James Barrington - Overkill

The gun was big and heavy – the .357 Magnum is a cartridge you can’t fire out of a lightweight weapon – but comfortable and well made. The armourer gave Richter a box of twenty shells, and he loaded the weapon. Richter stood facing the target, held the pistol in his right hand, wrapped his left hand around his right wrist, and fired. Even with the ear-defenders on, the report was deafening, and the gun kicked in his hand like a live thing, forcing his arms upwards. Richter aimed and fired again. And again, and again, until he had fired all six rounds.

The armourer had been watching the target through a spotting scope. ‘Not bad, Mr Richter,’ he said. ‘Six hits, with one bull. You seem to be grouping a little low and a little to the right. If you will permit me?’ Richter passed him the pistol and watched while he adjusted the rear sight. ‘This time take the target on the right and just fire three shots first, then stop. I’ll make any further adjustments then.’

Richter loaded three rounds and fired them as instructed, then passed the pistol to the armourer, who ejected the empty cases before adjusting the sights again. ‘Elevation seems about right now, but you’re still grouping to the right. Try that.’ The last three pleased him.

The armourer walked to the end of the range to put up two more targets, then Richter reloaded. He took the left-hand target first, and fired the six quickly, taking the minimum aim necessary – in a fire-fight, the opposition may not be sporting enough to stand silhouetted against a bright light for thirty seconds while you adopt the correct stance and take careful aim – and he was pleased that they were all hits, although the score would have got him nowhere at Bisley. The last two shells he fired at the right-hand target, taking his time.

‘Nice, sir. One bull, one nine.’

‘Thank you.’ Richter put the spent shell cases into the now empty box, reloaded the pistol from the box of fifty and slid it into the holster.

The armourer looked on approvingly. ‘Quite right,’ he said. ‘No point in having the weapon unless it’s loaded.’ Richter followed him back up to the Armoury, signed the register for the pistol and rounds, and signed the range log to the effect that he had received a full briefing on the pistol and had fired twenty rounds.

Back in his office, Richter examined the pistol again, loaded it and unloaded it a few times, and practised getting it out of the holster quickly. It was clear that Richter was never going to be able to out-draw Billy the Kid, but that didn’t worry him unduly – he didn’t expect to meet Billy the Kid. What he did expect to meet was a man or men armed with, probably, 9mm automatic pistols, and Richter felt more than a match for them with the Smith.

The problem with a relatively small calibre bullet like the 9mm is that it isn’t a man-stopper. The Americans found this out years ago when they issued some of their forces with .32-calibre pistols. Field experience showed that a determined or hyped-up attacker could just keep coming, even after multiple hits with these weapons. But a .357 Magnum – or the Americans’ preferred .45 ACP – stopped pretty much anything and anyone. That was the edge Richter wanted.

He made a mug of coffee, put the cup down on his desk, and dialled the Registry. He requested the Blackbird file, the Moscow Station files for the last three months, and the one entitled ‘Newman, Graham (deceased)’.

Regents Park, London

The black Mercedes – one of several non-US manufactured vehicles used by the Embassy for unofficial duties – drove out of Grosvenor Square and joined the one-way system in Upper Grosvenor Street, then turned up Park Street, through Portman Street, Gloucester Place and into Park Road. At the western end of Hanover Gardens the car stopped and Roger Abrahams and John Westwood climbed out. ‘We’ll get a cab back,’ Abrahams said, dismissing the driver.

John Westwood glanced at his watch. ‘Where are we meeting this guy?’

‘By The Holme – it’s on the other side of the Boating Lake. We’ve plenty of time.’

The two Americans walked through Hanover Gardens, past the London Central Mosque, across the Outer Circle and into Regents Park itself. They followed the footpath and the footbridge which crossed the north-west end of the Boating Lake, and then turned right towards Queen Mary’s Gardens. The day was seasonably warm and Westwood found that Abraham’s brisk pace was causing him to sweat slightly. He removed his jacket and draped it over his arm. As they reached the second footbridge Abrahams touched Westwood’s arm. ‘There he is,’ he said, pointing.

Westwood glanced to his right and saw a tall, slim figure in a light grey suit standing close to the eastern edge of the Boating Lake. As they crossed the footbridge, Abrahams chuckled softly. ‘Look. He is feeding the ducks. John le Carré’s got a lot to answer for.’

Piers Taylor tossed the last few crumbs of bread into the water in front of him, smiling at the noisy scrambling as the mallards jockeyed for position, then folded the brown paper bag carefully and put it into his jacket pocket. He stepped back from the water’s edge and turned towards the approaching Americans.

‘Hullo, Piers,’ said Roger Abrahams, extending his hand.

‘Roger,’ Taylor acknowledged, shaking his hand firmly whilst looking at Westwood. ‘And this is?’ He left the question dangling.

Piers Taylor, Westwood thought, didn’t look like much. He had the slightly vacant expression traditionally – and with some truth – supposed to indicate a good public school education, and he was, Westwood mentally concluded, far too young.

‘A colleague from home,’ Abrahams said smoothly, before Westwood could answer.

John Westwood shook Taylor’s hand. ‘Call me John,’ he said.

‘It was nice meeting you, John,’ Taylor said, smiled agreeably, turned and walked off.

‘Piers,’ Abrahams called.

Taylor stopped and turned back. ‘Roger,’ he said, and waited.

Abrahams sighed and looked at Westwood. ‘OK, OK. This is John Westwood. He’s the Head of our Foreign Intelligence (Espionage) Staff, and he – we – need some help.’

Westwood looked angrily at Abrahams. ‘Was that really necessary?’ he asked.

Abrahams nodded, but Piers Taylor answered him, his eyes hard and his face unsmiling. ‘Yes, it was,’ he said. ‘I don’t talk to anyone until I find out who they are. I won’t ask for ID because you’re with Roger, but normally I would want a full recognition procedure. You know who I am?’

Westwood looked again at the slight figure in front of him and nodded. He glanced round to check that nobody else was in earshot, then replied. ‘Deputy head of SIS Section Nine, responsible for Russian affairs,’ he said.

‘Right,’ Piers Taylor nodded, his languid manner returning. ‘Now we all know who we are, how can we assist our colonial cousins?’

The three men turned as if by common consent and walked towards the Inner Circle. ‘It may be nothing,’ Westwood began, ‘and for the moment I want this to stay on a strictly unofficial level. Can I first ask one question?’

Taylor nodded. ‘You can certainly ask,’ he said.

‘Do you – or does SIS, I should say – have any high-level agents-in-place or other well-placed sources in Russia?’ Before Taylor could answer, Westwood continued. ‘We basically need either confirmation or denial of the existence of a high-level conspiracy which might – I say again, might – be a threat to the West. If it exists, we believe it has been organized and directed by the very highest echelons of the Russian government.’

Taylor walked on in silence for a few paces, then stopped. ‘You do realize what you’re asking?’ he said.