The Soviet Comeback

by Jamie Smith

  “Nothing for us,” said Nikita, eager to get the meeting over with as quickly as possible.

  “You knew we were coming?” Sarah asked sharply.

  The man chuckled. “You won’t mind if I do?” he said, ignoring Nikita’s question. “Please, sit,” he said, beckoning to the ornate furniture in the middle of the room. Nikita selected a crimson chaise longue to perch on, while Sarah sank into a deep armchair. Petr Chrastek remained standing. “You are here for information?”

  “Who are you?” Sarah asked directly.

  Petr gave a thin smile. “I’m many different things to many different people. I like to, as the Americans say, keep my fingers in many different pies. But to you, I am a man who can point you in the right direction.”

  “How do we know you aren’t a Soviet spy?” she asked.

  His eyes flickered to Nikita in a smirk. “You don’t. I will give you information, my dear; you can decide what to do with it. My employment is none of your concern,” he said as he took a sip from the small sherry glass held gently in his hand.

  “Petr, tell us what you know,” said Nikita impatiently.

  “Very well,” said the Czech man. “You are looking for a KGB assassin,” he said as a statement, not as a question.

  Neither of the CIA agents responded, waiting for him to continue.

  “I know who he is. But first I will need something from you.”

  Sarah laughed. “I knew it. You’re a fraud.”

  “Sarah, he already knows more than he should.” Nikita looked at Petr. “What do you want?”

  “Immunity,” whispered Petr.

  “Immunity from what?” demanded Sarah.

  “From any indiscretions that may surface against me,” he said dismissively.

  “You know full well we can’t give you blanket immunity when we don’t even know what the charges are,” said Nikita.

  “Then, I will keep my information to myself and the vice president will die,” the reluctant informant replied.

  There was a taut silence, in which the two CIA agents stared at each other.

  “What bullshit is this?” Sarah said, standing up. “Come on, Jake, this joker is clearly wasting our time.”

  “If you leave, then you are consigning the vice president of the United States, and most likely the next president judging by the polls, to death. And very soon too,” Petr said coyly.

  Sarah froze in place, clearly torn. “Come on Chrastek, spit it out,” said Nikita, his eyes boring into him. Why was he making it so hard to get the information he had been placed by the KGB to provide?

  “Not without my immunity,” the paunchy man said, inspecting his nails and polishing them on his shirt.

  “Fine, but if you have the knowledge you claim to have, immunity or not you will be forever known by the American intelligence services. You’ve come this far, and you brought us to you, so why play this game?” said Nikita.

  “Just give me my immunity. I know your department has the authority.”

  “Incorrect. Immunity comes from way above our pay grade I’m afraid, buddy.”

  The Czech man’s face tightened and he ground his teeth in obvious frustration. He turned his back, gazed out of the window and hummed along to the classical music emanating from his record player.

  Suddenly his face was pressed against the glass as Sarah had pounced and twisted his arm behind his back. He yelled out in pain.

  “We tried to do this the easy way, but you will tell us what we need to know. Forget immunity, your life will be made total hell; I will see to it personally,” she said with strength belying her slight frame.

  “Sarah, come on,” Nikita said, “you can’t strong-arm a civilian.”

  “Nobody knows we’re here, Jake, nobody at HQ knows who Petr Chrastek is, if that’s even his real name. I’m not leaving here without the information locked in this crumbly head of his,” she said, tightening her grip on his arm and causing him to cry out again. “Now help me out,” she said as she twisted the informant round and slammed him into the floor, digging her knee into his back.

  Nikita squatted down in front of him and looked into his eyes. “Dude, it’s really worth your while to just tell her what she needs to know; she isn’t pissing around here.”

  The man’s face had turned beet red with anger and pain, but he glanced at Nikita, a look of knowing passing between them. He had played it very well, thought Nikita. “Very well, very well! Let me go and I’ll tell you,” he spat out.

  “Too late, old man, give me information and I’ll let you go,” she said viciously, digging her knee into his spine.

  He wailed in pain. “Brishnov! His name is Brishnov, Taras Brishnov!” he cried, his East European accent strengthening as he lost control amidst the pain. “Now let me go, you monster,” he said, and she relented slightly as he slumped forward, his face buried in the shagpile rug she had pressed him into.

  She dusted herself off and sat primly back on the armchair.

  “Ok, now the rest, Chrastek,” said Nikita calmly, throwing an angry look at Sarah.

  The man turned over, walked to the window and poured himself another sherry, sipping it and taking a deep breath. “You are animals who deserve no information and everything that happens to you.”

  Sarah stood up and threw a painting from the wall onto the floor, preparing to stamp on it.

  “OK, OK! You have made your point, you, brute,” he said, fussing over the painting. He sat down with a sigh. “Taras Brishnov is the KGB’s most secret weapon. The one you call The White Russian, or is it the Black Russian?” he said to Nikita.

  “How could you possibly know that?” said Sarah sternly. “That’s classified.”

  “I’ve forgotten more things than your tiny Korean mind could ever hope to comprehend,” he said poisonously to Sarah.

  Her eyes hardened in fury, and Nikita laid a hand on her knee to calm her. He looked at Petr. “Stop poking the bear, Petr,” he said, “unless you also have something to say about the size of Nigerian brains?” His own eyes were now intense with anger. Petr said nothing. “I didn’t think so,” said Nikita. He withdrew his gun from his belt and laid it on his lap. “Now my patience is being severely tested, so I suggest you start talking. You have my word we will ensure your safety,” he said earnestly.

  Petr looked nervously from one to the other, and seemed to cave in on himself somewhat. He looked down at the floor. “Tomorrow Brishnov will assassinate Vice President Gerald Phillips when he announces his intention to run for president on Capitol Hill,” he said in a monotone that sounded a little recited. “He has gone rogue in the face of what he sees as weak Soviet leadership and intends to strike a deadly blow at the heart of America.” He gazed out of the window and added, “I do not imagine it would be his last strike either.” He looked at Nikita benignly. “I cannot deny that it is a relief to have shared this information; now do what you want with me,” he said and held his wrists out in supplication for arrest.

  But the arrest would never be made, for at that moment the side of his head burst in a shower of blood and he slumped sideways.

  CHAPTER 20

  Sarah screamed and Nikita threw himself towards her and dragged her behind the chair, expecting further shots.

  Peering from behind the chair, he could see the single clean hole in the window where the sniper shot had entered.

  He crept out from behind the chair and moved swiftly to the side of the room and out of sight of the window. With his back to the wall, he tentatively peered through the angle of the window. He ducked and moved to the other side of the window and did the same thing, looking for possible sniper locations. The assassin was clearly a pro, with no sign of them visible anywhere. But they must be close; the destruction to the entire right side of what had recently been Petr’s face was a testament to that. The white shag rug that he had been groaning into only minutes before was now thickly matted with the blood of its owner.

  Nikita walked back over to Sarah and
as he did, he heard the whistle of a bullet fly past his head and lodge itself in the wall in front of him. He flung himself down to the ground and commando crawled back to where Sarah was.

  Her face was white with shock and she was cradling her ankle which was visibly swollen.

  “We need to get out of here,” he said to her. “Now.” She nodded silently. “Can you walk?” he asked her.

  “I think so; I think it’s only a sprain from the fall,” she said stutteringly.

  He helped her up tenderly, but moved her swiftly out of sight of the window. He looked at the other hole in the window and the placement of the bullet in the wall. The shooter had to be on the roof of the building opposite. If he didn’t have Sarah with him, he would back himself to be able to track them down in minutes.

  With her arm over his shoulder, Nikita helped her from the crime scene and deposited her in the car, scanning the rooftops as he went for any sign of the sniper. “Wait here,” he said to her, and with his gun held low to the ground made his way back to the apartment. There could be nothing to implicate him for the Americans to find.

  Covering his hands with socks from Petr’s bedroom drawer to avoid leaving any prints, he expertly swept the apartment. The apartment was all style but little substance, with nothing of much note.

  However, as he did a final sweep of the lounge, he spotted a scrap of paper on the floor under the sherry decanter which had narrowly avoided being destroyed by the first bullet.

  He snatched it up and his blood ran cold when he saw it. Hearing sirens in the distance, he stuffed it into his pocket, and hurried from the apartment. The second shot had not been meant to kill him. It was a warning; he had never been more sure, of anything in his life.

  ***

  They were silent as they drove back to Washington. Sarah was shaking and going into shock. He rubbed her leg and stroked her as he drove, hoping that warmth and some human contact would help her to relax. For all her tough exterior, she was a tender soul, and that, he thought, was probably what attracted him to her the most. He smiled at her warmly, and tried to push Elysia from his mind.

  They got to HQ and, with Sarah limping badly, made their way as quickly as they could to the offices of the Soviet Counter-intelligence Branch. They walked straight into the office of Sykes without knocking.

  “What the hell!” Sykes remonstrated, before seeing the look on the faces of the two agents. He immediately fell silent.

  “Boss, you need to hear this,” Nikita said urgently as he helped the still shocked Sarah into one of the chairs. He didn’t take a seat himself; instead, he began striding back and forth, the adrenaline still coursing through him. He could feel Larry’s hipflask against his chest and longed to take a long drink from it. Not now, not yet, he thought to himself.

  “For Chrissake stop pacing and tell me what’s happened,” demanded the chief.

  Nikita stopped pacing and looked at Sykes. “The White Russian is real and he’s going to kill Phillips,” he said with as much sincerity as he could muster.

  “Phillips as in the vice president?” he replied, with a smirk. “Is this some kind of a joke, Marshall?”

  “No, sir. The White Russian is a rogue KGB agent who intends to hit us right where it hurts. What’s more, we know who he is.”

  He threw the photo of Brishnov down on the table. “Taras Brishnov, the KGB’s greatest prize, and the jewel of Brezhnev’s crown. With Yerin gone, he’s lost his last remaining mentor.”

  “Jesus Christ, you better have some proof for this.”

  “Our proof is lying on a white shag carpet in Baltimore with the side of his head blown off,” said Nikita, who began pacing again.

  The vein in Sykes’ temple looked ready to burst. He gave Sarah a cigarette and lit it for her. As she exhaled the smoke, she relaxed slightly and her hands trembled less.

  “You two had better start at the beginning,” Sykes said, lighting a cigarette for himself.

  “There’s no time, Sykes,” said Nikita angrily. “We need to secure the VP.”

  “You’re upset, so I’ll allow your insubordination this once,” said Sykes. “Now sit your ass down and tell me everything. And talk quickly,” he said with a coldness that left no room for argument.

  “OK, but before I do can I get these video tapes over to an analyst to see if he can trace the car registration?”

  “Come on, Jake, you know the chances of that car being registered to a KGB spy are pretty slim. Now start talking.”

  Nikita relayed everything from receiving the tip off from the SE division through to his and Chang’s visit to Baltimore and what they had uncovered.

  As he finished recounting the murder of Chrastek he sat back, but Sykes was leaning forwards, looking calmer than Nikita had ever seen him. “OK, you’re both dismissed. Go home and get some rest; tomorrow could be an intense day.”

  Nikita was stunned. “But, boss, you need us to help track Brishnov down!” He noticed with alarm a hint of the Russian slip into his American accent. Mercifully Sykes did not.

  “You’re analysts, not field agents. You’ve done great work, and stay close to your phones as we may need you. Let the experts track him down,” he said in his best attempt at kindness.

  Nikita stood up and left the room without saying anything. He knew he’d pay for his disrespect, but the mission was too vital to his own identity remaining a secret for him to sit back and watch from the sidelines.

  Sarah followed him out, limping slightly, still shell-shocked but with some colour returning to her cheeks.

  He turned to her and swallowed his anger at her. “Let’s get you home,” he said, putting his arm around her and helping her walk out, not caring how it might look to the rest of the office.

  “Can I stay with you tonight?” Sarah asked him, looking almost childlike up at him.

  He paused. “Sure, of course you can.”

  “You’re sure?” she asked dubiously.

  “Of course,” he said again, but only to keep his cover. Inside he was a maelstrom of feelings.

  They didn’t speak on the drive home, but Nikita tenderly helped the still shaking Sarah out of the car and into his apartment.

  Sitting her on the sofa, he went to make tea for her. While the kettle was boiling, he took a long slug from Larry’s thermos flask and exhaled heavily.

  When he returned to the living room Nikita found Sarah crying softly, and felt a momentary pang of irritation. On the scale of the things, he had seen and done in the past year, the death of Petr Chrastek ranked fairly low.

  He collected himself and sat down beside her. He put his arm around her once more, feeling awkward.

  “It’s my own fault,” she whispered.

  “Of course, it isn’t,” Nikita replied. “You had no way of knowing what was going to happen to Chrastek.”

  “Not that! But that I was there at all. I’m an analyst, Jake. I’m good at research, at numbers, at puzzles, but this? I only learned how to fire a gun at the team field training we did,” she sobbed. “I’m not cut out for it.”

  “You’re a fantastic analyst, Sarah; we aren’t designed for field work,” Nikita said kindly.

  “You are!” she exclaimed. “You were so comfortable, and so quick to jump and protect me.”

  “That was because I care for you, nothing more,” he said. “Anybody would have done the same.”

  She shook her head, looking more like her old self. “No, they wouldn’t, Jake. I thought you were just an analyst, but there’s more to you.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked cautiously, noticing his shoulders tense.

  “You’re heroic.”

  Nikita laughed bitterly. “Trust me when I say that I am no hero.”

  “Just my hero then,” she said, smiling and kissing him gently on the cheek before snuggling up to him.

  Nikita smiled at her but felt cold inside. There was ice in his veins and all he could think of was Brishnov. While Brishnov was alive, he knew that nobody wa
s safe. Not him, not Sarah or Blaine, not even Elysia. Brishnov would have seen him with her earlier. Nobody was safe.

  After some time, he felt the steady breathing of Sarah against his arm and lifted her gently, carrying her to bed and covering her.

  Returning to the sofa, he opened a bottle of Old Forester, something he had developed a taste for since his visit to Simon Conlan’s ranch. It sat easier with his government salary than the Very Old Fitzgerald.

  Pouring the bourbon into a scratched tumbler, he picked it up and gazed into the golden spirit, getting lost in the deep colour of it and the warped view of the room through it. He threw the glass down in one and filled it once more, sitting back and allowing his dark thoughts to envelop him.

  ***

  Across the world in Afghanistan the air was thick with blood. Blood, dust and death. It sat heavily on the plains and mountains of Spīn Ghar, along with the corpses of hundreds of Afghan men, women and children. And no small number of Soviet soldiers.

  The young Soviet captain looked out across the Tobagi plain where many of the civilians had hoped to find safe passage, and his jaw bunched as his teeth grated. Suddenly he couldn’t fight the bile at the back of his throat and vomited onto the dry ground in front of him. He was not the first to have a weak stomach that day, and certainly wouldn’t be the last.

  Gazing back across the plain to the village, he was cast in shadow by the mountain behind him. The echoes of gunfire and screams from the caves rang around him.

  The mujahideen had fought ferociously, employing guerrilla tactics. They nestled among the crags and bushes of the Spīn Ghar mountains, firing mortars at the slopes as the Soviet forces climbed towards the Tora Bora caves. The young captain’s thoughts were disturbed by the sound of raised voices behind him. He turned and walked into the cave which was angled so as to be invisible until you were right upon it.

  As he entered, he saw two Afghan mujahideen on their knees in front of Sergeant Pogrevniak and one of his privates, both of them aiming their AK47s directly at the prisoners.