before the door opened. The handle again complained noisily as it was eased back into position. Gun first, Nikita entered what he could immediately see was the kitchen — a large room with an island in the middle, and polished wooden surfaces surrounding.
Once he had ensured the room was clear, he moved swiftly through it, clear where he needed to get to. He left the kitchen and entered the adjoining dining room, and saw what he was looking for in the corner. The drinks cabinet. It was a huge globe of the world that, when smoothly swivelled round, retracted and revealed the array of beverages within. Taking in the offerings, his eyes lingered on the familiar vodka, but moved past it to an unopened bottle of amber liquid. Picking it up in his black leather-clad hands, he examined the label. Very Old Fitzgerald, for connoisseurs of fine bourbon, bottled in 1958.
“Perfect,” he mouthed to himself, as he eased the lid off. It smelt potent. He paused briefly, then raised it to his mouth, and careful to not touch his mouth to the bottle, poured it directly in.
It hit his tongue like sugar, the back of his throat like fire and settled in his stomach like hot coals, burning through his entire body. This was nothing like the potato vodka he’d had thrust upon him in the USSR. This was good.
He raised the bottle again for another slug, but paused, and then lowered the bottle. What was he doing? This was a live operation and this bourbon had other, more important uses. He eased the cork back into place.
He left the dining room by a different exit, bourbon in one hand and raised gun in the other and moved out into the entrance hall. He could see the corridor leading to the rear of the house which he’d seen through his scope earlier, but he knew what he was looking for wasn’t back there. Still not a sound to be heard, he moved towards the wide staircase leading upstairs from the hall. Keeping to the edges to avoid creaking floorboards, he put much of his weight on his hands. He pushed down heavily on the handrail, to ensure minimal pressure was put on the old wooden stairs hidden beneath the deep, plush, cream carpet.
At the top of the staircase, he reached a T-junction as the landing corridor ran down to the left and down to the right. From here he was entering the realms of guesswork, and his brain was working furiously to calculate just how high the chance of the operation failing was, and the deadly action he would have to take if any of the house staff intervened.
He had no choice. To keep his family safe, he could not afford to fail on a mission of such gravitas.
Remembering the woman in the window earlier, he made an educated guess that Conlan would room the staff in a different part of the house to him and his family, and opted to go right, the opposite way from the woman’s room and back in the direction of the garage.
The corridor was pitch black, but looking up and down it he could see a glow filtering through from under doors of some rooms.
Walking down to the right, he again kept close to the walls to avoid creaking floorboards. Putting his ear to each door as he passed, he was desperately looking for any sound or signal that the room could be the one housing the secretary. He couldn’t afford to pick the wrong one, but the door to every room stood white and plain, with no indication at all.
He passed one door that was slightly ajar, but with no light shining from it. He nudged it open soundlessly and saw that it was a bathroom. He stepped inside and looked around swiftly, his eyes resting on the medicine cabinet above the sink. Opening it, he cast his eyes over the array of bandages, paracetamols, sleeping pills and other basic medical paraphernalia. He stuffed some of the pills into his pockets and moved back into the hallway.
He reached the room at the end of the corridor and again put his ear to the door. The glow from this one was different, giving a bluish flicker from a television rather than from lamplight. Pressing his ear gently to the door, he could hear the sounds coming from the television and concentrated to work out the nature of the programme.
It didn’t take long to work it out, with the sounds of the CNN newsreaders describing the tensions surrounding the INF Treaty and President Callahan’s determination to see it through.
Bingo. Nikita reached into his pocket and pulled out a silencer, which he screwed into the CZ-75. If all went to plan, nobody would get shot tonight.
He stuffed the upturned neck of the Very Old Fitzgerald into his belt and, with the gun held firmly in his right hand, reached down, turned the handle and threw open the door into the bedroom of the US secretary of defense.
CHAPTER 14
Conlan was lying on the bed half clothed. Nikita was reminded strongly of Zurga, which already felt like a lifetime ago. But not long enough to forget, he thought, and felt a momentary urge to take another slug of the bourbon.
The room reeked of wealth and luxury. The satin sheets shone on the bed, illuminated by the light of the huge television screen facing it on the wall, next to the door through which Nikita had just entered.
With no lights on other than the TV, Conlan was cast in a flickering blue light, but unlike Zurga, he was very much alert and awake.
“What the — who the hell are you?” he exclaimed before seeing the gun in Nikita’s hand and falling silent. His eyes widened, and he pushed himself up against the headboard, fear showing in every part of his body.
Nikita sighed. This was going to be such a tedious way of killing someone. He grabbed a chair from a dresser under the television, dragged it near to the bed and sat down.
“Drink?” he said, unveiling the Old Fitzgerald and pulling out the cork with his teeth, which he spat on the ground and handed over the bottle.
Conlan took it but said nothing.
“Look, Secretary, just tell me you’re not going to run away or anything so I can lower this weapon. Nobody likes having a gun pointed at them, and to be perfectly honest I don’t much like pointing it.”
Conlan nodded, and relaxed just a fraction as Nikita put the gun in its holster.
“Who are you?” Conlan asked again. He had a sheen of sweat on his head, but otherwise had recovered his composure remarkably well.
“I can see why you rose to become secretary of defense. Look how quickly you’ve adapted to having a man with a gun in your bedroom. Did you serve?”
“I imagine you already know that,” he replied curtly.
“Very sharp. I know your résumé says you served in Korea, but I’d be interested to hear from you the ins and outs of that experience. Please, take a drink of that lovely bourbon.”
Conlan looked sceptical.
“I give you my word I haven’t tampered with it, other than to give it a taste. Can you believe I had never before tasted bourbon?”
“You picked a good one for your first taste. It might ruin any others for you. Are you here to kill me?”
“That’s entirely up to you. But I certainly won’t warm to you if you don’t drink with me.”
“Either way, I guess I’ll need a drink then,” said Conlan and took a slug of the amber liquid and closed his eyes in pleasure. “I’ve had this bottle for years.”
“I bet you never imagined sharing it with someone from the slave race?” said Nikita, looking him in the eye.
“I think you have me misunderstood; I’m a friend of black people.”
“Is that right, Secretary? Your house of slaves doesn’t stack up in your favour on that front.”
“I pay every one of them!”
Nikita laughed. “It seems more like it’s them that pays, but that’s not why I’m here.”
“Why are you here?”
“All good things come to those who wait, Secretary. You didn’t get to where you are by being an impatient man.”
“Is your plan to irritate me to death?” Conlan said as he took another swig of whiskey.
Nikita noticed him attempt to ease himself over towards the other side of the bed while trying to appear to just shuffle uncomfortably about. He decided not to comment on it just yet, allowing the politician to continue drinking,
but keeping a close eye on his movements. This was the Deep South; chances were there was a handgun in that bedside cabinet.
“I must say, Secretary, despite your military history, you seem oddly calm at my appearance in your room.”
“It doesn’t take a goddam genius to know that the Russkis would be sending someone after me. I never expected someone…”
“Someone like me, you mean?”
Conlan grunted and took another drink from the bottle.
Nikita sat back slightly, beginning to have grave doubts about his already flimsy plan. This was taking too long.
Conlan slumped slightly in bed, the alcohol clearly beginning to affect him. Looking at the bottle, Nikita could see that nearly half was gone. People drink quickly when they’re nervous, Nikita noticed, mentally taking a note to never drink on the job again. Who knew how dulled his senses had been from his swig of the whiskey earlier?
Conlan pushed himself up against the headboard again. Nikita again blamed it on the effect of the whiskey. It was to his peril.
Quick as a flash, Conlan whipped a gun out from beneath the pillow where his hand had slipped while pushing himself up, and pointed it at Nikita.
“No one in their right mind would want to remember the horrors of the Korean War, but they let us keep our handguns. Most of the fellas threw theirs away, or packed them away in boxes to hand down as heirlooms to their kids, because they wanted to forget about it. But here’s the thing about the Korean War. I loved it. I loved shooting commies, and I sleep with this beauty every night just hoping I’ll get another chance to put it to use. But shooting a black commie? And doing it in self-defence for breaking and entering into my own home, well sweet Jesus, that really is the Texan dream.”
“Wait—” started Nikita but got no further as the secretary fired the pistol.
A flash at the end of the muzzle was all he saw, and then white-hot pain coursed through his body.
***
KLYUCHEVKSAYA SOPKA VOLCANO, KAMCHATKA PENINSULA, EASTERN USSR, 1984
The game trail led up the side of a lush green hill in the shadow of the volcano, affectionately known as Klyuchevskoi by the people of this remote peninsula in the far-flung corner of the Soviet empire, closer to Tokyo than Moscow. For five days Nikita had trekked inland from his drop site near Ust-Kamchatsk, bordering the Kamchatka River and the Pacific Ocean, to his final location on the far side of Klyuchevskoi, the highest active volcano in Eurasia.
Never had he seen so many different landscapes in one journey, all unbelievable in their beauty, and never had he been so challenged, or exhausted. Initially he tried to keep to the salmon-rich Kamchatka River. He had learned quickly how to fish and had eaten well. But he had equally quickly come face to face with the reality of an area that had the highest density of brown bears in the world, none of whom took kindly to competing with him for the fish. He had only narrowly avoided a mauling, and been forced to turn inland and cross the undulating land towards his destination. Throughout the journey, the conical volcano had loomed in the distance, standing ominously above the surrounding land and he had carried with him the whole time a sense of foreboding.
As he climbed higher up the track, the grass began to thin and be replaced by snow, with the temperature suddenly dropping noticeably. As he reached the summit of the hill, he looked down over the snow-dusted valley. Across the way saw a clearing in the dense evergreen trees, with an isolated wooden hut which marked his destination. He sighed with relief, and not for the first time tried to suppress the hunger in his belly. Since leaving the river four days ago the unforgiving land had provided little in the way of nourishment. Yesterday he had managed to kill a hare with the rifle, but there had been little in the way of meat on the creature once skinned and roasted over a small fire. With no cooking utensils he had been forced to fashion a spit from an old branch he had found, and it had snapped and burned through the meat, leaving much of it inedible and full of splinters.
He knelt, swung his rifle down and placed it on the ground before shrugging off his rucksack. He opened it to pull out his poncho to keep him warm from the chill that was getting into his bones. As he did, he thought he heard a sound that didn’t belong to any of the creatures native to the area. He froze, his ears pricked for the slightest follow-up sound. Weighing it up between rifle and pistol, he eased the Makarov from his holster and held it low in front of him, remaining in a squat.
Had he imagined it? Not a sound could be heard other than the distant rumblings of the volcano which he had felt in his feet for the last fifty miles, and the chirruping of birds.
After two minutes he released a breath. He must have imagined it, but remained on high alert. He closed his bag, deciding against the poncho in case he needed the easier movement, and slung his rifle over his shoulder, ensuring it was easy to swing forward and fire should he need to.
As he stood, he saw a flash and heard the bang, and felt himself thrown backwards onto the track.
Momentarily stunned and unaware of what had happened, he leapt to his feet before his leg immediately gave way beneath him and he saw the blood flowing freely from his thigh. Then the pain caught up with him. Somewhere between furnace hot and ice cold, he tried to push it from his mind and be alert for his attacker.
He reached for his Makarov PM which he had dropped in the attack and lay on his back with the gun raised and pointed at the place in the trees some twenty yards away from where the flash had come. His eyes were screwed up and watering furiously from the pain, and he wiped the tears away with a grubby hand to see clearer but there was no sign of anyone. Were it not for the pool of blood forming around his leg, he could have nearly convinced himself he had imagined it.
After several minutes and no sign of his attacker, he cautiously turned his attentions to his wound. Using his hunting knife, he tore open his trousers around the hole that the bullet had created, all the while throwing frequent glances around him. It was hard to see anything with so much blood. He reached into his bag again and tore off a strip of cloth from the poncho, and poured some water on it from his canteen. He wiped gently at the wound and could not help but let out a yell of agony as he touched upon the sensitive bullet wound. Biting his lip he looked up again at the trees but again saw nothing.
Despite the wiping at his leg, the blood continued to flow and he remained unclear as to the severity of his injuries. He tore off another strip of poncho, this one much longer, and tied it around his upper thigh to act as a tourniquet and stem the bleeding. Then he pulled from his pack the military issue small bottle of Russian vodka, unopened. He stuffed some of his poncho into his mouth and unscrewed the bottle. Taking a deep breath, he poured the spirit onto the wound and bit down hard on the mouthful of poncho, screaming soundlessly as the searing liquid burned into the wound and cleared it of any bacteria. Much of the blood cleared and he saw that it was a deep graze rather than a full bullet entry and he breathed a small sigh of relief.
The pain was no less, but he knew now that no arteries were in danger. Now he had to focus on making it to the pick-up point on the other side of the valley. He dragged himself to the side of the path and searched around with his eyes for a hefty stick to use as a staff. The only one he could find that would support him was slightly too small. It would have to do. Using the stick and the bare trunk of an evergreen he pulled himself upright and grimaced at the pain. He made his way slowly over to the area where the shooter had been, keeping one hand on his staff and one on his Makarov. He saw a glint on the ground and cautiously made his way over to it, and saw that it was a gun lying discarded on the forest floor. He picked it up and inspected it. A Colt 1911, an all-American weapon that had no place being in the forests of the Kamchatka Peninsula. But then, neither did an illegal Nigerian immigrant, thought a mocking voice in his head.
His teeth began to chatter from the shock racing through his body as he hopped back to his pack. To lighten his load for the next few miles he quickly discarded anything he would not need
to carry and began the journey that would feel like a marathon.
Along the way he stayed alert and thought intensely about his attacker. Either someone thought they hit him with a fatal shot or they had only intended to injure him, not kill. It had to be KGB, but who? And how did they get an American weapon out here? If it was an officer they would surely never have missed, but a fellow trainee might have been trying to kill him and got spooked. Whoever it was, they were still out there.
Dark thoughts began to consume him as his head got lighter and began to spin. He looked down at his leg, bare below the tourniquet at his groin with blood dripping down. The sun was beginning to go down and he knew that the wolves that roamed this part of Russia would begin to circle in on him. Already the howls he had consistently heard in the distance now sounded closer.
The lower the sun got, the closer the howls and yelps began to sound and he clenched his gun tightly. He was glad now that he had opted to keep his rifle with him, despite the awkwardness of it swinging across his back while he walked with the stick.
It was pitch black by the time he reached the clearing; his breathing was harsh and rasping and his leg was numb. It looked unhealthily pallidin the moonlight. He stumbled unsteadily over to the hut, and after banging on the door, collapsed to the ground, his fingers grasping handfuls of the cold green grass as he breathed in the smell of the hard earth.
The door opened and light flooded out over him. He heard a man laugh and then felt himself being roughly dragged inside and fought to keep the darkness from overtaking his vision.
He was thrown onto a canvas camp bed but was only semi-conscious. Suddenly, ice cold liquid was poured onto the wound and his eyes burst open. He roared and saw Colonel Klitchkov pouring vodka onto what he could now clearly see was a gash that had taken a deep groove of flesh away from his powerful thigh.