by Jamie Smith
The men approached quietly, not speaking, but not silent enough that Nikita couldn’t identify the shuffling footsteps and see that he was correct in there being four.
His body almost quivered with the adrenaline coursing through it, numbing any pain from the burnt flesh at his shoulder, for which he was grateful.
The shuffling stopped.
“Looks like this crow can’t handle his whiskey,” said one of the voices, to a chorus of gruff laughs, “Let’s give him a hangover he won’t forget.”
A single set of footsteps rapidly approached Nikita and he heard the rush of air as the man aimed a kick at his stomach.
Nikita lifted his legs and swung his body round, before leaping onto his feet. He swivelled and reverse kicked the man hard in his soft stomach, his foot sinking into the fat belly, propelling him backwards into the wall.
Nikita stood above him. He took up the Sambo fighting stance, the brutal martial art created and honed by the KGB. Entering his pose, he found a place of mindfulness and heightened awareness. He realised he could feel something other than adrenaline racing through his veins. Red hot rage.
The incorrect orders, the killing, the bullet wound and the constant, never-ending racism. He battled to control it, the words of Denisov echoing around his head — “mastering emotion is his biggest obstacle.” Then he remembered those two weeks in the cold box, and felt the ice return to his veins.
The three men in front of him looked nervous as their leader groaned and pushed himself up. The fat man bared his teeth and spat blood onto the ground at the feet of Nikita.
“You’re gonna pay all sorts of hell for that, you black piece of shit,” he spat, hatred in his eyes. Nikita was looking beyond him to the other three, one of whom looked in better shape than the rest, with a jarhead haircut, trimmed beard and a military bearing.
“Is it a prerequisite of being a racist American that you have to have beards?” said Nikita with a grin. He lowered his fists and took a swig of his whiskey. Running it around his mouth before swallowing, he took a moment to savour the cool drink. This was not a place for Sambo; nothing must connect him or the Soviet Union to the murder of the secretary. This was a place for street rules.
He offered the bottle to Black Beard.
“You mustn’t be from around here, boy. Your kind don’t come to this side of town, and we don’t share a drink with slaves. It’s been too long since we hung one of y’all; I think it’s high time we had another, don’t you, fellas?” he said, turning to his friends. Nikita took his opportunity, and swung forwards with the bottle, smashing it into the temple of the man, who crumpled to the ground.
Rather than being unnerved, the other three ran forwards, but the narrowness of the alleyway meant that one had to stand back while the other two ran forwards. Jarhead might cause him some problems, but the other was fat and soft, with beer dripping in his thick, pale brown beard.
***
KAMENKA, USSR, 1975
The pre-dawn pallor was beginning to rise above the forest next to the shack that Gabriel Allochka called home as he trudged wearily towards it.
It had been a long night of street sweeping, the only work the small town of Kamenka ever afforded him, and that was only sporadic.
Dirt was caked over his hands and cheeks from the labour, and he knelt next to an old plastic bucket filled with water, methodically cleaning away the grime. As the dirt cleared from his skin, the callouses and scars became visible across his large hands.
His eyes were stung as the tip of the sun broached the top of the forest, bathing everything in a stunning golden-green glow. He shielded them, grimaced and turned back to the shack.
He eased open the door, careful not to wake anyone, but to no avail. The small figure of his nine-year-old son Nikita shouted, “Father’s home!” He then charged towards Gabriel and wrapped his arms around his waist. Gabriel could not help but chuckle.
On the makeshift bed on the floor lay Sophie Allochka and their toddler Milena, who was sound asleep. Sophie smiled sleepily up at her husband. “Welcome home, dear.”
Gabriel picked up Nikita in one arm and leant down to kiss his wife. Nikita screamed with delight as he was turned upside down in the process. Incredibly, Milena dozed on through it all.
“How was work?” Sophie asked softly, as she stood and placed the blankets over Milena with great care.
Gabriel rubbed his stinging eyes. “Not good — they came at me again,” he said enigmatically.
Sophie’s eyes widened with fear. “Are you OK? Did they hurt you?”
“I was able to keep them at bay once more.” He looked down at his son, who was gazing up at him with big brown eyes full of adoration and concern.
“Who hurt you, Papa?”
Gabriel sat down heavily in the room’s only chair. “I suppose it is time we had a talk, Niki,” he said with a sigh, and picked the boy up and placed him on his knee. “Son, out there in the world you will find that many of the white people do not like us.”
“Why not?”
“Because they are afraid of what is different. They have been poisoned by hate. But we must never lower ourselves to their level. We can live, with God’s grace, free of hate and let them be the ones held back by fear. Whatever they take, they can never take the freedom in our minds.”
“I don’t understand, Father,” said Nikita in a small voice.
“Ok, let me put it this way. When you go out there into Russia, you are going to get beaten up. The white boys are going to come at you in a group — for some reason they always come in a group — and they are going to try and hurt you. Sometimes you will get hurt.”
“Gabriel, what are you saying? You’re scaring him,” Sophie said sharply, and tried to lift Nikita from her husband’s knee.
Gabriel held Niki down. “No Sophie, it is important for him to hear this. Niki, just because they want to hurt you, does not mean you have to let them! If they come at you, you pick out the leader, usually the biggest one, and while you are getting beaten up, you beat the leader up. If you do that, they will leave you alone. They fear us, but never ever fear them. By doing that, you can earn their respect. I want a better life for you than the one I have given us.”
***
Gabriel’s words echoed through Nikita’s mind as he readied himself in the Texas alleyway. The leader was already down, but Jarhead represented the biggest threat. A plan was already in his head — to swing the fat man round and drive him into Jarhead, incapacitating them both.
But then came a horrible realisation.
The only sure way to avoid identifying himself with any possible connection to Secretary Conlan’s murder was to take the beating.
A group of white men beaten unconscious by one black man was sure to draw attention and risk the rest of his mission in the US.
He groaned inwardly. This was not going to be fun.
He made a show of attempting to throw what felt like a painfully slow punch at Jarhead, who was able to easily fend it off, and smash a giant fist, right into the middle of Nikita’s face. He felt his nose explode with the impact. He worked to remain upright to limit the damage they would be able to do, and started to make as much noise as he could, hopeful that a passer-by would interrupt, but the fat man caught him with a blow to his injured shoulder. He fell backwards against the wall and couldn’t keep his balance, slumping down to the floor.
The three of them surrounded him, kicking him ferociously. He clawed his way out from the wall, but they showed no mercy with their ruthless attack. He was vaguely aware of them shouting at him. The words they used were nothing new, and nothing that could hurt him.
His arms covering his head, he retreated into his mind, face screwed up in a bloody grimace. His mind sifted through long-forgotten memories of being with his family. The faces of his father, mother and Milena drifted around, smiling benignly at him, calming him and soothing him from the ordeal his body was enduring.
His body was tensed, feeling few
of the kicks, but the pain was beginning to grow and he knew that soon bones would begin to break. He tried to continue to focus on his family once more and then suddenly he felt overwhelmed by loneliness. He might die and no one here would care or notice. A tear leaked out of his eye, whether from pain or sadness he was not sure. He thought of his family and his heart suddenly ached more than his body, and another tear fell. He must survive, if only for them. “It is all for you,” he whispered to them silently, willing the message to reach them across the world.
His eyes creaked open and he saw Red Beard bring a foot up to stamp down on his ankle in a move that would surely break it.
He held up a pleading hand. “Please, no.”
Red Beard paused, lowering his foot, then grinned.
“There’s only one thing I hates more than a crow, and that’s one who forgets his place,” he said then brought his foot back up.
But it never reached the ground, or Nikita’s leg.
There was the crack of a gunshot which ripped through the quiet night, and stopped the men in their tracks. They all turned to look at the silhouette of a tall, slender man standing in the alleyway, with a smoking gun pointed at the sky.
“Step aside, fellas, this one is mine,” said a cold, clipped, southern voice, unlike any of the men standing around their victim. More refined.
For the first time that night, Nikita felt truly afraid. This was no redneck, nor a former low-level soldier. This was a trained assassin; even as a dark silhouette, Nikita could tell just from his stance.
“Who the hell are you?” said the fat man, who was dripping with sweat from the exertion and smelt badly.
The newcomer stepped forward and pointed the gun at the fat man’s face. “I’m your worst nightmare if you get in between me and this… stain on our town. Now fuck off, or I start shootin’.”
Jarhead looked as if he was about to protest, but the gunman fired at the floor, the bullet ricocheting off the wall next to Nikita and disappearing down the dark alleyway.
“Now I’ve done you the courtesy of two more warning shots than I’ve ever given before. There won’t be a third. Leave and live, or stay and die, it’s up to you.”
All three of them turned tail and passed the gunman. Red Beard leant into him and whispered, “Make him suffer.”
The gunman smirked but said nothing, and as the last of the attackers sprinted back to the sanctity of the bar, he stepped into the light.
Nikita tried in vain to push himself onto his feet but was only barely holding onto consciousness. He looked up at the face of his killer, and drew a sharp intake of breath.
A scar glowed from the ear to the eye of the man looming above him, pointing the gun at his face.
“Brishnov?” gasped Nikita.
“Da… comrade,” sneered the Russian assassin.
CHAPTER 15
Nikita noticed that the gun had not lowered following the departure of his attackers, but was instead pointed directly at him.
“Help me, comrade,” Nikita croaked, reverting to his native Russian.
Nikita could see the lust for the kill in the eyes of Brishnov, could see the temptation.
Brishnov walked closer, the gun still hovering in front of him, and Nikita now believed the Soviet agent would kill him. The silent menace was written in the hard lines of his face and Nikita was powerless to stop him, only clinging onto consciousness by a thread.
Brishnov walked behind him and squatted down. Nikita could feel his breath on his neck; it reeked. He suddenly thrust something in front of Nikita’s face.
“Do not forget this, comrade, you know better than to leave any trace.” Nikita’s bleary eyes focused on the bloody, scorched knife he had dropped, before it was thrust into its sheath by his fellow KGB agent.
He heard the sound of Brishnov pocketing his gun, before arms hooked under his own and lifted him up. He had no strength to fight the assassin, and consciousness finally deserted him as he felt himself being dragged away and he allowed the darkness in.
***
Brishnov dragged his body back to the car and deposited him on the back seat. Grabbing the keys which were still in the ignition, he locked the doors to make sure Nikita could not escape if he regained consciousness, and then walked purposefully down the street towards the bar.
Reaching the bar, he looked around and saw a building two doors ahead boarded up, went over to it and broke off a sturdy piece of the wooden boarding. He returned to the entrance to the bar and put the wood through the door handles, preventing anyone leaving.
He then slunk back down the alleyway in which he had discovered the men beating his fellow agent and smiled at the thought. It had been so tempting to allow them to continue and rid the Soviet Union of its black stain. But orders were orders, and now loose ends needed to be tied.
Marching down the alleyway, he reached the delivery driveway behind the bar and approached it with little caution, but with one hand on the gun at his hip. The door was not even shut; this was too easy.
Walking through it, he surveyed the surroundings. Crates of alcohol and kegs of beer were pushed against the walls in the dingy back room lit by a flickering fluorescent light above. There was a buzzing from an electric fly trap on the wall which looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in years, covered with the gluey corpses of hundreds of cremated flies.
Casting his eyes around, he saw what he was looking for — the mains gas pipe running up the wall and towards the bar. Approaching it, he could see that it was painted over, and the pipes were old cast iron which would make his job that bit harder.
He pouted, and with an exaggerated sigh, picked up a heavy keg tap from the floor and began to bang at the pipe where it met the meter.
He heard footsteps approaching and the bar man walked in, his belly visible before the rest of him.
“Hey what the hell are you—” he began, but was cut off as Brishnov pulled his handgun and shot the barman in the stomach. With the close proximity the bullet passed straight through him, as intended, and ricocheted off the wall and into a case of vodka. Brishnov couldn’t have the authorities finding a corpse with a bullet in at the scene of the crime.
The man screamed as blood started flowing out of the hole, both at the front and the back, and looked at Brishnov in horror. Brishnov had already pocketed his gun, and after retrieving the bullet from the vodka, didn’t give his victim a second look. He picked up a bottle and unscrewed the cap, taking a sip.
“Americans make shit vodka,” he said to no-one in particular. He picked up another two bottles and walked over to the wounded man on the floor, and ripped a long strip from his apron.
“Please, help me,” said the barman from the floor.
“Be silent; I do not wish to have to shoot you again. Die quietly, old man.”
He picked up the keg tap once more and began pounding on the pipe, which suddenly with a scrape of metal ripped from the meter. The hiss of gas was palpable. Then he ripped the rag of cloth in two, dousing both pieces in the vodka, roughly shoving them halfway into the bottles, and then he walked out of the room.
There was a narrow, short corridor ending in a door opening out into the bar. Brishnov walked into it confidently, noting that there were thirteen patrons scattered around the dingy room. Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Freebird was playing loudly from a battered jukebox and few noticed his entrance until he passed the bar and walked towards the door.
Red Beard was laughing at the bar with Jarhead and Fatty, and the collection of empty glasses next to them suggested they had wasted no time in celebrating their victory over Nikita. By the time they noticed him it was too late. He opened the bottle without the cloth in and began emptying it near the door, forming a slick trail back towards the bar. Taking a zippo lighter from his pocket, he lit one of the rags. As he marched back through the bar, he tossed the bomb firmly over his shoulder so it smashed against the door, blocking the rear exit. A Molotov cocktail felt a poetic way of destroying a bar, he thought to himself
while whistling softly.
He felt the heat on his back but didn’t look round, and noticed the screams from around the bar with cold disinterest.
The trio at the bar stepped sluggishly in his way. “What the hell are you doing?” Red Beard demanded angrily, slurring. It was Jarhead who recognised him first.
“That’s the dude from the alleyway!” he exclaimed, and recognition dawned on the faces of the others.
Brishnov sighed; he didn’t have time for this. He could see people beginning to move away from the door and towards the rear exit.
He swiftly punched Red Beard to the temple, making him crumple, before smashing Jarhead and Fatty’s faces into each other. They both fell to the floor, clutching their broken noses.
Brishnov ran to the rear, furious at being forced to speed up. He lit the other cloth, and holding it in front of him, counted the numbers. Only twelve. These guys were not separated from their bar easily, even in the face of Molotov-cocktail-wielding assassins, but one had clearly led a charge. He backed out of the door and threw the bomb in front of him, swiftly closing the door to prevent the firebomb from hurtling down the corridor.
Over the sound of Freebird he heard more scream from the victims who were now trapped between two rapidly expanding infernos. He was already moving quickly. He saw the missing number thirteen crouched over the barman. He was younger than the others he had seen in the bar. A handsome man, Brishnov reckoned around twenty-five, with dark stubble and a strong jaw.