James Barrington - Overkill

‘I was photographed on arrival at Sheremetievo, as all foreign nationals are, and my guess is that that picture matched a record in the SVR database, hence the kill attempt at the airport. There’ll be a pile of mug shots of me at the Russian Embassy here, and no doubt a directive from the Lubyanka or Yazenevo to watch and report, and obviously a kill order on me if I did certain things or visited certain places. JARIC, presumably, was one of them. The other thing you ought to be aware of,’ Richter added, ‘is that, if they have been following me, it’s quite likely Hammersmith Commercial Packers is now on their watch-list.’

Hammersmith Commercial Packers provided FOE with a thin veneer of cover. The company actually existed, and even employed a small staff to conduct a legitimate business on the ground floor of the building located just north of the Hammersmith Flyover.

‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ Simpson said. ‘I can confirm some aspects. The car was stolen three days ago, in London. The Embassy Watch people have confirmed that the two in it were Russians, and from our records they arrived here only the day before yesterday, together with two other new staff for the Russian Embassy, so they could be a professional hit-team. Or, rather, they could have been a professional hit-team. They’re both dead.’

‘Oh,’ Richter said.

‘Yes,’ said Simpson. ‘I suppose they were both alive and well when you left them?’

‘I don’t know,’ Richter replied. ‘They were both unconscious, certainly.’

Simpson looked at him doubtfully. ‘According to the initial report from the local police, both had suffered fractured skulls, the damage being caused by something like a large hammer or mallet. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?’

Richter looked straight at him. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you check the toolkit in the Granada and see if you can find any blood-stained tyre levers or anything?’

‘I already have. There was also no sign of the gun you say they fired at you.’

‘Really?’ Richter said. ‘Well, perhaps there was a back-up team in a second car, then, and they shifted the evidence, as it were.’

‘Perhaps. And perhaps there’s a hammer in a river somewhere with your prints slowly washing off it, and a bag with a gun in it buried in a wood.’ Richter looked at him, but said nothing. ‘What’s the tie-up between Newman and the Blackbird?’ Simpson asked. ‘Do you know?’

‘No,’ Richter replied, standing up to leave, ‘but I’m going to find out. One thing – I want to draw a weapon.’

‘Why?’

‘Because if anyone else shoots at me, I want to be able to shoot back.’

Simpson was silent for a few seconds, then he nodded. ‘Yes, you can have a pistol.’ He shook a warning finger. ‘Just try to remember you’re not James Bond. Make sure you fire second, if you fire at all, and try to avoid ventilating some innocent member of the public when you do so. I’ll ring the Armoury.’

American Embassy, Grosvenor Square, London

Roger Abrahams knocked twice on the bedroom door and walked in, carrying a tray of coffee and a plate of doughnuts. He flicked on the main light and glanced across at the bed, where John Westwood was just opening his eyes. ‘Feeling better?’ Abrahams asked.

‘Not so you’d notice,’ Westwood grunted. ‘Flying across the pond always screws me up – you’d think I’d be used to it by now.’ He looked at the tray Abrahams had placed on the bedside table. ‘Some news?’

‘Yes,’ Abrahams replied, pouring a coffee. ‘We have a meet with Piers Taylor in just over an hour, hence the wake-up call.’

Westwood nodded and reached for the cup. ‘Good. Where is it – here?’

Abrahams shook his head and smiled. ‘No way. Taylor would want a very good reason – probably in writing – to visit the Embassy. We’re all going off to feed the ducks in Regents Park, just like characters in a John le Carré novel.’

Westwood grimaced. ‘And I suppose we have to indulge in the usual double-speak and then work out afterwards what the hell we were really talking about?’

‘Yup. Anyway, eat, drink and get your pants on – the car will be here in thirty minutes.’

Hammersmith, London

The armourer greeted Richter with a smile and two cardboard boxes. ‘Here you are, Mr Richter. One nine-millimetre Browning, with shoulder holster and fifty rounds of ammunitions. as per Mr Simpson’s orders.’

‘I don’t want it,’ Richter said, shaking his head.

The armourer looked puzzled. ‘But Mr Simpson said that—’

‘Yes,’ Richter said. ‘I do want a gun, but I don’t want that bloody thing. The only good thing about a Browning is that it’s got a good-sized magazine and doesn’t jam as often as other automatics. But at anything over about fifty feet you might as well throw the bloody gun at someone as soon as fire it. I want a pistol that’s accurate. I’m not interested in magazine size, and I’m not interested in speed of fire. I want a revolver.’

The armourer looked a little taken aback. ‘But Mr Simpson said—’

‘I know what Mr Simpson said,’ Richter interrupted. ‘Ring him up and tell him I want to draw a revolver.’

The armourer picked up the two cardboard boxes and retreated into his office in the corner of the Armoury. Richter was standing on one side of the three-feet-high counter, on the other side of which the department’s devices of death and destruction were kept, lovingly cleaned and polished and ready for immediate issue. Richter knew from past experience on the range that FOE held a variety of revolvers, and he knew exactly which one he wanted. The armourer stuck his head out of the office.

‘Mr Simpson wants to know which revolver you want.’

‘The Smith and Wesson Model 586 in .357 Magnum.’

He repeated this information into the mouthpiece. Richter could hear the strangled squawk from where he was standing. The armourer’s head emerged again. ‘Mr Simpson wants to speak to you, sir.’

Richter vaulted over the counter and took the telephone from him. ‘Yes?’

‘Richter? Are you sure you wouldn’t like a bazooka, or a small howitzer? What the bloody hell do you want with a gun like that?’

‘I want a gun that won’t jam. I want a gun that will stop a man if it has to. And I want a gun that I can fire at fifty yards and have a slim chance of hitting what I’m aiming at.’

‘What’s wrong with the Browning? It is the standard NATO weapon, you know.’

‘I do know that,’ Richter said. ‘I also know that the British Army maintains a centrally heated warehouse in Wiltshire full of bridles and tack for mules, despite the fact that they actually expect to go into the next war driving main battle tanks and three-ton trucks. Just because the Browning is the standard NATO sidearm, it doesn’t mean it’s actually any use. It’s great for making people keep their heads down, or for fights in a confined space, like a telephone box. For anything other than ultra close-range work, it’s hopeless. That’s why I want the Smith.’

Simpson grunted. ‘OK, OK. You can have the 586. Put the armourer back on.’

‘Thanks,’ Richter said, and handed the phone back.

The shoulder holster was a bulky affair. As Richter fitted the pistol into the holster and shrugged his jacket back on, he realized that he was going to have to make a conscious effort not to walk lop-sided. He put a box of fifty rounds into his jacket pocket and followed the armourer down a flight of steps into the soundproof basement. The armourer unlocked the steel door and ushered Richter into the twenty-five-metre range. He put the range lights on, and the red light outside the door, to show that it was in use, and then gave a thorough briefing on the pistol. Richter listened attentively; he always listened closely to anything that might subsequently save his life.