The Soviet Comeback Jamie Smith (ebook reader online free txt) 📖

He untied the rope from the chimney stack and sprinted to the other end of the roof. Looking over the edge, he could see that he had the right spot; the wall ran straight down to the street, with only a spiked, barbed wire fence running around the perimeter at the bottom.

He tied the rope around a robust metal pipe running along the inside of the low wall that stood around the edge of the roof. Then, without looking, he jumped backward off the building and abseiled down, not even looping in his foot as he raced against time. Only one thought was in his mind. My family, save my family.

As he lowered himself down, impervious to the rope burns tearing at his hands, he approached the fence. Brutal looking spikes topped it, along with vast loops of barbed wire. It was around four metres to the ground. He squatted his leg into the wall and forced himself off and out, releasing the rope just as he cleared the fence. He landed with a roll, ignoring the jarring pain that shot through his shoulder and hip, and leapt up before charging down the street.

Around the corner a polished Land Rover awaited him. Feeling under the wheel arch, his hand landed upon the keys, snatching them out. He scrambled behind the wheel.

The handbrake was off and the car moving before the engine even kicked in. He accelerated away, weaving through traffic, ignoring the blaring of horns, his chest constricted and breath short.

“Brishnov is alive and knows where my family is,” he muttered, disbelieving. “How could I have been so foolish?” he admonished himself.

As he passed a phone box, he slammed on the brakes and screeched over to the kerb. Leaving the engine running, he jumped out and dialled Klitchkov.

“Allo, ofis Predsedatelya,” said a lyrical female voice.

“Dymnav’ya dzen,” Nikita replied, quietly uttering the codeword.

“Da, what is it, agent?” replied Klitchkov’s secretary coolly.

“Katalina, I need the Chairman NOW. It is very urgent.”

“One moment please.”

“Da? What is it, agent, this is not protocol?” came Klitchkov’s voice.

“Brishnov is alive and knows where my family is.”

“Is this line secure?” Klitchkov said sharply.

“I don’t give a damn, sir. Did you hear what I said?”

“Understood. Was your evening rendezvous successful?”

“Yes, sir,” Nikita replied, exasperated. “But my family—”

He was cut off by a click on the line and the sound of Katalina’s voice returned. “Please go to Vnukovo Airport, agent.” Then the line went dead.

After running back to the car, Nikita jumped in and made a screeching turn before speeding to the former military airport, now the most popular for private usage.

The journey from Matrosskaya Tishina Prison to Vnukovo Airport should have taken an hour, journeying across the heart of Moscow. Nikita cleared it in thirty minutes, breaking every Soviet driving law going. Miraculously, he encountered no issues with police.

He pulled up outside the airport, parking the car illegally and leaving it there. He was on his way hurriedly into the airport, when an arm grabbed him and pulled him back.

He looked into the familiar cold blue eyes of Chairman Klitchkov, peering out from under his furry ushanka, and wearing a long charcoal coat.

“Allochka, come,” he said, gesturing to the same black ZIS-115 in which he had been earlier.

They climbed in, and drove up to a high fence with a gate manned by Soviet Army privates. As the car approached, the gate opened and the soldiers stood to attention and saluted the chairman as they passed. He rolled down the window and saluted in return.

“Chairman—” began Nikita, but was cut off by a raised hand from the leader of the KGB.

“He lives?” Klitchkov asked, eyes staring straight ahead.

“He visited Yerin today.”

“You have proof?”

“None. But I am confident Yerin did not lie. He found his remorse at the end.”

“Yerin never did anything if he did not stand to gain from it.”

“Perhaps. But, Chairman, I must go to my family. If there is even a chance of him being alive, his desire for revenge will know no limits. Please, sir,” Nikita implored, on the verge of tears.

Klitchkov looked at him distastefully. “Remember your training, agent. Emotions are for the weak, and they will betray you.”

Nikita cleared his throat and set his shoulders. “Of course, you are right,” he said with an even voice, though his heart continued to race.

The chauffeur taxied them around the two runways to a private hangar on the far side of the airport. As they entered, Nikita could see the Antonov An-32, the Soviet’s answer to the Learjet. The slender, twin-engine aircraft looked like a hawk desperate to take to the skies.

“Will this make it to Siberia?” Nikita asked dubiously.

“Under the circumstances it is our best hope for making it before Brishnov. It can land us safely in Norilsk.”

“Our?” Nikita replied curiously.

“You have failed with Brishnov once. Fail again and I will kill you myself,” he said icily, patting his side so Nikita could hear the dull sound of a concealed weapon. “Shall we?” said Klitchkov, gesturing towards the waiting plane.

Nikita said nothing. He saw their faces swimming before his eyes in a way he had been able to block for many months. In his pocket his hand clutched the carving Elysia had given him, which he now carried everywhere with him. Holding it helped to calm him slightly. His skin prickled and he moved swiftly into the plane.

Nikita and Klitchkov settled into seats opposite each other in the compact but luxurious KGB transporter.

“Brishnov had many hours’ head start; we must fly swiftly. As we know he can be very resourceful. I would very much like to know how he was able to return from the United States with a gunshot wound,” said Klitchkov. “I have scrambled for backup,