The Soviet Comeback

by Jamie Smith

  “Tut tut, Viktor, you have been a bad boy. How the mighty have fallen,” Brishnov said cruelly to his mentor.

  Viktor Yerin looked a wasted man. A patchy silver beard had grown over his pallid cheeks. He stood leaning forwards against the smooth concrete wall, a dirty grey vest clinging to his wasted body.

  “Taras!” he croaked. “I knew you would come.” Relief covered his face and a tear snaked a path down his dirty chin.

  “I see our old friend Klitchkov does not take kindly to traitors,” Brishnov said disapprovingly.

  A scowl crossed the tear-stained face of the old man. “Me a traitor! I will have my revenge on the tyrant.”

  “That you will, Viktor. But first I need some information.”

  “Of course, but release me first, Taras, there will be time for talk later,” said Viktor eagerly, his face close to the slat.

  “Of course,” Brishnov replied and Yerin began to sob with relief. “It’s OK, sir,” Brishnov said gently, “I just need to pick the lock.” He began idly poking the keyhole with his shiv, seeming to concentrate. “Tell me, Viktor, where are they keeping Allochka’s family?” he asked conversationally.

  Yerin sniffed, his usually perfectly combed silver hair lying lank and dishevelled across his forehead. “Why do you need that information?” he asked sternly, a vague shadow of his former authority upon him.

  “It is all a part of the plan to strike at the heart of Petrenko’s leadership and to overthrow Klitchkov, sir. Allochka must be eliminated, and the only way to reach him is through his family.”

  “He is our best agent, our best hope for high level intelligence from the CIA,” said Yerin sternly. “It would be folly to anger him, let alone to… remove him.”

  Brishnov bristled at the praise for Allochka. “Perhaps he is not as good as you believe. He has been compromised and is back in Russia,” he said, still tapping away at the lock with mock concentration.

  “He is?” Yerin said, surprised.

  “He is; he has fallen off his American perch. Come now, Viktor, a black could never align with our goal to return the Soviet empire to greatness,” he said softly.

  “Perhaps you are correct, Taras.” Yerin sighed. “Did the bomb destroy the Capitol?” he asked eagerly.

  “Your man failed. You should have entrusted someone with more skill. Was he Pamyat?” Brishnov asked, stopping playing with the lock to look at Yerin curiously.

  “Of a sort. That is bad news that it did not go well; it was such a good plan.” He grunted. “Hurry up with that lock,” he added, peering nervously through the slat.

  “It is an old lock; it is stubborn.” Brishnov puffed, controlling his irritation at the old man’s questions. “Where did you hide the family? Dagestan? Tajikistan?” he asked, looking up at Yerin. “Surely not Tatarstan?” he said with alarm. “They will be dead already!”

  “Do not be a fool; they murder anyone with so much as a tan in Tatarstan. They had to be more isolated.”

  Brishnov began to laugh. “Surely you didn’t send them to Siberia?” he asked incredulously.

  Yerin began to laugh too. It was hoarse and dry from dehydration and turned into a racking cough. “No honest Russian wants a black for a neighbour; where else could I put them?” he asked innocently, with his hands out. “I kept my word; nobody will bother them there.”

  “Where did you put them?”

  “Oh, far north,” Yerin said dismissively, waving a hand.

  Brishnov stopped pretending to fiddle with the lock. “Where, Viktor?” he asked, his eyes flashing.

  Yerin looked into Brishnov’s eyes. “Near Talnakh.”

  “I need specifics if you want me to get you out of here.”

  “About twenty clicks east of Talnakh, in the foothills of the Putoron Mountains. There is a road that takes you out of the town. After about ten clicks, a track leads off to the left and leads you behind a low mountain. In the valley you will find them.”

  “Excellent, thank you, Viktor.”

  “Taras… they have a child,” Viktor said hesitantly. “The child is an innocent.”

  Brishnov looked coldly at his former mentor. “Innocence is entirely subjective. You have become weak, Viktor.”

  “Remember with whom you are speaking, Agent Brishnov,” Yerin replied, drawing his dishevelled body up to its full height. “Now release me.”

  Brishnov smirked. “I think perhaps you need more time to think on your sins, sir.”

  Horror crossed the face of Yerin. “Taras, no! We have been comrades for over fifteen years. Think of Leonid! Think of what we achieved together!”

  “That was a better time, led by better men, Viktor. I gave everything I had to them, and a ruined Soviet empire is how they repaid me. Goodbye,” he said.

  “They will hang me!”

  “You will get the firing squad, Viktor; it is an honourable way to go.” Then as an afterthought, he pushed the shiv through the slot in the door, hearing it land with a plop in the excrement and detritus slathered across the floor of Yerin’s Kishka. “If you can find it, you should fall on it; there is more honour in that,” he said cruelly.

  “Taras, please! I will kill them for you, just name it,” he cried. “Please, I beg you!” he sobbed. Brishnov smiled and closed the slat in the door, dulling the sound of his former superior’s voice and walked back along the corridor without a backwards glance.

  ***

  Four photographs sat on Chairman Klitchkov’s desk. On one was drawn a red cross, cutting the ugly scar on Brishnov’s face in half. The others glared up at them: Lev Veselovsky, Zach Burn and Viktor Yerin. All three looked completely different, but there was a similar puffy element to their complexions, the look that comes from too long indoors, plotting the deaths of better men.

  “Lieutenant Colonel, I want you to take control of the Burn situation. He is a dog and will receive everything a traitor to the state deserves, but not yet. There can still be value in him and you must handle him with care until such time as we need to dispose of him.”

  “Of course, sir. I can be of some assistance with Yerin also, perhaps?”

  Klitchkov laughed. “You cannot trick a trickster, Maxim; you are too close to this one to behave dispassionately.”

  Clearly disappointed, Denisov nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Klitchkov slid the photo of the moustached Burn slightly towards his lieutenant colonel with the tip of his index finger.

  Nikita stood impatiently, his hands clasped behind his back, fingers firmly crossed for his chance to take on the neo-Nazi.

  Klitchkov paused. “I know what you would have me do, Agent Allochka. And I would give it to you, were it not for the caution that stays my hand. I shall make arrangements for Veselovsky myself. He is a base traitor who rides upon the coat-tails of phrases like ‘take our country back’ and ‘patriotism’ that inflame the hearts of simple minds, and preys on those same people to push an agenda that would bring our nation to its knees. No, this one is mine,” he said, a flush upon his cheeks and his eyes flashing.

  He moved the photo of Veselovsky delicately towards himself, taking several breaths to calm himself. Nikita gave no indication of his disappointment to Klitchkov, only balling one hand into a fist and massaging it with the other hand behind his back.

  “And you, agent,” said Klitchkov, looking up, the colour now gone from his face. “That leaves you with Viktor Yerin.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He is currently being held in Matrosskaya Tishina Prison, here in Moscow. This must be kept a secret; the last thing we need is Amnesty International breathing down our necks. I suspect he will be in no condition to defend himself.”

  “Sir?”

  Klitchkov smiled wildly. “I have had him moved to a Kishka for the past three days,” he said, chuckling.

  Denisov laughed. “The depths of your cruelty continue to surprise me, sir.”

  The smile fell instantly from Klitchkov’s face. “You think the man deserves kindness?”<
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  “Of course not, sir,” stuttered Denisov. “I could not have thought of a more apt punishment myself.”

  Klitchkov said nothing. He sat down and started making notes in a pad before him. The other two men stood patiently at ease. After several minutes, Klitchkov looked up, irritated. “What are you waiting for? Go! Speak to my secretary for any further arrangements you require. Allochka, report back to me as soon as your mission is complete. You have twenty-four hours,” he added, before going back to his notetaking.

  Nikita exhaled. Twenty-four hours to plan and execute a break-in to a federal penitentiary and assassinate a maximum-security political prisoner. This had never been on the KGB syllabus.

  ***

  As darkness fell, so did Nikita. Parachuting in silently from the hastily arranged light aircraft high above, the black parachute ghosted him down gently, cutting through the heavily falling snowflakes. Nothing more than a shadow floating through the night skies.

  As he descended towards the penitentiary, he quickly gauged his bearings, locating his intended point of entry.

  Landing silently on the roof of the vast complex, he was grateful for once for the heavy snowfall that descended with the Russian winters. Dragging the parachute behind him, he brushed out his footsteps as he approached an old stone chimney. Shining his torch down, he could see the metal grating that had been fixed into place to prevent any prisoners from getting any ideas of escape. From a black backpack he withdrew a compact hacksaw and some rope. Standing astride the brickwork of the chimney, he bunched up the parachute and stuffed it roughly into the backpack before lashing the rope around the chimney several times and dropping the remainder down the chimney. Flashing the torch down, he could see it had reached close to the bottom. Clipping the saw to his belt, without hesitating he grabbed the rope, wrapped it around his foot, and swiftly lowered himself down. His feet hit the metal grating heavily, and with a grinding of metal that felt painfully loud in the silence, it gave way and he continued rapidly towards the floor.

  So much for maximum security, he whispered quietly to himself, unclipping the hacksaw and storing it out of sight at the side of the fireplace from which he cautiously emerged.

  Running silently on rubber-soled shoes, he moved rapidly from the layout drawings he had earlier memorised, again reluctantly thanking his trainers for those draining hours he had been forced to spend training his memory.

  Confidently he navigated his way through the kitchens which lay dark and empty. Reaching the exit, he paused and opening the door a crack, peered out. He was on the ground floor. Two guards were patrolling the common area, with cells lining the floors above, which judging by the torchlight, were also being patrolled. He needed to reach the left-hand side of the common area, approximately twenty yards away, which would be impossible with both of the ground floor guards having eyes on all areas of the space between them. He let the door close as one of the guards circled close to him, and considered his options.

  He cursed the limited planning time he had been afforded. There were too many variables to guarantee success in a mission such as this, but Nikita knew himself well enough to admit that there was little to compare to the thrill of having to improvise on a mission. Doing so in a prison break-in gave him a shot of adrenaline it would be hard to recreate.

  Looking around him, he could see pots, pans and all of the things you would expect to see in a prison, albeit with an absence of sharp objects. His eyes fell on the gas stoves and he moved over to them swiftly. Lighting one of the hobs, he dropped a large pile of dirty rags on top of the flame and swiftly moved back towards the door, carefully propping it slightly open with a one rouble coin. He then hid himself behind a large cupboard door adjacent to the kitchen door.

  The flames quickly grew and greasy black smoke began to rise. Within a minute, he heard a cry of alarm from one of the guards and the door burst open. Watching through a crack in the cupboard hinges, Nikita was relieved to see both guards come charging in and over to the flames billowing from the top of the industrial stove. He silently slipped out, and keeping to the limited shadows along the wall, he darted quickly over to the doorway on the left. It was not a moment too soon, as other guards then descended the metal stairwells and ran to see what the commotion was all about.

  The noises quickly fell into the distance and Nikita moved with haste down a surgically white corridor. When he reached the end, he climbed down another metal gridded staircase, before finding himself in a crumbling old corridor that could only be described as the dungeons of the prison.

  Gas lights were lit along the walls, flickering dimly, and the scattering footsteps of rats could be heard as he made his way along, long tails briefly glimpsed at the edge of the gloom. A terrible odour grew steadily worse the further Nikita got along what felt more like a tunnel than a corridor. He covered his nose but could still taste the stink. What manner of hell was this place?

  As he rounded a corner, he saw a guard sitting on a chair next to tap and basin, reading a newspaper. The guard looked up and his eyes widened in horror. He reached for the whistle around his neck, but in three leaping strides Nikita was upon him. With his right hand balled into a fist but with the joint of his middle finger extended forwards he punched the guard hard on the temple. He crumpled instantly. Nikita checked his pulse. He was still alive, but would not be awake for several hours, possibly longer.

  He continued forwards. When he reached the end of the corridor, he found the cell that Yerin was inhabiting and silently slid the metal slat in the door open.

  He jumped as a pair of fearsome eyes was pressed firmly to the gap. They were gripped by the first tinges of madness.

  They widened upon comprehending Nikita. “You!” Yerin gasped, falling backwards against the wall directly behind him in the tiny box that was his lodgings. His eyes were puffy, his lips dry and bleeding.

  Nikita was appalled by what he saw, a level of squalor reserved for the middle ages.

  “How long have you been in here?” he asked, gasping between putrid breaths.

  “I do not know the meaning of time. I think, perhaps three days. No man can endure more. Are you here to kill me?” he asked simply, only seeming to be semi-aware, on the brink of unconsciousness.

  “That would be merciful,” Nikita replied.

  “Then Klitchkov has some other plan for me? I will do anything to be free of this tomb,” Yerin said.

  “Then tell me everything, and do not lie. You made sure I was trained to detect a lie.”

  “What do I get in return?”

  “I promise you nothing in return. But perhaps you can regain some honour.”

  Yerin forced his swollen eyelids open to look at Nikita. “I beg you to open the door and let me sit. Do this and I will tell you everything. As you can see, I am in no condition to escape.”

  Nikita knew he would have to open the cell regardless, and so, nodding silently, he swiftly picked the lock, hearing the tell-tale click of the internal bolt mechanism sliding across. He pulled the door open, stepping aside to avoid the expected flood of Yerin’s own filth pouring out. Instead, the door revealed a low wall inside the cell itself to keep the detritus contained.

  Yerin tumbled out, his legs giving way and fell over the wall onto the floor. Nikita bent over to help him up to a sitting position.

  “AAAHHHHH!” cried Yerin as he rolled over and sliced at Nikita, aiming for his heart with a short sharp object. Nikita fended it off but it managed to draw blood from his forearm, and his eyes blazed.

  He disarmed the feeble Yerin and punched him hard in the face, forcing him back to the floor. He looked at the weapon; it was perhaps eight inches long from the tip of the blade to the foot of the handle. At first, he thought it was plastic, but on closer inspection it looked to be carved from bone, with hessian sacking material wrapped around the handle. The blade was around four inches long. Long enough to be lethal.

  Yerin rubbed his cheek where Nikita had struck him. It was already infla
med and red, as well as filthy from where he was rubbing with his dirt-caked hands. Never had Nikita seen a more pitiable creature. The filthy grey vest hung down to his thighs, and the once blue trousers he wore were now caked in faeces and wet with urine. Whether his own or not, Nikita could not tell, and did not wish to dwell on it.

  Looking up at Nikita with the shiv in his hand, Yerin began to sob — racking sobs that took hold of his entire body — and he curled up against the wall.

  Nikita walked some way up the corridor to where he had seen an old faucet and bucket by the wall. The guard still lay crumpled and unconscious. Nikita hauled him back into the chair and propped him up. Best to cover tracks where possible.

  Filling the bucket from the creaky tap, he walked back and tossed it over the balled up Yerin, who wailed before sitting bolt upright. Nikita passed him the bucket to drink what was left inside.

  Gulping heavily, he drank too much and immediately vomited on the stone floor, before drinking some more.

  He wiped his mouth and looked up at Nikita in wonder. “Spasibo,” he said simply. Thank you. He looked down at the floor, and Nikita could see shame. When Yerin looked up, there were tears in his eyes. “I fear I have done you great harm.”

  “You barely grazed me,” replied Nikita gently, pitying Yerin more and more.

  “I am, I think, ready to die,” the old man said.

  “Not until you tell me all you know of Pamyat’s plans.”

  “At the moment, agent, their main plan… is you.”

  CHAPTER 26

  “What… what do you mean?” Nikita asked sharply.

  Yerin sighed. “I lived my life in the service of the Soviet Republic, blindly dedicated to a succession of power-hungry men. I think perhaps I became one of them myself. The country is on its knees; it is only a matter of time before the vultures descend and pick our empire apart piece by piece. Together with Brishnov we sought to unite with Pamyat to take our country back. But from who? From you and your kind? From the Jews? I think now, at the end of it all, the people who it needed taking back from were those very same that had been claiming it was lost. Namely me.”