James Barrington - Overkill

‘Comrade Gremiakin?’ Richter asked, and the Russian nodded. Richter proffered an SVR identity card which was absolutely genuine. He knew it was genuine because it had formerly been the property of Colonel Vladimir Orlov, deceased, but it now bore Richter’s picture and a different name. ‘I’m Lieutenant Nicolai Teplov,’ Richter said. ‘General Modin has requested I deliver you this letter and then take you to him. An urgent matter has arisen and he requires your services.’

Gremiakin smiled, took the letter which Modin had written beside the autoroute in northern France and opened it. He scanned its contents, looked carefully at the signature, and then handed it back to Richter. ‘I’ll just get my jacket,’ he said. Two minutes later he locked the apartment door behind him and followed Richter down the stairs. ‘I’ve not seen you before,’ Gremiakin said, as they descended the final flight.

‘No, Comrade. I’ve only worked for the general for a few weeks.’

‘You have an unusual accent, Lieutenant,’ the Russian continued. ‘Where are you from?’

‘Georgia,’ Richter said.

Gremiakin was silent for a few moments, but then as they emerged on to the pavement and walked towards the corner around which Richter had parked the car he spoke again. ‘Probably not Georgia,’ he said, and the way he said it made Richter stop and look at him. Gremiakin had removed his right hand from the pocket of his jacket, and Richter could see that he was holding a small automatic pistol. ‘More probably one of the counties of northern England, Mr Willis. Or should that be Mr Beatty?’ Gremiakin said.

Something, somewhere, had gone badly wrong. In the quiet of the evening Richter could faintly hear the sound of a car engine at high revolutions, still a long way off, but rapidly getting closer. Obviously Gremiakin hadn’t just been finding his jacket in his flat – he’d also been making a telephone call, and the cavalry was on its way. Richter had probably less than a minute to sort things out.

Gremiakin was smiling with pleasurable anticipation. ‘I was talking to General Modin this afternoon – most of the afternoon, in fact,’ he said with a chuckle, ‘and he told me all about you.’

‘I see,’ Richter said, and turned as if to walk away. Then he pivoted on his left heel and span round, dropping and kicking out, hard, with his right foot. His kick caught the side of Gremiakin’s right knee, and he fell like a pole-axed ox. As he tumbled, Richter crouched forward and punched him with the side of his hand, below and behind the left ear, and the Russian was unconscious before he reached the ground. The VAZ was only about fifty yards away. Richter put his arms round Gremiakin’s chest, dragged him to it and manoeuvred him into the passenger seat. The noise of the approaching car was much louder, and Richter expected it to arrive at any moment.

What Gremiakin wouldn’t have been able to tell them was what Richter was driving, because he had parked the VAZ out of sight of the flat, and Richter was keen that they shouldn’t find out. Gremiakin was still out cold. Richter started the engine of the VAZ, put Gremiakin’s pistol – a 9mm Makarov PM, modelled on the German Walther PP – in his pocket and walked back to the corner to wait for the cavalry.

Richter took the Smith and Wesson out of the shoulder holster and checked the cylinder. He knew it was fully loaded, but it never hurts to check twice. Then he just waited.

The car – a VAZ, similar to the one Richter was driving – came round the corner in front of him on no more than three wheels, headlights blazing, and lurched to a stop in front of the apartment building. Four men got out and ran for the entrance doors. Richer had no quarrel with any of them, so he waited until they were inside and, he guessed, at least halfway up the stairs, before he did anything.

Then Richter took careful aim with the Smith and fired once at the car. The pistol kicked high, and the left front tyre blew with a satisfying bang. Richter lowered the weapon again and put two rounds through the engine compartment. If a .357 Magnum bullet hits the side of an engine block, it’s quite capable of going right through it. Richter couldn’t guarantee that he’d destroyed the motor, but he was quite sure the car wouldn’t be able to follow him.

Richter holstered the Smith, ran back to his car and drove away as quickly as he could, watching the rear-view mirror very carefully. The first of them came round the corner of the building when the VAZ was about eighty metres down the road, and just as Richter made a turn to the right. At that range Richter was certain he would not have been able to read the car number plate. He would no doubt have identified the vehicle as a VAZ, but that was hardly a problem – every second car on the streets of Moscow was a VAZ.

Gremiakin was beginning to stir, go Richter waited until the road straightened up, then took out the Smith, reversed it, and hit him smartly on the head with the butt. Gremiakin lapsed into unconsciousness again, and Richter concentrated on getting to where he wanted to go.

It was a little after eight forty when Richter drove up a narrow track off a side road to the south-east of Kon’kovo. He parked the car in a small clearing well off the road and facing back the way he had come, stopped the engine, got out and just listened. In the twilight Richter heard bird song, occasional rustlings of small animals in the undergrowth, and the wind in the tree-tops, but no voices, no indication of any human presence. Satisfied, he opened the boot and dragged out the tarpaulin he had liberated from the building site that afternoon, and spread it out on the ground behind the car and next to a small tree. Then he took out the toolkit and the jack handle and put them beside it.

Richter dragged Gremiakin out of the car and laid him out on the tarpaulin. He was beginning to come round, which suited Richter fine. He opened up the toolkit and took out a roll of thick black sticky tape, a length of which he stuck across Gremiakin’s mouth as a makeshift gag. Richter didn’t want him to talk, only to listen. Richter used a couple of plastic cable ties to lash the Russian’s wrists together behind the tree, leaving him in a sitting position. He removed Gremiakin’s shoes and socks, found a stout tree branch about three feet long and used more cable ties to secure his ankles to it, one at each end.

Ten minutes later Gremiakin was fully awake and staring at Richter. Richter stared straight back. ‘You shouldn’t have come with me,’ Richter said. ‘You knew who I was, and you must have guessed what I wanted. You should have stayed in your flat.’

Gremiakin blinked, his blue eyes watery. ‘You said you talked with General Modin. I presume that meant you talked with him in your professional capacity?’ The Russian’s nod was just perceptible. ‘He was under suspicion because of what happened to the London weapon, I suppose? Recalled by the Kremlin, or possibly Bykov put the finger on him?’

The Russian shook his head. ‘That’s a surprise,’ Richter said. ‘And because you were involved, I presume that the general is now no longer with us?’ Again the slight nod. ‘Another tick in your records?’ Richter said, and Gremiakin looked puzzled. Richter waved a hand. ‘Never mind,’ he continued. ‘I didn’t come about the general.’

Richter opened the toolbox again and took out a claw hammer. Then he walked behind the tree and smashed it as hard as he could, twice, into the back of Gremiakin’s right hand. The skin ruptured, and bones splintered, showing white against the up-welling blood.

Richter walked back to the end of the tarpaulin and sat down. He took a tissue from his pocket, cleaned the debris off the end of the hammer and put it on the tarpaulin beside him. Only then did he look at Gremiakin. The Russian’s face was pale and bloodless, and tears were running down his cheeks.