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

As he neared the bottom, with the ground close enough that his vision didn’t swim he could see police cars, police officers, SWAT vans, and standing directly beneath him, Sykes. Further back, pressed against a line of police tape were the press. They were being held back by a line of police officers, but long lens cameras with large flash attachments were working furiously, despite the remonstrations of the officers attempting to contain them.

He climbed off the ladder and was immediately thrown to the ground, a knee in his back from the SWAT officer who had descended with him. His arms were pulled behind his back and handcuffs clicked roughly into place, before he was hauled to his feet.

Facing him was Sykes, a grim expression on his face. How much did he know? How much had he surmised? Sykes nodded to the officer holding Nikita and walked away, his face unreadable. He climbed into a black limousine which drove off as soon as he closed the door, forcing some of the press to squeeze out of the way.

Nikita was bundled into a police car, his head pushed down and in, the locks on the door clicking into position as it closed behind him.

***

Nikita had been waiting in the interrogation room for what felt like hours, although it was hard to gauge in the windowless room, lit only by a dim fluorescent strip glowing above him. His hands were cuffed to a bar on the table, but he had seen no one since being deposited in the room and the door locked behind him.

While he had seen no one, he knew it didn’t mean that nobody had seen him. Aside from the camera pointed straight at him in the corner of the room, he was facing a large mirror. He had no doubt he was being watched through it by a room full of people on the other side.

His mouth was dry and sticky; a mere drop of water would provide instant relief. No matter, he had endured far worse than thirst. A classic interrogation technique — make him uncomfortable, make him desperate. He focused his mind back on the predicament at hand. What had happened to the Capitol? Suddenly Brishnov’s methods made a little more sense. Ever since he had run from the scene under the guise of John, Nikita had been struck by the oddity of it. At that point Brishnov’s disguise was still intact; running away only drew attention to him. “And drew eyes away from the Capitol,” Nikita muttered to himself, realisation kicking in.

At that moment, the door opened and in walked a man with short dark hair brushed across his forehead, thick glasses and a faintly grey and jowly face. Tightly clipped under his nose was a salt-and-pepper moustache. It perched above a small, expressionless mouth that looked like it had been compressed. The small, watery eyes were magnified through the thick wire-rimmed glasses, more akin to goggles. They gazed placidly at Nikita as he sat down in the chair opposite him with his back to the mirror and undid the cuffs binding Nikita to the table. He pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes, offering them to Nikita who shook his head, before putting one into his own mouth, showing yellow nicotine-stained teeth. He lit the cigarette, blowing the smoke unapologetically into Nikita’s face before pressing the record button on the tape recorder next to him on the table.

“Mr Marshall, I’m Zach Burn of the CIA,” he said in a dry voice. Nikita’s head immediately snapped up. ZB.

“You won’t have heard of me,” he said, widening his eyes discreetly, “but suffice it to say I have heard of you. After your antics today, I daresay there are few who have not heard of you.” He tossed his black and white lighter onto the table and glared at him angrily.

“Can someone please tell me why I’m being held here? I just brought down the White Russian and did my job,” Nikita said angrily.

“Oh, we know that. The problem is, so does the world. Your job is to operate in the shadows, but now the world has seen you kill a Russian agent on American soil. When things like this happen, it makes it very hard to keep the Cold War cold. We need you to tell us everything you know. Like why was a desk analyst the one who took down the White Russian?”

“You need me to justify apprehending a terrorist?”

“You call him a terrorist?” Burn replied quizzically.

“And I suppose you call him a freedom fighter?” Nikita replied flatly.

“Whatever we call him, I wouldn’t call what you did apprehending.”

“Oh? And what would you call it?”

Burn opened his mouth and said nothing, smiling subtly. He pulled out a small notebook and began writing in it, the smoke from the cigarette between his fingers snaking upwards towards the ceiling.

Nikita said nothing, sitting in silence, keeping in full control and trying to look for any hint or clue from Burn.

Burn closed his book and looked up at Nikita. “You’re being sent to Russia,” he said, eyeing Nikita closely to see any trace of his reaction. Nikita gave him none, saying nothing, offering only a small nod. “You have made yourself too visible here, but some feel that you have demonstrated hitherto unrealised abilities as a field agent.”

“But I’m an analyst,” Nikita protested gently.

Burn arched an eyebrow and smirked. “Indeed. Nonetheless it is believed you represent an ideal target for the KGB to turn you as an apparent double agent.”

Nikita nodded, as if weighing up the suggestion. “I see,” he said non-committedly before changing the subject. “What was the smoke from the Capitol? It sounded like a bomb.”

Burn’s face darkened momentarily. There was a haunted look on his face that put Nikita’s senses on edge. “That’s part of a