by Jamie Smith
When he got to Nikita, he thrust a Kalashnikov into his arms, his eyes burning with hatred. It was a sentiment Nikita was used to being on the receiving end of, but he gazed coldly back, still thinking about how Denisov had done his best to kill him so brazenly.
As they lined up, aiming at targets of various distances across the clearing depending on their weapon, Nikita allowed himself a glance at the woods behind him from where Neski’s scream had echoed — but there was no trace of him.
None of the young KGB soldiers ever saw Neski again.
***
“Yes, I know of him,” said Nikita, working to collect himself and clear his head of his memories from the Taiga. “But he heads up their KGB training programme; he has nothing to do with their nuclear activity.”
“It seems your sources are a little out of date if these nuclear site visits are anything to go by.”
“You said he is disappearing with lots of staff?” said Nikita.
“Yes, but I doubt he’s recruiting the—”
“And warheads too?” interrupted Nikita.
“That’s the strangest thing; it’s like he’s just leaving them there with a skeleton staff,” Blaine said patiently. “It doesn’t fit with how they’ve always operated. Reports on the ground are that their troops are flooding out of Afghanistan as well. It’s like they’re just suddenly throwing in the towel on the Cold War.”
“It does sort of fit with what Petrenko has been saying, I guess,” said Nikita with his best attempt at sincerity. Blaine nodded dubiously. “Where have they got to on the White Russian now?” Nikita asked, working to keep the urgency out of his voice. “If what our informant said is true then the clock’s ticking fast.”
“That’s Chang’s remit, not mine, pal. I’m surprised she’s not here.”
“I think she was a bit shook up from some shit that happened yesterday. I’m sure she’ll be here later.”
“You’d know…” said Blaine with a wink.
Nikita’s face flushed.
“This is the problem with working in an office of spies, kinda hard to keep anything from us.” Blaine laughed. “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me, and probably everyone else in the office,” he added, clapping a hand on Nikita’s arm. “Jeez, how hard are your arms! I didn’t know you work out.”
“I do what I can,” said Nikita, smiling, before standing up and heading to Sykes’ office. He knocked and entered without waiting for a reply. A cloud of smoke billowed out to him. As it cleared and he approached the desk, he saw his boss sitting rubbing his temples, a cigarette burned down to the filter glowing in between his fingers. If Blaine had looked bad, it was nothing on Sykes, whose face was grey and screwed into a frown, eyes bloodshot and hangdog.
“Marshall, what do you want?” he said.
“Have you found him yet, boss? Have you found Brishnov?”
“No, we’ve had people on it all night but we’re no closer to apprehending him. But that’s the least of my problems. The vice president is refusing to reschedule his press conference today, even refusing to wear a Kevlar vest.”
“What! Why?”
“Says it would send the wrong message and it would be letting the terrorist win.”
“Does he have any idea how dangerous Brishnov is? He’s not some two-bit terrorist with a homemade bomb, he’s one of, if not the, world’s most highly trained and deadly assassin.”
“I know that and you know that, but politicians care only about perception.”
“Well, his stupidity could work to our advantage at least, sir.”
“How the hell do you figure?”
“Taras Brishnov is clearly on a different level to any spy we’ve encountered before. We know now that he has been a key KGB asset for many years, yet we didn’t even know of his existence until the other day. That’s despite having all of our Soviet agents reporting to us throughout Brezhnev and Petrenko’s reign, up until Yerin’s recent dismantling of our spy network over there. Never once did this guy get mentioned. Yet we know he was close to General Secretary Brezhnev and Yerin, until his recent decision to go rogue, for which we just don’t know what his motivations are.”
“I hope there’s a point coming in this somewhere,” said Sykes sarcastically.
“Yes, sir. The point is that we’re never going to track this guy; he’s too good at staying under the radar. The advantage of the VP’s pig-headedness is that we know exactly where Brishnov is going to be and when. He’s coming to us so we don’t need to go find him.”
“You’re suggesting using the vice president as bait,” Sykes spouted sternly.
“Absolutely,” Nikita replied flatly. “If Phillips insists on putting himself unnecessarily in harm’s way, let’s leverage that in our favour.”
“I’m not sure that will hold up in front of a congressional hearing,” said Sykes with a wry grin, “but it does appear that it’s our best option. However,” he said holding up his hand before Nikita could interrupt, “we also have to continue the search for him. The honey trap should be the last resort. Otherwise, the shit storm that will explode if we fail will destroy us both.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now go and put a plan together, sharpish,” Sykes said, waving him away. “And for Chrissake get the VP into a Kevlar vest.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
“You’ll do more than that if you want to have a job to come into tomorrow.”
Nikita nodded and left the smoke-filled room, inhaling deeply as he stepped into the recycled air of the windowless office.
An hour later he was standing on the sloping driveway of Number One Observatory Circle, having come through a series of rigorous Secret Service security checks. He looked up at the wood-trimmed Victorian building, a gleaming white masterpiece of symmetrical turrets and verandas, and braced himself for a meeting with Vice President Gerald Phillips, a man who had become an essential part of the political fabric.
As he climbed the steps into the porch, which was framed on four corners by thick white pillars, and approached the front door, it opened before he was able to knock.
“Ah you’re our man from the CIA?” asked a man in his early thirties, his dark blond hair brushed over his ears in a look that belonged more to the fifties than the late eighties.
“Yes, sir, Jacob Marshall,” Nikita said, holding out his hand. “But I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”
The young man clasped his hand firmly. “Ed Sheen. Now follow me; I could only get you a coupla minutes with the VP,” he said with a confident swagger.
He led Nikita through several interconnected rooms. “You gotta get the VP to wear a vest,” he said over the shoulder of his tan brown suit. “Don’t get me wrong, him getting shot would put us up ten points over any other candidates, but that’s no good to us if he’s dead,” he said with an insincere chuckle.
“I’ll do my best, Mr Sheen…”
“Please, call me Ed,” he said with a wave of his hand. “He can be a pretty stubborn old shmuck so don’t let him dig his heels in too hard. Don’t be fooled by the bland exterior; he’s sharp as a tack.”
“Duly noted,” said Nikita as they came to an ornate wooden door with a gleaming brass handle. Outside it stood an ageless, slender man with hazel eyes in a suit that left you in no doubt of his strength. He surveyed Nikita with fleeting distaste before arranging his face into a look of impassiveness. Nikita thought he looked like a child’s head had been placed on the body of a granite warrior.
“Hey, John, the CIA are here to try and talk some sense into Gerald.”
“It’s Mr Vice President to you, Mr Sheen; show some respect to the office,” replied the stiff man guarding the door.
Ed turned to Nikita and rolled his eyes. “The vice president,” he said sarcastically, and with a thinly veiled flicker of exasperation, “recently hired a new bodyguard who takes his work awfully seriously, despite the fact we’re surrounded by Secret Service.”
John st
epped forward and for a moment Nikita thought he was going to punch Ed, but he instead spoke to Nikita. “Please raise your arms,” and then proceeded to give Nikita a very thorough patting down, before stepping aside.
As Nikita went to enter the study, John leant in and said, “One thing I agree on with Mr Sheen is that you must convince the vice president to wear a vest.”
“It sounds like it may be a thankless task but I’ll do my best,” Nikita said earnestly to the curious-looking man who nodded and opened the door for him.
The room was a jarring fusion of pastels and turquoise insisted upon by Audrey Phillips, combined with the traditional colonial cornices and baroque wooden finishing.
Vice President Gerald Phillips was sitting at the desk, his chin perched upon his hands, seemingly lost in thought. A gilded crystal decanter filled with whiskey stood upon the polished walnut desk, alongside a boxy Amstrad and a huge Motorola DynaTAC mobile phone. As the door closed, Phillips snapped from his reverie and looked over to Nikita placidly.
“CIA here for you, sir,” said Ed from over Nikita’s shoulder.
Nikita stepped towards the vice president who stood from his chair. “Agent Jacob Marshall, an honour to meet you, Mr Vice President,” he said brightly, offering his hand.
Gerald Phillips shook the hand across the desk and waved at him to take a seat. “So I suppose you’re here to tell me not to speak at Capitol Hill today, Agent Marshall?”
“No, sir, I quite understand the importance of giving a show of strength in the face of terrorism.”
Phillips’s face gave no sign of surprise, but his voice took on a lighter tone. “I’m pleased to hear you say so, son. I will not wear a vest.”
“However…”
“How did I know there would be a however?” the vice president said drily.
“You misunderstand, sir, we have absolutely no intention of getting in the way of your press conference; it’s an important speech for our nation.”
“Which is exactly why I can’t stand up there, the man who will ask our troops to go to war, and be too afraid to stand on the steps of our own Capitol without a Kevlar vest. I would look pathetic.”
“I wholeheartedly understand, Mr Vice President.”
“But?”
“But we can’t ignore the fact that the ‘White Russian’, a man we believe to be one of the most lethal assassins — probably the most talented spy the world has ever seen — is on a one-man mission to murder you. You won’t be able to continue your great work for the country if you’re lying dead and riddled with bullets, because I’m sure you know that KGB always empties an entire magazine into its victims.”
Nikita slowed his pace now that he had reeled Phillips in. “You’re too vital, not just as our vice president but also as our future president. Imagine the symbolism and the threat to national security if you were mowed down on the steps of the Capitol! So we just ask that you throw on a Kevlar vest — standing there and speaking is the show of strength, not what you’re wearing.”
The vice president leant back in his chair and pushed the tips of his fingers together, the hint of a smirk playing upon his lips.
“You sure you’re not a politician? That kind of spin is straight from the playbook of Ed here,” he said, winking at Ed who grinned back.
“I’m sure I could find a position for such an eloquent guy,” Ed added jovially.
“I think I’ll stick to national security if it’s OK with you,” Nikita said awkwardly.
Gerald Phillips released a low snicker, the closest he ever got to laughing. It sounded like dry grass rustling in a strong breeze.
“Fine, you’ve got me, spin doctor. I’ll wear a vest. Now get outta here before I change my mind,” he said, his face taciturn one more.
“Thank you, Mr Vice President, you’ve made a very wise choice,” Nikita said as he stood and drew a sheet of paper from his inside pocket. “I’ve taken the liberty of making a couple of suggestions for how to minimise the risk of being shot during your speech, sir; I hope you’ll cast your eye over them,” said Nikita, looking intently at Phillips and offering his hand. The vice president raised his eyebrows but gave a small nod, shaking Nikita’s hand before allowing him to be led out of the room by Ed and past the lurking bodyguard outside the door.
“That was inspired!” Ed exclaimed. “You played him like a fiddle, massaging his ego then going in for the kill.”
“I think he knew full well what I was doing,” Nikita replied candidly, “but the point is it worked, so I’ll take it.” He breathed a sigh of relief; thank god for his Neuro-Linguistic Programming training under the KGB’s psychological warfare expert Roman Gryaznov. Reading people, quickly identifying their weaknesses and using them to bend them to your will. The CIA had afforded him no such training. He was, after all, only meant to be an analyst.
They reached the front door and as he stepped outside Ed said, “Whatever you call it, good job in there, agent.” Ed shook his hand, his eyes widening at the strength in Nikita’s grip.
Leaving the house without a backward glance, Nikita stepped into his car and headed not for the office, but straight to Capitol Hill.
When he arrived on the steps of the Capitol Building, he gazed up at the gleaming white structure, the seat of legislative power in the United States. Decisions made by the congress within rippled across the world. If he was successful in his ultimate mission, he wondered what would become of this historic site.
Currently it appeared more of a tourist thoroughfare than a political behemoth, with groups being led this way and that by guides, and heavy cameras being lugged around by starry-eyed visitors from across the globe.
He turned and gazed down the long stretch of lawns towards the towering Washington Monument a mile and a half away and the Lincoln Memorial beyond it. His eyes scanned everything and missed nothing, a constant stream of information flooding into his brain; nothing escaped even his periphery. The twitchy gardener tending the roses; the people in the tourist groups who didn’t look like typical tourists and the ones that did; the suited politicians milling around the entrance to the Capitol Building who were sweating excessively or looking nervous. He saw them all.
Nikita strolled up the steps and leant against the wall in the shadow of one of the pillars, from where he continued to survey the scene before him. Looking around, he tried to identify possible sniper locations. There was plenty of tree cover lining the lawns but setting up and taking a sniper shot from there without being spotted would be close to impossible. Buildings lined the lawn, with the various Smithsonian museums all representing ideal locations from which to aim at the steps of the United States Capitol. Even with tightened security, Nikita doubted it would prevent an agent such as Brishnov from gaining entry and clearing a room with a view of the Capitol.
Already he could see Secret Service agents setting up along the roofs of many of the buildings, and several milling across the lawns, putting up barriers and keeping a close eye on any possibly furtive lurkers.
After absorbing the area for thirty minutes, Nikita walked down to a payphone and made two phone calls. The first was to the office.
“Yes?”
“Sir, it’s Jake—”
“Where the hell are you?” Sykes interjected.
“I’m at the Capitol; I wanted to get here early for some reconnaissance.”
“You’re not a field agent! Get back here now, Marshall, I swear to God.”
“Sir, as the department’s KGB expert I think it’s important I be on site for this one. I have some understanding of how they think and operate.”
“So much so that you didn’t even know that this guy existed until yesterday,” Sykes said caustically.
“The VP is going to wear a vest now,” Nikita said, changing the subject rapidly.
“How did you manage that?” Sykes murmured, softening a little.
“I just highlighted how it was in the best interests of the country; he’s a sucker for a bit of patri
otism.”
“Good work. He’s not an easy man to persuade,” Sykes responded before pausing. “Very well, stay on site and do what you can to help. But don’t get in the way of the Secret Service. Unlike you, they’re actually extensively trained for this sort of thing.”
“Sure thing,” said Nikita. Already he had identified at least five easy ways to murder the vice president on the steps of the Capitol Building and get away before anyone even realised what had happened.
But he could be sure that if he had thought of five in just half an hour, Brishnov would have reams of angles that he had been plotting, possibly for weeks.
After he put the receiver down, he slotted a few more coins in and made the second call.
After ringing for some time, a woman’s voice answered timidly. “Hello?”
“Sarah, it’s me,” he said, “How are you doing?”
He heard her breathe a sigh of relief. “I’m glad you called. Where are you?”
“I’m at the Capitol; this is where Brishnov’s going to try and take out, Phillips.”
“Isn’t that the Secret Service’s job?” she said quickly, almost snapping. “We’ve done more than enough! Why would you put yourself back in the field?”
“Don’t worry, the only one in any danger today is the vice president. He should be here soon and then we can put this whole thing behind us.”
She sighed again. “I wish we could turn the clock back to yesterday morning, to being in bed together.”
“Instead let’s look forward to the clocks rolling forward and being in bed together again tonight. Are you going into work today?”
“How can you even ask that after what we saw yesterday?” she demanded.
“I’m sorry, of course you aren’t. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Just you to come back in one piece. Maybe we can get takeout.”
“Perfect, take it easy and I’ll catch you later.”
He hung up and rubbed his eyes. His chest felt constricted and it was hard to breathe. There was no place for a girlfriend in the world in which he was operating. When I get home, I’ll end things with her, he thought to himself. It’s the only way, before it’s too late.