by Jamie Smith
“Me, a traitor!” said Brishnov, flaring. “You betrayed me. I have been a faithful servant to the state my whole life. You forsook me, and so did this Soviet Union. I put duty above everything, above a life,” and for a moment there was a look of almost longing that crossed his usually cold face “I will take it all back,” he cried, spittle bubbling on his lips. “Pamyat will bring my homeland back from its knees.”
Klitchkov said nothing, which only served to infuriate his captor all the more. Brishnov paced back and forth, rolling his shoulders.
“Come, come, Nikita, time is against us,” Brishnov called out impatiently.
“Save your sister!” shouted Gabriel, in his native Igbo language, spitting blood out of his broken mouth.
A broken mouth, a broken giant.
Veselovsky hit him across the face with his pistol once more and Gabriel fell onto his side.
“We know you are there, Allochka. It is over,” called Brishnov. “You can save your father and sister. All we want is you.”
“What?” said Veselovsky sharply. “I will leave no blacks alive. You promised I could crucify them.”
“Quiet,” ordered Brishnov.
Nikita didn’t hesitate and stepped out from behind the wall. “NO!” shouted his father.
The world had gone into slow motion. Nikita stumbled forwards, throwing his Makarov pistols to the floor, unstrapping the Sig Sauer from its holster and casting it aside. He could hear music, and see the faces of Sarah and his mother. He would join them now. It started snowing, and Nikita pushed back his hood, the snowflakes snaking like tears down his face.
“Upon us all, Allochka,” said Brishnov softly. “We all must die. There is no place for the Black Russian in the new world.”
Nikita looked at his father. “I love you,” he whispered and closed his eyes as Brishnov raised his Desert Eagle and fired.
There was a roar and the bullet pinged off the wall of the house to Nikita’s right. His eyes snapped open and saw that Klitchkov had driven himself at Brishnov, tackling him to the ground, where they grappled.
Veselovsky looked caught in two minds, whether to intervene or not, but it was near impossible to get a clean shot.
Klitchkov tried to force the weapon in Brishnov’s hands back upon him, but the old and wounded leader of the KGB was no match for the lithe and younger agent who quickly began to gain control.
Seeing his opportunity, Nikita began to run towards the pair. Veselovsky opened fire, peppering bullets from his AK-47 haphazardly in his direction. Nikita was grateful that Brishnov had brought a man with no military experience along with him. He was grateful right up until a bullet hit him in the shoulder. The very same shoulder he had wounded in Texas and pain flashed through his whole body.
He didn’t stop running however, and without breaking stride kicked Brishnov hard in the face, forcing him onto his back so that Klitchkov could regain control. Another bullet lanced through him, this time grazing the side of his head, filling his skull with a deep burning. Gabriel, also seeing his opportunity, rose like a bear from hibernation and threw a giant fist at Veselovsky, who dodged it just as Nikita was upon him and began to wrestle with him to gain control of the Kalashnikov automatic rifle, blood splashing down from his head and shoulder.
A boom of a gunshot behind him averted Nikita’s eyes for a moment and he looked around to see Klitchkov lying on the floor. Brishnov, also on the ground, had shot him through the side.
“NO!” shouted Nikita, seeing Brishnov grinning and climbing to his feet, as the AK-47 was wrenched from his hands by a gleeful Veselovsky. His glee was short lived, as this time Gabriel’s knuckles connected with his temple and he fell to his knees, where Gabriel began pummelling his face.
As soon as he saw that his father had dominance of Veselovsky, Nikita grabbed the AK-47 from the fallen neo-Nazi and began firing shots at Brishnov, running towards him. But ever-agile, Brishnov rolled down a snow bank and leapt to his feet. At that moment the magazine gave the fatal click of an empty chamber. Another click, followed by another. Brishnov cackled. “I have to admit you are a determined man, Allochka. But you must accept your fate,” he said, raising the Desert Eagle and giggling.
Nikita dropped to the floor, and quickly darting a hand to the back of his neck, he pulled out the hidden ballistic knife. Without looking to aim, he rolled and pushed the clasp, throwing his hand out in Brishnov’s direction.
The giggle died upon Brishnov’s lips. The blade protruded from his belly, and he stared down at it with shock.
“NO!” he cried in anguish.
“Upon us all, Taras,” Nikita said, standing over him and kicking away the Desert Eagle which had fallen from his hand. “We all must die. There is no place for the White Russian in the new world.” Then, before turning away he added, “I think the new world will be a better world.”
Brishnov’s face contracted with pain and fury as he fell forwards into the snow drift.
He turned and saw that his father was standing over Veselovsky, whose face was a bloody pulp on the ground.
Nikita exhaled, feeling his muscles relax, and then the pain seared through his body from his wounds and he fell to one knee.
His father walked over to him and helped him up. “On your feet, my son.” His eyes crinkled and filled with tears. “My child, I am so sorry that this is the life you have had to lead,” he said and pulled him into a hug.
Nikita let himself get lost in his father’s arms and felt tears of overwhelming grief flood from his eyes. His body shook; he felt like a child in an old man’s body.
“I am sorry, Father, I promised to protect us all. They have taken Mother,” he said as a fresh wave of tears broke through him. “They have killed the Chairman,” he said with fresh grief, one that he could not understand.
“Your mother was so proud of you, Nikita. We are all so proud. I have no love for the Chairman, but look what he was prepared to give for you. You a black man, earning the love and respect of white Russians. Despite everything you have endured, you have the most beautiful of souls.” Then he moaned loudly, his huge shoulder heaving as the sobs wracked through him. “My Sophie is gone. I cannot believe she’s gone. She cannot have gone, she is the love of my life,” he cried, as huge tears rolled down his gentle face.
Nikita attempted to close his eyes, but his torn eyelid rendered that impossible. He teetered, his consciousness beginning to slip. He could hear the sound of engines in the distance. Too little, too late.
Suddenly he heard movement behind them and saw that Veselovsky had regained consciousness and was running as fast as he was able up the path, his face puffy and mangled, but apparently still functioning.
Gabriel roared and went to give chase but Nikita grabbed his hand and pulled him back. “Let him go, Father; I can hear the backup coming. He will not get far and we do not have the strength to chase.”
His father nodded reluctantly. “A life spent trying to be a hero is a lonely life; it is time to look after yourself now. You have saved Milena. Let me help you inside. You are bleeding too much,” he said and lifted Nikita with ease, carrying him back towards the house. Nikita could feel unconsciousness falling upon him. His father put him on his feet at the front door. As Nikita landed unsteadily, the valley rippled with the crack of a distant gunshot.
He snapped around to see his father wide eyed and mouth open.
“FATHER!” Nikita cried, trying to stay upright as the world swayed.
Gabriel held out his hand. “My boy…” he whispered before his eyes closed and he fell backwards.
“No, please, no, no, no,” Nikita cried, tears leaking through his torn eyelid and mingling with the blood smeared across his face.
The last thing he saw before the blood loss overcame him was Lev Veselovsky, the leader of the Soviet neo-Nazis, standing on the hilltop, holding the same sniper that had killed his mother, looking down on him with hatred burning through his face. Then all went black.
CHAPTER 30
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The regular bleeps coming from a machine, were the first thing Nikita was aware of, and the hum of distant activity. He tried to ignore it, enjoying the sleepy comfort. He had been having a good dream, one of gentle summer breezes and wholesome food on Skyros, one with Elysia’s gentle kisses of Elysia.
He heard the sound of someone clearing their throat nearby and reluctantly his eyes fluttered open. Or one eye. The other didn’t seem to be allowed to move. The open eye was immediately stung by bright strip lighting above him, and gloomy daylight streaming in through the open curtains to his left.
The bleeping came from a machine connected to him through various wires and tubes, and the clearing of the throat came from his old tutor, Maxim Denisov.
Denisov was sitting cross-legged, with his hair carefully combed into a side parting, his flat mouth nestled into its resting position of faint contempt.
“Welcome back, Agent Allochka. You are at a top-secret military facility on Bolshevik Island in the Kara Sea. The day is December 25, 1987. Merry Christmas.”
Suddenly the pain caught up with Nikita and racked through his body. His head burned, and his shoulder was completely numb. Then the rest came back to him.
“My father!” he croaked, trying to push himself up.
Denisov pushed him back down. “You must rest, Agent Allochka. Your father is in surgery.”
“He is alive?” Nikita gasped hoarsely.
“For the moment, yes,” Denisov said calmly. “He is fighting hard to survive.”
“And will he?”
“I am not a doctor. They do not give him good odds. But take solace in the fact that as it stands, he still draws breath.”
Nikita breathed a huge sigh. “And Milena?”
“She is waiting to see you. First we must speak.”
“Sir, Chairman Klitchkov is…”
“He is dead.”
“He died saving me,” Nikita said, choked up.
“Then he died the hero’s death that he deserved,” Denisov said nodding. “I am glad of this.”
“Veselovsky? He shot my father. I want my revenge,” said Nikita before descending into a cacophony of coughs that pulled at the stitches he could now feel in his shoulder. He became aware of bandages wrapped tightly around his head. A nurse came in and gently fed him some water, which soothed his throat, which felt like a mass of brittle sandpaper. She tutted disapprovingly at Denisov, who smiled blandly at her as she left.
“Careful, agent. Your body has endured much,” said Denisov. “To answer your question, Veselovsky eludes us. But not, I think, for long. We shall both have our revenge on the traitor.”
“My father severely wounded him. His face is ravaged.”
“Good,” said Denisov. “Then he will, I think, seek revenge on you also, which is perfect.”
“Sir?”
“Seeking him will put you in great danger.”
“What’s that like?” Nikita said with a smile, before coughs tore at him once more.
Denisov indulged him with a smile. “Then we have much to discuss. I will give you seven days; I cannot afford to provide you with any more, and then I will need you in Moscow.”
“I need only five, sir,” said Nikita defiantly. “I will have my revenge, and only then will I mourn.”
“Then you have become everything we dreamed you would,” Denisov said approvingly. “You have done very well, Nikita,” he added with the closest thing to kindness that Nikita imagined he was capable of.
Thirty minutes later, Denisov left the room and let in Milena. She approached Nikita cautiously. Nikita could see in her serious eyes that she had aged since his arrival home; she had seen too much.
“Milena,” he grunted, his voice beginning to fail him.
“You are OK?” she asked, formally.
“Nothing that a hug will not fix,” he said, smiling.
She did not move.
“Everything was OK until you came home,” she said coldly.
“I know, Milena. I am so sorry.”
“Sorry will not bring back Mama!” she shouted angrily.
“I know,” he croaked.
“I miss Mama!” she shouted again, tears streaming down her face. “I miss Mama and Papa and it’s all your fault.”
Nikita nodded numbly. “I do not deny it, little sister. I tried so hard to protect you all but I failed.”
“Yes, you did fail! I wish you had never come back!”
“Please, Milena,” he pleaded, feeling like an old man in the battered body of a twenty-two-year-old. “I love you.” he said.
“I hate you!” she said, crying full body tears now. “Our mama is dead,” she sobbed. “We will never see her again.”
He pushed himself up, tears streaming from even his broken eye, and the monitor began bleeping faster. The weight of his failure after everything almost pushed him back down. With a lot of grunting, he sat up, and such was the shock of it that Milena stopped crying instantly. Nikita grabbed her arm and pulled her to him. She tried to resist but even in his weakened condition he was too strong.
“I am sorry, Milena. We are in it together now, and Papa will need you more than ever.”
“If he even lives!” she cried. “They said he might not,” she said, sobbing, and allowing herself to fall into his arms.
“Then we will need each other very much, Milena. I promise I will not let anything hurt you.” Then, forcing a smile, he added, “And have you ever heard of anything beating Father? He will wrap the sickness up in his big arms and squish it, like this,” he said, squeezing her gently in his arms.
She giggled slightly and squeezed him back. It made his shoulder scream but he didn’t show it. Elysia’s words echoed around his mind. ‘Get out of your head. There are a million things for us to worry about, but for now let’s just enjoy a few moments without worrying about the past or future, just get lost in this moment right now.’ He suddenly was aware of how much he missed her, and wondered if he would ever see her again.
He felt tiredness overcome him. “You will go to sleep now,” Milena ordered him.
Nikita smiled and felt the overwhelming fatigue take hold of him. “You will stay?” he whispered.
“I will be right here,” she replied in a small voice, squeezing his hand, then added “I love you too,” in a barely audible whisper as the darkness took Nikita once more.
It was late at night, five days later, that Nikita stood at his father’s bedside. Two days and his father hadn’t woken from the coma. The doctors said that he might never wake up. Nikita clenched his fist, feeling the stitches in his shoulder pull and relishing the feeling, the pain and sensation. Gabriel Allochka looked so peaceful, his long eyelashes fluttering softly in the air conditioning. It looked like he was merely sleeping and Nikita longed to rouse him, to get back all the years he had missed.
“Veselovsky, I am coming,” he said to himself through gritted teeth, before leaving the room and hobbling through the large complex, built largely under the glacier of the formidable island at the top of the world. The more he walked, the looser his muscles felt, but the bandage around his head remained tightly in place, as did the patch over his right eye. He walked through the building until he reached a room midway down a lengthy corridor. Silently turning the handle, he entered and saw Milena asleep in the dark room that they had made every effort to make feel comfortable for a child of her age. Books and games littered the floor and the walls were painted with clouds and rainbows.
He brushed her braids tenderly back from her face and kissed her brow. She opened her eyes sleepily. “Niki,” she said softly.
“I have to go away for a few days, Milena; I will be back soon, just in time for Father to wake up.”
“You are leaving?” she said, her eyes wide now.
“It breaks my heart to leave you Milena, but sometimes you have to leave in order to get the joy of a return,” he said with forced smile. “Sleep now, and be kind to the nurses.”
“The nurses
scare me,” she said. “There are so many people here, Niki.”
“How wonderful to have so many different people to talk to” he said with a smile. “I hear you have made friends with another child here.”
“Yes… there is one boy who is nice to me.”
“Enjoy getting to know your friend as much as you can. Now close those sleepy eyes and return to your dreams, little sister,” he whispered, brushing her brow.
Milena’s eyes drooped and with a small smile she drifted back off, not stirring as Nikita slipped quietly out of the door.
Outside two men in uniform waited, and saluted him. “You do not need to salute,” he said, waving a hand. He often forgot that as a KGB field agent he held the military rank of captain.
“You are a captain of the Soviet Army, and the Black Russian, sir, a title that alone commands respect,” one of them said earnestly, a young man with blond hair and a dimpled chin.
Stunned, Nikita said nothing and saluted back, before following them both out to the helipad, a circle kept clear of ice and snow on the roof of the low concrete building.
Waiting was a helicopter which would transfer him to the mainland before the journey back to Moscow. As the helicopter set off into the swirling winds and snow, Nikita peeled off the bandages around his head, and the padding over his eye. He moved his eyelid tentatively. It felt fragile but mended. He turned his eyes to the waiting steel grey seas, peaking and foaming beneath them, unreadable as he drifted into thoughts of loss.
***
It was the next day that he arrived back in Moscow. With no apartment and no Denisov there to greet him, he pulled up the collar of his long black coat, and undid the flaps on the fur-lined ushanka perched on his head so that his ears were covered and warm. It rubbed uncomfortably on his head wound, but was better than the alternative.
It was snowing again, and the cold was bitter as he walked the streets of the old town with purpose. The cobbles were dusted with snow and his black boots clicked on them as he strode through the city that held so many shadows of memories for him.