Brian Freemantle - The Run Around

The Ukrainian, whose name was Barabanov, had entered the warehouse at precisely the same time as Zenin but through a door diametrically opposite. And like Zenin he had gone immediately to ground, although not with so much caution, only bothering to check the immediate room in which he concealed himself in the apartment block, careless of others around it, which Zenin would not have been.

Barabanov was a giant of a man physically hardened by ten years of existence in the most punitive of the penal colonies in the Soviet Union and mentally reduced even beyond his clinical psychosis to animalistic violence by the need during those ten years to survive, someone who instinctively fought with boot and teeth and knee and gouging fingers, overwhelming anyone in his path. And he was determined to survive by killing whoever it was being pitted against him.

Like Zenin, he had been given the time limit of an hour for some contact to be made, although he had been told his failure would result in his return to his life sentence in Potma. Almost half an hour elapsed before uncertainty began to twitch through him and after forty minutes he decided he had to move. There were tables and chairs in the room in which he crouched. Barabanov chose one of the heavier chairs, easily splitting off a moulded rear leg, hefting it in his hand, leaving a cross-rail in place because it gave him added grip.

He took one final, hopeful look through the window out into the deserted and fake street and then carefully opened the door, not the rear one through which he had entered but one at the front, which was his first mistake.

Zenin saw him instantly he emerged. There was no fear at the man’s overpowering size nor at knowing, from his awareness of Barabanov’s criminal record for murder, how the man could use such obvious strength. Zenin had been graded to senior instructor level in two different styles of martial art but decided it would still be a mistake to confront the man openly, because it was essential that he survived without any obvious mark or injury. Zenin checked the time, seeing that he had twelve minutes in which to kill the man if he were not to have any points deducted, which he was determined against. As he turned back into the cafe Zenin shook his head in disgust at Barabanov’s clumsy amateurism.

In the kitchen the oil was bubbling, near to boiling after so long over the burners, and the sound was louder now, which was important. Zenin checked, briefly, to ensure it could be heard in the customer area, and then went directly to the stove, gauging the distance between the door and the stove, guessing that he would only have seconds but confident that was all he would need.

Just seven minutes left, he saw.

Back at the window, Zenin watched for Barabanov’s exit from an apartment house opposite, purposely opening and quickly closing, so that it slammed, the door leading out. He was still able to look through the window and see the man’s awareness, which was the intention. As Barabanov started across the street, Zenin hurried into the kitchen, leaving the door ajar for the gas and oil bubbling sounds to be more obvious.

He was standing by the stove, waiting expectantly, when Barabanov pushed open the door, at first cautiously but at the last moment violently, hoping to instill the fear to which he was accustomed. For a moment the two men stared at each other. And then, with the snarl of the animal he was, Barabanov hurled himself across the room, flailing with the chair leg club.

Barabanov was just feet away when Zenin hurled the boiling oil directly into his face. The snarl became a scream of blinded agony. Barabanov was carried on by the force of his own impetus, so that he collided with the stove, but Zenin had moved by then: the Ukrainian slammed his hand down in another unseen cauldron of scalding oil, actually upending it off the gas ring right down the front of himself. Barabanov screamed out in fresh agony, swiping wildly with the club he still carried. Zenin carefully judged his moment, ducking beneath one swipe and bringing the heel of his hand sharply up against the point of Barabanov’s chin before he could make another, hearing the distinct crack as the man’s neck broke, ducking away so that he would not be hit by the man’s fall.

Zenin checked his watch, smiling in satisfaction. There were still four minutes before the expiry of the time limit so his record was unblemished. Barabanov was very heavy and Zenin grunted with the effort of hauling him back into the outer room: the man’s head lolled, disconnected, and his face had begun to swell into one huge blister. Zenin positioned the convict at the bottom of the stairs with his body actually coming down it, as it would have done if he had stumbled and fallen from the top, and then pressed Barabanov’s hand around the handle of the first oil pan, the one he’d actually thrown at the man. He stepped over the body and climbed to the bathroom, covering his hand with a towel before scattering the contents of a medicine chest into the sink and on the floor, as if some frantic search for some soothing or protective cream had been made and then carried the towel downstairs again, wedging it into Barabanov’s other hand.

The assessors had been unanimous in marking Zenin’s performance as excellent, the highest award possible. It was the standard he intended to maintain on this, his first job.

He immediately locked the door of the Bayswater hotel, checking through every item in the suitcase that had been provided for him by KGB agents at the London embassy which he was forbidden to approach direct, knowing any incriminating mistake in the clothing was unlikely but determined against even the slightest risk. London public transport maps were included and using them he travelled to Soho by underground, locating without difficulty the newsagent’s shop that unknowingly was going to indicate his undetected arrival and alert the London rezidentura to initiate the next stage of the Operation. He paid four pounds to have the For Sale card advertising a six-foot dinghy displayed in a glass case crammed with other cards, telling the assistant he would call in daily for replies. From Soho he travelled by bus to the zoo in Regent’s Park, from which he walked to Primrose Hill, at once pleased that he had taken the reconnaissance precaution because there was a sign that bicycling in the park was illegal, about which he should have been warned. He made a mental note to complain about the London rezidentura when he got back to Moscow: it was the sort of oversight which could have ruined everything. He lunched in a surprisingly good bistro and afterwards walked to Camden Town where he caught an underground train back into central London. In a Trafalgar Square cinema he saw a film about a supposed secret agent named James Bond, which he found professionally absurd, before returning to Soho to ensure that the contact message was displayed as it should have been. It was. He was not really hungry but he ate anyway, to occupy time, but it was still early when he returned to the hotel. There were four other guests in the television lounge but Zenin did not join them, because it was necessary to avoid any casual contact. In his room he went directly to bed and fell at once into a dreamless sleep.

The following day he returned to Soho, enquiring about replies to his advertisement. The girl said one man had enquired if the boat were white, which was the arranged acknowledgement that an agent from the embassy had seen his signal. Zenin said it was green but that he wanted to withdraw the card anyway, because he’d managed to dispose of the boat elsewhere. She reminded him that the previous day she’d made it clear the four pounds was not refundable and Zenin assured her he was not seeking one. She said they’d always be willing to put a display card in their case if he had anything else to sell and Zenin said he would remember.