Adam Hall - Quiller Balalaika

A shrinking of the scalp, the nerves firing and the brain suddenly alerted as it ranged over the possibility that I'd made a mistake at some point after I'd left Sakkas' house.

Correction, yes: at some time after I'd arrived at the Entre'acte Club with Natalya. And we can do that. We can make mistakes, even the most experienced executives, especially the most experienced, because familiarity with the field can make us cocky, over-confident. And we're talking now, tonight, suddenly, aren't we, about one of the most basic and effective methods of concealing anything.

Or anyone.

Hide them in plain sight.

It's all right – Natalya – I know that man – he's just one of my followers, that's all. He never comes up or pesters me.

Of course not. He was a Sakkas man.

Take another loop and do it faster this time, don't worry about ripping some more wings off, go for it, get the chains dug in and use that wall to break down the swing and get me round, first left, first right, first right, with the lights flooding the narrow streets and bouncing off windows, the drumming of the engine bringing echoes from the buildings as the rear wheels sent waves of snow in our wake so that I lost sight of the tracker, could see only whiteness in the mirrors, take another loop and blow the chains off if we have to, push this bloody thing to the limits of the conditions and swing… bounce… swing in a series of tangents, one of the chains snapping and its loose end hitting against the wing with the beat of a mad drummer until I was back in the main street and gunning up for the next intersection in a final attempt to break clear, watching the mirrors.

Watching the shadow.

Time off for review: there would be two of them – at least two – in the car behind, and they would be armed with assault rifles, the weapon a la mode for Moscow. I had sent them the distinct message that I didn't want them on my tail, but it had been a calculated risk: I might have got clear with all that busy driving just now. If I stopped, all I could do would be to sit and wait for them to make their approach on foot. I would not get out of the car, on the principle we teach the neophytes at Norfolk: never leave shelter if you've got any. There could be a chance, however remote, of gunning up again while they were making their approach on foot, though if there were more than two of them they'd leave a driver behind in case I tried exactly that. If they didn't leave one there and I made the try, they would both start pumping a long-sustained burst, one at the tyres and one at me, unless I could get the chains to bite soon enough and make distance. Those were the options.

I don't like this.

Shut up.

For the moment just keep driving, normal speed for the conditions, fifty kph, sixty, as the snow spreads lace over the headlights and the adrenalin begins flowing out of the glands.

You're in a trap. You -

Oh for God's sake shuddup.

Take a left, head for the short, narrow streets where there was no late-night traffic to get in the way and where I might get a chance to make a right angle and douse the lights and reach the next turn before they closed in.

Never forget, I would tell them, the neophytes, the technique of hiding things or yourself in plain sight. Never forget that the opposition might also do it at any given time – I ran into this one in Moscow last year, and… if I were there again in Norfolk to tell them at all, if I didn't end the night as just another corpse found in a Mercedes with the driver's-side window gaping to the fusillade of shot and the head blown away, but then we mustn't be morbid, my good friend, we must remain, must we not, stout of heart.

Take a right, judge the distance, gun up and hit the next street, douse the lights and keep going, the snow coming up in dark waves across the mirrors, take more chances, don't pussy-foot this bloody thing through, the loose chain hammering, filling the streets like cannon fire, keep going, keep -

Then I was hitting the brakes and swinging left and right as the anti-lock system broke the momentum and the Mercedes reared on one side as we met up with a packed snowdrift and I avoided a roll by letting the wheel go slack to give some equilibrium to the front end, then we were halted, so close to the other car, the second one that was blocking the street, that I could see faces through the windscreen.

The tracker had used his phone, that was all, and called in a backup; I should have known he might. But this was academic: there would've been nothing I could have done.

The scene very bright now, dazzling: both cars had their headlights on and mine was trapped in the middle, throwing its oblique shadow against the walls and across the ruts in the ice. There was just the sound of engines running as the snow came floating down, big, heavy flakes from a swollen sky.

I waited.

Voices came in, I think from one of their radio phones. These weren't the callow, athletic jocks the Cougar ran; these were professionals, calling in a backup and contacting base and shutting me in without a chance in a thousand. These were Sakkas' men.

Acid in the mouth as the adrenalin hit performance levels in the bloodstream; sweat coming out; a feeling a lightness, of poise, the muscles craving release, taut as a bowstring.

A door clicked open and faint backlit shadows formed on the walls as two of them came on foot from the car behind, their boots crunching over the snow. No one got out of the car in front: they would stay where they were, riding shotgun.

I put the window down.

'Show me your papers,' one of them said. The other man was keeping back, his AK-47 aimed at my head.

Showed him.

'Import-Export. What does that mean?' He was interested in my expensive astrakhan coat and black sable hat, my expensive 300 E, wanted to know if I was in the mob, was perhaps a rival to his boss and therefore expendable.

'I ship things in and ship other things out.'

'What sort of things?' Hadn't given my papers back.

'Nickel, furs, jewellery, gold, whatever's available.'

He had a pale, doughy face with an eagle's nose and heavy eyebrows, a man of forty, perhaps more, cynical, seasoned, nobody's fool. His eyes hooked themselves onto mine and stayed there until he was through with his thinking.

'Get out.'

'I'd like my papers back.'

'Get out.' Didn't raise his voice.

I snapped the door open and stood on the snow, feeling it sink under my weight.

'Open your coat.' He frisked me with methodical expertise, his breath clouding in the glare of the lights. 'Get into the car behind.'

'Look, I want to know -'

'Get into the car behind.' The other man swung his gun as emphasis.

'Who the hell are you people? Are you from the RAOC?'

The man with the gun stepped up smartly and drove the muzzle into my back and I tilted the pelvis forward an inch to diminish the shock. Then the two of us crunched across the snow to the car, the gun prodding. I couldn't hear the other man's footsteps.

'Get in.'

I opened the rear door. There wasn't in fact a driver at the wheel, just this one man in the immediate environment, and a scenario for the instant future flashed across my mind, but the plot didn't stand up: I could deal with one man, especially with an assault rifle because they're even more useless than hand guns at short range – you can't swing that much weight a tenth as fast as you can bring down a hammerfist to the wrist. But the other car was there and facing this way and they'd shoot for the legs when I started running.

Smell of new hide and a good cologne, Jesus, these were just his security people. I looked through the windscreen but couldn't see much against the glare. The other man, the one with the eyebrows, must have gone to talk to the crew of the backup car.