by Jamie Smith
He passed a bar with large Cyrillic lettering reading Ladya Beer Bar, above the red flag of the hammer and sickle. After pausing, he decided to enter. The bar was grimy and dingy, but busy, with many patrons escaping the bitter winter chill to celebrate the turn of a new year. Grateful to the crowd and heavy smoke for granting some anonymity, he approached the bar and slowly removed the hat.
“Da?” asked the barmaid, eyeing him with the suspicion and disdain he could always rely on in Russia.
He looked longingly at the bottles hanging under optics at the bar. Multiple different vodkas sat there, along with beer taps, but none of the range he had become used to back in Virginia. Nikita rolled his shoulders and flexed his neck, noticing that the lack of choice did not remove the temptation.
“Odin Baikal pozhaluysta,” he said coolly, attracting only further disdain from the barmaid.
She pulled up a dusty glass bottle of Baikal, the Soviets’ answer to Coca Cola and placed it heavily down in front of her. Throwing down some roubles, Nikita said, “Happy New Year,” before turning his back on the bar. Bars open to the public were still fairly new in the USSR, and budgets hadn’t yet stretched to chairs. Instead, the crowds gathered around standing tables. Tonight though, the bar was so full there was barely any standing area left. Nikita navigated his way to a small empty space by the far wall and sipped the sickly soft drink, trying to convince himself it was whiskey, while glancing idly around the room. In one hand he held the bullet he had always saved for Klitchkov from way back in Kamchatka and stared down at it. Just a piece of metal that he had spent too long thinking about. Under the fold of his coat, he pushed the bullet into the chamber of his Colt 1911. Time to let go, he thought to himself with a sigh.
Appearing to gaze down at his drink, he could see in his periphery a group of men eyeing him angrily. One of them walked to the bar, and after speaking to the barmaid, walked behind the bar and walked down a short corridor. Moments later he reappeared, looking anywhere but at Nikita. When he returned to his crew, they all immediately stopped looking at him, other than snatching the occasional covert glance.
The hairs on the back of Nikita’s neck tingled with anticipation. Somehow his KGB training had instilled a sixth sense in him for when trouble was upon him. He slowly finished his drink then with a sigh, braced himself for the freezing streets once more, wishing he could be back in Cuba, being looked after by the kindly Mrs Shapova and enjoying sunsets from his luxury suite.
When he opened the doors, he was hit hard in the face by a blast of freezing air and snowflakes but set his shoulders and moved back out into the dark streets, alert and aware.
He was only thirty yards from the bar when he heard the tell-tale increase in noise rise and fade as the door opened and was swiftly closed, and he quickened his pace. He turned from the main street, lined by the imperious examples of Russian Revival architecture that had blossomed during the nineteenth century. The buildings, icons of an era which Lenin’s Bolsheviks had worked hard to bury, now had a faded grandeur. He moved down a street where all grandeur had long since passed. Formidable Soviet concrete buildings were crumbling, along with gloomy red brick warehouses, many boarded up, rising in the shadows cast from the failing gas lamps. The street was utterly deserted, the sounds of the celebrating city dampened in the distance.
A quick scan of the street told him there was nowhere to hide. He could hear the sound of voices and multiple footsteps turning the corner behind him.
The Nazis were coming.
Nikita gave in to temptation and chanced a look over his shoulder and his eyes immediately landed on the face of a murderer.
Lev Veselovsky turned into the street, his face swollen and scarred but unmistakable above a heavy grey coat, a half chewed, uncapped cigarette perched between his broken lips. There were four of them, including the man he had seen make the call in the bar. He was no longer averting his eyes; instead, he snarled at Nikita hungrily, like a rabid dog faced with a wounded bird.
A shot pinged off the cobbles some distance from Nikita and he began to run, his eyes wildly searching for a way out. He heard Veselovsky reprimand the shooter. “On moy,” he spat from behind his cigarette. He is mine.
Nikita didn’t need to look again to know they were in pursuit. He forced his body into a sprint, ignoring the pain searing through him from his head and shoulder, his boots slipping on the greasy cobbles. They were laughing and catcalling behind him, making monkey noises and firing shots off the walls either side of him, taunting him.
The road swung around to the left, giving him a moment of respite from gunfire and he frantically looked for an exit. There was none; he had entered a funnel.
Far ahead he could see a junction in the road and electric street lights glowed, giving him hope. He quickened his pace, knowing he could now only rely on the poor aim of the Pamyat shooters to have any chance of reaching the distant junction. He remembered his father in the doorway, struck by Veselovsky’s sniper, and all hope faded.
The rise in volume from the pursuers told him they had turned the corner. The junction was still fifty yards away and Nikita pushed his body harder still. There was nowhere to hide, only a heavily graffitied phone box which would provide precious little cover. He noticed dimly that the footsteps had stopped when gunfire cracked, the noise bouncing off the solid walls of the street as the bullet exploded down the street.
Nikita was thrown forwards by the impact, a short cry escaping his lips as pain exploded through his back and his heart began to slow. As his face hit the freezing, wet cobbles, his eyes closed with a sigh as he thought only of Elysia and her warm scent.
He was aware of being flipped onto his back, and smoke being below into his face. Sirens sounded in the distance and he heard footsteps moving away, but Nikita no longer even thinking of the pain in his broken body as the darkness closed in. “Černyy Russkiy mertv,” he distantly heard Veselovsky’s triumphant voice say. The Black Russian is dead.
CHAPTER 31
Then the light returned.
Nikita rolled onto his front and pushed himself up, his back screaming at him as he withdrew two Sig Sauer pistols from inside his coat, the buttons ripping off and revealing the Kevlar vest beneath.
“Veselovsky! Nikita roared. “Black Russia will never die!” And the world exploded in light.
Veselovsky turned from the phone box he stood beside to see Nikita rise like a monster from the deep and his step faltered as gunfire erupted all around him. He was thrown back by the velocity of the bullet as it hit him in the chest, staggering backwards.
Screams were all around him as black-clad KGB shooters had appeared on the rooftops, peppering gunfire down upon the Pamyat gang. The hunters had become the hunted, trapped on the street with no escape.
Veselovsky stared down at his chest, where blood blossomed from his wound, and back up to Nikita. His face contorted in an ugly fury. “You dare…” he spat.
“Perhaps you are not so much better than me, Lev,” Nikita said, holding up a hand to stop his fellow KGB officers from finishing Veselovsky off, walking towards the man who had wanted to crucify him and his family.
Blood was dribbling from Veselovsky’s mouth as he furiously worked his face, trying to find the words. He tried to throw a punch at Nikita as he got within touching distance, but Nikita easily dodged it before punching him hard in the side.
Veselovsky fell to one knee, wheezing. The bullet had punctured a lung.
Nikita raised the gun. “Tell me who you called and I will make it a quick death, which is more than you deserve.”
Veselovsky spat blood at Nikita’s feet.
Nikita kicked him in the bullet wound and Veselovsky howled.
“You will tell me, for better or worse, Veselovsky.”
Veselovsky began to laugh, which led to coughs. “You dirty-skinned shit. You think yourself so good, but you know so little.”
Nikita shot Veselovsky in the knee, blowing off the kneecap at close range. He scre
amed and fell to the floor, clutching what was left of his left leg.
Nikita leant down close to his face. “You organised the attack that killed my mother. You tried, and may yet have succeeded in killing my father. You have hunted me just for the colour of my skin, when I have given my life to keep this nation secure from attack. Now stop talking in riddles, because I will have the truth and do not wish to prolong your pain.”
Veselovsky said nothing. Blood was smeared across the swastika on his neck, making it appear almost ablaze. Nikita trod on his knee.
“OK, OK!” he cried out, his breathing ragged. “You have not even scratched the surface. He will show no mercy. He has power, and he is closing in on a new Russia. We have people everywhere.”
“Who is he? Who is we?” Nikita demanded.
Veselovsky opened his mouth, and a fountain of blood gushed forth, drenching Nikita. He wiped his eyes, and when he opened them Veselovsky lay dead before him.
Nikita cursed loudly. He had his vengeance, but it had given no satisfaction.
***
“It is done,” said Denisov as Nikita walked into his office. It wasn’t a question.
“It is,” replied Nikita, taking a seat in front of him. He looked around the office. “Klitchkov’s leadership was a brief one.”
“You object to my being the new leader, agent?” Denisov asked, danger in his voice.
“Not at all, sir, I think you are the right choice. I was just reflecting on what has been,” Nikita replied without hesitation.
“There is no time for nostalgia in our business,” said Denisov. “Have you contacted the Americans to update them since your arrival?”
“No, sir, with everything that has happened there has been no opportunity.”
“Then you must do so swiftly.”
Nikita nodded, and for a fleeting moment confronted the challenge he would face explaining to the CIA what he had been doing, but quickly dismissed it. The advantage of Yerin’s removal of US spies meant he could create a robust story. “Who can I trust now, sir?”
“A KGB agent is asking me about trust?”
“Even KGB agents must trust their employers.”
“Why do you ask?”
“Veselovsky… right after he shot me, he made a phone call,” said Nikita, watching Denisov’s face for any hint of a reaction. He gave none.
“Go on, agent,” Denisov said.
Nikita made a decision to trust him, realising he had no other choice and no one else to confide in.
“He informed the person on the phone that the Black Russian was dead. As he lay dying, I pressed him for information and he said that he had been sent by someone else, someone who was closing in on us and a new Russia.”
“Did he indeed? And what else did he say?” Denisov asked curiously.
“Only that the man had power, and that they had people everywhere.”
“Lying?”
“Maybe. But I think not,” said Nikita.
Denisov balanced his chin on the point of his fingers and looked thoughtful. “You have told no one of this?”
“No one yet, sir. You understand why I raised the issue of trust.”
“I do,” Denisov said. Then he rubbed his chin and added, “They think you are dead.”
“Maybe I am,” Nikita sighed.
“It presents an opportunity,” Denisov replied, ignoring his tone.
They sat in silence for several minutes as Denisov ruminated on the situation, before looking up at Nikita. “We need to get you out of the Soviet Union. You stand out too much to take good advantage of our hidden enemy believing you are dead.”
Nikita’s heart skipped a beat as he thought briefly of Elysia.
“Back to the US?”
Denisov gave him a knowing smile. “Niet.” He stood up and walked to one side of the room where a slide projector sat, facing a cold, white wall next to the door. He pushed the power button and it flickered into life, humming and whirring. He then switched off the overhead lights, casting his face into shadow and the room into darkness.
“What you are about to see, Agent Allochka, is as classified as it gets. Any leak or sharing of this information will be considered treason, punishable by death. Do I make myself clear?”
Nikita nodded.
“I said do I make myself clear?” Denisov said coldly.
“Yes, sir,” Nikita responded. Denisov nodded and clicked the first slide into place.
A blank page swam into focus, with just the words ‘OPERATION ILLUSION’, stamped across a white background.
On the next slide, Nikita saw a map he was familiar with, showing the entire USSR and the surrounding satellite nations. There were pins on a number of locations across the screen.
“You recognise this no doubt, from your time with the CIA,” Denisov said.
“Yes, sir. All of the locations of our intermediate range nuclear missiles.”
Denisov nodded, satisfied. There was a click and a map of Afghanistan appeared on the screen. A square was over a small area in the east of the country, close to the border with Pakistan. Another click, and the grainy image zoomed in to that section. At the top of the image was stamped SPīN GHAR. Clearly taken by a reconnaissance aircraft, it showed dry and dusty mountains surrounded by an arid landscape.
“Have you heard of the Spīn Ghar mountains, agent?”
“Only from the legends of the network of Afghan caves, sir.”
“They are much more than legend, Allochka,” replied Denisov, clicking the next slide into place which showed a partially hidden cave on the side of a dusty mountain. Even in black and white, Nikita could recognise the pool of blood on the pale floor.
“You found them,” he said.
“It was Chairman Klitchkov who eventually tracked them down after years of searching.”
“And he took them?”
“He did. It was not pretty,” he added with a curled lip as the next image slid into place showing a litter of Afghan bodies stretching into the distance. Nikita’s stomach churned and his heart turned cold.
His mind began to race, and Blaine Lahart’s voice was echoing around his head: ‘There’s some strange movement happening in the USSR since Yerin was removed. Some guy named Denisov seems to have been dropping in on their nuclear sites and disappearing with a load of staff.’ Klitchkov’s voice followed on: ‘Do whatever you must to turn their attentions away from investigating our nuclear disarmament. Things are never what they appear… ‘
He looked up at Denisov, unable to disguise the horror in his face as comprehension began to dawn. “The bombs…”
“Yes, they have been successfully moved to the caves. The operation has been in the planning for longer than you can imagine. The great forces of the world are moving, and we must ride the crest of the wave or else face utter destruction. It is our final roll of the dice.”
“So the treaty Petrenko signed…”
Denisov laughed. “A piece of paper we manoeuvred the Americans into signing. A masterful display of political fencing from our much-maligned general secretary. Yerin knew of the plan but lost faith; he lost patience. Fortunately, his ill-conceived bombing of the Capitol ended up being more smoke than fire; Burn failed him. While the US disarms, we will build our nuclear strength to unprecedented levels. Soon, comrade, we will strike, and the world will tremble at the Soviet might.”
Nikita sat in silence, the enormity of the global deception settling upon him. Only one thing ran through his mind; Elysia would be right in the eye of the storm.
“You will go to Afghanistan and oversee the nuclear armament operation.”
“But what of the neo-Nazis? What of the hidden power?”
“That is no longer your concern.”
“They murdered my mother! And probably my father! For nothing more than the crime of having a different colour skin!”
“Actually, I have received word that your father is awake.”
“What? You only tell me this now!” Nikita ex
ploded, leaping to his feet, no longer controlling his emotions.
“Remember to whom you are speaking, agent,” Denisov replied, a warning in his voice.
Nikita slumped into his chair, his head in his hands. He looked up at Denisov. “Is he well?”
“No, but it seems he will survive.”
Nikita released an enormous sigh and a low chuckle born of relief and exasperation.
“Very well, sir. I will go to Afghanistan.”
“Excell—”
“But I do have one condition,” interrupted Nikita.
Denisov raised his eyebrows. “KGB agents do not set conditions, they follow orders. I thought I had trained you better than that.”
“I know my training all too well, sir. But I think you will agree that we find ourselves in a unique situation. The KGB failed me. The reason I joined was solely to protect my family. You did not do this. My request is not a great one, but will mean there are no distractions from my role in the Afghan mountains.”
“Spit it out,” Denisov said flatly.
“I want my family moved somewhere they can better fit in. Where Milena can enjoy a normal life, surrounded by other children. Somewhere they will not be targeted by Pamyat, or whatever other racist movement our beloved country spawns next.”
“You could use some further training in diplomacy, I think, Agent Allochka,” said Denisov.
Nikita said nothing.
“Very well. Perhaps Kazan? They may feel more at home there?”
“I was thinking rather further afield, sir.”
“Go on,” replied Denisov, rolling his eyes.
“Perhaps the United Kingdom?”
“The UK? You must be mad!” laughed Denisov.
“Nigeria?”
“Ah, there was the real request,” Denisov replied knowingly. “They cannot go to a non-communist nation, Allochka, you know better than that.”
“OK then, Cuba?”
“Cuba?” said Denisov raising his eyebrows. He looked as if he were chewing on his cheeks as he ruminated on all the pros and cons.
“They will be able to blend in, and they are our greatest ally in the west. You will give them a good home in a good neighbourhood, nowhere remote,” Nikita said assertively. “This is non-negotiable. Do this and I will of course continue to fulfil my duty.”