Adrian Magson - Execution

Her phone buzzed. A dot and a question mark.

It was Bronyev. He was asking where she was. She smiled. More than that, he hadn’t given her away. If he had, he’d have called her, tried to keep her talking and find out where she was. And every moment she spent on the line would reduce their chances of remaining free. The downside was that in using this brief communication, he was also telling her that his freedom was severely restricted.

At least he was still in one piece and not confined to a locked room in the embassy basement.

She wondered what to do. Ironically, neither of them could communicate freely now. She because whoever was with Bronyev would be waiting for just that event; Bronyev because he would be being watched.

She had to get back to the apartment building. Tate and the others would be getting anxious about how long she had been gone now. She was about to put the mobile back in her pocket when it buzzed again. She checked the screen.

‘888’

She frowned, then went cold. Bronyev had once told her that his mother had studied numerology, and had talked about it often with her son, explaining the importance of numbers in spiritual matters. All numbers meant something, he had explained to Katya, and had gone through a list from 0 to 9 and their repeat sequences. She’d forgotten most of the list because it meant nothing to her. But 888 had stuck because it had once been her mother’s apartment number in the concrete housing block where she had lived and died several years ago. Too lacking in imagination to name the blocks after anyone interesting, such as heroes of the former Soviet Union, the then Cold War authorities had settled instead on the dull conformity of numbers.

Apartment 88 in Block 8. 888.

In spirituality, the three numbers 888 meant a phase in one’s life was about to end — a warning so that one could be prepared. She recalled telling Bronyev at the time that he was being over-imaginative. Numbers were to be added and subtracted, not feared. Anyway, she hadn’t wanted to think about her mother dying alone in that place while she had forged a career in the FSO.

Bronyev hadn’t argued, but had smiled indulgently, something which had made her think he was more spiritual than their superiors might approve of. For a man whose job was to potentially kill in order to protect the lives of others, it could be seen as a sign of weakness.

She swallowed and wondered if she wasn’t now imagining things.

888. The numbers glowed in the poor light.

Then she heard the car engine.

In this part of the city she was pretty certain that 4X4 Mercedes of the type she had seen used by the FSB simply did not exist. The vehicles were highly tuned as a matter of course, with reinforced glass and panels, and she could pick out one of their engines quite easily in a quiet location such as this. The only cars she had seen here so far had been standard road models, small and mostly in poor condition and badly maintained.

But not this one.

It appeared at the end of the street, slowed and stopped, one indicator winking. A gleaming black M-Class vehicle with tinted windows and heavy duty tyres. She knew there would be at least four men inside, all armed.

She stepped back into deeper shadow, her stomach going cold. Somehow they had found her. Worrying about how was a problem for later, if ever. Right now she had to warn the others. Warn Clare.

She began to dial the number, panic for a moment making her forget whose phone she was ringing — Clare’s or Tate’s?

Her own phone started ringing, and she jumped.

At that moment a man stepped out of the Mercedes down the street. She shrank back against the wall, shielding the light from her mobile behind her, and scrabbled at the keyboard to shut it off.

She managed to hit the ‘off’ key and the ringing ceased. But it was too late. The man by the Mercedes had swung round and was looking towards her. She recognised the stance: that of a hunter sniffing the wind. Then he turned and muttered something to the others in the car.

The doors opened and three more men stepped out. One had a gun in his hand, the street lighting glinting off the barrel. The others would be similarly armed.

They weren’t here to take her back, then.

She dropped the bag of groceries and started running.

Harry stared down at his mobile. He’d rung Katya to find out where she was. It had been ringing out, then stopped in mid-ring. It could only mean one thing: she was in trouble.

He started moving across the parkland towards the streets where Katya had seen the store. She must have seen something. Or somebody. But why kill the phone without answering? It could only mean she wasn’t in a position to pick up. He used the trees for cover, jogging through an area heavy with bushes into a clearing with a bench and a picnic table. A single light threw a pale glow over a play pit full of sand and a makeshift see-saw. A child’s football lay punctured to one side, and a coil of rope, abandoned until another child found a use for them.

A small car clattered by on the other side of the next line of trees, beyond some bushes, its muffler stuttering and throaty. He slowed and drew his gun. He was close to the road and guessed the store must be nearby.

A man’s voice called out in the dark, unintelligible. Another answered, then came the sound of footsteps receding. They were light, fast. Running.

A woman.

As Harry ducked through the trees he caught the hum of a car engine coming closer. It sounded powerful, high-performance, unlike the rust-bucket he’d heard moments before. Then came the crunch of tyres on gravel. Whatever it was, it was heavy.

The man shouted again. This time Harry understood the word.

‘ Skoree !’ Hurry.

Russian.

Damn. How the hell had they found this place? But the answer was obvious: Richoux. He was the only person who knew where the safe house was located. He must have talked. Pushing the thought away, he focussed on the sound of running feet. It had to be Katya they were after. If so, he had to intervene somehow, to give her a chance to get away.

As he brushed aside a hanging clump of foliage, he saw a black Mercedes 4X4 standing in the street in front of him, the engine ticking over. The front passenger door was hanging open, and he could see the driver holding a radio or phone to his mouth. There was a burst of conversation and static. There were no passengers, though. They must have decamped to go after Katya.

Then a man stepped out from behind the 4X4 and scanned the parkland. He was strongly built and dressed in jeans and a nylon jacket. He had a gun down by his side in one hand, a radio in the other. He was coordinating the search.

His head swivelled away, eyes brushing across where Harry was standing, checking the scenery for movement, his job to watch for interference and direct his colleagues. There was no reaction for a split second, and Harry thought the man had missed him.

Then his head snapped round again.

The gun came up and the man went into a crouch, instincts and training driving him.

Harry responded in the same fashion. He dropped away to his right knee and moved sideways all in one movement, allowing his body to roll. He felt grass beneath him, smelled the musky aroma of dead foliage; heard a shot and felt the air shift as the bullet snapped past his head. Then he was coming up again, this time with his gun held in front of him, the butt cupped in his left hand, a move he had practised many times before. The barrel centred on the Russian, and stopped. The man stared in disbelief at having missed, his mouth open as he tried to bring his gun across to centre on the target.

Harry absorbed the scene automatically, running the details through his head. The man was standing against the 4X4; a solid body mass; nowhere for the bullet to go afterwards; no pedestrians in danger. No options but to shoot.