by Jamie Smith
“You saved my life!” he said to Matthew and tried to give him a hug.
“Dude, get off me; you’re all wet!”
“Let me give you a hug of gratitude, damn it,” the big Rodney said, spreading his arms.
“Show it in words instead, man,” said Matthew, pushing him off.
Nikita looked across at Chang as the others were distracted trying to stop Rodney from crushing the diminutive Matthew. She was looking at him, still flushed, and he smiled intently at her as he took a sip of his whiskey, and she relaxed, smiling back. He turned back to the melee next to him, with Rodney now trying to plant a kiss on Matthew, and felt Chang’s foot rub against his leg. This caused a slight flutter in his stomach that he hadn’t felt since his time with Elysia in Skyros all those months ago, in what felt like a different lifetime, and a different version of himself. He put her from his mind as he knew he must, but it was a constant battle. The job was all that mattered. The job and his family.
After a couple of hours — and multiple White Russians — one by one the CIA’s elite team of Soviet counter-intelligence agents began to filter out of the bar. Nikita had been switching between bourbon and the milky vodka cocktails all evening and was enjoying a warm feeling and no thought of the search for the Black Russian. His sides hurt from laughing. He couldn’t recall laughing before this assignment; even his childhood had been overshadowed by the hate of outsiders and laughter had rarely escaped his lips once old enough to know that he was hated and hunted. Eventually only he, Chang and Blaine were left.
“We should be heading home,” said Blaine. “I could do without another sit down with the chief again tomorrow.”
“Yeah, probably a good call,” said Chang. “Do you guys want to split a cab? We’re going in the same direction, sort of.”
“Good plan,” said Blaine, and Nikita nodded in agreement. They made their way outside, weaving slightly and hailed a cab.
“Man, oh man, work is going to suck tomorrow,” said Blaine, squeezing in beside Nikita and Chang. “Shift over, guys,” he said, shuffling over, forcing Chang firmly against Nikita. He could smell the tobacco and perfume in her hair and could think of little else.
“Maybe there’s nothing in Sykes’ theory and we’re golden,” said Chang, resting her hand on her leg so that her little finger was nearly touching Nikita’s.
Blaine laughed. “He’s never wrong is the problem. Made us look like idiots in there today!”
Nikita chuckled, but his thoughts were focused entirely on his little finger which he shifted slowly and as subtly as he could towards Chang’s. He felt drunk and reckless.
The taxi drove out of town. As it passed through the crossroads Nikita had stopped at earlier, he saw that another diagonal stripe had been struck across his own on the mailbox. X marks the spot, he thought hazily, and despite his drink-infused brain he found his mind drifting to what his next step was. He was brought suddenly back into the present at the faintest of touches to his little finger as Chang’s finger had moved to touching his.
Blaine was talking in almost a monologue about how much better the cocktails were in New York, but now Nikita moved his finger on top of Chang’s, and they interlocked. He could almost feel the tension crackling between them, while Blaine talked on, completely unaware.
Ten minutes later the cab pulled up outside Blaine’s apartment building and he got out, and threw them ten bucks for the cab before ambling his way up the path. The taxi pulled away and now the tension between them was palpable.
They were now holding hands fully and Nikita chanced a glance at Chang and found that she was already looking at him. Her stern face was softer than he’d seen it before and her eyes wide.
He leant in, but hesitated halfway, a moment of soberness in a night lost in a mist of whiskey and cocktails. But before he could pull back, she had grabbed his head with both hands and pulled his mouth to hers, kissing him deeply and passionately and all other thoughts of consequences drifted away. She tasted of cigarettes and vodka, a heady combination for any Russian, even one such as Nikita.
He didn’t remember leaving the cab or the walk up to her house. He remembered kissing her deeply against her front door before she fumbled with keys and they fell inside.
They lay for a moment on the floor, facing each other with their feet still outside the front door. She pulled him to her once more and they continued kissing.
In his drunken state he suddenly became aware that they were there for the world to see. “Let’s go inside,” he whispered. “You never know who’s watching in this town.”
She smiled as he helped her up and he kicked the front door shut behind them. He kissed her hungrily once more before picking her up and carrying her into her bedroom.
When Nikita awoke the next morning it was still early, and it took him a minute to adjust his eyes to the gloom, feeling momentarily disorientated. He felt Sarah’s arm across his torso and patchy memories of the night began to flow stutteringly back to him. Suddenly he became very aware that he was naked, and by the feel of her body against his, so was she.
Unfortunately, his upbringing in Russia had not helped him to be able to drink like one and his head felt like it had been split down the middle.
He pulled himself silently up and out of the bed, careful not to wake her. She stirred slightly but drifted back off to sleep as he picked up his clothes from the floor and went out into the living room where he dressed as quietly as he could. He ran some cold water from the tap in the kitchen and splashed it on his face before turning to leave.
He was at the front door when a voice behind him said, “You’re not quite sprinting out the door but it ain’t far off.”
Nikita sighed and turned. Sarah was leaning against the door frame across the room, a bedsheet pulled roughly around her. Her hair was ruffled and her eyes squinted in the light. Despite her looking beautiful, Nikita suddenly wished the night before had never happened. She lit a cigarette and the feeling was reinforced.
“No, no, I just need to get home to change before work,” he replied. He walked over to her.
“Don’t make me regret fucking you, Jake,” she said, lifting her head and blowing the smoke to the side.
He fought his instincts and pulled her to him kissing her on the lips. She hesitated then put her arms around him and kissed him back. The sheet fell to the ground and he could feel her firm breasts pressed against his chest and the feelings that had brought him here the night before began to stir slightly. The desire to crawl back into bed with her and rest his aching head grew stronger. But he knew duty called, and he could not miss work at such a crucial time.
He unfurled her arms from around him and admired her slender naked body before him. “I have to go,” he whispered. “I’ll see you in the office.”
“Don’t make it weird at work,” she said in her semi-confrontational way.
“Of course not,” he said, winking at her and leaving.
As the door shut behind him, he groaned to himself. He needed to find a way of relieving tension without being reckless with people’s hearts… or his own liver. He couldn’t risk compromising his ability to do his job exceptionally. He could feel himself becoming too comfortable with his life as Jacob Marshall. The life of an ordinary guy with ordinary friends, having an office romance.
I am not Jacob Marshall. I am not Nathan Martins. I am not Nikita Allochka. I am the Black Russian, he repeated to himself, and gave himself a firm slap on each cheek, before breaking into a run which he maintained for the seven blocks back to his own place. The sun was just covered up and stung his eyes as it lifted above the horizon. Every moment of the run was painful because of the pounding of his feet which echoed throughout his body and right through his head, but he forced himself to maintain his five-minute mile pace and swiftly covered the distance. By the time he reached his apartment, he was drenched with sweat and after doing a cursory check for bugs and listening devices around the apartment, an exercise he carried out dil
igently every day, he jumped straight into the shower. He stayed under icy cold water for as long as he could, before switching it to scalding hot and then dropping back to freezing again and jumped out. He felt cleansed and ready.
Walking out of the shower to his bedroom, he stopped suddenly. Something was not right. He fastened the towel firmly around his waist and slipped his hand under the dressing table, pulling out a Beretta M9 pistol from its hiding place. Barefoot, he crouched low and cocked his ear, pulling back the slide to kick the first bullet into place.
He was sure he had heard something in the other room.
He trod gently, his feed not making a sound on the carpeted floor, out of the bedroom and into the hallway. He kept his back to the wall and eased back the safety on the gun, which he held up in front of him, while remaining in a semi-crouch himself, moving sideways slowly and soundlessly.
He sniffed the air. He could smell alcohol and tobacco, and wondered if Sarah had followed him round. He paused, debating whether to lower the weapon in case it was her, but not wanting to be an open target if it was not.
He balanced it in his left hand and lowered it to one side where it was out of sight, but ready to swing up at the slightest sign of something untoward.
He moved forward, with more purpose now, into the gloom of the open plan kitchen/living room.
“You,” he gasped.
CHAPTER 17
“Da, menya,” replied Colonel Klitchkov, looking absurd to Nikita in civilian clothing. Dressed in a flannel shirt, jeans and trainers and lounging on his sofa, the colonel looked like an old Californian hippy rather than one of the most senior and powerful men in the KGB.
“And I think you mean you, sir.”
“Of course, yes, sir. What are you doing here, sir?” Nikita whispered, looking alarmed.
“You left the signal,” Klitchkov said simply.
“Yes, sir, but that was for Notrowski and I was going to leave shortly for our neutral meeting place,” Nikita replied, emphasising the last part of the sentence. “My cover will be completely blown if you are seen here.”
Klitchkov raised his eyebrows.
“Sir,” added Nikita.
“Your handler Notrowski understands that I am replacing him, and he knew better than to question me. Believe it or not, agent, this is not my first day as a spy. I am well aware of the risks and of the importance of your anonymity to our national security.”
“Of course, sir, this just feels very reckless…”
“Enough!” snapped Klitchkov. “One year in America and you have become insolent. Question my actions again and I will return you to the cold box in Russia. I hear that helped you to learn respect before, but perhaps you are still an impetuous Nigerian child,” he said mockingly.
Nikita’s face tightened and he looked coldly at the colonel. Suddenly he was aware of the tight skin on his thigh from the gunshot wound way back on the Kamchatka Peninsula.
“I am a Russian… sir,” he said, trying to control his voice.
Klitchkov laughed, the demonic, condescending laugh he had first heard in his Kamenka shack years ago. “Of course, you are, my boy.”
“I have done everything you have asked of me.”
“For love of Russia? Or for your family?”
“They are one and the same to me, sir.”
“You always were an exceptional liar,” Klitchkov said, smiling brightly.
“You would rather I separate them?”
“There are those in the KGB who would have me be kinder to you. Yerin is concerned you have not been given enough of a reason to love Russia and could too easily be turned,” Klitchkov said, folding his hands in his lap and looking at Nikita to see if he would pick up his challenge.
A silence fell between them in which they gazed at each other, weighing up whether to embrace a conflict or avoid one.
Nikita pushed his anger back down, and decided to swallow his pride. “The Soviet Union has always been my home, my country and in my soul. It has fed me and kept its promises to care for my family. The KGB is a tough life because it has to be. Holding grudges is futile and a waste of energy that could be better served in the service of our general secretary’s goals.”
“In another life you could have been a poet, comrade,” Klitchkov said without a hint of humour. “But your point is a good one. We are an agency of business, and that is what I am here for. You have done good work these past few months. Exceptional work in fact.” His demeanour was unrecognisable from just moments ago. “Now tell me why you signalled that you required an unscheduled meeting with your handler. But first, I am working on the assumption that you sweep your apartment for listening devices on a daily basis, da?”
“Da… of course, sir,” Nikita said, feeling insulted at the hint of a suggestion that he would not have.
“Then proceed on why you broke with the KGB convention of avoiding contact with case officers as much as possible. I have gone many months without meeting a handler in some of my early missions.”
Nikita glanced at the clock on the wall. It was seven thirty a.m. He did not have long before he would need to leave for work.
“I fear that the Americans are closing in on us. The missions I have been directed to carry out, they are too numerous and the Americans have taken notice.”
“You are questioning your orders?” the colonel asked, looking irritated.
“Of course not, sir, which is why I carried out the missions without hesitation, and with great success. But despite there being no hint of scandal around the… deaths, there is a clear link between all of them. They have asked my team to investigate what they were calling the Black Russian, but are now calling the White Russian.”
At this, Klitchkov burst into laughter. “The White Russian! You could not make this up. The American dogs!”
Nikita couldn’t help but let a slight smile escape in spite of himself. “The name change was a directive that came straight from the president,” he said, smiling more broadly. At this Klitchkov broke into a fresh wave of giggles. Nikita looked at the colonel, holding his sides giggling, with concern. Despite all of his training, this was the most unpredictable and unreadable man he had ever come across. He was either insane or brilliant. Most likely both, he thought to himself.
Klitchkov wiped his eyes. “Apologies for my indiscretion there, agent. Please do continue.”
“Sir, as I’m sure you know, I have been charged with analysing the KGB itself, particularly Yerin. But our station chief has now asked me to work with the analyst investigating Soviet adherence to the INF Treaty, and also the analyst looking into the White Russian. He has begun questioning the reasons for the death of the secretary of defense…”
“Has he indeed,” said Klitchkov, placing his palms together and balancing his chin on his fingers, lost in thought. “It seems the vultures are beginning to circle around the feast.”
Nikita didn’t reply, allowing his superior to focus on thoughts. He walked over to the window and peered through a crack in the curtain to check the street for any unusual behaviour. Nothing out of the ordinary could be seen, but he remained in a state of high tension. He would not be allowed to live if his true identity was uncovered. He was no fool; if the Americans captured him but didn’t kill him then the Russians would in order to prevent him revealing their secrets.
“Are you throwing them off the scent?” Klitchkov inquired.
“Wherever I can, sir, but the closer they get, the greater the threat to my cover.”
“Your cover cannot be blown under any circumstances. Are your nerves holding?”
“Sir?”
“There have been some concerns raised that your edge may have gone too soft.”
“On what grounds, Colonel?” Nikita asked, raising his eyebrow.
The colonel sat back and attempted a relaxed position, though his stiff soldiering posture made the act look rigid nonetheless. “I imagine you like it here in America; you are able to fit in better perhaps than in
Russia.”
“I prefer it in Russia, sir. There I know who the racists are because they tell me to my face. Here they hide it, instead saying what they think is the politically correct thing to say, while they avoid shaking hands or the police find reasons to pull you over.”
The colonel smiled. “You have been drinking a lot, da?”
“Have I been away from Russia so long that drinking is now frowned upon?”
“High level assets such as yourself are held to different standards. I do not understand; you always refused vodka throughout your training.”
“I am doing what I can to gain the trust of my team. Their guard drops when they drink, sir.”
“And what of your guard, agent? Where was that when you went to bed with your colleague last night? A japóška no less — why was I not surprised?” Klitchkov rolled his eyes callously.
“You were spying on me?” Nikita demanded angrily, ignoring the pretext of the colonel’s comment.
Klitchkov stopped smiling. “This is the KGB, you arrogant little shit. A spy organisation. You think yourself above everyone else? You let your youth betray you. Nobody escapes our eyes.”
“Sorry, sir, I am angrier at myself for not recognising my tail.”
“Perhaps if you stopped drinking that brown whiskey shit and drank a Russian man’s drink you would have kept a greater hold on your senses.
“Possibly, but if I start drinking neat vodka that might set alarm bells ringing.”
“Possibly, agent, possibly.”
“I cannot deny spending last night with a woman from my team. But she is an asset I need to keep close, as she is the analyst assigned to investigating the White Russian.”
Klitchkov said nothing but studied the young assassin’s face. It appeared earnest, but then his training had taught him to appear earnest.
“Very well, I will take your word for the moment. Her name?” he said, withdrawing a small notepad and pen from his pocket.
“Sarah Chang,” replied Nikita without hesitation. “Notrowski already has her details, along with everyone else in my unit.” He saw Klitchkov writing her name down in Cyrillic characters along with some further notes that he couldn’t decipher from his distance.