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

was flowing freely from his upper arm, dripping heavily onto the face of Chang as he squatted and pulled her up onto the short beach. Behind him was a concrete bank and he moved the pair of them up against it and allowed himself a moment of rest against the wall, out of sight from all, as the stormy grey sky darkened. He ripped a strip of cloth from Chang’s shirt and tied it as a tourniquet to stem some of the bleeding and plotted his next move. To believe that he was dead it was vital that the US authorities found neither body, thinking they were both flushed far out towards the Atlantic by the current.

Tentatively, Brishnov lifted his head above the concrete wall, ignoring the swell of blood that squeezed out of the deep gash on his arm. Before him lay the runway of Washington National Airport.

He grinned and his eyes burned with the fury of revenge.

***

The phone in the Oval Office was ringing. It had been ringing steadily for the past minute but President Ernest Callahan couldn’t face answering it.

His attention was on the television next to his desk with the news cycle showing one homeland security fiasco after another. None of it made the slightest bit of sense.

It looped back to the clip of the vice president collapsing on the steps before cutting to images of the shootout on the building site. The images were then replaced by the face of the opposition, explaining in excruciating detail how badly it boded for national security if the president couldn’t even manage to keep his own vice president safe. It was hard to argue back, even though he was fully aware that Gerald Phillips was sitting quite comfortably at home, basking in the massive surge in public favour he was already enjoying, just in time for his run to be president. “None of that helps me though,” muttered the president, picking up the phone and slamming it back down. Within seconds it began to ring again. Once again, he ignored it. Minutes later there was a knock on the door.

With a sigh the president grunted, “Yes?”

His receptionist poked her head around the door. “Mr President, I have Gordon Sykes of the CIA’s Soviet Counter-intelligence Branch here; he says it’s urgent.”

“Why is everything everyone wants me for always urgent?” he asked forlornly.

She shrugged with a smile. “I’ll show him in, sir,” she replied gently, as he waved his arm to bring him in.

“Mr President,” Sykes said respectfully as he entered. He had done his best to tidy himself up, with a tie and jacket, but his efforts hadn’t stretched as far as fastening the top button of his shirt, or flattening his rough and ready hair which looked as if it hadn’t changed since he climbed out of bed.

The president shook his hand and waved him to the sofa opposite his own as he sat down and crossed his legs.

“What’s so urgent, Gordon?” the president asked wearily.

“We’ve run the tests on the powder used to try and poison the vice president and there is no longer any doubt as to the culprits.”

“Go on,” Callahan said reluctantly.

“The vice president has been targeted by a nerve agent which is part of a group of nerve agents known as novichok.”

“That sounds…”

“Yes, sir, Russian. It is made uniquely in the Soviet Union. It’s a powder so fine that it can be absorbed through your very skin and is incredibly hard to detect. It is the deadliest nerve agent ever made.”

The president paused, rubbing his jawline with one hand and gazing to the heavens for a moment. “But we already knew he was a rogue Soviet agent; this isn’t anything new.”

“Agreed, Mr President, but until we track down the body, this is the only undisputable evidence we have of Russian involvement.”

“Sure, but what the hell are you doing about it, Sykes?” The president demanded, his voice rising. “This was too close, I’m taking a hammering on homeland security issues out there,” he said, waving his arm in the vague direction of the windows.

“Yes, the papers haven’t been too kind this morning.” Sykes chuckled before stopping abruptly under the president’s cold gaze. “There… there is a plan in motion, sir.” He faltered. “I’m working with the Soviet East Department on using the public nature of the whole operation to our advantage.”

He paused, but the president said nothing so he pressed on.

“It was actually one of my analysts here in the Soviet Counter-intelligence Branch that took down the White Russian—”

“Did you say an analyst? This wasn’t in my goddam briefing!” spluttered the president.

“Yessir, Agent Marshall, he’s a fine asset to our department, so much so that he’s now been promoted to special agent status following his exploits today. It seems he’s been wasted behind a desk.”

“What use is he now that the world has seen him?”

“As I was saying, sir, it’s that very fact that we are hoping to turn to our advantage. We are hoping to position him so that the Russians attempt to turn him as a double agent.”

“This needs to start making sense very quickly, Sykes,” Callahan said ominously.

“My apologies, Mr President, it’s a complex plan. Agent Marshall is going to be sent to the Soviet Union, with the explicit orders to make himself just conspicuous enough to be picked up by the KGB. They will easily recognise him from his exploits in the news, assassinating one of their finest. He will then lead them to attempting to turn him. It would appear a major coup for the Russians to turn a national hero.”

“Only if they don’t kill him first,” the president commented flatly.

Sykes shrugged. “No spying mission is ever without risk. He’s an orphan with no strong ties, but is a patriot and the single most effective analyst I’ve ever