The Soviet Comeback

suspended its compliance with the treaty… how quickly the world forgets the mistakes of the past.
It’s important to note that there is no evidence whatsoever to suggest that the police in Skyros are, or ever were, in the pay of the KGB. It’s just a very lovely place, that is situated in a convenient location for the story.
Pamyat is a real neo-Nazi group that came to prominence in the late 1980s in the Soviet Union, at a time when unrest was growing throughout the constituent republics and throughout Russia itself.
There have been many reports of extreme Russian racism stretching back to the days of the Soviet Union, and in 2006 Amnesty International described racism in Russia as ‘out of control’ following a wave of hate crimes. Much of it is rooted in the ethnic cleansing and state-enforced policies of discrimination particularly notable throughout the reign of Josef Stalin. Of course, not all Russians are racist — far from it, but Nikita Allochka is the hero, and as such he needed to encounter some of the villains.
If the story seems too damning of Russia or the US, that is not my intention. Both are fantastic countries of which I would love to see a lot more, full of wonderful people I would love to meet, but there is no denying that both have severe intrinsic issues with racism — although it often takes different forms in both countries, just as it does in my own country, the UK. It felt important not to overlook or ignore these difficult, and often avoided, subjects.

PART 1


CHAPTER 1
KAMENKA, SIX HUNDRED KILOMETRES SOUTH EAST OF MOSCOW, USSR, 1981
His piercing blue eyes were the brightest thing on the otherwise colourless landscape, but Colonel Andrei Klitchkov was not there to admire the view. The plain grey suit did little to disguise his military bearing, from the close-cropped grey hair to his stiff, straight posture and highly polished shoes.
He made his way out of the picturesque and sparsely populated small town, and into the run-down scrublands beyond. He was flanked by two black-suited bodyguards the size of small houses and picked his way over the rubble from dilapidated buildings and garbage towards an isolated shack. As he approached the building standing alone on a bleak, grey stretch of land, he could see that it had been pieced together from sheets of graffiti-covered corrugated iron. The grass around it was sparse and ill-looking, like a stagnant swamp starved of sunlight for years. Soviet winter was on its way.
He stopped outside the building to read the graffiti. Tilting his head, he read, in large black letters, ‘Иди домой. Мать Россия = беlaya.’ Go home. Mother Russia = white.
He smiled a crooked smile, and raised a hand cloaked in black leather to knock on the door, but it opened before he could touch it.
Staring up at him was a small black girl, dressed in rags which had been scrubbed clean and crisp. If this surprised the colonel, no trace of it reached his face.
Crouching down, he gave a cold smile that did not extend to his icy blue eyes. “Hello Milena, are Mummy or Daddy home? Or… perhaps Nikita?” he asked in a liquid voice.
Suddenly there was some movement behind Milena and the colonel looked up into the face of her father. Milena hugged her father’s leg, trying to hide behind it.
The colonel extended his hand. “Ah, Mr Gabriel Allochka… or should I say Solomon Wadike?” he asked conspiratorially. “I am Colonel Klitchkov and I was wondering if I might impose myself upon you and your wife for a moment or two?”
Gabriel Allochka was a big man with gentle, sad eyes. He stiffened at the mention of his real name, and ignored the outstretched hand. Instead, he looked to see if anyone was watching, eyeing the bodyguards with alarm, and stepped aside to allow the colonel in. The colonel raised a hand to his companions once more, instructing them to stay outside, a hulking menace to any who would try to enter… or leave.
As he entered the shack, the abject poverty instantly struck the colonel. It was just one room with a bed, some rags on the floor in the rough shape of a second bed, two chairs and several patched pots and pans which were lined against one wall. A woman with a kindly face sat on the bed, looking frightened. The room was very bare. Pushing past the colonel, Gabriel sat down on the bed, putting an arm around his wife, and sat Milena upon one knee. He signalled to the chair for the colonel to sit down.
“What is it you want, Mr Klitchkov?” Gabriel asked, in African-accented English. “I’m afraid my English is still better than my Russian, after all this time.”
“It is Colonel Klitchkov, and English is no problem,” he responded buoyantly, waving his hand and smiling, looking a little crazed. He leant back in his chair and crossed his legs. “I see that you, like myself, are not one for idle chitchat so I shall get straight to business matters. Now, my organisation—”
“Which organisation is that?” asked Gabriel.
“Is well aware of your family,” continued the colonel, acting as if he had not heard Gabriel. “Indeed, I am afraid that you do rather stand out in this country, as I am sure you have noticed.” He waved his hand in the direction of the graffiti outside. “We know that you are here illegally,” he finished without a pause.
Hanging his head, Gabriel sighed in defeat. “You must understand, Colonel, I had no choice.”
“You would be amazed at how poorly that argument holds up in a Soviet court,” Klitchkov replied.
“Does the murder of all five of my brothers and both of my parents in the Nigerian civil war hold up?”
“Not when it doesn’t explain how they all died but you and