Adrian Magson - Execution

The team piled out of the car and crossed the pavement to join their two colleagues at the front entrance to the hotel. Four of them moved inside while two others trotted along the street to an intersection to check the rear of the building. Symenko followed at a more relaxed pace, enjoying the feel of power at the flick of a finger.

Inside the hotel, a man was sitting behind the reception desk, reading a book on French architecture.

‘BVT.’ After two years, Symenko’s German was fluent enough to pass muster. He flashed an ID card stating that he represented the Federal Agency for State Protection and Counter-Terrorism. ‘You have suspects in this hotel we wish to interview.’ He produced photos of Clare Jardine and Katya Balenkova and slapped them on the counter in front of the clerk, who seemed bemused by the show of strength rather than intimidated.

‘The dark haired one, yes,’ he said, pointing at the picture of Jardine. ‘But I’ve never seen the blonde one. What have they done?’ He stared around at the men with Symenko, all dressed in jeans and jackets, none of them bothering to hide the automatic weapons they were carrying. They seemed to fill the space with their presence and were all staring at him in silence.

‘Never mind that. Which room?’

The man told them, and stood watching as two men headed for the lift and the others took the stairs. ‘Don’t break anything,’ he called after them, then shrugged and went back to his book. They hadn’t even asked for a key. He made a note to get the cleaning ladies in early tomorrow; no doubt they’d be needed.

Upstairs, the team gathered along the corridor leading to the English woman’s room and waited for Symenko to give the order to go. When he nodded, one of the men leaned across, knocked on the door and waited. No answer.

‘Force it.’ Symenko moved back to allow the men to kick the door in, which they did with a crash.

The room was empty. They checked every drawer and the bathroom, but there was nothing of interest.

Symenko was about to call in the results when his radio crackled.

‘They went out the back.’ It was one of the men outside. ‘I can see them moving along an alleyway.’

‘Follow them and keep them in sight. And keep this channel open.’ He ordered his men out and back to the vehicles.

Symenko was smiling in eager anticipation. This was no longer a simple trace and report; it was now turning into a hot pursuit.

‘What’s the plan?’ asked Rik, as Harry led them across an intersection towards a darkened area in the distance. ‘We’re not going down in the sewers, are we? I saw that film. It gave me the creeps.’

‘Relax,’ Harry murmured. ‘If we do I’ll send one of the girls down first to shoo away the nasty spiders.’

They were passing between a seemingly endless collection of four-and-five storey apartment blocks set back on streets that were too wide for comfort. All the Russians would have to do was hit the right street and they would be caught out in the open.

‘Where are we going?’ asked Katya. She seemed calm enough, but there was an air of tension about her that spoke volumes about the kind of men pursuing them.

‘There’s a safe house we can use,’ Harry replied. ‘If we can get to it. But we can’t do that with them following us.’ He had tried calling Richoux, but there was no response. The man’s local knowledge would have been invaluable, but they were going to have to fall back on their own resources. So far they had seen no sign of a taxi, and hanging around for one to turn up was not an option. If the Russians called up reinforcements and flooded the area, it would be only a matter of time before they were seen.

Up ahead the glow from the street lights between the apartment blocks appeared to fade, showing an area of relative darkness. Harry had mentioned it to be a park near the Praterstern, a large gyratory system connecting a number of roads like spokes of a wheel. If they got to that safely, they could go under cover in the park until they managed to pick up a taxi and head south to the district of Favoriten, where the safe house was located.

‘Fair enough.’ Rik turned to check on Clare, who was being helped along by Katya. She had refused his help earlier, and he’d figured she was better off doing it herself if she chose.

He was about to turn back when he noticed a flicker of movement a hundred yards away. A figure was jogging along the street, flitting in and out of the shadows. He’d seen some movement before, but had dismissed it as normal. Now he wasn’t so sure.

‘I’m going to drop back,’ he told Harry. ‘I think we’ve got a tail. I’ll catch up at the park.’

Harry turned and looked behind them. The pursuer had vanished. ‘You sure you can handle it?’

‘No worries.’

‘OK. Don’t take all night; his buddies won’t be far behind.’

Rik stepped of the street and into a small belt of trees and bushes bordering an apartment block. The trees conveniently blanked out any view of the windows above and behind him, leaving him in almost complete darkness. He allowed his breathing to settle and listened to the night, trying to block out the hum of traffic and focus instead on noises closer at hand.

He heard the man before he saw him. Whoever he was, he had a clumpy tread and was breathing heavily with a faint wheezing sound, like a worn-out prize-fighter who had encountered too many punches. Rik waited until the last second, then peered out as the man passed beneath a street light. He was short and stocky, dressed in jeans and a nylon jacket. He had close-cropped hair and a developing paunch, but walked with the resolute gait of a man accustomed to long route marches.

The glint of a weapon showed in a hip holster to one side.

As the man drew level with his hiding place, Rik stepped out and hit him across the throat with his gun.

Whatever his physical state, the man had good instincts. He moved to one side the moment he sensed trouble, lifting his forearm to block the attack and uttering a sharp expletive. But he was a fraction of a second too slow. His arm took most of the blow, but the gun barrel glanced off the solid mass of muscle and bone and thudded into his throat. He grunted and made a choking sound and pitched over backwards.

Rik bent and dragged the man into the bushes, picking up the gun which had slipped from its holster. He flipped the body over and took out the man’s shoelaces, then tied his little fingers and thumbs together, palms outwards to prevent him from breaking them, and used the man’s belt to secure his ankles. It wouldn’t last long, but would give them breathing space to get away unseen.

He stopped, hearing footsteps approaching along the street. Another one? He waited, then heard a snuffling sound, and came face to face with a red setter ducking its head beneath the foliage. It stared at him, tongue hanging out, then whined. He wasn’t sure who was most surprised, but was thankful when the dog retreated at a sharp command from a woman walking by just a few feet away.

He allowed her to move away before going back to searching the unconscious man’s pockets. He felt a bulky object in the jacket. It was a shortwave radio. He made sure he didn’t touch the controls and put it in his pocket to dispose of later. Then he set off after the others.

‘Preshkin’s not answering.’ One of Captain Symenko’s lieutenants, a recent addition to the team, had been monitoring the lead man’s progress along the back streets. He had been getting a regular commentary by radio about the direction in which the fugitives were moving, but that had ceased, accompanied by some interference and background static. ‘Hello, Preshkin. Come in,’ he barked, as if to prove it.