James Barrington - Overkill

Richter flushed the toilet, disposing of the manila envelope, then checked his suitcase in at the BA counter, and bought a paperback at the book shop – it was going to be a long flight, and he didn’t want to spend all the time thinking about the job he had to do in Moscow.

They called the flight five minutes early and the aircraft took off on time. Richter watched the streets of London dwindle in size until the Boeing 767 went through a cloudbank and he could no longer see the ground.

Moscow

As for all arrivals in Moscow by Queen’s Messengers, there was an escort from the Embassy waiting for Richter at Sheremetievo. He looked a little surprised at Richter’s haggard appearance, but was obviously far too well trained to comment. Richter followed him through passport control with a minimum of fuss, and they avoided Customs altogether on the strength of the Beatty diplomatic passport. A black Rover was waiting, and they drove swiftly through the streets of Moscow, heading for the Embassy. Richter said little to the driver or the escort. He was still feeling the after-effects of both his encounter with Yuri and the Kalashnikov round in his chest, not to mention the succession of sleepless nights that seemed to have accompanied them, and he really didn’t want to make conversation.

Richter ate a light lunch at the Embassy, then went down to meet the Ambassador. When he found out this couldn’t happen, because the Ambassador had left the Embassy on Friday morning to spend a four-day weekend in Germany, Richter had no option but to renew his acquaintance with Secretary Horne.

That afternoon, Horne was late and Richter sat twiddling his thumbs in his office until almost two. When Horne walked in, he didn’t seem at all pleased to see his visitor. ‘Who let you in? What do you want?’

‘We met a short while ago, after Mr Newman’s death, remember?’ Richter said.

Horne looked at him with suspicion. ‘My secretary advised me to expect a Mr Beatty this afternoon, not you.’

Richter tossed the Beatty passport onto his desk. ‘That’s me as well. As you may have guessed, I’m not an insurance company representative.’ Richter passed Horne the envelope with the Ambassador’s name on it. ‘Would you please read that. I need help from some of your staff, and I need it today.’

Horne turned the envelope over suspiciously in his hand. ‘Now look here, Mr Willis or Beatty or whatever your name is, you can’t just push your way in here and start ordering me around. I’ll have you know—’

Richter stood up, leaned across the desk, fixed Horne with an unblinking stare and spoke very quietly. ‘Secretary Horne,’ he said, ‘I’m through asking; I’m telling. Any obstruction from you, and I can have you shipped out of this Embassy in less than twenty-four hours, with no job, no pension and no “sir” at the front of your name.’

All of which was a grotesque exaggeration, of course, but it seemed to do the trick, because Horne sat down without another word and tore open the flap of the envelope. Richter resumed his seat while Horne glanced at the single sheet of paper it contained, then read it.

When he’d finished, he folded the page and looked up at Richter. ‘I’ve never heard of this Richard Simpson or his organization,’ Horne said, ‘but I do recognize the counter-signature on this letter. I do not,’ he added, ‘wish to know what you are doing here in Moscow. Payne will provide you with whatever assistance you need.’ Richter nodded and Horne reached out his hand to the telephone. ‘Get me Payne, please. It’s urgent.’ He put the receiver back in its rest and looked in a hostile manner across his desk at Richter.

Andrew Payne, still the acting SIS Head of Station, arrived three minutes later. Horne introduced ‘Mr Beatty’, told Payne to give him whatever assistance he required, and then dismissed them both with a certain amount of relief. Payne was a tall, sandy-haired individual in his late thirties, who appeared puzzled at Richter’s presence in Moscow, and still more perplexed when he had explained what he wanted.

‘It’s not that I can’t tell you exactly what I’m doing,’ Richter said, ‘it’s more that I don’t think you’d really want to know.’

‘As you wish,’ Payne said, somewhat stiffly. ‘So all you actually want SIS to do is provide you with a car for the day – not an official car, just an ordinary saloon – plus maps of Moscow and so on. Then you’ll be meeting this man Gremiakin late this evening, and flying back to Britain tomorrow.’

‘That’s about the size of it,’ Richter said.

‘Are you expecting a little trouble at this meeting with the Russian?’

‘No,’ Richter replied. ‘I’m expecting a lot of trouble.’

‘I see. Do you require a weapon of any sort? We have a small armoury here, of course.’

‘Thank you, no.’ Richter opened his jacket to show him the butt of the Smith and Wesson. Payne nodded absently, and five minutes later Richter was inspecting his transport for the day in the Embassy car park. It proved to be a VAZ, like that in which Mr Newman’s unfortunate doppelgänger had met his end. Richter hoped it wasn’t an omen. He checked the boot first, to confirm that what he expected to find was actually there, then he unlocked the car and climbed in. Richter spent a few minutes getting used to the controls before starting it and driving out into the light mid-afternoon traffic of Moscow. He didn’t really know where he was going, but he knew that he would recognize what he wanted when he saw it.

Moscow is encircled by two ring roads, both centred more or less on the Kremlin. The first describes a circle about three miles in diameter and encloses the heart of the city; the second is ten miles out, and follows the Gorod Moskva district boundary. Richter would be meeting Leonid Gremiakin at his apartment in the Shaydrovo district, about eight miles to the south of the city centre and just to the east of the main road which runs on south to Tula and Orel and, if you follow it far enough, eventually to Sevastopol in the Crimea on the northern shore of the Black Sea. Shaydrovo seemed a good place to start, so Richter turned the VAZ on to Ljusinovskaja at Serpuhovskaja ploshchad and headed south.

He drove past the western loop of the Moskva River, where it flows past Yuzhnyy Port and Nagatino before turning north for the centre of Moscow, and on through the thinning suburbs, through Belyayevo and on to Krasnyy Mayak. Then Richter turned left and circled round to approach Shaydrovo from the south. The maps Payne had provided were no more than adequate, and did not, of course, identify individual apartment buildings, but he had plenty of time in hand, and within two hours he had found exactly where Gremiakin lived.

Richter headed west out of Shaydrovo, turned north and drove almost as far as Belyayevo on the main road, then turned left towards Vorontsavo. About a mile along the road he turned left again, past the outskirts of Kon’kovo and on towards Tëplyystan. By the time Richter reached the turning for Uzkoye, he had identified three sites that were suitable, so he carried on south to Yazenevo, past the access road that leads to SVR headquarters, and then drove east to the main road and turned north, back towards the Embassy.

Richter only needed one more item, and he found that on a derelict building site as he approached the inner ring road. Richter stopped the car, picked it up and put it in the boot, and drove the VAZ back into the Embassy car park.

At seven Richter went down to the dining room for an early meal. When he’d finished eating it was seven thirty, and by a quarter to eight he was sitting in the driving seat of the VAZ and heading south again. He reached Shaydrovo a little after eight, drove to Gremiakin’s apartment building and parked around the corner. Richter climbed the stairs to the second floor and knocked on the door. After a minute or so it opened, and a stooping, grey-haired man with twinkling blue eyes peered out, looking at him quizzically.