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

The president stopped pacing and stared at his secretary of state, utterly aghast.

“You’re telling me that Simon was murdered by the Russians?”

“I’m telling you that the FBI believes it a possibility.”

Callahan sat back down on the sofa and shook his head. “This is ridiculous.”

Harry Bernstein said nothing, instead looking at his hands nervously. He would have his payback to the FBI director for forcing him to deliver this to the president.

“So what you are telling me is that Petrenko has somehow not only got KGB agents onto US soil, but that one is drifting around the country killing our own agents and even our secretary of defense. All while the Russians are signing the disarmament treaty with me. But you’re telling me this without any evidence whatsoever. What the hell do you want me to do with this? I’m far too busy to deal with the hunches of low-level FBI analysts. I can’t confront the commies with mere hearsay. I imagine they’re busy enough trying to come up with a way of getting out of Afghanistan at the moment, which incidentally is an update I hope to God I’m going to get a more detailed report on.”

“I understand completely, sir. I should add that every single person whose death is being investigated on this FBI list had been working on Soviet projects.”

The president gazed coldly at Bernstein. “How about leading with that one next time, instead of leading me around the houses with conjecture.”

“I appreciate it isn’t a firm lead, but it was felt that there was enough confidence enough that there may be some foul play at work to bring it to your attention, ahead of your next meeting with Mr Petrenko. You may need to tread carefully. If he does indeed have agents working to destabilise our intelligence agencies and government it could be that he isn’t as willing to move beyond the Cold War as it has seemed.”

“It’s no surprise that he has KGB agents in the US. We haven’t been as effective in weeding out theirs as they have ours, but I can’t see any reason for him to be so brash as to begin assassinations.”

“Be that as it may, Mr President, I would suggest being vigilant until such time as we are able to furnish you with more concrete evidence.”

“You find me that concrete evidence and we’ll have our revenge on them for Conlan and McMahon, but don’t come back to me on this until you have anything worth telling me. This feels like one of the more pointless conversations of my time in the White House.” The president stood and walked back to his desk where he sat down. “That will be all, Harry. Transfer the investigation to the CIA; if there’s any merit in this it has connotations for foreign policy. Bring me more.”

“Yes, sir,” said the secretary, himself standing and walking back to the door.

“Oh and, Harry,” said the president.

“Mr President?”

“Would it not make more sense to code name him the White Russian?”

Bernstein smiled. “Of course, sir, I’ll see to it,” he said and closed the door.

Once the door was closed, the president put down his pen and sighed. Rubbing his eyes again, he pressed the intercom on his desk. “Peggy?”

“Yes, Mr President?” responded the New York accent of his personal assistant.

“Could you have them send me in a White Russian? I have a sudden craving for a cocktail.”

“It is only eleven a.m., sir.”

“Yes, but it’s nine p.m. in Moscow,” he responded and put down the phone.

***

Nine miles away in Langley, Nikita stood by the water cooler in his office at the Central Intelligence Agency’s headquarters and surveyed the scene in front of him. The open plan office spread out before him, yellow in the glow of fluorescent lights. There were few windows and the cloudy midwinter provided little lighting for the room anyway.

Small Atari computer screens flickered at desks across the room, with analysts tapping away with a furious intensity. The walls were plastered with papers, post-its, maps and photographs in an organised chaos of investigations, suspects and persons of interest.

A giant map of the Soviet Union was pinned to a wall on his right next to a television which showed the news on a loop at all times.

Nikita sighed. He felt so far away from the Kamenka shanty from which he’d been plucked all those years ago, but no more satisfied for it. He couldn’t deny that the last six months had been the best of his life. Being part of a team that accepted him, living an ordinary life, aside from the occasional mission at weekends or evenings, had felt fantastic. The reality that he was living a lie to all of his co-workers and also actively working against them did not sit entirely comfortably, but rarely consciously fazed him.

He walked back to his desk, lost deep in thought. Sitting down in his swivel chair, he then leant back and turned to his desk mate.

“Hey Blaine, bar tonight?”

The blond New Yorker Blaine Lahart looked up from the notepad he was scribbling in. He had the sort of face that only suited a smile. “Jeez, isn’t that your third night running, Jake?”

“What can I say; this job makes me drink.”

Blaine laughed. “More than my old man who was every inch the Irish stereotype. Sure, it is nearly Friday after all. Let’s get the rest of the gang together.”

“Cool.” Nikita nodded at Blaine’s notes. “Any progress?”

“Not much. Trying to get Russians to play ball on nuclear site visits is hard work.”

Nikita laughed now. “You thought the commies would make it easy?”

“They’re too busy trying to make the war in Afghanistan look like a success.”

“How’s that going for them?”

“About as smoothly as us in Vietnam.”

Nikita grimaced. “You’d think these people