The Soviet Comeback, Jamie Smith [have you read this book .TXT] 📗

“Then proceed on why you broke with the KGB convention of avoiding contact with case officers as much as possible. I have gone many months without meeting a handler in some of my early missions.”

Nikita glanced at the clock on the wall. It was seven thirty a.m. He did not have long before he would need to leave for work.

“I fear that the Americans are closing in on us. The missions I have been directed to carry out, they are too numerous and the Americans have taken notice.”

“You are questioning your orders?” the colonel asked, looking irritated.

“Of course not, sir, which is why I carried out the missions without hesitation, and with great success. But despite there being no hint of scandal around the… deaths, there is a clear link between all of them. They have asked my team to investigate what they were calling the Black Russian, but are now calling the White Russian.”

At this, Klitchkov burst into laughter. “The White Russian! You could not make this up. The American dogs!”

Nikita couldn’t help but let a slight smile escape in spite of himself. “The name change was a directive that came straight from the president,” he said, smiling more broadly. At this Klitchkov broke into a fresh wave of giggles. Nikita looked at the colonel, holding his sides giggling, with concern. Despite all of his training, this was the most unpredictable and unreadable man he had ever come across. He was either insane or brilliant. Most likely both, he thought to himself.

Klitchkov wiped his eyes. “Apologies for my indiscretion there, agent. Please do continue.”

“Sir, as I’m sure you know, I have been charged with analysing the KGB itself, particularly Yerin. But our station chief has now asked me to work with the analyst investigating Soviet adherence to the INF Treaty, and also the analyst looking into the White Russian. He has begun questioning the reasons for the death of the secretary of defense…”

“Has he indeed,” said Klitchkov, placing his palms together and balancing his chin on his fingers, lost in thought. “It seems the vultures are beginning to circle around the feast.”

Nikita didn’t reply, allowing his superior to focus on thoughts. He walked over to the window and peered through a crack in the curtain to check the street for any unusual behaviour. Nothing out of the ordinary could be seen, but he remained in a state of high tension. He would not be allowed to live if his true identity was uncovered. He was no fool; if the Americans captured him but didn’t kill him then the Russians would in order to prevent him revealing their secrets.

“Are you throwing them off the scent?” Klitchkov inquired.

“Wherever I can, sir, but the closer they get, the greater the threat to my cover.”

“Your cover cannot be blown under any circumstances. Are your nerves holding?”

“Sir?”

“There have been some concerns raised that your edge may have gone too soft.”

“On what grounds, Colonel?” Nikita asked, raising his eyebrow.

The colonel sat back and attempted a relaxed position, though his stiff soldiering posture made the act look rigid nonetheless. “I imagine you like it here in America; you are able to fit in better perhaps than in Russia.”

“I prefer it in Russia, sir. There I know who the racists are because they tell me to my face. Here they hide it, instead saying what they think is the politically correct thing to say, while they avoid shaking hands or the police find reasons to pull you over.”

The colonel smiled. “You have been drinking a lot, da?”

“Have I been away from Russia so long that drinking is now frowned upon?”

“High level assets such as yourself are held to different standards. I do not understand; you always refused vodka throughout your training.”

“I am doing what I can to gain the trust of my team. Their guard drops when they drink, sir.”

“And what of your guard, agent? Where was that when you went to bed with your colleague last night? A japóška no less — why was I not surprised?” Klitchkov rolled his eyes callously.

“You were spying on me?” Nikita demanded angrily, ignoring the pretext of the colonel’s comment.

Klitchkov stopped smiling. “This is the KGB, you arrogant little shit. A spy organisation. You think yourself above everyone else? You let your youth betray you. Nobody escapes our eyes.”

“Sorry, sir, I am angrier at myself for not recognising my tail.”

“Perhaps if you stopped drinking that brown whiskey shit and drank a Russian man’s drink you would have kept a greater hold on your senses.

“Possibly, but if I start drinking neat vodka that might set alarm bells ringing.”

“Possibly, agent, possibly.”

“I cannot deny spending last night with a woman from my team. But she is an asset I need to keep close, as she is the analyst assigned to investigating the White Russian.”

Klitchkov said nothing but studied the young assassin’s face. It appeared earnest, but then his training had taught him to appear earnest.

“Very well, I will take your word for the moment. Her name?” he said, withdrawing a small notepad and pen from his pocket.

“Sarah Chang,” replied Nikita without hesitation. “Notrowski already has her details, along with everyone else in my unit.” He saw Klitchkov writing her name down in Cyrillic characters along with some further notes that he couldn’t decipher from his distance.

“At some point every asset must be burned. You will be able?”

Nikita nodded, showing no emotion. “It is what I have been trained for.”

“Very well. You are right to gain her trust; if she gets too close you will need to use this to your advantage. What have you given them on Yerin?”

“So far very little. I’m reporting accurately what I’ve been able to decipher from the outside, which is that his movements appear very normal, and that no